A Season of Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page B

skimming
down the long drive leading through Gorton Hall’s parkland to its main gates and the lane beyond.
    On the far side of the bridge the lane divided, one arm continuing south, following the line of the river, the other arm leading straight into Outhwaite.
    Violet, oblivious that at eight years old she was enjoying a freedom her older sisters hadn’t enjoyed until Carrie and Hal had become a part of their lives, was singing
‘Tipperary’ at the top of her lungs, the patriotic red, white and blue ribbons tied to her handlebars streaming in the breeze as she freewheeled down the hill into the centre of the
village.
    The post office served as a general meeting place and there was a small group of women outside it, most of them wearing shawls against the autumn nip in the air.
    ‘Mornin’, Carrie. Mornin’, Miss Violet,’ they said in unison as Carrie and Violet dismounted from their bikes. Someone else added that it was a lively morning –
‘lively’ being the local expression for the turn in the weather signifying that summer was well and truly over.
    Inside there was a queue. Carrie, needing to buy stamps, joined it and immediately sensed an odd atmosphere. Instead of the usual buzz of friendly conversation, there was a tense silence.
    The cause appeared to be a young man in the queue, to whom people were carefully not standing too close. With only a rear view of him, Carrie wasn’t sure who he was, though she rather
thought it was Charlie Hardwick, the son of a local cow-man.
    The woman in front of Charlie – if it
was
Charlie – was being served, and Effie Mellor, the postmistress, was doing so tight-lipped, all the while shooting her next customer
nervous, covert glances.
    It occurred to Carrie that if the young man wasn’t Charlie – Charlie had been one of the first of Outhwaite’s young men to enlist – then he might be a pacifist. The women
of Outhwaite were hard on pacifists. Armitage, Gorton Hall’s chauffeur, rarely ran the risk of being publicly name-called by them and seldom ventured into the village. In contrast, the
officers at Gorton kept what contempt they felt, if they felt it, to themselves.
    The woman at Effie’s counter turned away from it and was so disconcerted at having to pass the young man that she dropped her post-office book. It fell at his feet and, clearly hesitant
because of her attitude towards him, he made no move to retrieve it. Because it would mean moving closer to him, neither did she.
    Ever helpful, Violet darted forward, scooping the book up and handing it over. In doing so she bumped into the young man. With a sunny smile she turned to apologize.
    Her smile froze. Her eyes widened in horror. Then she screamed, backing away from him so fast that she fell against the woman whose book she had retrieved.
    It was as if a trigger had gone off.
    ‘See what you’ve done, Charlie ’ardwick?’ the woman with the post-book shrieked. ‘You’ve scared little Miss Violet ’alf to death!’
    ‘You should be in ’ospital!’ someone else shouted. ‘Somewhere you won’t be able to frighten folk!’
    Other voices gave the opinion that Charlie had no thought for others; that he should be wearing a balaclava.
    Puzzled and alarmed, Carrie’s immediate concern was for Violet and she grabbed hold of her by the hand, pulling her close.
    Charlie’s immediate concern was to be free of the cruel abuse. Heedless now of whatever it was that he had come into the post office for, he turned blunderingly away from the counter,
desperate to escape.
    Carrie sucked in her breath, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping. Charlie’s face was a face no longer. Many of the officers recuperating at Gorton had facial burns and injuries. None came
close to Charlie Hardwick’s monstrous disfigurement. One eye was now much lower than the other, the eyelid distorted and puckered. He had no eyelashes. No eyebrows. His nose was missing and,
on a face once pleasant and homely, every inch