by Paul Stewart
his was the third night in a row that the mysterious little flying box had arrived at Fergus's attic window. The first night he had been in bed, fast asleep, when he had suddenly been wakened.
Tap … tap … tap …
Fergus's eyes had snapped open. The tapping sound was coming from the window. He'd looked round to see the box perched on the narrow ledge outside, one of its mechanical wings knocking against the glass.
Fergus had climbed slowly out of bed, tiptoed across the room and nervously opened the window. The little box had flapped inside exhaustedly, its tiny wings beating in a curious up-down circular movement. Fluttering down, it had come to rest in Fergus's upturned hands.
Fergus had gently turned it over, marvelling at the little box's ornate carvings and perfect dove-tail joints. At the bottom was a gold key, slowly coming to a halt. As it had finally stopped, so the wings had also stopped moving. Fergus had gently placed the little machine on his quilt, and as he did so, a most surprising thing happened. A small door at the front of the box had sprung open, as if on a tiny spring, and out had popped a piece of paper. It was carefully folded and sealed with red sealing-wax, the imprint of a webbed foot pressed into its shiny surface.
Normally, Fergus wasn't the sort of boy to open other people's letters, especially when they were so carefully folded and sealed, but the strange mechanical box had tapped on his window, so perhaps this letter was meant for him. Fergus had rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, then carefully broken the seal and unfolded the tiny letter.
Dear boy behind the counter at Beiderbecker's Bakery, it read, in curling letters of jet-black ink.
The hairs at the back of Fergus's neck had tingled with a mixture of fear and excitement.
Please write your name in the box provided if you want to know something to your advantage,
Signed, T.C., a well-wisher.
Fergus had looked at the piece of paper for a long time. It was certainly the strangest letter he'd ever received, and he wasn't at all sure he should reply to it. But whoever had sent the little box not only knew him as the ‘boy behind the counter at Beiderbecker's’, but was also clearly expecting a reply.
‘It can't do any harm,’ Fergus had said to himself. At that moment, the box had given a little click and a small silver pencil had popped out of its top.
‘Here goes,’ Fergus had said, taking the pencil and printing his name in full in the small box at the bottom of the letter. Fergus Marcus Crane. Then, before he'd had time to regret it, he had returned the letter to the box and wound the key up tight. Next, holding the wings still, he had carried the little box over to his open window and let it go. With a few beats of its tiny wings, it had flapped off into the darkness of the night and disappeared.
It was almost as though it had all been a dream, Fergus had thought in class aboard the Betty-Jeanne the next day. Perhaps it had, but the following evening Fergus had sat up on the window sill – shutters and window open – waiting, just in case the little box returned. He'd been on the point of giving up and going to bed when the clock in Montmorency Gardens had struck twelve, and he'd spotted it glinting in the moonlight, fluttering over the rooftops.
There had been a breeze blowing in from the harbour, sending wispy clouds scudding across the sky, and the tiny wings had fluttered desperately to keep the box on course. A number of times Fergus had thought it wouldn't make it, but it had bravely battled on until at last, almost with the last twist of its key, the little box had fallen into his outstretched hands.
‘Got you!’ Fergus had cried triumphantly, and then realized that he might wake his mother if he didn't keep quiet. He had placed the box on his quilt, the little door had sprung open and out popped a second letter.
Fergus had opened it with trembling fingers.
Dear Fergus Marcus Crane, it had begun. Thank you for replying so promptly. Please tick the following boxes where appropriate. Thank you for your patience,
Signed, T.C., A FRIEND.
Fergus had read on as the little box gave a click and offered him its silver pencil.
Your mother's name is Lucia, it said. He had ticked the box marked ‘yes’.
Your father's name is Marcus, the questionnaire continued. Fergus's heart beat wildly as, again, he had ticked the ‘yes’ box.
Next, asked whether he would describe himself as small, medium or large, Fergus had ticked ‘small’, thinking it best to be truthful. The following question was more specific. Was he agile, athletic, good at squeezing through small spaces, or none of the above? it wanted to know. Thinking of gym class on board the Betty-Jeanne, Fergus had ticked all the boxes except for the last one.
The final question was easy. What school do you attend?
Fergus had looked at the list of possibilities. Montmorency Academy. Harbour Heights. The School Ship Betty-Jeanne. The first two schools were far too expensive for Mrs Crane even to consider. Fergus had ticked the Betty-Jeanne box.
The teachers there might be a bit odd and the lessons unusual, but it didn't cost anything. And anyway, how many schools had their very own parrot? Fergus had thought as he'd folded the letter and slipped it back into the little box.
Winding the key till it would wind no more, Fergus had set the box free. It had flapped away and, with the stiff breeze now behind it, helping it on its way, had flown swiftly off towards the distant mountains.
‘Come back soon,’ Fergus had called quietly after it.
And now, on the third night, just after the stroke of midnight, it was back.
The little box flapped down lower over the rooftops. It was attracting the attention of huge white gulls, which wheeled around the curious intruder, screeching indignantly. Occasionally one would break off from the rest and dive-bomb the flapping, squeaking mechanical box. Fergus held his breath as a wing brushed hard against the box, knocking it off course.
‘Come on,’ he whispered encouragingly. The box righted itself. ‘That's the way. Just a little bit further and … Gotcha!’ Fergus's hands closed over the little box, and he could feel its tiny wings tickling his hands as he climbed down from the window sill. He placed the box on the quilt. As he did so, he noticed that one wing was crumpled and almost useless – battered by the white gulls. The little door opened and out fell another letter.
Fergus unfolded it eagerly. The next moment, his jaw dropped …
eep-peep-peep! Peep-peep-peep! Peep-peep … Fergus's eyes snapped open. It was seven o'clock. He reached out and slammed his hand down on the top of his alarm clock. The peeping stopped.
‘I'll just have half a minute more in bed,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Half a minute …’
Half an hour later, he woke for a second time and looked round the room groggily. Three nights of staying up till midnight were beginning to take their toll. He sat up, pushed the quilt away and stretched. Then he caught sight of the mechanical box perched above his head on the window ledge, its injured wing trailing on one side.
He reached into his pyjama pocket and took out the letter and read it again. He frowned. Long-lost Uncle Theo? His mother had never mentioned an Uncle Theo.
And what did he mean, You are in great danger!?
Danger from what? He certainly didn't feel in any great danger.
I am sending help.
Fergus wasn't sure he liked the sound of that. What sort of help? And what would his mother say?
Fergus glanced at the clock again. It was seven thirty-five. His mother would already be hard at work downstairs in the bakery. He would have to get a move on, otherwise he'd be late for school – and Captain Claw didn't take kindly to boys or girls who arrived late for school.
Fergus didn't want to spend the whole day half-way up the rigging, practising semaphore. Not again! Although the last time, he and Bolivia the parrot had ended up having quite a good time.
Springing into action, Fergus grabbed Practical Pot-holing for Beginners, stuffed it in his backpack and dashed downstairs. In the kitchen, he quickly devoured the
breakfast croissant his mother had left out for him and snatched his lunchbox from the fridge. Back in the bathroom, he brushed his teeth. Then, swinging his backpack up onto his shoulders, he hurried from the apartment. The front door slammed behind him.
It was seven forty-three.
Fergus fairly flew down the stairs, skidding round at each landing before racing down the next flight. If Miss Jemima Gumm had emerged from her first-storey apartment a split second earlier, then she and her canaries – fluttering in the large cage on pram wheels – would have been sent flying. As it was, she was merely dragged along a couple of steps in Fergus's slipstream as he dashed past.
‘Oh, Fergus,’ she called, her voice as high and twittery as one of her beloved birds. ‘Do thank your dear mother for the caraway seeds; so kind …’ Her eyes darted back and forth behind her steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘You haven't seen the Bigsby-Clutterbucks’ cat, have you, dear? Dreadful creature!’
‘No, Miss Gumm,’ Fergus's voice floated back up the stairwell.
He reached the entrance hall and hurried across the cold marble tiles. Madame Lavinia and Arturo Squeegie were both checking their mail. Fergus skidded to a halt and tried to squeeze his way between them.
‘Good morning, Mr Squeegie,’ he said. ‘Good morning Madame Lavinia.’
Madame Lavinia turned round, her large strings of amber beads clacking at her neck, her hair a haystack of frizzy orange, peppered with gold hairclips. ‘Ah, Fergus! My little maestro!’ She laughed, a sound like the tinkling of an out-of-tune piano. ‘What's the rush?’
‘Late for school, old man?’ Arturo Squeegie looked up from his letter box brandishing a lilac-scented letter, his jet black toupee glistening on his head. ‘Oh, to be young again, eh, Madame Lavinia? Although in your case, lovely lady, you don't look a day over twenty-one.’
Arturo took Madame Lavinia's hand and gave it a theatrical kiss.
‘Oh, Mr Squeegie!’ laughed Madame Lavinia, the amber beads clacking noisily. ‘You're too, too much, you really are!’
Fergus slipped past them.
‘Have a good day,’ trilled Madame Lavinia.
‘Splice that mainbrace, old chap,’ called Arturo Squeegie.
‘Thank you!’ Fergus called back. ‘I shall.’
Reaching the door, Fergus opened it up and stepped out onto the street. It was seven fifty-one. Since he was setting off six minutes later than usual, he'd have to run extra fast.
As he raced past Beiderbecker's Bakery, Fergus paused – as he did every day – to wave in through the window. Mrs Crane had been at work since five o'clock, and Fergus knew she liked to see him before he went to school – even if it was through the glass of a shop window. She looked up, a tired expression on her face, which vanished the moment she saw Fergus, to be replaced by a radiant smile. She gestured to his backpack and mouthed the words lunch and box exaggeratedly.
‘Yes, yes, I've got my lunchbox,’ Fergus muttered. He raised a thumb to show her he'd understood, and dashed off.
He sped past the cafes and shops, past Antonio the hurdy-gurdy man and the spot where Wall-eyed Ned paraded back and forwards in front of the theatre. He dashed down a side alley, past the bagel stall and on down to the canal where he sprinted along the canal side.
As he rounded Cyclops Point, where the old harbour lighthouse stood, the sails and masts of the Betty-Jeanne came into view. Without easing up for a moment, Fergus dashed along the quayside and skidded to a halt at the gangplank. Beside it, a small signpost read The School Ship Betty-Jeanne in gold letters above a picture of a rather stern-looking mermaid in a mortar-board.
‘Good morning! Good morning!’ screeched a voice, and Fergus looked up to see Bolivia – Captain Claw's red and blue parrot – perched on the balustrade at the top of the plank. ‘Look at the time! Look at the time!’
‘I know,’ said Fergus. He crossed the swaying gangplank. ‘Don't tell Captain Claw, Bolivia, or it'll be the rigging for me.’
‘Waving flags! Waving flags!’ said Bolivia, jumping from one foot to the other.
Fergus grinned. ‘Yes, I know you like semaphore practice,’ he said, ‘but I know something you like even more!’ He swung the backpack from his shoulders and pulled out his lunchbox.
‘Florentines! Florentines!’ Bolivia squawked excitedly.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Fergus. ‘But keep it down. We don't want the whole school to hear.’ Fergus looked at the lunchbox. ‘What the …?’
It wasn't his old familiar lunchbox – which was actually an old Beiderbecker cake tin held shut with a piece of string. No, this lunchbox was brand new and shiny, with little buttons along its top, and small doors and compartments. On one side, a small label said “The Lunchomatic”; The Fateful Voyage Trading Co.
In his rush to get to school, Fergus hadn't even looked at it. Now that he did, he could see that, as lunchboxes went, this was clearly an expensive one.
He pressed one of the buttons on the lid. A little door clicked open and a nutty, chocolatey, caramelly aroma wafted out. Bolivia clacked her beak.
‘Florentines! Florentines!’ she squawked. ‘My favourite! My favourite!’
Fergus smiled. Ever since he had started at the school ship Betty-Jeanne two terms ago, Bolivia and he had been the best of friends – and all because of the cakes and pastries that Fergus's mother packed in his lunchbox. Sometimes he would give the parrot a little piece of croissant; sometimes some walnut eclair, or a corner of flapjack. Her absolute favourites, however, were Archduke Ferdinand's Florentines.
Fergus remembered his first day at school with a shudder. Although almost nine years old, he had never been to school before. His mother simply couldn't afford it, so she'd done her best to teach him at home, after work – and sometimes at work. Fergus smiled. Writing stories at night and doing maths at the cake counter had been fun, and he'd loved the afternoons, exploring the neighbourhood and making friends with everyone.
But all that had changed when the Betty-Jeanne had sailed into the harbour and docked at the canal quayside. Fergus remembered how excited his mother had been when she read one of the bill posters that Captain Claw had stuck up all over town.
The School Ship Betty-Jeanne, it had said. Offers all the benefits of a top class education, with the proven virtues of the nautical way of life absolutely free.
The word ‘free’ was in extra large letters, with a picture of the mermaid in a mortar-board pointing at it for added effect.
‘Look, Fergus!’ his mother had said. ‘They're looking for young, able-bodied students … Must be agile, athletic, good at squeezing through small spaces … Oh, Fergus!’ she'd cried. ‘You're exactly what they're looking for. And just think, you'd get a top-class education, absolutely free!’
‘But I already get an education absolutely free,’ Fergus had mumbled. But when he had looked at his mother's face, her excitement giving way to a look of love and concern, he had known that her mind was made up.
So it was that, on the appointed afternoon, along with dozens of others, Fergus had gone along to the tall-masted clipper for an interview. Dressed in his smartest clothes and with his hair slicked down, he'd been asked questions by Captain Claw like, ‘How tall are you, lad?’ and ‘Are you afraid of small spaces?’, and been made to climb to the top of the rigging.
At the end of it all, the captain had turned to Mrs Crane and said, ‘Congratulations, Madame. We'll make a scholar and a seaman out of your little treasure.’
Which is how Fergus had found himself – at the age of nearly nine, and never having been to school before in his life – walking up the gangplank on the first day of term, feeling very small and a little frightened, and making friends with a parrot.
Fergus glanced at his watch and groaned. It was eleven minutes past eight. He was already eleven minutes late for his first lesson; gym class with Mr Woodhead. He took the Florentine out of his strange new lunchbox and gave it to the parrot, who promptly flew up to the crow's nest – or as the children on the B
etty-Jeanne called it, ‘the parrot's nest’ – at the top of the mast.
‘Twelve minutes past,’ Fergus groaned, checking his watch again. Any later, and he'd end up on barnacle-scraping duty …
Things were looking almost as bad as on that very first day on board the Betty-Jeanne. To start with, he'd had to meet his new classmates – or ship mates, as they were instructed to call each other. They were all lined up in a row on the foredeck.
There was big, beefy Horace Tucker, with his mass of unruly straw-like hair and spectacles held together with sticky tape. Next to him was little Tessa Maas, smaller than Fergus, with a black bob and dark, serious eyes: the others soon nicknamed her ‘Mouse’. Then there was Sylvie Smith, with her ginger plaits, long, freckled legs and knock-knees. And finally, Jimmy ‘Spike’ Thompson, who was just a little taller than Fergus, but much stockier and twice as strong.
And that was it, the entire school. A mere handful of pupils. For, of all the many hopefuls who had applied to join the school ship Betty-Jeanne, Captain Claw had selected only five.
Certainly, they were a motley crew, Fergus had to admit, from all parts of town and with only one thing in common – none of them had parents who could afford to send them to either Montmorency Academy or Harbour Heights. After that first awkward meeting, however, they'd soon become friends.
Horace was the class joker and clown. Mouse fussed over them all, and Spike was brave and fearless, and took it upon himself to protect Sylvie, who was the nervous, tearful type. And then there was Fergus; amiable, happy-go-lucky, a little short for his age perhaps, but excellent at getting on with people.
Yes, they were a motley crew all right – though they were nothing compared to the teachers aboard the Betty-Jeanne!
Fergus might never have been to school before, but he knew what teachers looked like. They looked like Dr Fassbinder. They wore old tweed jackets with leather patches at the elbows, they had long striped scarves from their university days, and were always losing their spectacles when in fact they were on a chain round their neck the whole time. But the teachers on board the Betty-Jeanne were nothing like Dr Fassbinder.