by S L Ager
That’s a first, she thought.
Not a trace11 of breakfast or scattered make-up. Amazed by the tidiness, she gulped down some icy milk and wiped her mouth on her jumper. Slamming down the glass, she guessed they’d forgotten to wake her and left for the day. They never failed to surprise her.
‘They’re a right load of selfish goons,’ she complained out loud, gathering her school books, wishing she’d packed them last night.
Rubbing today’s toothpaste, and now milk, off her sleeve, Claire found her Tangle Teezer, and with a couple of strokes, she tamed12 her unruly13 waves. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and grabbed her coat and bag. After going back upstairs, twice, she finally managed to leave the house. Nagged by an unwelcome prickle of anxiety14, she slammed the door and, uncharacteristically15, ran all the way to Ben’s.
‘Odd,’ Claire puffed as she knocked again. No one answered. Ben had left for school without her. That’s weird. Why didn’t he ring me at home when I didn’t show up? she thought, hurt.
Realising she had no idea of the time, she headed for school, sprinting through the graveyard and up to Gladys’s house. Panting, she stopped at the gate. Jack and Thomas sat abnormally16 still, side by side like two allied17 sentries18 guarding the entrance. Gladys wasn’t in the garden, and her front door gaped wide open.
Where’s Gladys and her washing? she wondered, squinting19 up and down the street. It wasn’t raining, and if Jack was in the garden, Gladys was always with him.
Distracted20, she felt something silky swish her shins. Thomas’s slinky black body weaved21 around her legs, tickling them with his tail. Jack yelped a high-pitched22 yap and spun round and round her feet in impossibly tight circles.
‘What are you doing, Jacky Boy?’ Claire laughed, ruffling his coat. ‘Gladys?’ she called. ‘Gladys?’ No one answered.
She poked her head around the front door. ‘Gladys?’ she shouted again, taking a tentative23 step into the hall. She peeped into the little lounge; Gladys wasn’t there. She stuck her head round the kitchen door; no customary24 teapot sat on the table, only the usual scattering of newspapers and miscellany25. Uneasy, she searched the entire house. Her brow26 crinkled into a disconcerted27 frown. Gladys wouldn’t leave the animals, and her door wide open. Could she have gone out and fallen somewhere? she wondered.
She checked the tiny backyard, but Gladys wasn’t outside. She ran upstairs again in case she’d missed something.
Just about sliding down the steep28 stairs in a panic29, Claire remembered Gladys was the only person she knew who didn’t have a phone. Back in the kitchen, she slowed to collect her thoughts. She wasn’t sure what to do or where to go, and she realised she was trembling. Fraught30, she tried to contain herself.
‘What about the animals? I can’t go to school and leave you two here,’ Claire said to them both. ‘Thomas, what are you doing up there, boy?’ she asked with an affectionate31 prod. He’d jumped onto the kitchen table, purring. ‘Thomas, what is it?’ she asked, frowning.
The jet-black cat pawed at the table and twirled non-stop, moving in a dizzying figure of eight as a constant32 buzz hummed from his throat. Compelled33 to look closer, she watched, puzzled, as he paced faster and faster, his loud purr almost sounding like a growl. His almond34 eyes, shining, yellow-green, bored35 into hers.
What is he doing? she thought. ‘Thomas, what is it? Are you OK?’ But he didn’t stop.
Was he trying to get her attention? Had Jack tried to do the same, yapping at the gate and chasing his tail? Were they waiting for her? Then she saw it. Thomas stopped pacing but scraped and scratched at some old magazines. Something jutted36 out from underneath, his claws lifting the edge off the table.
‘What is it, Tommy Boy?’ Claire gently moved him to one side. Intrigued, she slid something out from underneath an old cooking magazine. A neat buff37 envelope, beautifully handwritten, said ‘To Claire’.
‘What? It’s addressed to me!’ Shocked, she picked it up.
Thomas stopped his clawing and purring. He sat stock-still on the table, gazing at her.
Claire flipped the envelope over, feeling its heavy luxury in her hand. Stunned, she stared at it, nervous of its contents. Reticently38 she fingered the envelope, her hand trembling. In one leap, Jack joined Thomas on the table, and now they both sat side by side, their shining eyes appealing for something.
‘What?’ she asked them, not expecting an answer.
Trying to control her tremor39, she opened the envelope and took out a piece of paper. It felt similar to fabric40, thick and velvety41, the frayed42 edges tinged43 brown, giving it an aged, grand air. She unfolded it delicately44, as if it might crumble into pieces. An impressive swirl of black letters lay before her, gloriously45 formed script46 handwritten in ink.
My dearest Claire,
Do not be alarmed by my absence47. Your sister, Rebecca, is in danger. You cannot tell the police or involve others, not even your mother. You must trust us, sweet Claire. If you do as I ask, you will not be endangered48. I know the enormity49 of this request.
You will find a train ticket and instructions in this envelope. Abide50 by them and I will be waiting for you. More will be explained then.
Bring Jack; leave Thomas at home. Close the doors and take all the money from my tin on the Welsh dresser51.
Do not discuss this.
Be brave, Claire; Jack will help you.
Make haste52 and Cadwaladr will watch over you.
Yours,
Gladys.
She read it twice.
‘Cadwaladr! What does she mean by “watch over you”? And why does everyone spell my surname wrong?’
Claire scoured53 the letter again and read the instructions. What did it all mean? If Rebecca was in danger, where was Gladys now? Why had the letter been hidden? Was somebody playing a trick on her?
She’d seen TV shows where people played hoaxes54 on others; was a camera crew poised55 to jump out and film her? But Jack and Thomas had tried to get her attention, hadn’t they? And now this unusual letter with odd language and instructions to catch a train to somewhere called Bangor. Maybe it was all a joke.
She walked over to Gladys’s dresser and opened the tin, half hoping it would be empty, but it wasn’t. Two large pink notes lay in the tin. She’d never seen or held a fifty-pound note before. One hundred pounds – she checked it twice.
She read the letter again. If Gladys had written it, why had she used funny descriptions, calling her ‘sweet Claire’? And what did Cadwaladr watching her mean? She’d seen Gladys’s writing before, and she didn’t write in these twirling swirls. It made no sense.
She stuffed the fifty-pound notes deep into her school backpack. Digging like a frantic56 rabbit, rummaging57 through the dresser drawer, she searched for a lead for Jack. The only thing she could find was huge and would have fit a wolfhound.
‘It will have to do,’ she said, adjusting58 it to its minimum. ‘We’re going, boy.’
Gladys never used a lead for Jack – her constant shadow didn’t need one. Even so, Claire wouldn’t take chances on a train. She kissed Thomas on his soot-black nose and closed the door. She left the house, staving off59 a queasy60 unease61 that threatened to send her running home. But she didn’t go.
With the baffling62 letter and train ticket zipped away in her pocket, Claire headed for the tram that would take her to Victoria station in Manchester city centre. Jack trotted along on his ridiculously63 large lead, not minding this new restriction64 at all. Doubting whether he’d travelled on a tram or a train before, she wondered how he might react. Though, right now, Jack on the tram was the least of her worries.
‘What’s going on, Jacky Boy?’ Claire asked the little dog, for now her sole65 companion66. The morning sun had disappeared, and the gloomy67 sky darkened to a brooding68, dismal69 grey, threatening rain. What time is it? she wondered. Too quiet for the morning rush hour; there was not a single passer-by. The tram was a fair walk away, so she put her head dow
n and stomped70 down the long road, Jack’s legs at a nippy71 trot beside her.
Puffed and sweating, she reached the tram station. A narrow, quiet area led onto a long, bare platform.
‘Oh no!’ Claire took out the money and stared at it. ‘How am I going to pay?’ Ticket machines didn’t take the large notes. The distant rumble of a tram came rattling down the line. Squinting towards the sound, a tiny speck72 loomed73 larger as the tram slowed, approaching the station.
‘What should we do, Jack? I shouldn’t travel without a ticket, but we can’t miss this tram.’
As if in response, Jack pulled on his lead, and although small, he was surprisingly strong and insistent74. An obstinate75 terrier, he was making it crystal clear to Claire what course of action he preferred – to jump straight on the tram.
‘OK, Jack. If an inspector boards, I’ll offer to pay him with a fifty-pound note and beg for his pity76.’
Claire knew that all journeys should be paid for prior to77 boarding, as fines could be levied78 on the spot. She crossed her fingers and sat down in the empty carriage, Jack glued to her heel. The tram clattered79 through the outskirts80 and on into the dense81 city. They reached Victoria station without meeting an inspector, much to Claire’s relief. Come to think of it, without any other company at all, she realised.
She’d been to Victoria station before with her mother, and it had teemed82 with people; the commuters83 and shoppers must have been at home today, because an eerie84 hush filled the station concourse85.
‘Well, that part was easy, Jack.’
She rubbed his head, checking she’d picked up her bag. A huge, elevated86 noticeboard flashed unknown places, platform numbers and ever-changing departure87 times. The instructions stated to change trains at a place called Crewe and then board another train to Bangor. Feeling more confident88, she stood up tall, squared her shoulders and headed for the train.
After triple-checking she wouldn’t end up in Scotland, Claire scooped up Jack and clambered89 on board. She didn’t want him slipping down the scary gap onto the tracks. Plopping him down on the seat next to her, she crinkled her nostrils in disgust. It smelled worse than her mum’s greasy chips. The old train screamed out for a proper scrub; discarded hamburger boxes and crushed beer cans lay strewn across the floor. She pulled Jack’s nose away from the smells that disgusted her but proved irresistible90 to him.
‘Come on, Jack, we’re moving.’
Traipsing91 through the train, they found a cleaner carriage and settled down into a forward-facing window seat. As the train pulled away, an elderly92 woman strolled down the aisle93 and sat opposite them. She smiled and took a tatty94 book from a large shopping bag and thumbed through the pages. Claire, on heightened95 alert96, decided she seemed harmless, allaying97 her fears a little.
No one else entered the carriage, although an odd little man was sitting a few rows behind the elderly woman, on the opposite aisle. She’d not seen him earlier. Trying to disguise her curiosity98, Claire pretended to adjust Jack’s collar whilst sneaking a peek at the stranger.
He wore a bulky99 suit, coarse and dark, its cut formal100. The faded hue101 and black tie gave him the funereal102 air of a Dickensian103 undertaker104. She struggled to avert105 her eyes from the snowy layer of scaly106 scalp107 flakes that dusted his shoulders.
Yuck! she thought, turning back to Jack.
The train quickened, rocking a repetitive rhythm on its parallel108 tracks. Putting on a casual109 air110, she unzipped her pocket and took out the letter. Twisting her shoulder towards the window, she shielded it from view. The woman didn’t look up from her book, but through the gaps in the headrests, had she seen the dour111 man twitch, flickering his glance her way?
With a stealthy112 hop, Jack sneaked closer, snuggling into the space between her thigh and the window. She hoped no one would complain.
Claire read the letter again. What danger could Rebecca possibly be in?
‘You must trust us.’ Who the heck was ‘us’? She hoped for some answers.
As the absurdity113 of her situation sank in, she prayed Gladys would be waiting. She put the letter away and numbly stroked Jack as the landscape flashed by, the obscured114 view unique115 to train travellers.
The city, where mere116 centimetres separated clusters117 of buildings, vanished behind her. Disused118 railway arches became scrapyards piled high with mangled cars; graffiti119 masterpieces120 sprayed onto brick and concrete opened out into gardens. Did people ever get used to the clatter of train noise invading their homes? She supposed they did; after all, she didn’t notice planes over Chorlton any more.
The uniformity121 of row after row of suburban122 housing dispersed123, opening into lush124 countryside, so different from home. Her limbs125 relaxed, and she slid lower in her seat, Jack cuddling in closer to her thigh.
After a short while, a low gurgling126 noise bubbled from below, interrupting the hypnotic127 rumble of a train on tracks. Mortified128 and initially129 thinking it was Jack growling, Claire realised it was her stomach grumbling.
How embarrassing130! she cringed131 as her cheeks reddened and her temperature rose. She concentrated hard on the scene beyond the window, hoping the other passengers assumed132 the sound was coming from Jack as he dreamed. The milk she had gulped earlier was long since digested133, and now ravenous134, she fantasised135 about food.
Will do me the world of good to wait, Claire decided stoically136 as her stomach rumbled on.
‘Care for a nice sandwich, cariad?’ the old woman asked Claire. ‘They don’t serve snacks on this train. You won’t be able to buy food until Crewe,’ she added, offering out a neat package wrapped in crisp greaseproof paper.
What did she call me? thought Claire. Her mouth watered as the woman unveiled137 a bulging wedge138 of bread. Jack’s ears pricked upright. Wriggling closer to her outstretched hand, his nose twitched in anticipation139.
Should I take it? agonised Claire. She hadn’t talked to anyone other than Jack. Must she abstain140, even from this charitable141 old lady? She pictured Snow White and the poisoned apple. Abstinence142 not being her forte143, she hesitated for only a second, relenting144 easily, her hunger prevailing145 as she took the sandwich. Not wishing to appear ungrateful146, she murmured a quiet thank you, hoping a lightning bolt147 wouldn’t shoot from above and strike her where she sat.
Biting into the fresh, succulent148 sandwich, she convinced herself the letter hadn’t mentioned offerings of food from generous149 people, and even if it had, she no longer cared. She was guilty but famished150, so her stomach invariably151 won the war. After all, Jack had scoffed152 the piece she’d sneaked down to him without hesitating, and he would protect her, wouldn’t he? As she sighed with pleasure at every mouthful, she thought it might be the finest153 sandwich she’d ever tasted. Forgetting all fear of poisoning, she accepted the offer of a second and, to alleviate154 her guilt, shared it with Jack.
Finishing the tasty lunch, Claire relaxed a mite155 and rested her head against the window. She had no idea where Crewe or Bangor were. The woman opposite spoke with an unusual accent, and they were deep in the countryside. One of her classmates holidayed in Wales most summers; had she mentioned Bangor and something about a bridge to an island?
She smiled down at Jack. He’d rolled flat out onto his side, and his nose wiggled as he dozed.
The butty worked for you too, didn’t it, boy? she thought, allowing herself a smile. And thank goodness my stomach has shut up!
A full tummy and warm carriage worked like a sleeping draught156. Heavy and leaden157, her eyelids closed, and she drifted off into tranquil peace … for about one miserly158 second until her dribble-soaked chin flopped against her chest and she jolted upright, hoping no one had seen. Flushing, she fumbled159 around in her bag, pretending to fish something out, and quickly rubbed the slobbery saliva160 from her chin.
How gross! she thought, cringing again, ashamed to lift her head out of her bag but wanting to laugh at the same t
ime.
Sitting up, afraid of missing her stop, Claire tried to avoid eye contact with the woman but couldn’t help snatching curious161 glimpses162. The woman hadn’t spoken again, and the odd man behind her faced blankly towards the window.
Still uncertain of the time, she guessed they’d travelled for an hour or so when the train slowed into Crewe station. Without looking at the woman, she grabbed her bag and left the carriage with a dozy Jack. She’d almost forgotten Gladys’s letter and why she’d been in the warm, comfortable carriage, but as she stepped off the train, the burden163 of it jarred164 again.
Crewe was an average165-sized station, and Claire easily located166 the platform for Bangor. Her train left in ten minutes, at 3.30 p.m.; at last she knew what time it was. It felt much later than the afternoon to her.
Finding an empty bench, she sat with Jack, opened her book and took a long gulp of water from her school bottle. But Claire was too distracted to read. She was putting her book away when two boys sat down beside her. Pulling Jack closer, she moved along the bench.
‘Don’t recognise that school uniform,’ the boy next to her said, looking her up and down.
‘Where you from?’ the other one joined in.
Caught off guard by their overfamiliarity167, Claire didn’t answer.
‘Where are you going?’ the closest boy asked. ‘And why have you got a dog with you?’ he said, leaning nearer to her. Their questions felt too probing168.
He was older than her and encroaching169 into her personal170 space. Unsure how to react, she pretended she hadn’t heard.
‘Sorry?’ she asked, buying some time. They were about Rebecca’s age, and their audacious171 manner172 alarmed her.
‘Where are you going?’ the boy closest repeated.
Claire was used to the likes of Becca and Drane, but outnumbered here, and without Ben for backup, she quickly decided to act coy173 and just gave a small smile as reserved174 acknowledgement175 of him.