by Judith Eagle
‘Your uncle hasn’t paid the electric,’ said Peter, and when Clara looked baffled, he explained: ‘Electricity isn’t free. If you don’t pay, they cut you off.’
‘Here, scrumple some of these up then,’ Clara said, handing some of Uncle’s papers to Peter. They would light another fire. And when it got dark, they would have candles. She had seen boxes of them in James’s cupboard.
They set to work twisting and crumpling the paper. When Peter had worked his way through his first pile, he started on the muddle of papers that Uncle seemed to have tossed at random under his desk.
‘Look!’
Clara looked. Peter was waggling a postcard at her.
‘It’s Rome!’ he said. ‘In Italy! I’d love to go there!’ The postcard Peter was holding had a picture of the Colosseum on the front. He turned it over and read the message on the back.
‘Dancing Giselle tonight. Wish me luck x.’
‘Giselle!’ Peter’s eyes shone. And when Clara looked like she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, added, ‘It’s a ballet about a girl who goes mad with grief and dies of a broken heart.’
It turned out Peter knew all about ballet. He was going to be a ballet dancer when he grew up, ‘Although Trimble hasn’t really got a ballet ring to it, has it?’ he said. ‘It’d be much better if it was something like Starling.’
Rudolf Nureyev was his hero. He told Clara about the ‘Heroes and Heroines of Our Time’ project he’d done at school, and how Miss had asked the class to stand up one at a time and speak about someone famous they admired. Peter had decided to talk about when Nureyev was in Paris, on tour with the Kirov Ballet, and how the Communists, worried he was mixing with too many French people, tried to trick him into going back to the USSR.
‘First the KGB said he had to dance a very, very important performance at the Kremlin, but that didn’t fool him, so then they told him his mum was at death’s door. Luckily Nureyev guessed it was all a pack of lies,’ Peter explained. ‘He defected in 1961 and he hasn’t been back to the USSR since.’
‘How do you know all that?’ asked Clara, impressed.
‘Library,’ said Peter. ‘And before she was ill, Granny took me to see him dance Bluebird – that’s in Swan Lake – on my birthday. We sat in the gods, high up, right at the back – you need binoculars to see. You should see him jump, Clara, it’s magic.’
Clara had never set foot inside a school, let alone a classroom full of children. She didn’t think she would have the courage to stand up in front of a whole class and speak about anything! But here was Peter, an actual authority on a subject she knew nothing whatsoever about. She was sure the class would have been transfixed as he told them everything he knew about Nureyev.
‘I should have kept my mouth shut,’ said Peter. ‘Geoffrey Mullings and Steven Pope are always on at me for being a granny’s boy. Now they call me ballet boy. I spat on them in the corridor after and then we got in a fight.’
He clenched his fists angrily as he spoke.
‘Oh! Is that why you got in trouble?’ asked Clara, remembering what Peter had said the day before.
But Peter had stopped talking, his face suddenly alert. And then Clara heard something too. Quickly she dashed to the window and peered out.
A white car had turned into the drive of Braithwaite Manor and at this very moment was pulling up in front of the house. A man in a suit hopped out of the driver’s seat. He was clutching a clipboard. His jacket flapped in the wind as he moved to open the passenger door.
‘I bet that’s the estate agent!’ said Peter. ‘And those people in the back have come to view your house!’
Clara stared at him in disbelief. Already? She’d barely given another thought to the for-sale sign outside the house. But of course Peter was right. The sign was there for a purpose, not for decoration.
For a split second Clara considered marching to the door and telling the unwanted visitors to get in their car and go away. But just as quickly she realised she couldn’t.
She was a child. The questions would start. They would ask what she was doing there and where was Uncle.
A second car door slammed, then another. Peter and Clara backed away from the window. They mustn’t be seen.
Clara’s mind raced frantically through the house, assessing hiding places. There was the enormous fireplace in the library; the cupboard at the back of the pantry; the room at the top of the turret. No. Too big; too small; too obvious. None of them would do.
Then there was the wardrobe in the spare bedroom on the second floor …
With the greatest urgency, she grabbed Peter’s arm and pulled him after her, up two flights of stairs, along the corridor and into the room at the end.
‘In there!’ she instructed, gesturing towards a wardrobe so large it towered over the whole room. They had barely crushed themselves inside when they heard the front door open and, moments later, the distant sound of voices float up the stairs.
It was a brilliant hiding place. They would never be found. And yet Clara sensed Peter’s whole body go rigid beside her.
‘What’s wrong?’ she hissed. She couldn’t hear anything now except for her own heart pounding. The visitors must be at the back of the house.
‘We forgot Stockwell!’
‘You can’t get her now.’
‘Clara! I must! There, listen!’
Very faintly she heard a mew. Peter pushed open the door of the wardrobe and started to climb out.
Now she could hear the intruders again. Moving from one room to another. The dining room, the study, back into the hall.
Clara tried to grab Peter’s leg and yank him back. ‘Stay here! They’re coming!’
But Peter jerked his leg out of Clara’s grasp and disappeared into the room. Clara could hear the steady drone of voices now. The creak of feet on the stairs. A door opening somewhere below, then shutting again. Her bedroom? Or Uncle’s? Peter was still scurrying around.
‘Peter,’ she whispered. Did he want to get caught? At last the wardrobe door wrenched back open and Peter squashed back in, Stockwell in his arms. Clara breathed out. Just in time.
More creaks, even louder now. Footsteps moving along the second-floor corridor. Voices audible outside the spare bedroom door.
‘… vandalism. Quite unheard of in these parts. Although there are a few undesirables in the next village, children with nothing better to do, you know. Anyway, not to worry, we’ll get the door fixed pronto.’
‘So it’s only been on the market for a couple of days then, Gilmore?’ A voice with a harsh rasp, metal on metal, like a knife perhaps, scraping against a cheese grater. It made the hairs on the back of Clara’s neck stand on end.
‘Yes, Mr Morden. But you’ll need to act fast. We’ve already had several enquiries. It’s a prime piece of property. Crying out to be developed.’
Gently, Clara shifted position so that Peter’s elbow didn’t stick in her ribs quite so much. Stockwell, cross at being in such a confined space when there was a whole house to explore, struggled to escape Peter’s grasp.
‘Entrez.’ The sound of several people tramping in. ‘This is one of the smaller rooms. Fine views across the moors, windows a bit on the petite side, but – I’m sure you’ll agree – that’s easily fixed.’
‘Small windows are good.’ A female voice, stony, cold.
‘Suitable for our purposes, eh?’ said the cheese-grater voice. ‘No distractions, no peering eyes.’
‘Indeed Morden,’ said the female voice. ‘Considering the property comes with … special inclusions, shall we say …’
It was then, as if she wanted to be part of the conversation, that Stockwell miaowed.
Clara froze. Had they heard? On the other side of the wardrobe there was silence.
‘Morden!’ It was the stony-cold female voice again. Clara’s skin prickled. The person sounded very near. ‘What in hellfire was that?’
Chapter Nine
Stockwell mewed again softly.<
br />
‘Is that a cat? We need to go. Mrs Morden is highly allergic. You’ll need to fumigate this place if you want to make a sale …’
There was the sound of hurried shuffling and then the voices became fainter and fainter until they had faded away.
For a minute Clara and Peter remained hunched in the wardrobe listening to the footsteps receding down the stairs, the front door slamming shut, the gravel crunching outside. It was a relief when an engine revved and a screech of tyres indicated the car and its passengers had sped away.
‘He can’t sell this house!’ yelled Clara, bursting out of the wardrobe. ‘I won’t let him.’ She felt outraged, but she was scared too. What would she do if the house was sold? Where would she go? She pictured herself, a huddled figure, homeless, dressed in rags and wandering the wild and windy moors for all eternity.
Clara ran to the window, her eyes following the car as it grew smaller and smaller until it was just a speck on the moor. There by the gate was the for-sale sign, announcing that her home was up for grabs. When she’d seen it yesterday, she hadn’t quite believed what that meant. Now she knew.
‘I’ll buy it!’ she said, turning to Peter.
‘What, with two hundred pounds?’ Peter laughed.
‘It’s my house too, not just Uncle’s. I can sell some of the furniture. And there’re still some paintings left!’
She hoped she would never meet the cheese-grater man and the stony-cold woman again. They gave her the shivers. ‘Well done, Stockwell!’ she shouted as the cat streaked out of the room. ‘I’ll get a whole army of cats to keep that lady and her stupid allergy away if I have to.’
Clara stomped downstairs, followed by Peter who slid down the bannister.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a job to do.’
For the second time that day she opened James’s cupboard. She took out a saw, a jam jar full of nails, and a short plank of wood left over from when James had replaced some rotten floorboards. To Peter, she gave a tin of white paint and a paintbrush.
Outside, Clara blew on her hands to warm them up, then, grasping the wooden handle of the saw in both hands, started to rhythmically saw at the base of the for-sale sign. Back and forth she went, not hacking, but patiently, until the teeth of the saw sliced a groove, going deeper and deeper until – crack – there was a splintering sound, and the post keeled over onto the ground.
‘Voilà!’ she said.
‘How d’you know how to do that?’ asked Peter admiringly. ‘In woodwork at school, they won’t let us use the saws ’cause of health and safety. Teacher has to do it.’
‘James taught me,’ said Clara, kicking the felled post triumphantly. She had the same feeling she’d had when she’d thrown the stone at the window. Proud and brave and strong.
‘You any good at painting letters?’ she asked Peter.
He was. Clara watched while he painted ‘Not for Sale’ in neat white script on the short plank of wood. Then she showed him how to bang nails in and they nailed the sign to the front door.
They were just admiring their handiwork when, from inside the house, they heard the phone ringing.
‘Stella again?’ asked Clara.
She remembered that yesterday Peter had said he would decide today whether he was going home or not. He was proving to be quite useful. She would miss him if he went.
‘You answer it,’ said Peter. ‘If it is, say I’m helping your uncle in the garden and I can’t come to the phone.’
‘But Uncle never goes in the garden,’ said Clara.
‘Well, say I’m helping him do the hoovering.’
Clara burst out laughing. ‘But Uncle doesn’t do—’
‘Oh, Clara, it doesn’t matter!’ interrupted Peter. ‘Just say me and your uncle are busy. If Stella knows we’re on our own she’ll worry, and I bet you anything you like she’ll be on the next train here.’
Amazingly, the phone was still ringing when they reached it. Stella must be very keen, Clara thought as she picked up the receiver and pressed it to her ear. The plastic was cold against her skin.
‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Mr Starling please?’ The voice on the other end of the line was male.
‘He’s not here,’ said Clara. She didn’t know what else to say. Peter was frantically mouthing something at her, but she couldn’t tell what.
‘Do you know when he’ll be back?’
‘Soon I should think,’ she said.
‘Ask, “Who’s calling please?”,’ whispered Peter.
‘Who’s calling please?’ she repeated into the receiver.
‘Jackson Smith,’ the voice said. ‘Tell him I’ll call back this afternoon.’
There was a click and then a buzzing noise. Clara replaced the receiver back on its cradle.
‘Someone called Jackson Smith,’ she told Peter. ‘Whoever that is.’
‘Might be a debt collector,’ said Peter.
‘Or another house buyer.’
‘Or someone from the authorities who’s had a tip-off that you might be on your own.’
Very deliberately, Clara unplugged the phone and wound the spiralling cord into a neat loop. ‘There. Now we won’t have to answer it any more,’ she said.
‘I’m starving,’ said Peter, ‘but not for more eggs and potatoes. Can I have some of that money and I’ll go into the village for supplies?’
Clara felt a rush of relief at his words. All of a sudden she knew without a shadow of doubt that she wanted him to stay. She thought they might become friends – he’d be the first proper friend she’d ever had.
So Clara unrolled her stash of notes and gave Peter several of them. She drew a map showing him how to walk across the moor to the village. They agreed he wouldn’t speak to anyone apart from polite conversation in the shop. Stockwell would stay with Clara.
After Peter had gone, the house seemed very quiet and Clara was glad of the cat’s company. It was the first time she had ever been properly alone in the house. Of course she’d felt alone before, but it wasn’t quite the same. She stroked the cat’s inky black fur thoughtfully, feeling excited and happy. She had made it clear the house was not for sale. No one could phone them. For now they were safe.
She started thinking about what she could do for Peter that was nice, something to show that she wanted to be his friend. She wanted to show that she understood his worries, about his granny being ill and the rent and the electric and stuff like that. She decided she would do something to make him smile. In Cook’s odds-and-ends drawer she found scissors,
a needle and thread. In her bedroom she rummaged in her wardrobe and drew out an old dress that had fitted perfectly last summer but was now too small.
Clara pulled the old dress apart at the seams and then sewed it back together much smaller. She wasn’t very good with the needle and bloodied her fingers and the fabric quite a bit, but the red specks blended quite nicely with the rose print of the fabric, so it didn’t matter. A cat dress! With the leftover material, she made a sort of mob cap. Then she picked Stockwell up and dressed her. The cat didn’t struggle one bit and looked darling.
Clara had been so involved with her sewing that she hadn’t noticed the time. Now she saw it was past two in the afternoon. Peter had been gone for hours! Her mind raced ahead, assessing several nightmare scenarios. Perhaps he had been killed on the moors by a mad axe murderer, or worse, he had gone back to London without telling her.
But just as she was trying to work out what course of action she should take, the door slammed downstairs.
‘I’m home!’ shouted Peter, ‘and I’ve got loads of food!’ He had got lost on the moors, he complained, because the map had been useless. But when Stockwell scampered down the stairs in her new dress and cap, he burst out laughing and Clara felt a small surge of pride.
Much later, after they had gorged on a feast of new potatoes and pilchards in tomato sauce eaten straight from their tins, followed by gallons of something utterly delicious called
butterscotch instant whip, Clara made a fire in the study with a whole Roget’s Thesaurus and half a Russian dictionary. With no electricity, they lit scores of candles. The flickering fire cast a warm glow on everything, and snuggling down in her boat-bed, with Stockwell tucked in beside her, Clara felt infused with happiness.
But Peter let out a long, shuddery sigh.
‘What’s the matter?’ Clara asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Peter. And then, ‘Well, if you must know I’m a bit homesick. Don’t laugh.’
‘I’m not!’ said Clara. They were top to tail and her eyes were level with Peter’s feet, which looked small and sort of helpless in their stripy socks. There was a hole in the left one and his big toe was sticking out.
‘I’ve never been away from Granny before,’ said Peter. ‘Maybe I should go back tomorrow.’
Please don’t, Clara thought.
‘What does homesick feel like?’ she asked.
‘Like a sort of hollow in your heart,’ Peter sniffed.
Clara was quiet for a moment. A hollow in your heart. The words described perfectly a feeling she’d had for so long it felt normal.
‘Peter, I’ve been thinking,’ she whispered. ‘We’re both the same, aren’t we? Our pasts are sort of a dead end. Wouldn’t you like to know about your real mum and dad?’
‘No, I would not!’ The words came out fierce and fast. ‘Why would I want to find out anything about the people who dumped me? They didn’t want me, so I don’t want them!’
Clara supposed that made sense. She lay there, snuggled in her quilt, cosy and quiet.
‘It’s just,’ she said, ‘if my father doesn’t know I exist, he can’t know if he wants me or not, can he?’
But all she got in reply was a gentle snore.
Chapter Ten
They were eating gigantic bowls of sugar puffs for breakfast when there was a knock at the door. Clara froze. ‘We can’t answer it,’ she said. ‘What if it’s Mr and Mrs Morden again?’