Precious Time by Erica James Page B

with it?’ he asked, anxiously.
    ‘We could either wait and see if Mr Liberty comes back for it, or we could go and find him.’ She turned and looked at the map that was still laid out on the table. ‘My guess is,’ she mused, ‘and since he claimed to own this land, that our friend Mr Grumpy-Pants Liberty lives here.’
    Ned climbed on to the seat to see what she was pointing at.
    ‘Where? Show me.’
    She indicated with her finger.
    ‘If we go back the way we came, join the main road, then turn right, just here, it’s likely we’ll find ourselves once again in the company of the rudest man on earth. What do you think? Is it worth the trouble?’
    He stood up on the bench seat so that he was eye to eye with her. ‘I thought he was funny.’
    ‘I didn’t. He was rude to us.’
    Ned looked thoughtful. ‘He stopped those horrible men from hurting you. And he made us tea because I was frightened.’ He lowered his gaze beneath his long lashes. ‘I’m … I’m sorry I wet myself.’
    At the poignant reminder of what the old devil had done for them, Clara put her arms around her precious son. ‘I nearly wet myself too,’ she admitted. ‘It was scary. And you’re right,’ she added decisively, ‘it’s time I learned to be more tolerant of other people’s shortcomings.’
    After Clara had put the gun inside a wardrobe, they washed up their cups, stored them away and set a course for Mermaid House.
    As to be expected, there was no helpful sign at the end of the track that Clara was convinced would lead them to where Mr Liberty lived. She turned off the main road, juddered over a cattle grid, and pressed on. She soon realised that she had to slow to a steady crawl.
    They rattled along for almost half a mile before they set eyes on the most extraordinary sight. Clara whistled. ‘Now that’s what I call a house.’
    Ned was impressed too. ‘It’s a castle, Mummy!’
    There weren’t any battlements, but there was a tower built into one of the corners of the house and it didn’t take much imagination to picture a cursing Mr Liberty standing at the window, shotgun in hand, ready to defend his home from the onslaught of double-glazing salesmen.
    They came to an archway that led to a central courtyard. Clara parked alongside a battered old Land Rover, pulled on the
    handbrake and turned off the engine. Close up, the house was gloomier than it had appeared from a distance. The sun was low in the sky now, and the cobbled courtyard was in shadow. The
    stonework was almost black in places and looked to be in need of a good restorative clean. One wall was almost covered in ivy, which helped to soften the grim effect of so much discoloured stone, but otherwise the house was as saturnine and forbidding as its owner.
    But how different it must have been when it was originally built, Clara thought, as she hooked Mr Liberty’s coat over her shoulder and picked up the gun. She and Ned walked towards what she hoped was a regularly used door - a deduction based on the pile of rubbish bags grouped around a collection of dustbins. A nose-wrinkling pong of rotting detritus floated out to them. ‘Home, not-so-Sweet Home,’
    she muttered, under her breath, as she stood on the doorstep looking for a bell. Not finding one, she rapped loudly with her knuckles.
    ‘No doubt he’s preparing the hot oil and flaming arrows,’ she said to Ned.
    ‘Shall I call him?’ he said, pushing open the letterbox.
    ‘That’s probably not a good idea,’ Clara said.
    But it was too late. Ned was already peering through the gap.
    ‘Ooh,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s really untidy. There’s things everywhere.
    Oh, I can see Mr Liberty. Hello, Mr Liberty, it’s us, you forgot your gun and we’ve brought it for you.’
    ‘No need to make such a song and dance about it, young man.’
    Bending down, Clara could see that Ned was nose to nose with the formidable one-eyed owner of the house.
    ‘We’ve brought your coat too,’ Ned carried on, as