The Secret Starling

by Judith Eagle

  Was that a tear in the corner of Cook’s eye? Clara couldn’t be sure but she was inclined to think it was. Now Cook was turning to go. ‘Goodness knows I won’t be able to find more work at my age.’

  Chapter Three

  The very same day that Cook left, Uncle called Clara to his study.

  ‘Clara!’ he shouted irritably from the foot of the stairs. ‘Get down here now!’

  This is odd, thought Clara, who was curled up on the window seat at the end of the second-floor corridor. It was highly unusual for Uncle to issue a summons outside of normal visiting hours. And it was especially unusual for him to break his ‘no shouting across the house’ rule. But odd things had become a common occurrence in recent days.

  As she glided into the study (‘quiet, not clattering’) Clara noticed that Uncle was not, for once, sunk deep in his chair. Instead, he was standing, twitching almost, and then he began pacing back and forth in a manner she had not observed before. Could he be … flustered?

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t very Uncle-like.

  ‘Clara,’ he began, and paused in a way that made Clara feel duty-bound to fill the silence.

  ‘Yes, Uncle?’ His study looked even more of a bomb site than usual. There were papers everywhere, teetering in skyscrapers, exploding in piles on the desk, anchored under books, tucked behind the pictures on the walls, scattered willy-nilly across the floor.

  ‘Mind that!’ Uncle barked as Clara almost tripped over a bundle of letters. If he’d only tidy up it would make things a lot easier, Clara thought resentfully. In the past he had occasionally let Cook in to clean and keep order. But recently the study had been out of bounds to her as well.

  The fire was unlit. He probably didn’t know how to light it. That had been James’s job. Clara had often watched the butler carefully sweeping the grate so that the ashes didn’t turn to dust and billow into the air, layering up kindling and coal; sometimes he allowed Clara to strike the first match. Clara shivered and curled her toes inside her shoes.

  ‘We are leaving,’ said Uncle abruptly, drumming his fingers on the mantelpiece, ‘before lunch. Pack a case of indispensables and meet me in the hall in an hour.’

  Clara swallowed. Was there to be no explanation? ‘Uncle—’ she began.

  ‘Enough!’ he snapped. ‘It’s very important we leave on the hour.’ He nodded his head towards the door which Clara knew very well was his way of saying, ‘Get lost.’

  Clara trudged back up the stairs. A suitcase of indispensables! What on earth were they? And now Cook had gone, she couldn’t ask. For as long as she could remember, an empty leather suitcase had sat on top of her wardrobe. She had never had cause to use it before because she had never travelled anywhere. Now she stood on a chair and dragged it down.

  What would a normal person pack if they were going away? Clara knew she wasn’t normal from her books. She had never been to school, or to the sea, or swung on a swing in a park, or had pocket money to spend on chips or sweets or comics.

  Occasionally she had made the half-hour walk across the moors with Cook to the village shop. Sometimes the shopkeeper gave her a gobstopper so big it took almost the whole journey back to lick it before she could even fit it into her mouth. Twice a year she went with James in the ancient silver Daimler to the shop in Leeds, where he stood twisting his cap while the assistants measured her up and fitted her with new shoes. Clara loved those days and longed to linger, but Uncle always insisted they come straight back. Even so, on the return journey James would park up in the village and they’d go into the café to bolt down tea and cake. It was always utterly marvellous.

  Now what was going to happen? Where was Uncle taking her? Clara looked at her reflection in the mirror and saw a sharp pointy face gazing expectantly back at her. Taking a length of hair she combed it backwards, the way she had seen her governesses do. She combed and combed until the cloud of blue-black hair looked like a bird’s nest. Then she twisted it into a stately pile on top of her head. Turning this way and that she admired her handiwork. The new hairstyle looked rather regal. Now she would be ready for anything.

  Clara thrust a few items of clothing into the suitcase and filled the remaining space with books. Carefully, she tucked her shell box with the red ribbon inside into the corner. Then she zipped up the case, negotiating the bit where the teeth were crooked, buckled it tightly, and staggered downstairs.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they were in the Daimler, with Braithwaite Manor behind them and the bleak moor stretching out endlessly ahead, that Uncle spoke.

  ‘I’ll drop you in the village. I’ve got a couple of errands to do. You know where Cook lives if you need anything.’

  What did he mean? What errands did he have to do? How long would he be? Clara opened her mouth and then shut it again. Somehow Uncle’s expression didn’t invite interrogation. His brow was furrowed and he stared straight ahead, his elegant hands wrapped round the wheel. He was dressed in his usual grey suit with the wine-coloured waistcoat, a spotted silk scarf tied loosely at his throat. His thick dark hair was swept back from his high forehead. He would be quite distinguished-looking, Clara thought, if it wasn’t for the scowl.

  A little glimmer of hope flickered at the furthermost reaches of Clara’s mind. She was, after all, an eternal optimist. Perhaps Uncle was going to try to be a better uncle.

  ‘Uncle,’ she blurted out, ‘where are we going?’

  Now Uncle did look at her. Just a quick glance. They were approaching the village. A kind of deafening silence filled the air. Clara really thought she might burst.

  ‘Never you mind,’ he eventually barked and made a swatting movement with his hand, as if batting away a particularly annoying fly.

  Clara stared out at the road. Her eyes burned. She hated him. Hated him! She wasn’t going to ask him anything else, ever. She was never going to speak to him again.

  Chapter Four

  When they reached the village, Uncle stopped the car.

  ‘Out you get then,’ he said brusquely.

  Clara wondered how long he was going to be, but she refused to break her silence. She was good at being stubborn. Uncle was already out of the car anyway, retrieving her case from the boot.

  ‘Here,’ he said, thrusting it at her. It banged against her knee, sending little darts of pain up her leg. But before she even had time to wince, the door slammed shut and the car roared away, leaving her all alone.

  Well! After years of nothing happening, everything was happening at once. She thought about Cook’s cosy little cottage full of grandchildren and was rather tempted to go and knock on her door. You can’t, Clara, she told herself sternly. She could hardly go and foist herself on Cook, not on the very day she’d been sacked.

  Clara still had the shiny fifty pence in her pocket that Cook had given her. She would spend it in the café that she’d visited with James! Yes, a cup of tea and a cake while she waited was by far the best idea.

  Inside, the café was warm and steamy. The tables were covered in red-and-white checked cloths, and on each one stood a slim vase holding a frilly pink flower. Clara went to the counter as though she did this sort of thing every day and ordered her tea. She pointed to the largest cake she could see, a Chelsea bun covered in glossy white icing and topped with a cherry so luminous she could imagine it glowing in the dark.

  ‘Is it shoe day already?’ asked the lady in a friendly manner. ‘Where’s Mr James?’

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Clara. ‘I’m waiting for Uncle. He’s gone on some errands, but he’ll be back soon.’ She found a table and surveyed her surroundings. The café really was a very pleasant place: pop music playing on the radio, the hiss and spit of steam rising from the tea urn, colourful cakes piled high on the fancy cake stand, pictures of kittens and puppies decorating the walls.

  The hot tea scalded Clara’s throat, but it was lovely. The icing on the bun turned to sweet powder on her tongue. She took her time, savouring every bite and sip while ex
amining the pictures of the puppies and kittens, deciding which one she would have if she were ever allowed a pet. She thought probably the jet-black kitten with the golden eyes. It stared out at her pitifully, as if it was saying, ‘Please take me home.’

  After Clara had finished her refreshments and sat there for a little while longer, listening to the hum of the customers and the jangly music on the radio, she decided it was probably time to pay up and leave. Uncle was taking ages. Maybe she should wait outside. Clara stuck her hand in her pocket to retrieve the fifty pence. But instead of drawing out the coin, she pulled out a piece of paper folded around a package. Carefully she unfolded it to reveal a thick wad of ten-pound notes. She stared at them in astonishment. Where had they come from? Quickly, she counted them. There were twenty in total, crisp and brown, with a picture of the Queen on one side and a lion on the other. Two hundred pounds!

  She was still wondering how they had found their way into her pocket when she noticed the paper they were wrapped in had a note scrawled on the underside. It was written in a familiar black spidery hand.

  Clara took a sharp intake of breath. Had he abandoned her? The thought was swift and unexpected, like a cold blade pointing at her throat.

  Clara sat at the café table, a maelstrom of thoughts whirling round and round in her head. He must be late because something had happened to him. Maybe he’d had an accident in the car, or dropped down dead. But the rational part of Clara’s brain told her that if that were the case there would have been a commotion, an ambulance – somehow word would have got back to the café, she would have known. And if he was coming back, why slip her the money and the note?

  Clara gazed at the other people in the café. After they finished here, they had something to do, somewhere else to go. A horrible lump wedged itself into the back of her throat. She tried to swallow it, but it wouldn’t budge. Should she tell someone? Maybe the lady behind the counter? She had been friendly. And she remembered her from the shoe visits. Or perhaps it was better to choose a parent. A couple were sitting at the next table with a baby in a pram. But they looked cross, as if they were having an argument, so that wouldn’t do.

  Anyway, what would she say? ‘Excuse me, I think my uncle has abandoned me?’ Then what would happen? The authorities would take over. She’d be sent to a workhouse or something. Actually, she was pretty sure workhouses didn’t exist any more. But it was bound to be something similar, a terribly cruel orphanage, or a harsh boarding school for unwanted children.

  Clara stood, the storm of thoughts crowding her head. She felt sick. And a bit dizzy. Walking over to the counter, she paid her bill.

  ‘Where’s your uncle then?’ the lady enquired, giving Clara her change.

  ‘I’m meeting him outside,’ said Clara, surprising herself when the lie just popped out, fully formed.

  Outside it had started to spit with rain. Clara shivered. She didn’t have her gloves or a hat. She took the note out of her pocket and read the message again. He really didn’t care, not at all. This note was proof of it, right here, in her hands.

  Clara stood, gripped by indecision. The rain had started in earnest now, icy needles scratching her skin. Clara, she said to herself, remember what Cook said. You’re a strong ’un. You’ll survive. She would just have to work this out on her own.

  And then it came to her, clear as day. No more deadly dull routine. No more people telling her what to do. No more being ordered about. Of course she wasn’t going to tell anyone! She was going to take charge, go home and look after herself for a change.

  Chapter Five

  Forever and ever Braithwaite Manor had just stood there on the moors, dark and inhospitable, as though it was saying ‘go away, traveller’ rather than ‘come in’. But it was the only home Clara had ever known, and after the half-hour tramp through whistling wind and lashing rain, when its familiar hulk finally loomed into view, she felt awash with relief. She was soaking wet, her shoes were sodden and her feet felt like lumps of lead.

  It wasn’t until she was almost at the door that she noticed the boy. He was trying without much success to shelter under one of the straggly bushes that sprouted from the rockery, his arms attempting to shield a basket at his feet. ‘At last!’ he cried, leaping up and rushing towards her as she approached. He was small and wiry, with light-ish-coloured hair gone muddy brown in the rain. ‘I’ve been here for ages! Where have you been? And where’s Mr Starling?’

  Clara stopped dead in her tracks and stared. Behind the boy was a for-sale sign, its post jammed into the soil at a strange angle as though it was leaning into the wind. This was not part of the plan! She’d come back to live on her own at home. She couldn’t do that if the house was to be sold! She looked back at the boy, who was gazing at her with a mixture of impatience and … was it hope? She didn’t think anyone had looked at her quite like that before.

  ‘Who are you? Did you put this up?’ she asked, pointing at the sign. She didn’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but that’s how it came out.

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ the boy said indignantly. ‘I’m Peter Trimble, Flat 64, North Tower, Kennington, London, SE11. I’ve been sent here to stay with Mr Edward Starling while Granny is recuperating. Just for a few weeks until she’s better. Didn’t you know? It’s all been arranged!’

  Clara’s head spun. Who on earth was Granny and why was he talking about Uncle as if he were a completely normal human being instead of an irresponsible guardian who had abandoned his one and only niece that very afternoon?

  She felt cross and confused. She’d been so looking forward to getting home, getting dry and trying to remember Cook’s instructions for boiling eggs and mashing potatoes. Now here was a boy out of nowhere, talking nonsense, and a for-sale sign outside her house. A small part of her wished Peter Trimble would just disappear.

  ‘Uncle didn’t say anything,’ Clara said. ‘And now he’s gone, we can’t ask.’

  ‘What do you mean, he’s gone? I’m expected! Are you his niece?’ The boy was starting to look distraught.

  Clara nodded warily.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘your uncle, Mr Starling, is our neighbour Stella’s old friend. She wrote to him and said I was coming. And now I’m here and he’s not! What shall I do?’ He looked at the house and then back at Clara as if he didn’t quite believe what she was saying. ‘Aren’t there any other grown-ups?’

  ‘No,’ said Clara.

  Peter started gathering his bags.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she said.

  ‘Going back to London!’ he said. ‘If your uncle’s gone and the house is for sale, I can’t stay, can I? Besides, Granny needs me.’

  Clara didn’t like the sound of that. If he left and went back to his granny, could she trust him not to go blabbering to the authorities? All the way home she had been thinking about everything she was going to do to the house, rearranging the rooms, tackling the repairs. She wouldn’t even be able to start if Peter went and told on her.

  ‘But you just said she needs to recuperate!’ objected Clara.

  Peter flushed scarlet so that the cinnamon-coloured freckles sprinkling his nose almost disappeared. ‘It’s what Stella suggested. She’s worried social services will think Granny can’t look after me properly and split us up. And I’ve gone and made it worse by getting into trouble at school.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Clara. It all sounded very serious. No wonder he seemed cross.

  Now Peter Trimble was bending down and muttering to the basket thing at his feet. He looked up at Clara, his features still clouded with worry.

  ‘Can you hurry up and let us in then?’ he said, ‘Stockwell isn’t used to the rain.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My cat. She’s been stuck in this thing all day,’ the boy was saying. ‘She’s probably starving. I’ll come in and feed her, and then I’d better go back.’

  Clara turned away from the boy so that he couldn’t see her face while she worked out what to do next. She didn’t have
a key; that was the problem. Without a key, and with no one inside to answer the door, how could they get in? She didn’t know why, but she felt it was important for him to think that everything was under control.

  ‘Hurry up!’ said Peter.

  It was raining stair rods and water streamed like a thousand tears down her face, dripping off her nose and trickling down her cheeks to her chin. Clara kicked the rockery, dislodging a stone, and then without even thinking, picked it up and quickly ran towards the house, hurling it at the pane of glass to the right of the door. The rock smashed through the window like a cannon ball, splintering the glass into tiny pieces. Clara’s chest swelled.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Peter was on his feet, mouth open. ‘You can’t just go around breaking windows! Hang on, is this really your house?’

  Clara walked up the steps to examine the jagged hole. She heard him follow her. She tried to think what James would do next.

  ‘Can I have your scarf?’ she asked Peter. She watched him unfurl it from his neck. It was sopping wet, but it would do the trick. Carefully she wound it, like a bandage, round and round her hand and up her arm. Then she walked up the steps and stuck her scarf-wrapped arm through the hole in the windowpane. The glass crunched under her feet as she shifted position.

  ‘Careful!’ said Peter.

  She felt around for the lock. Found it. There was a click and the heavy door swung open.

  ‘We’re in!’ said Peter. He was impressed, she could tell. Even better, he was grinning, and the grin reached all the way to his eyes.

  Chapter Six

  After they had swept up all the glass so the cat wouldn’t get any in her paws, Clara flew all over the house switching on every single light. Now the house was hers she wanted it to glitter like a star on the moor, every window twinkling so it could be seen far and wide.