Free Coombe's Wood by Lisa Hinsley

who goes up the stairs in the main building. Apparently, she lived there about 1890, and died during childbirth. She’s looking for her child.”
    Izzy kept glancing at the windows as they walked the last few yards. The curtains didn’t even twitch. Disappointed, she walked up the path to where Connor waited for them, cross-legged on a grassy patch by the front door, watching a bumblebee dance around the clover. As they passed under a beech tree, Feathers bent to touch the petals of a plant that looked almost like a bluebell to Izzy, but with creamy white flowers.
    “White Helleborine,” he said, “an orchid. Can you see the yellow markings on the lip?” He rested an open bloom between his fingers. “It likes the chalk in the soil, and the shade.”
    “It’s pretty, delicate. I didn’t know orchids grew in England.” She bent down and sniffed at another. “Connor,” she called, watching Feathers as he caressed the flowers. Connor jumped up off the ground, and jogged up to Izzy.
    “Hi Mum.”
    “You do like it here, don’t you, Connor?”
    She ruffled his hair. It had grown long, and curled into chestnut ringlets to frame his face. His glasses had thick lenses, which made his eyes seem even larger than normal.
    “It’s much better than where we were.” Connor looked up with a smile.
    “Come along, then,” Feathers called from the door. “Roll up. Proper grub inside.”
    The breeze sucked tendrils of smoke out of the pub. They wafted around in the air currents, swirling around Feathers’ head before fading to nothing.
    Inside, the main room was wide and dark. Great oak beams, that had been stained black, crossed the ceiling like giant caterpillars. Columns in awkward places blossomed like tree trunks from the ground, dividing the room.
    Connor ran across the uneven floor and sat down on an ingle-nook bench. He looked back and grinned.
    “What do you think?” A broad smile stretched across Feathers’ face. “Hi Stan,” he called to the hulking barman. “This is Izzy.”
    Stan boomed, “I take it that’s young Connor, then?” He squeaked a tea towel round the rim of a pint glass. “Nice to meet you both.”
    Her mouth dropped open for a moment. “Hi,” she said finally, the sound of her voice distant. “I see we’ve been talked about?”
    “Yup, we’re all under instructions to recommend our local pet sitter. Here for some lunch?” Stan held out three menus. “Inside or out?”
    As if on cue, Connor threw back his head and sneezed.
    “Outside, please,” Izzy said. “More breathing space for my son.”
    “Connor,” Feathers said. “Why don’t you go out into the garden? Find a nice table in the sun, and we’ll be out after we’ve had a drink.”
    “Sure.” Connor ran off out of the smoky room and through the back door that he must have spied earlier.
    “Izzy, I’d like to introduce you to Dave.”
    Dave shifted along his bench into the shadows as they approached, then looked up through lowered eyelids, as if gazing at them from a far-off place
    Tufts of tobacco-tinted hair, highlighted with streaks of white, ringed his mottled pate. With one hand, he clung to a pint glass, a freshly lit pipe in the other. He took a draft, and then rested the pipe on a clay ashtray.
    “Nice to meet you,” he said, his voice rippling gently.
    Dave’s hand was surprisingly dry and firm, and as Feathers took up the space next to him, Izzy slipped into the seat opposite.
    “Well,” Feathers said. “I heard tell you know the story behind Coombe’s Wood. The young lady and I would like to hear it.”
    Stan leant up against the counter, squeaking at the rim of another pint glass. He stacked it in a space above the bar, and tucked the towel into his back pocket.
    “Mind if I join you?” Stan said, and sat down on a stool at the end of the table.
    “How long will this take?” Izzy asked, turning in the general direction Connor had left by.
    “I wouldn’t worry about your young man, he will