by Robin Jarvis
The building was in ruins, but that did not diminish its power. The abbey had dominated Whitby for centuries and waves of invisible force flowed down from it. The ruin was a guardian, watching and waiting, caring for the little town that huddled beneath the cliff. It was a worshipful thing.
Miss Boston nodded. ‘Yes,’ she sighed dreamily, ‘the abbey. It is indeed lovely. There has been a church on that site for at least fourteen hundred years. One gets a marvellous sense of permanence, living under such an enduring symbol of faith. If one believes in the genius loci – the spirit of place – then surely therein dwells something divine. The Vikings came, Henry did his best to destroy the abbey with the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in the Great War German ships bombarded it. Yet still it stands – stubborn and wonderful. They say a true inhabitant of Whitby is lost if he cannot see the abbey.’ She paused and looked at the ground. ‘Well,’ she went on again breezily, ‘there I go, off at tangents again. You two may have eaten but I have not. Come, tea awaits.’
Jennet dragged her eyes from the cliff and glanced about the road. ‘Where’s your car?’ she asked curiously.
Miss Boston puffed herself up indignantly. ‘A car?’ she cried, her chins wobbling. ‘I don’t need a car. Whitby is not big enough to warrant the use of an automobile, child. However, I do have transport, now you mention it.’ She strode round to where an old black bicycle was leaning against the station wall.
Jennet bit her lip to stop herself cracking up with laughter at the thought of the old woman riding round on that. Had she and Ben come to stay with the local nutter?
Miss Boston announced that she would not ride but walk, for the sake of the children. ‘Now, this way,’ she declared, setting off. The bicycle clattered and whirred beside her.
Ben had been silent since they had met but by now he had decided that the old woman was harmless and much friendlier than the Rodice. There were none of those phoney smiles and patronising looks which were a feature of the Rodice’s way with children. He was also relieved that this adult had not tried to pat him on the head or ruffle his hair, like some others had done.
Now his excited eyes saw the fishing boats with their gleaming paintwork, orange nets and lobster pots. A twinge of pleasure tugged at his insides when he thought of actually sailing in one of them. It was not impossible. If the old woman liked him and Jennet and if he kept quiet about certain things, they might stay here just long enough.
Ben was already beginning to find Whitby a thrilling place, full of possibilities. Suddenly he remembered again what Mr Glennister had told him. As he walked behind his sister along the New Quay Road a determined expression crossed his face and, forgetting his bashfulness, he pulled at the old woman’s sleeve.
‘Where’s Peter Pan?’ he demanded.
Miss Boston stopped and blinked. ‘Whatever does the dear boy mean?’ she asked Jennet in surprise.
‘He was told Captain Hook lived here,’ explained the girl in an apologetic tone.
Miss Boston hooted loudly and frightened some gulls on the quayside. ‘Bless me, Benjamin,’ she chuckled, ‘it’s Cook, not Hook. Captain Cook lived here.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Ben. He felt babyish and all the shyness returned in a great flood. He waited for the old woman to call him stupid, but instead she said something quite unexpected.
‘Peter Pan, eh?’ Miss Boston mused to herself. ‘Do you know, young man, you have crystallised something I have felt without realising. For some time I have sensed that there is, oh how shall I say? something special about this place of ours. It almost seems to have been neglected by time. Oh yes, we have motor cars passing through and amusement arcades on the West Cliff, which scream of the twentieth century, plus of course the summer visitors snapping their cameras, yet . . . there is an aspect of the town which belongs to the past. Never-Never Land is a good comparison . . . yes, most interesting. How perceptive you are.’
She wheeled her bicycle on once more. Ben looked up at Jennet, who gave him a frosty stare.
‘Just don’t be too perceptive,’ she whispered harshly.
‘Captain James Cook was a very famous mariner,’ Miss Boston called to them over her shoulder. ‘He lived for some time in Grape Lane on the East Cliff – we shall pass by there on the way to my cottage. He discovered Australia, you know. Still, we must not hold that against the man.’
They came to a bridge spanning the river. It was only wide enough to take one line of traffic at a time and was jammed with pedestrians, swarming everywhere.
‘Our busiest time of year,’ Miss Boston explained as she ploughed her way through. ‘We’ve just got over our regatta and the folk week starts in two days.’
‘Folk week?’ queried Jennet.
‘Yes, with lots of morris dancing – people come from miles. The town is always packed with bearded men who black their faces and walk about in clogs – such fun.’
When they were halfway across the bridge, Ben glanced back. The road they had left was just beginning to get interesting. He heard the crackle of electronic guns and the amplified voice of the bingo caller. A row of glittering arcades stretched out towards the sea beneath another cliff.
‘That is the West Cliff,’ said Miss Boston as she negotiated her way through a crowd of giggling girls. ‘Traditionally the East Cliff was for the fishermen and the West for the holidaymakers. Of course it’s got a little mixed up over the years; most of the fishermen can’t afford to live here any more so they have to travel in.’
They reached the far side of the river. ‘Down there is Grape Lane,’ indicated Miss Boston, waving her hand.
The buildings of the East Cliff were more densely bunched together than Jennet had at first thought. They had been built in the days before planning permission was heard of and their higgledy-piggledy clusters formed a vast number of dark alleys, lanes and yards. The Whitby of the East Cliff was gazing at the world from an earlier time all its own.
Miss Boston led them up a narrow cobbled road called Church Street. It was the main thoroughfare of the East Cliff, yet still cars had difficulty making their way down it. Old buildings hunched over on either side in a forbidding manner and tiny lanes led off through sudden openings to unseen doorways.
‘Afternoon, Alice.’ A thin, elderly woman greeted Miss Boston courteously. She had the palest blue eyes that Jennet had ever seen and her silvery hair was scraped tightly over her head, to be bound in a fist-sized bun at the back. She wore a grey cardigan over a lemon yellow blouse, fastened at the neck by a cameo brooch, and clasped a brown handbag primly in front of her.
‘Oh, Prudence,’ returned Miss Boston hastily. ‘Did you manage to come across that book?’
The other shook her head and sniffed. ‘Sorry, Alice – must have thrown it out with Howard’s things after all. Never kept much of his stuff you know.’ Her voice was clipped and precise. Then she regarded the children and waited for an explanation.
‘My guests, Prudence: Jennet and Benjamin.’
‘Yes, well. They’re younger than I thought. I hope you know what you’re doing.’ She then continued the conversation, ignoring the children completely. ‘Actually, Alice, I have just come from your cottage. That Gregson woman told me you were not at home.’ She shook herself and adjusted the cameo. ‘So I was about to take myself off to call on Tilly. Haven’t seen her for over a week – more kittens I imagine. It’s all getting too ridiculous. Well, must cut along. Goodbye.’ And with that, she walked briskly away.
‘Don’t forget Sunday,’ Miss Boston called after her.
Without slowing her brisk stride the woman raised her hand dismissively and called back, ‘Naturally.’ Then she was lost in the crowds.
Miss Boston turned back to the children and sucked her breath in sharply. ‘That was Mrs Joyster,’ she informed them. ‘Rather a cold woman, I’m afraid – husband was army and it rubbed off on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m being drilled when she talks to me. Mind you,’ she added, ‘she can be very pleasant at tim
es.’
The bicycle began to clatter once more. ‘I recall how I used to hate it when adults pretended I wasn’t there; dear me, that was a long time ago now. Do you prefer blackberry or raspberry jam? I confess I have a passion for both – especially on hot scones. My cottage is not far now.’
Jennet and Ben were beginning to find Miss Boston’s abrupt changes of thought bewildering. It did, however, occur to them that they would have no difficulty polishing off a plate of jammy scones.
An odd, square building on the left caught their attention. It was set a little apart for one thing. Pillars supported the upper storey and right at the top, in the middle of the roof, was a clock tower and a weather vane shaped like a fish.
‘This is Market Place,’ said Miss Boston, waving a proud hand. ‘If you’re keen, you could go on this.’ She pointed to a black sign with white letters advertising a Ghost Tour.
Ben’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously. The sign drew him like a powerful magnet. Jennet pulled him roughly away as if from a fire.
‘No!’ she told the old woman. ‘We don’t like that sort of thing at all.’
If Miss Boston was surprised by the severity of Jennet’s outburst then she did not show it. ‘Really, dear?’ she said mildly. ‘Then I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place entirely. You know I sometimes think Whitby has more ghosts than living residents.’ She waggled her chins at the sign and muttered. ‘Just as well, really – I’ve been banned from going on the tours anyway. Well, the young man who runs them seemed to resent my chipping in. Got quite irate once when I corrected him. He gave me my money back on the proviso I never bothered him again. Astounding state of affairs.’
They had come to another of those sudden openings and Miss Boston wheeled her bicycle through it. After about five metres the alley opened out into a spacious yard. She walked up to a flight of steps, rested her bicycle against a rail, opened a green door and said, ‘Well, come in then.’
Jennet was downstairs, talking to Miss Boston. Ben lay on an embroidered quilt and stared at the primroses in the wallpaper. It was a small room but just big enough for him, and for a change, he had it all to himself. There was a bed, a chest of drawers next to it with a lamp on top and a small wardrobe. He licked the jam from his chin and rolled over to gaze at the sloping ceiling.
It was a funny house. There were lots of weird prints on the walls and old sepia photographs of Victorian Whitby. There were also a good many corn dollies hanging up all over the place. A table in the hall was reserved for things Miss Boston had found while out walking: pine cones, bright orange rosehips, a bunch of heather, sheep’s wool found in a hedge, complete with twigs and fragments of leaf, the broken shell of a blackbird’s egg, several interesting pebbles, a gnarled piece of driftwood and a white gull’s feather.
This was not what he or Jennet had expected, and it certainly disproved the idea that Miss Boston was rich – unless she kept a secret stash of tenners under the mattress. It was not the sort of house you would expect an old lady to live in, whether she was rich or not. There were no china shepherdesses or rows of dainty cups, no bits of fussy lace, no piles of women’s magazines heaped in the corner, no obvious signs of knitting, no fat lazy cat sprawled on the sofa clawing away at the cushions and – best of all to Ben – the place did not smell of lavender. He thought he would like it here. Miss Boston was not the average old lady; there was something vital and a little bit eccentric about her.
An idea came to him as he lolled on the bed. Gingerly, he crept out of his room and went into Jennet’s. He could still hear the faint hum of voices downstairs so he knew he was safe.
Ben fumbled with the zip on the blue canvas bag and delved through piles of neatly folded clothes and small treasures. There, right at the bottom, his groping fingers touched what felt like a book. Gently, he slid the photograph album out of the bag and stroked it lovingly with his hands. With great care and reverence he opened it and turned the pages. This was a hallowed thing to him and Jennet and lately she had been withholding it from him.
There were his mother and father on their wedding day, smiling up out of the album, about to cut the cake. Another page and there they were on honeymoon in Wales. Ben’s father was a tall man with thick, dark hair and a broad grin. His mother, a petite blonde, had blinked at the wrong moment, and here she was, frozen into an eternal doze. The opposite page showed Jennet when she was a baby, sitting on her father’s lap.
Ben examined the photographs carefully. Here they were: images of his parents locked in happy events – birthdays and holidays sealed into the album forever. But the eyes staring out at him were unseeing. They were focused on the person taking the photograph and that had never been Ben. His mother and father were looking out at someone else, not him. He was confused. The memories of who they had been – everything they were – were now transferred to six inches by four of glossy paper.
He turned the last page. There was the photograph he sought above all. A younger version of himself sat astride a donkey on the sands of Rhyl and beside him were his mother and father. Jennet must have taken the picture. Try as he might, Ben had no memory of the occasion. He imagined sitting on a donkey and hearing his father’s voice, but no – there was nothing there. The photograph had been taken on the final day of their last holiday together. Six months later both his parents had been killed in a car accident.
Ben closed the album, then frowned and chewed his lip. He understood that his parents were dead. He and Jennet had gone to the funeral and watched the coffins lowered into that deep hole. He remembered that because he had worn those shoes that pinched and Jennet had cried a lot and had to be put to bed. Yes, his parents were dead; everyone told him that. So why was it that every now and then, in a mirror or at the end of his bed before he went to sleep, he could see his mother and father smiling at him?
II
EURYDICE
‘I knew your dear mama’s aunt,’ said Miss Boston, above the buffeting wind.
Jennet sat on the tombstone and hugged her knees. ‘Great Aunt Connie?’
Miss Boston held on to her hat and nodded. ‘She was one of my pupils,’ she said. ‘A good student but never made any use of her education – shameful waste.’
‘And you say she wrote to you about Ben and me?’
‘Yes, over the years we have kept a correspondence going. She was very fond of your mama, you know, and when she heard about the accident, well . . .’
They had climbed the hundred and ninety-nine steps to the top of the East Cliff in order to see the abbey, only to find it was too late and the man in the office had gone home. Still, there was plenty to see. At the top of the steps was St Mary’s church, a solid building surrounded by ancient graves whose stones were nearly worn smooth. They had settled themselves on a large, mossy tomb while Ben ran off to play among the stones and lean into the strong wind.
There was a magnificent view of the town below. On the West Cliff, directly opposite, bedroom lights were flickering on and the glitter of the arcades was becoming more noticeable in the gathering dusk. Dark night clouds were moving in from the sea and the sun was pale and low, catching a last, weak glint from the tiled roofs before it set.
Miss Boston, wrapped in a tweed cloak, stared at the horizon and said, ‘Of course, if Constance had not been in that home she would have taken you and Benjamin in herself.’
Jennet spoke into the darkening sky, tilting her head back and sweeping the hair out of her eyes. ‘She couldn’t have coped with Ben and me, she’s too old.’
Miss Boston snorted. ‘Too old? My dear girl, Constance is a mere sapling compared to me.’
‘But Aunt Connie’s seventy and walks with a frame.’
Miss Boston puckered her face up and asked, ‘How old do you think I am, child?’
Jennet looked at the figure blanketed in sage-green tweed. Only the face was visible and it was difficult to put an age to it. Miss Boston’s skin was lined, yet one grin could banish the wrinkles. O
nly the tufts of white woolly hair poking out beneath the hat gave any real clue to her age.
‘Seventy-five?’ Jennet ventured uncertainly.
Miss Boston closed her eyes and raised her head. ‘I am ninety-two,’ she solemnly informed her. ‘Don’t be alarmed, dear – some of us do survive for that length of time.’
‘But you’re not frail or anything,’ Jennet declared in surprise.
‘As to that,’ Miss Boston lifted a finger to her nose in a gesture of secrecy, ‘I have little methods all my own. Old age is terribly unfair. Usually either the mind or the body succumbs. Hospitals and nursing homes are filled with shambling near cadavers who still possess all their marbles; intelligent people who can’t go to the bathroom by themselves or even get out of bed, in some cases. Then there is the other variety: the sprightly gibberers, I call them, senile but with perfectly healthy bodies. What a cruel joke old age is, to be sure.’
A flock of gulls soared out over the sea, spreading their wings and hanging on the air. Miss Boston followed their course with interest. ‘They’re not supposed to be able to fly over the abbey, you know,’ she told Jennet. ‘Legend says that if they try, they are overcome and fall to the ground. There they must pay homage to St Hilda, the founder of the abbey, until she releases them.’
‘That’s silly,’ said Jennet.
Miss Boston agreed. ‘I suppose so, but it is a lovely notion, don’t you think? St Hilda was a remarkable woman, after all.’
They sat in silence for some time, listening to the wind rushing through the grass and hearing Ben’s squawks as he chased the gulls.
‘Why now?’ asked Jennet, breaking the calm. ‘Why didn’t you send for us before? Why wait over two years?’
The old woman put her hand on Jennet’s and explained. ‘After the accident, Constance wrote to me and told me you had gone to stay with your father’s brother.’