Island of the Aunts

by Eva Ibbotson

  “Hurry up down there,” Sprott shouted to the crew who were fixing the starboard engine. They would have been gone long before but for the engine playing up. It was high time they got away across the Atlantic. He’d given orders to have the thing on the deck hosed down every ten minutes but it wasn’t eating. None of the creatures were eating…they needed to be in proper cages.

  For a moment he wondered if the little boy was dead—the one who’d tried to stop them in the cave. Probably not—the skulls of children were tougher than you’d think. All the same he’d be glad to be gone.

  “I thought I told you to hurry,” Sprott shouted once again.

  But still the Hurricane lay unmoving on the grey sea—and on her deck, the little kraken, his heart broken, prepared for death.

  Minette sat on the floor of the boxroom, her hands round her knees, and waited for Fabio to wake.

  She had been there for several hours and she would not move however much the aunts complained.

  “You’re not helping him,” said Etta. “He’ll come round when he’s ready.”

  But she did not speak in her usual brisk voice, and Minette took no notice. All the aunts were like wraiths since the kraken had gone.

  So Minette watched and waited by her friend. Outside, in the bathroom, she could hear the high, stupid voices of Betty’s children.

  “There’s something nasty in the washbasin. It smells fishy. You can’t clean your teeth,” whined Boo-Boo.

  “It’s eaten my Tinkerbell toothpaste. I don’t like it here. I want to go home!”

  “I want to go home too. I want to go home now.”

  Minette sighed. She could never get used to the awfulness of Boo-Boo and the Little One. What was in the washbasin was the merbaby, Walter. He was missing his mother, and chewed anything he could reach.

  Fabio lay without moving on the bed; the bandage round his head stood out very white in the darkened room. What if he didn’t come round at all?

  But that was stupid. He was breathing. He had concussion, that was all.

  Minette shut her eyes, remembering. They’d been in the cave, telling the kraken a story…trying to stop him going too near the entrance. Then suddenly something had hurtled down from the opening in the cliff above them and landed in the water. A man they had never seen before, gasping and struggling for breath.

  They hadn’t been frightened at first—not till he clambered out and stared at the kraken…stared and stared…Then he felt in his sodden clothes, and from an oilskin pouch he took out a whistle and blew three sharp shrill blasts.

  They had understood then. Fabio charged at the man, trying to wrench the whistle away, but it was too late. More men came from the sea and the cave filled up with shouting and torchlight and the glint of weapons…Minette had gone to the kraken’s head, slipping into the water with him, trying to calm him but the net came down over them both…He’d thought it was a game at first—cruelty was something he couldn’t understand—and she’d half hoped they’d take her with him so that she could comfort him. But they had pulled her out roughly and thrown her back into the pool.

  And as she climbed out she’d seen Fabio lying on the ledge of rock…and the blood seeping from his head…

  Out in the corridor the Little One was whimpering again. “They’ve given me the wrong sweeties. I’ve got blue sweeties and I’m a girl. Girls ought to have pink sweeties.”

  It was another hour before Fabio stirred, but then he was awake at once.

  “Have they got him? Has he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  Fabio put a hand to his head. “Did they knock me out?”

  “They kept thumping your head against the stone.” Minette’s voice broke as she remembered Fabio’s courage and the cruelty of the men.

  “And the others? The stoorworm…the mermaids?”

  “They’ve got everyone except Walter.”

  Fabio had managed to sit up.

  “Is the Hurricane still there?”

  “Yes. We don’t know why but she is.”

  “Then we must board her. We must rescue him. We must rescue everybody.”

  Minette stared at him. “You’re mad. How could we? We’ve only got the Peggoty—and the aunts won’t let us out of their sight. We’re really prisoners now because they blame themselves for you being hurt and because they left the creatures unguarded to help Myrtle. You’ve no idea what it’s like down there. And Dorothy broke one of the thug’s noses with her wok; they dragged him back to the boat but there’s blood everywhere.”

  Fabio took no notice. “We have to. We have to get to him.”

  “Even if we did, what could we—” began Minette and broke off. She felt like Fabio underneath. They had to try and help.

  Fabio had pushed back the bedclothes. The room spun round, then steadied. He was just trying his feet on the floor when the unspeakable Boo-Boo came in.

  “That’s my teddy you’ve got there. I put him to sleep in your bed when you were in the cave and I want him because we’re going to play Mummies and Daddies in the garden and he’s my little boy.”

  Fabio threw the stuffed animal across the room.

  “Get out,” he said. And then: “There must be someone who could help.”

  Minette looked at him. He had had an awful blow to his head—would he be able to cope with any more strangeness?

  But that was silly. Fabio could cope with anything.

  “There is somebody,” she said.

  Herbert sat quietly on the point and looked out to the sea which until yesterday had been his home. He wore a pair of Art’s trousers, stripy socks and a sweater of the Captain’s. The clothes felt prickly on his skin, and his soul felt prickly too. The tears of Myrtle, the despair of the aunts, buzzed round his head. It had been so quiet in the sea.

  But what was done was done. He was a man now, not a seal, and it was as a man that he must try to help the kraken’s son.

  The Peggoty was in the boathouse. She was only an old fishing boat, not a tenth the size of the Hurricane, but if he could get alongside and get a grappling hook on to the deck he could climb up the rope and board her. Some selkies, when they changed shape, had trouble with their arms and legs, but his were strong.

  He was checking the Peggoty’s oars, when Fabio and Minette appeared in the doorway of the shed. Fabio had pulled a woollen cap over his bandage.

  “We want to go with you,” said Minette.

  Fabio was silent. He had expected to find it a shock meeting someone who not twenty-four hours ago had been a seal, but now nothing mattered except to get to the Hurricane. Herbert had been a handsome seal and he was a handsome man but what was important was that he looked trustworthy and reliable—and strong. Some people who listen to music on the cello can be a little arty and vague, but not Herbert.

  “Have you asked the aunts?” said Herbert, coiling a rope.

  The children did not answer. Then:

  “We have to go. The kraken was our job. We have to help him, and the others too. We have to try,”

  Herbert straightened himself and looked at them. He was a man now but he was not a man like other men. He had a sense of all nature being one…of children being part of the universe and not creatures set apart. He knew that if the little kraken died the sea would never be the same again, and he remembered that the kraken had trusted these two as he had trusted no one.

  All the same, knowing the danger, he hesitated.

  But it looked as though the matter would be taken out of his hands. For before he could speak all three of them heard the unmistakable drone of a helicopter coming towards the Island. The noise grew louder, the helicopter circled the Island once…then began the descent on to the level patch of grass behind the house.

  Tears sprang to Minette’s eyes and Fabio drew in a hissing breath. Now, just when they had a chance of reaching the kraken, they had been found and would be dragged back.

  Frantically they looked about for somewhere to hide. But it was too late. A polic
eman was climbing out of the machine and hurrying towards the house; a policewoman followed.

  The adventure was over.

  Chapter 20

  King’s Cross Station had not looked so smart since the Queen had arrived there at the time of her silver jubilee.

  There were streamers all over the station saying Welcome Back! and on Platform One where the train bringing the kidnapped children was due to arrive, was a party of schoolchildren carrying banners. The banners said things like You are safe now and Your troubles are ended, and the children who carried them had learnt a welcoming song which they would sing as soon as the snatched children stepped out of the train.

  A chocolate firm had sent a bumper pack of sweets, and their prettiest salesgirl, dressed like a chocolate bar, was waiting to present it. A famous clothes shop had made up parcels of T-shirts, and a bicycle manufacturer had brought two mountain bikes to present to the children who had been snatched so cruelly by the kidnapping aunts. Everyone knew about the miracle which had made it possible for the police helicopter to swoop down and gather up the missing boy and girl in a single daring raid.

  Mrs Danby, Minette’s mother, was in the place of honour, standing on the strip of red carpet which had been put out for the children to walk on when they stepped out of their First Class Carriage. She wore a dazzling new outfit which she had bought with the money from the Daily Screech: a shocking pink suit and a little pillbox hat with a veil. When she ran forward to hug Minette she would push the veil up so that people could see her tears. Professor Danby stood beside her, looking solemn. Whenever his wife took a step forward so as to be nearer to where the train would stop, he took one too. He wasn’t going to be upstaged by that show-off he’d been fool enough to marry!

  The old Mountjoys had been given special chairs so that they could wait for their grandson in comfort. They were of course very pleased that Fabio had been found, but they couldn’t help wondering if all the work they had put into making him into an English gentleman had been wasted. The children had been discovered on some rough island in the middle of the Atlantic ocean and that could hardly be a good thing. Maybe they would come off the train with straw in their hair and mud on their shoes—if they wore shoes at all.

  And of course as well as the schoolchildren and the relatives and the Lady Mayoress with her golden chain, the platform was full of cameramen and journalists and television crews with all their gear. The moment when the poor, snatched, little children got down from the train and ran into the arms of their loved ones would be shown not just all over England but all over the world. Even now the commentators were setting the scene, babbling excitedly into their microphones.

  “Only five minutes to go, before the train bringing those frightened, wretched youngsters to safety will draw up just twenty metres from where I stand,” said the lady from ITV. “Mrs Danby can hardly hold back her excitement—she has just run forward so as to get even closer to her missing daughter…”

  This was true—Mrs Danby had run forward, but this was because her husband was up to his tricks again, trying to upstage her so that the camera picked him up as well as her and she wasn’t having that.

  “And the grandparents of the wild little boy who found shelter and kindliness in their home—what a touching couple they make, in the autumn of their years, waiting with joy for this great moment,” the commentator went on.

  Up in Edinburgh, Professor Danby’s housekeeper was glued to the telly. There’d be a row about which of the parents was to have the girl first, she thought, and hoped it would be the professor because she’d put flowers in Minette’s room and polished her new writing desk.

  Minette’s mother’s boyfriend was watching too, lying as usual with a can of lager on the sofa. He too hoped Minette would go to her father first. Not that he had anything against the kid but the flat was cramped and he’d got the sack again and needed somewhere to flake out in the day.

  And in the hospital in Newcastle upon Tyne, Betty sat in the dayroom and watched, surrounded by other patients and those nurses who could spare a moment. She needed the treat because her hip was mending very slowly; she should have been out of hospital a week ago and there she still was.

  “Only three more minutes now,” said one of the newscasters looking at the station clock, which was a silly thing to say. Since when have trains coming down from the North been on time, even trains full of police officers bringing kidnapped children back to safety?

  The commentator described Mrs Danby’s hat once more and told the viewers that old Mrs Mountjoy’s face was full of longing.

  The schoolchildren holding their banners shuffled their feet and cleared their throats, ready for their welcoming song.

  The station clock ticked on.

  And then at last they saw the train coming, curving round into the station, and a great cheer went up. The Lady Mayoress straightened her chain, the crowd that had gathered outside the platform gates waved, the television cameras whirred….

  The train slowed down…stopped.

  The door opened. A policewoman got down, and another…then they turned and held out their hands to the two children.

  The girl was the first to come out. She was lifted down from the carriage and stood for a moment looking about her, smoothing down the velvet collar of her coat and patting her curls.

  Then the boy was lifted down, and straightened his cap and dusted down his blazer.

  “Where’s my mummy?” said the little girl in a cross and whining voice. “I want my mummy. You said you’d take us to her.”

  “I want her too,” wailed the little boy. “I want my mummy now.”

  Mrs Danby’s mouth fell open. The professor glared. “Is this a joke?” snapped Mr Mountjoy.

  And in the dayroom of the hospital in Newcastle upon Tyne, poor Betty gave a single high-pitched cry and fell back senseless in her chair.

  Chapter 21

  Herbert was magnificent. In spite of the darkness and the choppy sea he sent the Peggoty sailing steadily towards the single light burning on the Hurricane. His hands on the tiller never faltered, he seemed to understand the old boat as he understood the sea.

  Fabio and Minette sat very close together in the stern, not daring to speak. When the helicopter took off again and they realized what a wonderful mistake had been made, they had wasted no more time. While Herbert was filling petrol cans by the jetty, they had climbed aboard and down into the little cabin full of fishing hooks and ropes and tackle and pulled a tarpaulin over their heads. With luck, by the time they were found, they would be too far out to turn back.

  But it wasn’t Herbert who found them—it was Aunt Etta and Aunt Coral. It had never occurred to the children that the aunts would be part of the boarding party. Dorothy was staying behind because she had sprained her wrist when she bashed Casimir with her wok and Herbert had forbidden Myrtle to come.

  “You have had a shock, Myrtle, and you must rest,” Herbert had said, and that was that. But not even Herbert had been able to stop Etta and Coral.

  They had never seen the aunts so angry.

  “Turn back at once!” commanded Etta. “These children will not face any more danger! I forbid it!”—and Coral tried to get hold of the tiller and force the boat to change course.

  But Herbert stood firm. He had sensed the change in the sea and knew what would happen to the ocean if the kraken’s son perished. Even the children did not matter compared to that.

  They glided silently alongside the Hurricane. No lights were burning in the cabins; no one expected an attack. With unbelievable strength Herbert threw the knotted rope and they heard the grappling iron fasten on the wooden boards.

  Within seconds, Herbert had climbed the rope and was on deck. Etta and the children followed. Coral with her bulk took longer but she did it.

  They stood in silence, listening. Herbert had his knife ready. If they could cut the kraken free and push him overboard, he could swim to safety.

  They had almost reached him whe
n it happened.

  The door from below opened, a beam of light was thrown on to the deck—and Lambert, in his pyjamas stood there, blinking.

  The poor boy was definitely going crazy. Since the Hurricane had filled up with creepy-crawlies that weren’t really there, Lambert had been plagued by dreadful dreams. In this one he’d dreamt that Old Ursula had come to his school, sliding on her tail, and said she was his grandmother and all the boys had jeered at him and thrown him buckets of fish.

  Now he came on to the deck, too afraid to wake his father, and saw a huddle of shapes creeping towards the tarpaulin where the thing that didn’t exist was lying.

  He gave a cry of terror and as Herbert turned, the knife in his hand, the klaxons began to blare and searchlights raked the deck.

  Ten minutes later, the rescuers had joined the prisoners in the stench and darkness of the hold.

  You couldn’t really blame the police. When the helicopter landed on the Island, two little children had run straight into the arms of the policewoman and begged to be taken home.

  “Take us away,” they had lisped pathetically. “We hate it here. Take us home to our mummy.”

  It was clear that the poor little scraps had been abominably treated. They had not been allowed to clean their teeth and been given sweets which tasted nasty—drugged ones, the policewoman was sure. All the way they had whimpered and complained and it was clear that the aunts who had held them were as evil and dangerous as everyone imagined.

  But of course the muddle took some time to sort out. The tax inspector had to come from Newcastle upon Tyne to fetch his children and no one knew whether the T-shirts and the chocolate bars should be given to them or kept for when the other children came. And the whole business of capturing the vile kidnappers and the children that they were holding had still to be done.