The Crow Talker. Jacob Grey
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said Glum, already settling on a low branch.
“No,” said Caw, as he started to climb. “Well, maybe.”
Caw steeled himself and kept walking. In the distance, the bells of Blackstone Cathedral were ringing out seven o’clock. The sun still peeked above the trees, throwing Caw’s long shadow ahead of him, but already the foxes had started prowling. Caw saw one darting through the bushes as he approached the Strickham’s house.
We could go and raid the bins, said Screech. Rich pickings!
“I want to do this,” he told them.
You don’t look like it, said Glum. You’re all pale.
Caw tried to ignore them. It didn’t matter whether he wanted to come or not – he felt like he owed it to Lydia. She might be a bit pushy, but she’d come to the library with him and she’d mended Screech’s leg.
As he reached the doorstep he saw his reflection distorted in the huge polished knocker. He gave his armpit a quick sniff. He’d washed as well as he could in pond-water, and flattened his hair with an old comb, but he still felt like a fraud. At least he’d managed to find a new pair of shoes. Someone had thrown them into a skip. They were a size too small, and one had a hole in the toe, so Caw had cut the end off the other one to make them match. From his suitcase he’d selected a black T-shirt, only slightly torn at the collar. It had a paint stain on the back, but as long as he didn’t take off his long black coat, no one would know.
He lifted the knocker, heart beating fast. Then froze.
What was he thinking?
“I can’t do this,” he muttered. He let the knocker down gently and backed away.
He’s seen sense! said Screech, tapping his talons on the top of Mr Strickham’s car. So what’s it going to be? Indian food? Chinese?
The door opened suddenly, making Caw’s heart leap, and there stood Lydia, wearing some sort of green woollen dress. She looked smart. Much smarter than Caw. “I knew you’d come!” she said.
Before he could say anything, she grabbed his arm and tugged him into the house, leaving the squawking crows outside. Immediately Lydia’s dog, Benjy, began sniffing around his ankles. Benjy was white with brown patches, and had bulgy eyes and floppy ears. Caw found himself at the bottom of a wide staircase, standing on a thick pale carpet. He saw in horror that his shoes had already left a black smudge of dirt on it. “I’m sorry!” he said. “I’ll take them off.”
As he slipped his feet out, a memory of the dream came back, and the carpet at his parents’ house – bare skin sinking into luxurious softness – until he noticed Lydia looking down at his shoes and fighting a smile. “Come on!” she said. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
She led him down a hallway lined with framed photographs, Benjy trotting alongside. The pictures were all of the Strickham family. There were beautiful porcelain and glass lamps giving off a soft green light. But it was the smell that Caw noticed the most. The aroma of food made his mouth water so much he was scared he might drool on the carpet.
At the far end, a set of double-doors opened on to a huge table with candles in the middle and plates laid out. Caw could hardly believe, after watching so many times through the window, that he was finally inside. The warmth and softness seemed to draw him forward.
Sitting at one end of the table reading a newspaper, a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose, was Mr Strickham.
“Dad?” said Lydia.
Mr Strickham turned, then started. “What the …” His mouth opened and closed and he stood up, staring at Caw. “Lydia, what’s this boy doing here?”
With a horrible sinking feeling, Caw’s eyes swept over the table. It was set for three.
“I invited him,” said Lydia. “To say thank you.”
“You invited him?” said Mr Strickham.
“I’ll go,” said Caw, turning.
Lydia grabbed him. “No, you won’t,” she said. “Will he, Dad?”
She glared at her father, whose eyes settled on Caw’s bare feet, before returning to his face.
“And your name is?” he said.
“He’s called Caw,” said Lydia. “Caw, this is my father.”
Lydia’s dad took another second before he nodded briskly and held out a hand. He seemed to be doing his best to smile. Caw took the hand, glad that he’d given his nails a thorough scrub in the pond.
At that moment, a woman entered the room, holding a steaming dish. She was slim, with softly curling red hair that she had pulled back into a loose bun, and she wore a pink apron over a pale dress. Caw recognised her at once. Lydia’s mother. Her eyes flashed wide in alarm when she saw him. “Who are you?” she said.
“It seems Lydia has brought a … er, this … friend for dinner,” said Mr Strickham.
“He’s our guest,” said Lydia. “He’s Caw. The boy who was there last night.”
“I see,” said Mrs Strickham, narrowing her gaze. Caw began to feel uncomfortable under her intense stare.
“We at least owe him dinner,” said Lydia. “I’ll get another plate.” She gestured to a chair. “Caw, sit there.”
As Lydia left the room, Caw thought about turning and running away. They didn’t want him here, obviously. He should have listened to Glum and Screech. He tried to offer a smile, but he was pretty sure it came out more like a grimace. Mr Strickham nodded, as though he wasn’t sure how to respond. His wife just placed the dish gently on the table.
“Please, take a seat,” said Lydia’s father.
Caw did as he was told, leaving his hands at his sides as he sat down. Everything looked so clean! The walls, the floor, the tablecloth … He hardly dared move for fear of spreading dirt.
Lydia soon returned, and everyone took their places at the table. Mrs Strickham lifted the lid off a platter to reveal a joint of meat. The smell made Caw’s mouth fill up with saliva all over again. He swallowed nervously.
“So where do you live, Caw?” asked Mr Strickham, as he carved the meat with a huge knife.
“Nearby.”
“With your parents?” asked Mr Strickham.
“No,” said Caw. “I live alone.”
Mr Strickham’s expression suddenly turned severe. “You don’t look old enough,” he said.
Lydia’s eyes darted to her father. Caw’s heart thumped with a rush of panic, and he racked his brains. If they found out he was only thirteen, they’d call the authorities.
“He’s sixteen,” said Lydia.
“Really?” said Mr Strickham. “I only ask because …”
“I am,” lied Caw. “I’m sixteen.”
“Stop interrogating him, Dad,” said Lydia. She laid a plate in front of Caw, heaped with meat, potatoes and vegetables, all smothered in gravy. “Dig in,” she said.
Caw looked up and Mrs Strickham nodded. She seemed a little pale, Caw noticed. “I hope you