Leo slapped Seth on the back. ‘You’re a genius, mate.’
Seth did a little bow. ‘I wouldn’t have got it without you,’ he acknowledged.
‘So we know something’s going to happen at the end of May and the Arbuckle boys need to be safe till after then,’ said Ralf. ‘But that’s almost two months –’
‘But how are we supposed to keep them safe?’ Valen wondered.
‘And safe from what?’ Seth asked.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Leo, staring out into Springfield’s walled garden. ‘We’ll know when it comes.’
‘What do we do until then, though?’ Valen asked.
Leo turned to face them. ‘We wait,’ he said.
‘Don’t let’s get all down and low wiv the details. We got two of the Righteous dudes!’ said Alfie a little later. ‘So, what about the other three?’
‘Actually, bizarrely, I think we’re almost there on that too,’ said Ralf. ‘Remember what Ambrose told us. We’ve lived before. We have an affinity with Time. The Righteous Echoes will have too. I reckon they’ll be close to Falls and ghosts and stuff. It’ll have happened around where they live.’
Seth produced his now rather battered looking map and spread it out before them once more. ‘So if you tie in the most active Falls with where people live you get Hawkes Manor, Sedley’s Farm, Chax Forest and the High Street.’
‘All the shrieks and wails and Gloria’s Spirit Guide at the lake mean it must be Gloria or her Dad,’ said Leo pointing to the cluster of dots marking Hawkes Manor.
‘Yes, but you have to consider Keen too,’ said Val. ‘He’s staying up at the Manor and he’s to and from the Army Base in Chax Forest all the time’.
‘True,’ said Alfie, ‘Keen’s a div but he’s a Falls magnet.’
‘But if you go by that logic what about Urk Fitch?’ Valen asked. ‘He’s seen loads and there are Falls right next to his property.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Ralf. ‘He may be an Echo but we’re looking for Righteous Echoes and he’s way too crazy to fit in to that category.’
‘And look,’ said Seth, marking a line on the map with his finger. ‘All the Falls are on the North side of Merle Farm, right where it meets the Sedleys’. Taken together with all the trouble they’ve have had since September, I think Walter’s our best bet out there.’
Leo frowned down at the cluster of dots in the village proper. ‘It’s the High Street that’s the tricky one.’
‘From the position of all the things happening round the Church and the Village Hall,’ said Seth, ‘I think the short list would have to include Mr and Mrs Kemp, the Hatchers, Hettie Timmins and Denning.’
Seth frowned at the map then tapped it meditatively. ‘Falls are causing the Fear, right?’ he said. ‘So let’s assume they’re kind of targeted. Say, it’s the Righteous Echoes who are meant to be affected. Who’s seen most ghosts?’
‘That’s it,’ said Leo suddenly. ‘Most of the sightings have been in the graveyard or inside the church! Only a couple of houses have a completely unobstructed view – The Bakery and Thrace Cottage.’
Valen’s eyes sparkled. ‘So it’s down to The Kemps and Winters.’
‘Winters?’ Seth started. ‘That is not good.’
‘I would’ve thought you’d be arguing it was him,’ said Ralf surprised.
Seth shook his head. ‘He’s a good person and he’s seeing plenty of ghosts but he’s suffering. Nightmares. Shakes.’ Seth’s brow crinkled in concern and he bit a chunk out of his thumbnail. ‘I like him a lot, despite the long home works, but I really hope it’s not him. I’m not sure he’s up to it.’
Cracking the frustrating Elk Cub Rat Rah clue and working out their deadline went a long way towards improving all their spirits. Despite the general depression in the village and the continued escapades of the ‘King’s Hadow Spirit’, the Turnarounders felt more hopeful. March gave way to April and for the first time since they’d arrived in the village they felt as if they were really getting somewhere. Though where they were headed remained as much a mystery as it had before at least now they knew the date and time of their destination.
Even the weather failed to dampen their spirits. The rain continued to fall. The Dribble flooded its banks. King’s Meadow became King’s Swamp and water bubbled from drains to turn the High Street into a filthy stream, which gurgled down to meet the sea. But it didn’t bother Ralf. He was used to getting wet and was more comfortable now with the long, hard days on The Sara Luz. He had caught some dab, dog and whiting and, although he knew his 1940s self would have felt he was doing a lot of work for very little return, having finally made some headway Ralf was just enjoying being out there. He was even getting accustomed to being continually badgered about the District Run and over the next two weeks added a jog to his daily routine – just in case.
Wherever he went he was accosted by groups of small children begging him to ‘give the posh boys a whipping’. Grown-ups, temporarily buoyed up by news of an Allied push in Norway, took time out to ask how much training he was doing. Old Jack Sedley advised him to drink a raw egg each morning and Frank Duke suggested he soak his knees in neat whisky before bed each night. Even the Turnarounders were not immune to the growing excitement.
‘Why don’t you just give it a go?’ Alfie asked when Ralf called at the Sedleys’ to check in one afternoon.
‘Not you too!’ Ralf exclaimed. Despite his secret training, he hadn’t definitely made up his mind to enter.
‘I’m just saying, it’s not like you got anything to lose, innit?’ Alfie poured the bucket of feed he was carrying into the trough at the edge of the Sedleys’ cow field.
‘Except the race,’ said Ralf grimacing. ‘And the contents of my stomach. I seriously think I’ll puke if I have to look at King’s smug face if he wins.’
‘Well, there’s more chance of that if you don’t run,’ said Alfie, climbing up to sit on the gate.
‘But don’t you think it’s like, I don’t know, massively unimportant with everything else we’ve got to think about. King’s nothing is he? It’s the Righteous Echoes that matter. I should be doing something to help them, not running round the countryside!’
‘Like what, though?’ Alfie asked. ‘Serious blud, what’s to do? We give it until May and then we kick butt. Until the twenty-seventh it’s a waiting game, innit?’ He reached over the gate to pat one of the cows on the head as she nudged her way to the trough. ‘And after everything that’s been happening, the villagers could do with cheering up a bit, I reckon. Besides,’ Alfie went on, leaping nimbly off the gate. ‘I’d pay money to see a village kid win it.’ He wiped his hands on his trousers and grinned. ‘If I had any, that is!’
Of all his friends, however, Gloria was by far the worst. Back from her ‘Top Secret Mission’ for a weekend of Rest and Recuperation as she called it, she went out of her way to track Ralf down to nag him about it.
‘Ralf! Thank Heavens I’ve found you!’ she cried one morning as she saw him leaving Hatcher’s after dropping off his catch. ‘Are you alright? Fit? How are the legs? I’ve just seen Julian. The poisonous little insect was positively crowing about how he’s going to thrash you in the District Run. I can’t have that!’ she cried, hugging him awkwardly as she grappled with an umbrella in her other hand. ‘He’ll be absolutely impossible…’
‘But Gloria –’
‘No, no buts, you simply must win! He’s been getting far too big for his boots without you around to keep him sensible.’
‘But, Gloria, I haven’t decided to run yet.’
Gloria slipped an arm through his and leaned in conspiratorially. Her umbrella shaded her face and the drumming rain almost drowned her words. ‘Don’t tell Sergeant Minter but Frank Duke is running a book. I’ve just put two shillings on you to win, so losing is not an option!’ She shot him her familiar wink. ‘Anyhoo, how goes the mystery?’
‘I think we’ve made progress. It turns out the Elk thingy was Arbuckle backw
ards,’ said Ralf sheepishly.
‘Backwards!’ Gloria looked astonished until the penny dropped. ‘Heavens! Of course it was! I didn’t reverse it. You must think me a frightful twit. I was in such a blue funk when he was talking and that damn magpie was fluttering at me –’
‘Gloria!’ Ralf interrupted remembering something that had been bothering him for weeks. ‘Your Spirit Guide! Tell me –’
He asked her the question.
Gloria blinked in surprise. ‘Well of course he was a Red Indian! That’s what I said, isn’t it?’ she cried. ‘I think he must have been a Chief of some kind. Lots of feathers in his hair. And the most unusual pale eyes. Silver almost. I wish I knew his name.’
‘Bingo!’ said Ralf.
‘Bingo?’ repeated Gloria, missing the point entirely. ‘I shouldn’t think so! Far more likely to be called Black Bear or Sitting Bull, or something!’
Ralf let out a whoop of laughter. He threw his arms around her, kissed her damp cheek and splashed off up the street.
Gloria stared after him through the rain. ‘The boy’s cracked,’ she said quietly. ‘Talking to himself next, I shouldn’t wonder.’
So, Leo had been right. One of the Hidden had been trying to help them. But who? Why? The questions knocked around in Ralf’s head for the remainder of the week. In contrast to the previous problems he’d had to consider, though, this mystery spurred him onwards rather than draining his resolve. Someone had been trying to help! The Fall Gloria’s Spirit Guide had been using was now closed but someone was on their side. The feeling of being marooned in the past left Ralf completely. Whilst before he’d felt like the captain of a wrecked vessel stranded with a skeleton crew, now he felt as if they’d been thrown a lifeline. A rescue ship was on the horizon. True, they couldn’t get to it yet, but it was within signalling distance all the same. The thought filled him with purpose.
In less than two months this would all be over, one way or another so he took things one day at a time and tried to focus on the present. Even at school he became more determined. His marks improved and he had a spring in his step as he walked to lessons.
It was the Friday before the District Run and Ralf had all but made up his mind to have a crack at it. What harm could it do, he reasoned? It would keep him occupied on Saturday, physically and mentally, and he might even enjoy it. He went to his form room at the end of the day to collect his Algebra book and was wondering if he could get an hours study in before fishing that evening as he opened the lid of his desk.
Lying there, on top of his French grammar, was a large, perfect, snow-white feather.
Ralf’s eyes clouded. He slammed the desk lid and stormed from the room.
‘It’s a feather,’ said Val that afternoon, as they sloshed down towards the High Street. ‘What are you in such a flap about?’ She grinned impishly at her own joke.
‘Ha, flipping ha Val!’ said Ralf. ‘They’re saying I’m a coward. I was going to do the race but now it’ll look like I’m doing it because I let them get to me. Now I feel like not running just to show them how little I care!’
‘But you do care though, innit?’ said Alfie.
‘Yeah, I do,’ Ralf admitted. ‘But I won’t be pushed around by a load of over-privileged idiots who think the most important thing going on in the world right now is a stupid cross-country run!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The District Run
Contrary to expectation, the morning of the District Run dawned crisp and sunny. From his attic window, Ralf watched the sun rise over the tip of the peninsular and saw the first of the fishing boats coming home. He’d been awake for a while worrying about what he was going to do. The butterflies thundering around in his stomach had made sleep pretty much impossible anyway.
There was so much going on inside his head that Ralf wondered whether, even if he decided to run, he’d actually be able to co-ordinate his legs.
‘Don’t look so worried,’ Hilda said gently when he appeared at breakfast.
She’d made bacon and eggs, which was a real treat, but the eggs smiling up at him made his stomach churn. He spooned them into his mouth though (he couldn’t waste them) and they slithered into his stomach to join the butterflies.
‘You want me to run, don’t you?’
Hilda sat down beside him and patted his arm. ‘It would be nice to have your name on the cup,’ she admitted.
He pushed his plate to one side and frowned. ‘But if I do run, who should I run for?’ he asked. ‘Village or School? Even if I cross the line first, it’s a no-win situation. If the Crispin’s lot don’t kill me, the villagers will!’
She ruffled his hair. ‘I don’t think you should run for anybody. Do it for yourself.’
Two and a half hours later he was standing on King’s Hadow High Street trying to listen to a rambling, Leo-style pep talk over the sound of his own rumbling stomach.
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this!’ he said. ‘It’s going to be a nightmare!’
‘Yep,’ said Alfie, smiling. ‘A six-mile slog through every bog and ditch in the area. And nuffin’ but grief from both sides, whether you win or lose!
Ralf nodded sickly. He wondered if he might be seeing those eggs again quite soon. He looked around. Everyone who should’ve been there was there – as well as a fair few who shouldn’t. It seemed like the whole of King’s Hadow village had turned out to watch the ‘Off’ and most of St Crispin’s School, Dark Ferry High and the Convent School too. He spotted a lot of faces he knew in the crowds, including Ben Cheeseman, who should have been delivering milk and several shopkeepers who’d put up ‘Back in Five Minutes’ signs that no one was there to read.
A few seconds later as Ralf was trying his best to look nonchalant tying a shoe he heard the tell-tale sound of footsteps and looked up to find King towering over him.
‘Nice outfit!’ King drawled. ‘Did your sister make it for you?’
Ralf sighed. Having taken Hilda’s advice to heart he’d spurned his bottle green and burgundy school kit, avoided the traditional King’s Hadow navy and dressed in neutral white. ‘Very funny King,’ Ralf said. ‘What exactly do you want?’
‘I just wanted to wish you luck. You’re going to need it.’
Ralf willed himself calm. ‘May the best man win.’
‘Oh, I will. No one’s going to stand in my way, do you get my meaning?’
Ralf squinted back up at him. ‘Is that a threat, Julian?’
‘No,’ King smiled. ‘It’s a promise.’ He stalked away to join a group of green and burgundy draped Crispin’s boys but turned to make a parting shot. ‘You look like a stick of chalk in that get up, you know that, don’t you?’
When the time came, Ralf walked over to the judges’ table where the runners were gathering to formally register. As he approached Asinus, who was representing the school, gave him a curt nod and a scowl. Gordon Kemp was the village judge, though, and he smiled warmly as Ralf signed his name and winked when Asinus called for quiet.
As a man of God, Reverend Denning was considered impartial and had been appointed the third and most senior judge. He cleared his throat importantly.
‘Right, all of you. You know the rules so I won’t waste time going through them again,’ he said. And then, being Reverend Denning and, therefore, totally in love with the sound of his own voice, he proceeded to explain the rules again.
‘You will each be given a card marked with a set of boxes, numbered one to ten. There are ten checkpoints on the route and at each you’ll find a different stamp and pad of ink. Stamp your card in the appropriate box to prove that you’ve visited each checkpoint.’ Denning took a breath and visibly swelled at the importance of his next words. ‘I am the adjudicator of this race and I’m here to tell you that runners not turning in a full card at the end of the race will be disqualified. Is that clear?’
There was a general murmuring of agreement and a lot of nodding as each boy took his card and Denning ticked off their names on a cli
pboard.
‘Much of this race is not supervised,’ Asinus added. ‘Anything that has even the faintest whiff of ungentlemanly behaviour will result in immediate disqualification!’
Ralf looked at the confused face of Ben Cheeseman’s eldest boy who stood next to him and said: ‘He means no cheating.’
‘Right.’
‘Good luck, Fred,’ he said.
Fred grinned back at him. ‘See this?’ he said, turning and tugging the back of his navy King’s Hadow jersey.
‘Yes?’
‘Get used to it. It’s the only part of me you’re going to see today!’
The two boys laughed and shook hands, understanding each other perfectly.
‘Runners to the starting line please.’ Denning’s voice was tinny through the megaphone.
Ralf walked to the line in a dream. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Ambrose had performed another Time Stop. It seemed to take an hour for him to cross the ten yards to the start of the race and in that time he saw everything with ice-cold clarity. Major Kingston-Hawke and his fur-stoled wife sat on chairs at the edge of the line. Next to them, Tank Tatchell and a group of other Crispin’s boys huddled in a group. Mr Hatcher on the opposite side of the street looked as stiff and cold, in his white coat, as one of his own fish. The Munton brothers lounged against the Village Hall, chewing tobacco and spitting.
The church clock began to strike the hour and Ralf was at the front of the group toeing the line next to King and Aston. The bell tolled again and again. He looked up from the toe of his white plimsoll to the stretch of empty road in front of him and the sea of faces on either side. Leo, standing with a group of spectators to his left, was shuffling cards so rapidly that his hands were a blur, but his eyes were a million miles away. Val was there too, fists clenched, eyes sparkling, wearing a green skirt and, oddly, a pair of tightly laced hockey boots. Behind her, right at the back, was Captain Keen. Ralf tried to catch his eye and smile but the man’s eyes were roaming the crowd. A cloud passed over the sun.
The Turnarounders and the Arbuckle Rescue Page 35