Free The Shell House by Linda Newbery Page A

the mansion. He imagined, on a day like this, ladies and gentlemen sitting in one of the twin summerhouses, and a butler crossing the terrace with a loaded tray. Polished silverware, there’d be, and linen napkins in stiff folds, and dainty things to eat.
    He said to Faith, ‘All this, just for one family! It must have been palatial! Who were they, the people who lived here?’
    ‘The Pearsons were the last ones—till nineteen seventeen. Before that it was Sir Somebody Something and all his descendants. There’s a leaflet—I’ll get one for you later.’
    A thought struck him. ‘Your mum and dad—putting in all this work and effort on a place like this. Why don’t they . . .’
    Faith had stooped to pick a clover flower. She turned towards him, wary again. ‘Yes?’
    ‘I mean, they’re Christians. Aren’t there other things—more important things—they could be doing?’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘Like making money for famine victims, or helping the homeless—this isn’t really helping
people
, is it?’
    Faith twirled the clover stem between her finger and thumb, then tossed it aside. ‘Oh, there you go again—finding things to criticize! What about you? Why aren’t
you
helping famine victims or the homeless if it’s so important to you?’
    ‘I didn’t say it was! I was just saying, they’re Christians. Shouldn’t people be more important to them than statues and stuff?’
    ‘What’s it to you?’
    ‘I’m just
asking
—’
    ‘So when you’re playing computer games or kicking a ball about or all the mindless things boys do, do you stop and feel guilty because you could be shaking a tin in the High Street or working for Oxfam? ’Course you don’t. My parents aren’t trying to make themselves into saints just because they’re Christians—neither am I! It’s up to us what we do in our spare time. Why should you criticize?’
    ‘I didn’t mean—’ he began, but she was in no mood to hear his answer. She gave him a final glare and walked away quickly, taking long strides across the grass.
    Bugger! He hadn’t meant to upset her but she was so easily offended, so touchy, on the subject of her faith especially. Why had she started on the subject at all if she didn’t want to discuss it? She needn’t have told him about the praying; at first she’d sounded proud of it, not in the least secretive.
    Girls! He wasn’t doing too well, one way or another. That was two of them he’d quarrelled with in different ways in less than twenty-four hours. He sat down heavily on the grass, wondering what was the matter with him. Reluctantly he remembered what an idiot he’d made of himself last night. He’d have to come up with a convincingly edited version for Gizzard. Even now he didn’t know what had stopped him from following Tanya upstairs. All set up, on the point of having a fantasy fulfilled, he’d blown it.
    And now Faith. She was obviously a very different species of girl from Tanya, but he’d managed to upset her as well. He couldn’t imagine Faith going to boozy parties, let alone trying to drag boys into bedrooms—ludicrous thought! It wasn’t easy to tell at first glance, though. He remembered Faith’s clothes last week: the skirt short enough for him to glimpse her knickers, the skimpy vest top that clung to her small breasts. She had seemed then like any other teenage girl who wanted to look sexy. There was only the cross to give any sort of clue, and lots of people wore those quite meaninglessly.
    He didn’t want to argue with her, didn’t want to leave it like this. He stood up. Damn! He’d forgotten how damp the grass was, and now he had a wet bum. He wondered where she’d gone. If she’d run to Mummy or Daddy, well, that would be it. But if she were on her own, he could try to make up the argument.
    He walked back towards the blackberry bushes, skirting the statue base where the two workers, a man and a woman, were piling cut brambles into a wheelbarrow. One of them smiled