“I want a railway. I really, really want a railway.”
CHAPTER FOUR
OVER THE BRIDGE
Joe was exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. The Milky Way was a bright brushstroke arcing high overhead. The longer he looked, the more stars he could see, glittering hard and icy. One day he’d have a telescope of his own, and he’d stay up all night and study the secret patterns of the stars. He’d learn to find his way by following the star roads.
He wondered how far it was over the mountains and how high they were. And about Ma and Pa. And then he had a genius thought.
He nudged Sal. “Sal? Do you think we can do it?”
Sal rolled over in her sleeping bag. “Ma thought we could.”
“But without Ma, I mean,” said Joe.
“On our own? That’s the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”
“I can find the route, no problem.”
“No. We can’t.”
“And Francie can draw the maps.” Francie’s fingers found Joe’s hand in the dark and squeezed yes. “It makes sense,” said Joe. “We’ve only got twenty-seven days from tomorrow, which is an impossibly short amount of time, and if we wait for Ma it might only be twenty.”
“But … no adults?” Part of her wanted to try, he could tell.
“Beckett’s nearly an adult. And you can do the calculations and manage the altimeter, can’t you?”
“Yes, but—” She was wavering.
“I was going to find the route anyway. Francie was going to draw the maps anyway. What else is there?”
“But—”
“We know how,” Joe insisted. “Instead of just getting the donkeys then waiting for Ma, we should get the donkeys and keep going. If that’s all right with Beckett.”
“He likes towns!” Sal hissed, as if he’d admitted to drinking blood.
“He’s tall and strong. And he’s nice.”
“I suppose if we set off at least we’d have a chance.” She began to sound a little bit excited. “And Ma could catch us up.”
“When we win we can go and look for Pa,” said Joe.
“What about the wolves?” Sal whispered.
“High mountains,” Joe whispered back.
“Extreme weather conditions,” said Sal.
“Nothing to worry about then,” they said together, and they laughed—but quietly so as not to wake Humphrey.
“Twenty-seven days,” said Joe, and he rolled over and went to sleep.
The new town clock chimed ten times then the mayor blew his whistle.
“I don’t know about this,” said Sal. The mouse in her stomach felt bigger this morning—more like a ferret or a weasel. “I really don’t know about this.”
It was time for the teams to leave. The mayor pulled their names from his hat, and first to trot over the bridge was Cody Cole and his six Cowboys. All their faces were shadowed by their big Stetson hats; they held the reins of their horses in one hand and leaned back in their saddles as they rode, their other hands resting near the shiny revolvers that hung from their belts. Their saddle-bags were neatly loaded and their saddles had special slots for surveying equipment and coils of rope and water bottles. Sal shook her head. “They’re seriously serious. We’re making a big mistake.”
“Why are we?” asked Humphrey.
Next to leave was Sir Montague Basingstoke-Black and his Mountaineers. The waiting crowd buzzed in excitement as they heard a distant clip-clop, clip-clop and the buzz became a roar as the team came into view. Mechanical horses! And not just one or two mechanical horses, but twelve pairs. Their bodies were red with gold trim and they had blue manes and tails that fluttered like flags. As they trotted onto the bridge, every knee rose and fell in unison, even though they were carrying towering loads. Humph squealed, but Sal groaned. What chance did they have against perfect beasts that didn’t need to eat and would never get tired?
Beckett, who was mysteriously wearing a scarf tied over his mouth and nose, was unimpressed. “Just look at them. Top heavy. I heard they’ve got a table and chairs, and a folding boat, and I don’t know what all.”
One horse of each pair had a smaller load so there was room for a rider. Monty’s twelve Mountaineers wore tweed jackets with leather elbow patches, and deerstalker hats. They still had their pipes gripped between their teeth, and now they also had rifles slung across their backs. Sir Monty rode at the front, waving and kissing his hand to the crowd. Trotting beside his horse was an elegant Belgian tracking hound.
Humphrey stood on the bench to see better. “One day I’ll have a dog. Actually, a whole pack of dogs. And they’ll all come when I whistle.”
“Can you whistle then, Humphrey?” asked Beckett.
Humph sighed. “Not yet, silly. When I’m seven.”
Sal nibbled on her thumbnail, though there wasn’t much of it left to get her teeth into. “We shouldn’t be doing this. Ma’s going to be furious.”
“No she won’t,” said Joe. “You’re the one that gets furious, not Ma. This is going to be good. We can do it!”
She biffed him but didn’t feel any better.
Monty’s Mountaineers were followed by Agatha Amersham and the three other members of the Association of Women Explorers. Today they were wearing calf-length culottes with brightly striped woollen stockings, colourful jerseys and practical leather hats, and they each carried a large rucksack and a stout stick. Agatha led a pack-horse and the others marched behind swinging their arms. The nails on their boots rang out on the cobbled roadway.
“Hobnails. Good idea,” said Sal.
“Why?” asked Humphrey.
“Grip,” said Sal.
Next came the six Solemn men. They didn’t have horses, just a regular rucksack each and a heavy-looking bundle in their arms. They stopped on the bridge and put their bundles down, then took what looked like white handkerchiefs from their pockets. They opened them out—they were bags, like large pillowcases. They dropped something into each one and almost immediately the bags started to puff up, as if downy feathers were multiplying inside. Not just feathers, but living birds, for as they grew fatter the giant pillows lifted into the air. If the men hadn’t closed the ends and clipped cords to them they would have floated away like clouds. They fastened the other ends of the cords to their bundles, and the bundles rose up to knee height, then waist height, then shoulder height, and the ice axes, crampons and billycans that were hanging off them clattered into the air too.
Sal and Joe clapped. They had often discussed the possibility of such magical clouds when the straps of their rucksacks were pulling on their shoulders, but never imagined they might actually exist. All around people were exclaiming and calling out:
“Want to fetch my new stove home for me?”
“I need a couple of those to carry my old man from the beer house!”
The scientists exchanged small smirky smiles and pretended to take no notice. Then they jogged away, each with a puffy white cloud floating above them, and their bundles following behind like obedient dogs.
“That’s travelling light,” Sal said. “We really haven’t got a chance.”
Someone reported that Roger’s Ruffians were still eating breakfast, so it was the Santander team’s turn to cross the bridge. They all squashed onto the front seat of the dray.
“Right. Let’s go, Plodder.” Sal clenched her teeth; she felt jittery all over.
Beckett guided Plodder out towards the bridge. The crowd’s admiring chatter about magic clouds changed into a frightening clamour.
“They’re too young! Stop them!”
“Somebody rescue that dear little boy!”
Reaching hands tried to snatch Humph off the cart but he clambered over the back and ducked down out of reach between the tent and the tools. Francie whimpered and ducked down, too, her hands over her ears.
The mayor grabbed Plodder’s bridle. “Oh, no you don’t. Children can’t take part in this.”
The chairman of the Railway Company kept
repeating, “I don’t allow it. I certainly don’t allow it!”
And the mayor’s sour-faced assistant folded his arms and said, “Well, it’s not my fault, I did try to tell you.”
Sal had to do something. She stood up in the dray, glared at the mayor and ordered him to let go, in her most imperious voice. “I have studied the rules and there is nothing to stop us competing. Please inform our mother Angelica Santander that she can catch us up, or we will meet her on the other side of the mountains in New Coalhaven.”
The grown-ups backed away. They were still tsking and tutting and shaking their heads, but they moved off the road as Beckett shook the reins and Plodder led the Santander team across the bridge.
Joe yelled, “Hooray! Go, Sal!”
As soon as they’d rounded the corner out of sight, Sal called to Beckett to stop.
“Whoops. Forgot to set the altimeter.”
With shaking hands, she clamped the altimeter wheel’s shank to the back of the cart. When Plodder walked on, the wheel clicked every turn in a satisfying way. The box above the wheel held the special barometric device that Angelica and Leopold Santander had invented. After every 100 clicks, a mechanical pen made a dot on the scroll of paper that wound round inside the box, and the line of dots showed the gradient of their journey. At the end of each day, Sal would join the dots to show how long their route was and how much it went up and down.
“Well remembered,” said Joe. He wasn’t being sarcastic.
“I shouldn’t have forgotten that,” she muttered. “It’s probably an omen.”
“We’re on our way! Are you ready for adventure, young Humphrey?” said Beckett, taking off the scarf.
“Adventure!” Humphrey climbed back to the driver’s bench. “All of me is excited. Even my hair.”
*
They came to a fork in the road and Humphrey pointed out a drift of dust in the distance from the other teams’ horses. It hung above the road to the north, directly towards the mountains.
“Good noticing, Humph,” said Beckett, and guided Plodder towards the other road that ran to the west. “This is the way to my village where the donkeys live.”
Joe tied a silk marker to a tree so their mother could see which way they’d gone, then walked alongside Plodder, who was living up to his name.
“I wonder why the others are all going that way?” He walked back a few paces to watch the last evidence of the other teams disappearing. “The mountains go for miles and no sensible explorer would go straight in by the first valley.”
Beckett was smiling.
“Beckett?”
“What happened was, I was in the Grand Hotel last night, earning a few coins clearing tables. Most of the other teams were in the bar, boasting and bragging. The ticket man was taking bets on who’d be first, who last, who’d have the best maps and all that. I heard Sir Monty say, ‘Those kiddies will never make it. What do they know about route finding?’ And he laid down a sov that you’ll be back inside a week.”
“A sov?” Joe was shocked. “He bet a whole sovereign that we’d turn back?”
“A whole sovereign. And that’s not all. Cody Cole’s lot were on the whisky, and Cody sauntered up and said, ‘What odds do you give me that those Santander kids will never be seen again?’ ”
“No!”
“He laid down five sovs against you being seen on either side of the mountains before the autumn equinox.”
“That’s horrible!” said Sal. “And outrageous.”
“Well, that’s what I thought too, so I made a plan. First, I whispered to Sir Monty’s route-finder that Cody’s Cowboys have already surveyed the beginning of the route, and they’re definitely starting up the Prospect Valley. And I told the Cowboys’ route-finder in the greatest secrecy that the Solemn men have made a scientific decision that the Prospect’s the best way in.”
“You didn’t!” Joe exchanged astonished looks with Sal.
“The Solemn team weren’t doing any betting; they were drinking energy tea and telling themselves that science can beat the world. But when one of them deliberately stuck his boot out, tripping up the serving woman and making her drop her tray, just to make his mates laugh, I decided they were as bad as the rest of them. So I told them that Sir Monty had fixed on the Prospect Valley.”
“But how did you make them all believe you?” asked Sal.
Beckett looked a little embarrassed. “I just told each of them that I’ve wagered all I have on them winning. I told them I’d overheard something that might help.”
They looked at him.
“You tricked them?” Sal sounded both shocked and impressed.
Beckett protested. “Joe, would you believe a total stranger—who’s not even an adult—if they told you which route to take?”
“Course not! If they went that way without checking, they’re crazy. So that’s why the scarf round your face.”
“I thought it’d be better if no one recognised me.”
“What about Roger’s Ruffians and the Agathas?” asked Sal.
“Roger’s lot were all snoring away in the corner, surrounded by empty bottles. I didn’t say a word to them. Nor to the women, on account of I didn’t see them.”
Joe couldn’t stop smiling. Beckett was going to be a great asset to the Santander team; he had skills that they hadn’t even known they needed. And they’d started the race!
As they went along, the altimeter clicked with every turn of the wheel, each turn registered by a counter. Every few minutes Humph ran along beside it and called out the numbers.
“We’ve gone 4-5-1-1 clicks.”
Then after a few minutes, “It says 4-9-9-9 and it’s turning to 5-0-0-0 … Now!”
So far it showed that the gradient was smooth and gradual—perfect for a railway.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE TRUTH ABOUT FRANCIE
For many hours there was nothing to see but trees. Francie and Joe sat on the back of the dray, swinging their legs as they were bounced along by Plodder. They watched the lines of golden light cutting through the dark shadows of the branches. The stripes of sunshine would be perfect for tigers to hide in, also for wildcats and maybe leopards and ring-tailed lemurs, like the pictures in Wonderful Wild Animals of the World. They looked at each other and Joe knew that Francie was as happy as he was.
They came to a clearing at the top of a rise and the view opened up for miles over the top of the forest. In the distance was a wall of misty greeny-grey mountains, and behind that floated a cigar of white cloud, and above the cloud, a line of shining white peaks gleamed against the brilliance of the sky.
Joe looked where Francie pointed and called out, “Look! Snow. That’s where we’re going.”
“Where?” shouted Humphrey.
“Snow, though, go, woe,” Carrot recited from her perch on top of the altimeter.
Beckett whistled. “You serious?”
“Real mountains!” said Sal. “I think we’d better stop here for a while. You ready, Francie?”
Francie nodded and climbed onto the top of the tent canvas to get the best view. She arranged herself cross-legged with the drawing board on her knees. She drew a wide, thin panorama, like the ones sailors have on their charts to help them recognise where they are when they come to an unfamiliar coast. She put in all the layers of hills and mountains, like an eye squinting across the crumples on a bedspread. Then she put the drawing board down. She hummed to herself as she arranged her sleeping bag into a nest at the back of the cart, lay down, made herself comfortable and prepared to fly …
Up and up. Above Humphrey and Beckett throwing rocks into the stream, above Plodder grazing. Above Sal peering through her theodolite, and Joe looking in the picnic basket. Up and up, until the road’s just a string stretched across a tweedy blanket of summer oak, suswatch silver and darkest pine green.
Up.
Up into blissful silence. All around, the patterns of the land spreading out—secret patterns that only birds and clouds
know.
Far away: the glinting light of the River Prospect flows towards the ocean. The river’s a giant tree that grows out of the sea instead of the soil. Its trunk passes through the hazy smudge that is the town and across farmland and the forested plain, then its branches fan out and climb through the hills. Beyond the branches, smaller branches, then twigs, dividing and dividing, higher and further, further and higher into the mountains.
One, two, three columns of dust racing alongside the trunk of the river, towards the lower branches. Three other teams—no sign of the fourth or fifth.
Slowly around to look west into the glare of the sun. There. The bright gleam of another big river tree, far to the west, where the thread of road ends at a village. The river’s long and straight and cuts right through the crumple of hills and leads deep into the heart of mountains. Its branches stretch off towards peaks that are glistening white.
Snow—the dazzling, fiery whiteness that’s colder than a winter stream. One day soon.
Francie sat up slowly. Joe passed her some water and a cheese tart. She always felt tired and a bit sad when she’d been flying and food helped her feel better. He’d pinned fresh paper to her drawing board and now he watched her draw. It was a map of the panoramic view she’d drawn before she flew. It showed the town of Grand Prospect and the River Prospect stretching from the mountains to the sea, and the road through the forest that they were travelling on. And it showed the road ending at another big river, a river that flowed right into the mountains. When it was finished, she put the board aside, curled up and fell asleep.
As they were preparing to set off again, Beckett beckoned to Joe. “Can I have a quiet word?”
Joe swung himself up onto the driver’s bench.
Beckett looked embarrassed and spoke quietly. “Look, I’ll still try and get the donkeys like I said, but maybe I’ll not come with you after all. No offence.”
“What? Why?”
Beckett shuffled awkwardly. “It’s just …” He glanced over his shoulder.
Joe was puzzled. “Francie?”
The Mapmakers' Race Page 3