Tin

by Padraig Kenny

  Rob looked taken aback. ‘Better than proper?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher. ‘You’re pure, Rob. There’s no malice in you.’ He looked at Jack. ‘There’s no malice in any of you.’

  Rob seemed to consider this for a moment, then he smiled. ‘Better than proper,’ he whispered to himself. His smile suddenly vanished. ‘But being proper means having a family too, Jack said. I don’t have a mum and dad.’

  Jack raised his head and looked proudly at Rob. ‘You’re my family, Rob. You and Christopher and Manda and Estelle.’

  Rob beamed at this. He looked from Christopher to Jack and back again, and Christopher thought he would burst.

  Rob’s grin started to fade, and his brow furrowed as a new thought crossed his mind.

  ‘A promise is a promise, isn’t it?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Of course it is, Rob.’

  Rob stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at the gate.

  ‘Then why hasn’t he done anything yet?’

  Jack scratched his chin and shook his head. He had no answer.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ said Rob. ‘And Estelle says she’s seen more of them, and more are coming every day.’ Rob looked disgusted. ‘It’s not fair at all.’

  Christopher heard a clang behind him, and he turned to see an oil-stained and sweaty Cormier peering under the hood of the truck. He shouted something to Egbert and the butler stepped forward and handed him a spanner. Manda was sitting on a stool in the background, playing with a rag doll.

  Cormier was in the process of reaching for the spanner when he caught Christopher’s eye. His irascible air melted away almost immediately, and his eyes became filled with a pathetically hopeful look. He half raised a hand in greeting, then seemed to think better of it and turned away and pretended to examine the engine.

  Christopher followed Jack and Rob. Rob’s mood had lightened and he was now alternating his whistling with some excited babbling. It seemed he couldn’t decide on which he wanted to do more. When he wasn’t doing either of these things he was flicking the middle finger of each hand over each of his eyebrows with a little gentlemanly flourish. Jack caught Christopher’s eye and winked at him, jerking his head towards Rob. Christopher chuckled.

  As they walked on, Christopher looked at the burnished golden light that washed through the sky. He found himself thinking about his parents. His mother’s face, her blue eyes, her shining hair. He saw his father grin at him, and for one brief shocking moment it was as if his breath had caught in his chest.

  ‘What is it, Christopher?’ asked Jack.

  ‘What?’ said a dazed Christopher. He was aware that Rob was also giving him a funny look.

  ‘You just stopped dead still and said something about a garden,’ said Jack.

  ‘I did?’ said Christopher, more for his own benefit than theirs.

  Rob and Jack exchanged a look. Christopher shook his head.

  ‘Nothing, it was nothing,’ he said.

  He could hear the distant ringing of metal on metal in the background.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Rob. ‘Would you like to see my new walk? I’ve been practising. It’s a bit fast and it looks really good. Old Rob couldn’t have done it, but I’m new Rob now.’ He raised an eyebrow and looked very pleased with himself as he raised his right leg. ‘And I think you’ll be well impressed with—’

  And somehow Rob managed to kick his left leg out from under himself. His arms spun furiously as he tried to keep his balance, but it was too late and he hit the ground.

  He gave a little panicked squawk as he fell, which only made Christopher and Jack laugh all the more.

  Christopher stepped forward and offered his hand to Rob.

  He heard that clanging again, but it wasn’t coming from behind him. Now it was like something heard in a dream. He was dimly aware of Rob’s hand coming closer. And that sound, warm and resonant, like a distant echo.

  Rob took Christopher’s hand and Christopher pulled him up. He looked up to see the sun going down, the clouds were tinged with gold, and he smiled, and he remembered . . .

  It was his mother’s voice that he heard first.

  ‘He’s in the garden,’ she said. ‘Making something with your father.’

  In his mind’s eye, he was in the kitchen. His mother was kneading bread. She smiled at him.

  ‘Go on then,’ she chuckled.

  Christopher turned to the door. It was open. There was light, evening light, mellow and golden on green grass. He heard the familiar ringing. He ran.

  Out in the garden his father turned to him. He was standing in front of someone else. Someone who was kneeling down in front of a metal frame, a hammer raised in their fist. The clanging sound again, like a bell calling him home. His father smiled.

  Christopher saw the hand raising that hammer, and his heart started to pound. He ran faster.

  The world tilted.

  Falling, I was falling. How old was I? Eight?

  Christopher tottered backwards as if he’d been slapped.

  Jack looked concerned. ‘Christopher? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  I was in the garden. It was summer and Mum was in the house and Dad was in the garden, and I fell, and Dad was there with . . .

  Christopher saw his mother’s face. He saw his father’s face. He was dimly aware that Jack was saying something, and now Rob was looking at him with real concern.

  I tried to get up, and there was a hand and I took . . . I took the hand and I . . .

  He was in the garden again, but this time it was different. This time as he saw the sun’s golden light fade across the green he felt a new sensation. It was a feeling of home, but stronger and more powerful than it had felt when he’d had visions of the house in the Crag’s laboratory. And there was something else too. He heard a voice call his name and he felt himself look up.

  The figure wielding the hammer had stood up and was coming towards him.

  The face, when it loomed into view, was familiar now in a way it hadn’t been when he’d seen it for what he thought was the first time four weeks ago. The hair, more grey in the memory than white, the blue eyes, the wrinkles at the corner of those eyes when he smiled. When his . . .

  When his . . .

  Christopher ran.

  He ran to where he could hear the clanging. Jack and Rob ran after him, calling his name, but he didn’t care. He ran in the fading sunlight, just like he had run that evening in the garden. He ran for all he was worth, past Estelle, who had come out to see what all the fuss was about. He ran right into the yard and Cormier was there, his head buried in the engine of the truck. Egbert was still standing beside him holding some tools. Manda was sitting on the stool playing with her doll, but now she looked up.

  As if sensing something, Cormier raised his head. He wiped his hands and looked at Christopher, and when he saw Christopher’s eyes his own eyes widened.

  Christopher looked at him.

  ‘You used to make me toys. I had a clockwork mouse once and you used to make tiny cars that moved.’

  Cormier stumbled back slightly and had to support himself by placing a hand on the van’s hood. His chin started to tremble.

  ‘A clockwork bird for Mum. A train for Dad. A mouse for me. You made them all one Christmas. And I used to help you make things. I used to help you fix things, because you said there was no nobler thing in the world to do than to create and to take care of precious things.’

  Christopher felt the tears stinging his eyes, and the lump in his throat that made it seem harder for the words to come. There was one word in particular he was afraid to say, as if saying it might shatter the sensation he was feeling now. That warm sensation. The sensation of coming home.

  Christopher tried to speak, but he was sobbing. He swallowed hard, and he somehow managed to say the word.

  That one word that meant everything.

  ‘Grandad,’ he said.

  He ran towards him and Cormier took him in his arms and held his grandson
tightly and started to cry.

  Jack, Rob and Estelle stood by the shed and watched them embrace. Estelle folded her arms. ‘Told him so,’ she said, and she smiled.

  After a while they separated. Christopher wiped his eyes and looked up into his grandfather’s face with a look of determination. He took his hand.

  ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Cormier went with him, meek as a child. Christopher nodded at Rob and jerked his head towards the toolbox, which lay nearby. Rob gave him the thumbs up and he picked up the toolbox. The three of them headed towards the main gate. Estelle, Jack, Manda and Egbert followed them.

  They stood before the gate. Cormier looked nervous. Christopher squeezed his hand and gave him an encouraging look.

  ‘A promise is a promise,’ said Rob.

  Cormier took a deep breath and motioned with his hand in the air in front of the gate.

  The gate opened.

  Christopher smiled when he saw what was waiting for them. He led Cormier outside, and the others followed.

  The sun shone golden as it sank in the west, just as it had in a garden all those years ago. Christopher Cormier knew then that he was home.

  And he and his grandfather set to work.

  Acknowledgements

  A heartfelt thanks to all the Chicken House crew, to Barry Cunningham, Rachel Leyshon, Rachel Hickman, Jazz Bartlett and everyone else who has helped shepherd Tin through what was a really enjoyable process. An extra special thank you to the brilliant Kesia Lupo whose storytelling instincts have helped make Tin the best book it can be. I have been blessed and honoured to have Kes as my first editor. Thank you also to Fraser for the copy-edits and his lifesaving attention to detail.

  I want to thank my agent Sophie Hicks for her constant support and for always being brilliant every step of the way. Thank you, Sarah Williams, for stepping in and helping when needed. Thanks also to Katy Day for getting the ball rolling.

  My thanks also to Katie Hickey for a wonderful cover that still takes my breath away every time I look at it.

  For the goodwill and support I’d like to thank my family, extended family and friends. A special thank you to my parents. Also, a big shout out to Catherine, Fran, Paul and Jean, remember I’m the eldest so it means I’m in charge.

  Conor, Clodagh, Ella, Huey and Sam, never forget to remind the above who’s in charge. Pauline, Gibbo and Mike, thanks for your support, and again, as I said in the previous sentence . . .

  Thanks to Robert Williams for his pep talks and support, even though I know he’ll scribble on the book when my back is turned.

  Thank you, Nana Marie, for all your help down through the years.

  Thank you to Caroline for putting up with me, to Lochlann and Sadbh for reading the first draft, to Tadhg for Ironhaven, and to Teagan who I hope enjoys it when she gets to read it for the first time.

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  THE SECRET KEEPERS by TRENTON LEE STEWART

  A magical watch. A string of secrets. A race against time.

  When Reuben discovers an old pocket watch, he soon realizes it has a secret power: fifteen minutes of invisibility. At first he is thrilled with his new treasure, but as one secret leads to another, he finds himself on a dangerous adventure full of curious characters, treacherous traps and breathtaking escapes. Can Reuben outwit the sly villain called The Smoke and his devious defenders the Directions and save his city from a terrible fate?

  ‘There are some genuinely haunting and ingenious moments as the three young heroes combat the villain in his mouldy mansion.’

  THE NEW YORK TIMES

  ‘. . . the tension never flags and the hold-your-breath moments come thick and fast.’

  CAROUSEL

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-911077-28-2, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-911077-29-9, £6.99

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  THE PECULIARS by KIERAN LARWOOD

  The Peculiars are a band of misfits, trapped in a nightly Victorian sideshow. There’s Wolfgirl, Sheba; Sister Moon, who can move at the speed of light; and Monkey Boy, ace climber and human stink bomb. But during the day, in a world of child-snatchers, grave robbers and dastardly doctors, they solve the mysteries no one else cares about – including why London’s poorest children are being snatched from the banks of the Thames . . .

  ‘. . . reminiscent of Philip Pullman’s immortal Sally Lockhart books.’

  THE TIMES

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-911490-21-0, £6.99 • ebook, 978-1-911490-22-7, £6.99

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  BEETLE BOY by M. G. LEONARD

  Darkus can’t believe his eyes when a huge insect drops out of the trouser leg of his horrible new neighbour. It’s a giant beetle – and it seems to want to communicate.

  But how can a boy be friends with a beetle? And what does a beetle have to do with the disappearance of his dad and the arrival of Lucretia Cutter, with her taste for creepy jewellery?

  ‘A darkly funny Dahl-esque adventure.’

  KATHERINE WOODFINE

  ‘A wonderful book, full to the brim with very cool beetles!’

  THE GUARDIAN

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-910002-70-4, £6.99 • ebook, ISBN 978-1-910002-98-8, £6.99

  TRY ANOTHER GREAT BOOK FROM CHICKEN HOUSE

  THE BOY WHO WENT MAGIC by A. P. WINTER

  They say magic is long gone . . .

  But is it? A chain of fantastical mishaps in schoolboy Bert’s dull life spiral out of control – but then he’s rescued by Finch, a plucky girl-adventurer with metal legs.

  Soon they’re sailing through the clouds on a pirate airship bound for the forgotten land of Ferenor. Magic is their destination, for reasons Bert will soon discover . . .

  ‘This action-packed story is full of excitement, danger and amazing fantastical inventions – just right for fans of magical adventure tales.’

  THE WEEK JUNIOR

  ‘Adventure at its swashbuckling best’

  THE SCHOOL LIBRARIAN

  Paperback, ISBN 978-1-910655-09-2, £6.99 • ebook, 978-1-911077-41-1, £6.99

  Text © Pádraig Kenny 2018

  Illustration © Katie Hickey 2018

  First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2018

  This electronic edition published in 2018

  Chicken House

  2 Palmer Street

  Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS

  United Kingdom

  www.chickenhousebooks.com

  Pádraig Kenny has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, mechanical or otherwise, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express prior written permission of the publisher.

  Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Cover design and interior design by Helen Crawford-White

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.

  PB ISBN 978-1-911077-65-7

  eISBN 978-1-911490-09-8

 

 

 
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