The Power of Five Oblivion

been people who kept second homes – one in London, one in the countryside. I imagined that this was exactly the sort of place they would have come. Everything was so neat, so ordered, that it was hard to believe that any real country folk had ever lived here. We came to the pub, which reminded me a bit of the Queen’s Head, except it was smaller and prettier with a thatched roof and bow windows. It had a low door with a sign reading MIND YOUR HEAD and next to it, in chalk, the single word – OUCH! The pub was called the Punch Tavern. There was a sign hanging outside showing a horse pulling a plough. Somebody was playing the violin. We opened the door and went in.
    A fire burned inside, which was nice, and half a dozen tables arranged with candles, making everything warm and snug. There were all sorts of bottles arranged behind the bar, but I could see at a glance that they were empty. I wondered if the villagers produced their own beer like we had. By the end, they were making ours out of turnips, I think. I had never tasted it but George said it was disgusting. On the plus side, I could smell meat cooking in the kitchen and, I have to say, it made my mouth water. The food on the Lady Jane had been amazing in its own way. I wasn’t even sure how it had kept fresh locked up inside those tins but that didn’t stop me wolfing it down. Hot, fresh meat, though, was something else again. It must have been three months since I’d tasted a rabbit, and that had been scrawny and tough, and as for squirrels … you don’t want to know. This meat smelled like pork, for me a distant memory. I could hardly wait.
    All the villagers were there – apart from the major. There was no sign of the Traveller either. The violin was being played by a man standing beside the fire. He was missing an eye but hadn’t bothered to cover it with a patch. The socket was bunched up and ugly, like a tightly closed mouth.
    Everyone seemed pleased to see us as Jamie and I walked in. The major’s wife, Dorothy, showed us to a table. “How lovely to see you. Now, you must let me introduce you. This is Alfie and Amanda Bussell. Angus Withers-Green, who does all our building for us. Everything would fall down if it wasn’t for him! Mr Weeks, who runs the pub. I think you met Cosmo out at the lock and that’s his sister, Christabel (she was a girl about two years younger than him, pale and hungry-looking, clutching a stuffed polar bear). “Mrs Fielding and Mrs Hamilton. The Osmonds.” She laughed. “I’m sure there are far too many names to take on board all at once. I’ll let everyone introduce themselves. In the meantime, would you like some orange juice?”
    I had only ever drunk orange juice on special holidays – at Christmas and on my birthday. The publican, Mr Weeks, was a big, round-faced man with curling black hair almost bursting out of his head. He brought over two glasses and although the liquid inside them was barely orange at all, it did at least smell vaguely of fruit.
    “Here you go, my dear,” he said. He smiled at me but not in a particularly pleasant way. His face was too close to mine.
    “Thank you.” I backed away.
    He gave Jamie a second glass and the two of us sat there for a minute with nobody talking but everybody looking at us. I raised my drink to my lips.
    Don’t drink it!
    It was Jamie, inside my head. It always unnerved me, that power of his. I remembered the first time it had happened, at the church, in front of the Assembly. It felt as if he was whispering into my ear, but inside not outside … if you get what I mean. I glanced at him. His face wasn’t giving anything away but I somehow knew that he wasn’t himself, that he was wishing he was anywhere but here.
    I put the glass down.
    “Where is our friend?” Jamie asked.
    “Mr Fletcher?” It was the major’s wife who had answered. She was sipping a glass of a dark-coloured liquid that the publican had just served her. “He’s with Michael. The two of them are having a good old chat. It’s very rare for us to have strangers in Little Moulsford and we want to know all about you, where you’ve come from, how you managed to get your hands on that fine boat. But we can start dinner without them. I’m sure there’ll be here soon enough.” She lowered her glass. It had left a stain on her lips.
    “And here it is!” someone exclaimed.
    A very short woman had walked into the room, carrying a plate of roast meat and vegetables. She was so