As she feared, her father was not yet home and that meant she would have to spend some time alone with her ‘stepmother’. Still, there was a chance that she could creep upstairs without being heard and she opened the door as quietly as she could.
‘Hello, Lauren,’ a woman’s voice said immediately and the girl’s heart sank. ‘How was your day?’
Lauren managed a polite grin and hung her coat upon the rack whilst a pair of keen, observant eyes regarded her from the kitchen table.
‘Look at that baggy old coat of yours,’ the voice said critically. ‘It makes you look like a sack of potatoes. We really ought to buy you another.’
‘It’s fine,’ the girl replied firmly. ‘I don’t want a new one.’
The woman put up her hands in surrender. ‘Only a suggestion – don’t bite my head off. Come sit with me for a minute, we hardly ever get a chance to talk.’
Inwardly groaning, Lauren poured herself a glass of orange and sat down.
Sheila was a pleasant-looking woman in her late thirties. Although not blessed with any natural beauty, she knew how to make the best of her appearance so that she seemed more attractive than she actually was. Her bobbed, auburn hair was highlighted with tints of red and about her soft, grey eyes her lashes were lightly brushed with blue mascara.
Lauren had never been able to work out why she disliked her so much. Sheila had never tried to take the place of her real mother and the girl understood that Guy, her father, needed to have someone other than herself in his life. Yet the very first time Lauren met Sheila, she knew she could never warm to this meticulous, slightly bossy person.
She was certain that moving away from London had been entirely Sheila’s idea and this was another factor against her. Sometimes Lauren wondered what her stepmother was trying to run away from.
Sheila lowered her eyes. ‘You’re not happy here, are you dear?’ she murmured regretfully. ‘You haven’t made a single friend in all this time.’
Taken aback by the directness of the question, Lauren gulped her orange juice.
‘Not really,’ she found herself saying.
‘Not even at the sixth form college?’
The girl gave a vague shrug. ‘S’pose not. Everyone there knows each other from school, they’re all right – I’m just not bothered.’
‘Perhaps if you were to make more of an effort? Do something about yourself? You haven’t touched the make-up I bought you for Christmas.’
Lauren gritted her teeth and changed the subject.
‘Sheila,’ she began. ‘What do you know about Tommy?’
The woman sniffed, ‘Tommy who, dear?’
‘Dunno his second name, I think the locals just call him Tommy.’
‘Lauren, we’re locals too now don’t forget. Oh, do you mean that funny old tramp? He’s round the twist apparently. I always walk on the opposite side of the road if I see him. Last week he followed me, grinning like a baboon and talking to himself. I had to nip inside a shop to be rid of him.’
‘Where does he live?’
Sheila coughed in astonishment. ‘How should I know? Honestly, Lorrie, you do ask the strangest things. In some hostel I suppose, either that or with the rest of the winos.’
‘Tommy’s not a wino,’ Lauren said defensively. ‘He’s just a sad old man. He ought to be properly looked after. Hasn’t he any family?’
But Sheila’s attention was now given over to a package lying upon the table. Made of dark-blue paper, with silver stars and circles printed upon it she proceeded to open the parcel with a curious look of pride on her face.
‘I’m sure I don’t know or care,’ she mumbled distractedly. ‘I’ve had my fill of losers. Now, what do you think of this, Lorrie? I bought it in one of those crystal shops on the high street.’
From the blue, outer wrappings she brought out a mass of violet tissue paper which she carefully unfolded, sheet by sheet.
‘You’ll never dream how little I paid,’ she blithely continued. ‘I wasn’t sure at first, but that woman with the dangly earrings in there persuaded me in the end. Now, what do you think?’
Having arrived at the centre of the tissue, Sheila gazed at her purchase for a moment and held it up for Lauren to see.
The girl stared at the object in her stepmother’s hands and wrinkled her nose.
There, with a shred of violet paper still clinging to one of its legs was the most outlandish doll that Lauren had ever seen.
Made entirely from scraps of patterned cloth, it was a naive representation of a creature that was half crow, half woman. A tiny straw hat sat upon its black bird-like head, and in the shadow of the brim there sparkled two shiny beads, sewn either side of a long, yellow beak.
Around the neck, the bizarre effigy wore a checked red and orange scarf and, poking from the sleeves and the hem of a padded gingham dress to form spiky hands and feet, was an assortment of painted twigs. Around the doll’s stomach there was a plain calico apron, the pockets of which were stuffed with dried leaves and on to this creamy fabric, above a row of diverse buttons, in bold black thread was embroidered the word ‘HLÖKK’.
‘What is it?’ Lauren said.
‘The woman in the shop called it a crow doll,’ Sheila replied, not minding the girl’s obvious aversion to it. ‘Only had a few left – I was very lucky to get this one.’
‘You were robbed. It looks homemade and it’s hideous and creepy.’
Sheila turned the cloth figure over in her hands and inspected the workmanship. ‘Actually she hardly wanted anything for it,’ she declared. ‘I was rather embarrassed, in case she thought we didn’t have much money.’
‘What does “Hlökk” mean?’
‘I didn’t ask. Maybe it’s foreign for doll, or crow.’
Lauren gave a slight shudder. ‘Well, I hope you’re not going to put that thing any place where a guest might see it,’ she said. ‘Probably give them bad dreams.’
‘How funny,’ Sheila murmured.
‘What is?’
‘That you should mention sleep. You see, it’s not only decorative but it’s stuffed full of herbs. That woman said it would help my insomnia, she told me to hang it above the bed.’
Lauren grimaced again. It was truly horrible, and those tiny shining beads seemed to be staring at her. ‘Rather you than me,’ she muttered turning away to look out of the window.
‘Quite frankly, I’d do anything to help me get a decent night’s sleep,’ Sheila said, giving the beak a playful pinch. ‘Besides, it doesn’t look too bad. I think it’s rather cute – pretty even, in a macabre kind of way.’
In the fields beyond the Humphries’ Bed and Breakfast, a number of genuine crows were circling in the darkening sky and Lauren watched them with a growing sense of unease.
‘I’ve never liked crows,’ she whispered, staring out of the window at the ugly black birds wheeling above, their harsh, croaking voices faint through the glass. ‘They’re vile birds, more like vultures.’
Sheila arched her plucked eyebrows. Guy’s daughter could be most odd at times. Lifting the doll to her nose she gave it a tentative sniff, then rose and walked to the door.
‘I’ll just go to hang this upstairs then,’ she said, stifling a yawn.
But Lauren was not listening. ‘What do you call a group of crows?’ she asked herself. ‘I ought to know this. It’s not a flock, it’s