‘What kind of dates are we talking?’ Mr Wolfe wants to know. ‘If it’s nineteenth- or twentieth-century stuff, Kitnor Museum may be able to help. They hold quite a lot of information there. Parish records of births, deaths, marriages … old newspapers … even some old diaries and household account books. I can’t promise miracles, but you should find something about your ghost story.’
‘Thanks, Sir,’ I grin. ‘I’ll try that.’
‘YESSSS!’ Alfie Anderson whoops from the back of the class, his new cool-boy persona forgotten in the heat of the moment. ‘I’ve done it, Sir – finished! That chocolate bar is MINE!’
That, of course, is a miracle in itself.
I haven’t been to Kitnor Museum since I was nine or ten. It’s small and quiet and dusty, with strange shop dummies from the 1960s dressed in home-made costumes to look like smugglers and highwaymen and Victorian ladies. There are displays of old photographs and paintings, a couple of bits of ancient furniture and assorted china, handmade lace and broken clay pipes locked up in glass cases.
I manage to sneak off after school without anyone asking too many questions. Summer has a ballet class and Millie hasn’t wanted to come over to Tanglewood or hang out in the village for weeks now, which at least means I don’t have to give her any excuses.
Still, by the time I get to the museum it’s almost closing time, and the place is deserted except for a smiley woman with dark frizzy hair sorting through some old papers at the desk. As she works, she reaches out and selects a chocolate from the box beside her, and I almost laugh out loud because they are Chocolate Box truffles, our chocolates.
‘Excuse me,’ I ask. ‘I wonder if you can help me? I’m trying to find out about a girl who lived in Kitnor in the 1920s …’
She looks up. ‘Oh, you’re one of the Chocolate Box Girls!’ she says, delighted. ‘One of the Tanberrys, yes? I saw you and your sisters in the magazine, and I’ve spotted you in the village once or twice.’
She picks up the box of truffles. ‘My boyfriend gave me these for Christmas,’ she says. ‘They’re the best chocolates I’ve ever tasted!’
‘I’ll tell Mum,’ I say.
‘Yes, do. So … you’re trying to trace someone from the 1920s? We’re about to close, but I was planning on working late anyway. Let’s take a look at the parish records.’
Searching through the records, I tell the museum lady the story of Clara Travers and about the trunk Mum and Paddy found. ‘You have her dresses?’ she asks. ‘Really? And hats and shoes and bracelets and letters? They’d make an amazing exhibit, if you wanted to lend them to the museum at any point!’
‘Maybe,’ I frown. ‘If I could just find out what actually happened …’
The idea of parting with the dresses feels uncomfortable, and I can see for a tiny moment why Summer doesn’t like my attachment to them. They’re not my dresses, after all – why shouldn’t I share them? I’m worried if I do it’ll mean giving up the dreams, that’s why.
Half an hour later, we’ve found an entry for the birth of Clara Jane Travers from the year 1909, daughter of William Henry Travers and Elizabeth Mary Travers of Tanglewood House.
‘If your story’s right, and she was seventeen when she died, that would make it 1926,’ the museum lady says. ‘But there’s no record here of her death, or of her marriage either, obviously. I’m guessing that the death wasn’t recorded, perhaps because her body was never found. Let’s see if the newspaper archives have anything …’
But when we look through the newspaper reports, there are no mentions of a death by drowning, no references to suicide. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,’ the museum lady says. ‘Perhaps it was covered up to spare the family the scandal? They’d have tried to keep something like that out of the newspapers.’
‘Well, we tried,’ I say. ‘I have a photograph of Clara’s fiancé, but he didn’t live in Kitnor so there’s no point in looking for him. I don’t suppose there’s any way to trace the gypsies?’
‘Doubtful,’ the museum lady sighs. ‘They lived outside society, for the most part. They rarely recorded births, deaths or marriages because they moved around so much.
‘We do know that the Romanies used the woods by Tanglewood House as a stopping-off point until the 1920s. After that, they switched to the pastures down by Kitnor Quay. Perhaps that was because the Travers family warned them off, as your story says? It’s a pity we don’t have a name to work on …’
‘Finch,’ I say, although I have no proof that the boy from my dreams has anything to do with Clara Travers. My cheeks glow pink. ‘I mean … it could be Finch, possibly, but I have no evidence. Just … something I’d heard.’
‘Do you have a first name?’ she asks.
I frown. ‘No … no first name. Sorry.’
‘Well, leave it with me. I’ll take a look at the local farm records from the 1920s and let you know if I find anything.’
Abruptly, the door flies open and a tall, dishevelled figure wearing a tweed jacket and yellow corduroy trousers bowls in, wrestling a dripping umbrella.
‘Grace!’ he says, flinging his arms round the museum lady.
‘Charlie!’
Mr Wolfe catches my eye over his girlfriend’s shoulder, and his face reddens.
‘Ah … Skye, how nice to see you … you took my advice then!’
‘Yes, Sir,’ I grin. ‘Guess I’d better be going. Um … what’s the time, Mr Wolfe?’
‘Almost six, I think …’
‘Dinner time,’ I say, grinning, and sprint for the door.
Alfie Anderson would be proud of me.
26
‘Sorted,’ Mum says, putting down the phone. ‘It’s all booked. The village hall, Thursday 14 February, eight till late … the best birthday party of the season!’
It’s the following day after school, and Summer, Cherry and I are all in the kitchen, finishing up homework before dinner.
‘Brilliant!’ Summer whoops. ‘Can we invite everyone? All the kids in our year? And all the girls from the dance school, as well?’
‘I don’t see why not!’
‘And some of the boys from the high school?’ Summer checks. ‘Not that I am interested in boys, obviously, but some of the other girls might like that …’
‘Shay could do the sound for you,’ Cherry volunteers. ‘He’s really good.’
‘Definitely,’ Summer says. ‘We can make playlists, and have a Valentine’s theme with pink streamers and pink lemonade, and a big pink cake shaped like a heart …’
‘Skye?’ Mum says, ruffling my hair. ‘Does that sound OK? It’s your party too, after all!’
I bite my lip.
The last time Summer and I had a birthday party we were nine years old and still into egg sandwiches and mini pizzas and those hedgehog things made out of cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks. That was the year Alfie ate all the sausage rolls and most of the trifle and had to be sick in the bathroom; the year we had a Barbie Princess cake where the Barbie doll was sticking up out of the iced sponge, all piped with butter-cream ruffles to look like a crinoline gown.
I remember my blue party dress and Summer’s pink one, and the way Mum used to cheat when she stopped the music for Pass the Parcel, so that everyone got one of the tiny presents she’d wrapped up between each layer of tissue paper.
I used to love those parties, but a thirteenth birthday party is not the same kind of thing at all. I think things have moved on a bit since then, into territory I am not so sure of.
‘Brilliant,’ I say, as brightly as I can. ‘I mean … cool. Does it have to be a Valentine’s theme, though? Not everyone’s going to like all that romance stuff …’
Like me, for example.
‘Of course they will,’ Summer says flatly. ‘It’s on Valentine’s Day, so it’s the obvious theme, right?’
‘We could do a vintage thing instead,’ I suggest. ‘People could wear really cool vintage fashions, and –’
‘Skye!’ my twin sa
ys, rolling her eyes. ‘You are history obsessed! Trust me, people will not want to dress up in jumble-sale relics for a party. It’s just another excuse for you to wear one of those creepy old dresses, isn’t it?’
‘I love vintage!’ I argue. ‘What’s wrong with that? It’s got nothing to do with Clara’s dresses.’
That’s not strictly true, of course. I love Clara’s dresses and wearing them makes me think of the dreams, of Finch. As if I need reminding.
‘How about we make the theme Vintage Valentine?’ Mum says brightly. ‘That would be really different! Compromise, girls. It’s a shared party, so both of you should have some input.’
Summer looks slightly sulky, but raises one eyebrow as if considering the idea. ‘OK …’ she says finally. ‘I suppose.’
‘I could do us some retro invites,’ I offer. ‘I suppose the vintage dress code could be optional …’
‘No, no, we’ll go for it,’ Summer says, suddenly warming to the idea. ‘You could help me turn that flower hairclip into a 1920s headband, Skye. I could look for a vintage-style dress … but not an actual ancient one, if you know what I mean!’
‘I can sense a shopping trip coming on,’ Mum groans. ‘What have I started? Good job the January sales are still on!’
‘Sounds as if it’ll liven up February a bit, anyway,’ Cherry says. ‘And Valentine’s Day is in the half-term break, so we’ll have tons of time to get everything ready. I can’t wait!’
Summer swipes my cloche hat from the coat rack, pulls it on and does a comedy-Charleston dance around the kitchen, making everyone laugh.
‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘This is going to be the best party this village has ever seen.’
For the party invites, I make a collage design of old records with musical notes and little hearts and a cool 1920s couple dancing. On the back we add in the venue, the date, the time and the dress code, and print out a whole bunch of them on Mum’s printer.
Cherry and Coco take some to give to their friends, Shay gets a bundle to hand to his mates and even Honey says she’ll invite a few people.
Our friends at school love the idea, especially when they suss that Shay is doing the music and that boys from the high school will be there.
‘I seriously cannot wait,’ Millie tells me. ‘A proper teenage party, in a hall, with hot boys …’
‘Hot boys might be stretching it a bit far,’ I say, watching Alfie Anderson and Sid Sharma waltz across the lunch hall with their party invites between their teeth.
‘They’re both pretty good-looking,’ Millie considers. ‘It’s not just your birthday, Skye, it is Valentine’s Day too, and we cannot afford to be too choosy.’
‘I think we can,’ I say. ‘Sid and Alfie are definitely not what I am looking for.’
‘What are you looking for then?’ Millie wants to know. ‘Because I have to tell you, a knight in shining armour is not going to turn up at your thirteenth birthday party. You have to be more realistic.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘I am a romantic. I don’t want to settle for second best. And anyway, I do not want a knight in shining armour. There aren’t any left, these days, are there?’
‘Exactly,’ Millie says. ‘I know you are into all that history stuff, Skye, but don’t let life pass you by. Boys don’t go for history geeks.’
I grit my teeth. Millie barely bothers to conceal her irritation with me these days. We are drifting apart and we don’t know what to do about it. Millie’s magazines suggest talking things through. I’m not sure I’m ready for that, but I told Cherry I’d make an effort and I know I will have to try.
‘Why don’t you come over one day at half-term?’ I ask Millie brightly. ‘We can … um … try out make-up ideas or something. For the party. And talk, and just hang out, like we used to.’
‘Maybe,’ Millie shrugs, unimpressed. ‘Will Summer be there?’
‘I don’t know!’ I huff. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Suppose not. I was thinking … I might send Alfie a Valentine’s card,’ Millie muses. ‘Or Sid. Just in case I don’t manage to hook up with one of the high school boys, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘Oh, there’s Summer!’ Millie squeaks, her face lighting up. ‘I just want to ask her what I should wear. Honestly, this party is going to be SO cool, Skye. Everyone’s talking about it …’
She runs off across the dinner hall, leaving me alone with my bowl of cold sponge pudding and custard. I am clearly too clueless to advise on fashion, even fashion with a vintage theme, and too dull to stick with for a whole lunchbreak.
I used to be the kind of girl who got on with everybody. I saw the best in people, knew how to make them smile, how to smooth down any dispute, keep everyone happy. Lately, I seem to have lost the knack … with Millie and my sisters, at any rate.
Millie is right about one thing, though. Everybody is talking about the party. It’s like a little flash of fun in the middle of a long, grey winter.
And we’re definitely in need of some fun. We’re in the middle of another boom in the chocolate ordering, which means no let up in the hours spent packaging up boxes after school, thanks to a pre-Valentine’s ad that Paddy put in the magazine. And then Mum and Paddy get a letter from the high school to say that Honey’s grades are slipping, that her attitude in class is appalling. They go into school to talk to the teachers, and when they come back a huge row blows up.
‘You have GCSEs to study for next year,’ Mum says angrily. ‘And unless you get your act together you are going to fail them, Honey. I thought you wanted to go to art college? Don’t throw it all away!’
Honey scowls and shrugs.
‘You can do better than this,’ Paddy says. ‘Get some help with maths and science. Start working. Ditch the late nights and the boyfriends.’
‘You can’t tell me –’ Honey begins, but Mum interrupts.
‘He can, actually,’ she says. ‘And he’s right, Honey, we’ve had enough. Unless your next school report is a good one, I will find you a different school, an all-girls’ one, a boarding school maybe. I don’t know – but I will not let you mess your life up, Honey. I mean it.’
‘You can’t!’ she screeches. ‘That’s blackmail! Boarding school? That’s barbaric!’
‘We can,’ Mum says simply. ‘And we will, if we have to. Shape up, Honey, show us you can do it. Good grades, or things are going to change around here. You’ve pushed me too far this time.’
For once, Honey doesn’t have a thing to say.
27
After a couple of weeks of dull, damp January weather, the temperature drops again. The heating goes on the blink at school, and in some classrooms we take to keeping our hats and coats on. The playground is like an ice rink. To add insult to injury, a flu bug is doing the rounds. Every classroom is filled with sneezing, coughing kids, or else not filled at all because so many people are off sick.
‘I hope this flu thing goes away,’ Millie says. ‘Or else your party is going to be in trouble. You don’t want to be serving up hot lemon drinks and boxes of tissues.’
‘There’s more than a week to go,’ I say. ‘People will be better by then. They’ll have half-term to recover.’
‘I hope so,’ Millie says. ‘Because I am definitely not kissing Aaron Jones if he’s snuffling and coughing like that. When you think about it, kissing is very unhygienic. All those germs. Yuck!’
‘How do you know Aaron will want to kiss you, anyway?’ I ask.
‘I am practising my flirting techniques,’ Millie says. ‘I am wearing the dress I got for Christmas, because it’s gorgeous, and Mum says it does look a bit vintage, in a boho-chic kind of way, and Summer thinks I should team it with strappy sandals. So I am going for a sixties hippy-chick look, and Aaron will not be able to resist me. Or Sid. Or Alfie. Or someone, anyhow.’
‘Millie!’ I scold her. ‘You make it sound like any boy would do! You can’t go kissing boys just for the sake of it!’
‘It’s not just for t
he sake of it. It’s because it will be Valentine’s Day, and I am thirteen, and I think I might be ready for a boyfriend.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ I say. ‘And if I was, it would have to be someone special. It would have to be love.’
‘What do you know about love?’ Millie scoffs.
I think about a boy with dark wavy hair, a boy whose smile makes my heart do backflips, a boy who doesn’t exist outside my imagination.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
But I think I do.
It’s a week since I went to the museum looking for clues and in that time nothing else has come up, but I am just packing up after history class when Mr Wolfe tells me that Grace, the museum lady, has found some old records that mention the gypsy farm workers. I bite my lip. Maybe, finally, there’ll be some answers about Clara, and Finch.
Summer has an after-school dance class so I ask Coco to tell Mum I’ll be home later and get off the school bus in Kitnor. Alfie Anderson falls into step beside me.
‘Jobs to do in the big, bad city?’ he asks, grinning.
‘Kitnor isn’t exactly big or bad,’ I say. ‘There is something I need to do, though.’
‘Don’t suppose it involves hot chocolate and marshmallows in the Mad Hatter with your favourite classmate, does it?’ he asks hopefully.
‘Millie got off two stops ago,’ I shrug. ‘So … no, not really.’
‘I mean ME,’ Alfie says, rolling his eyes.
‘I know, I know,’ I laugh. ‘But no, I have to go to the museum. I am trying to find out more about that old story about Clara Travers and the gypsy boy …’
‘Cool,’ Alfie says. ‘It’s ages since I’ve been to the museum.’
‘You don’t have to come,’ I say. ‘You might find it kind of boring.’
‘No, I am getting into history a bit now,’ he tells me. ‘I won the quiz, didn’t I? I might end up being one of those palaeo-wotsits Mr Wolfe was on about, the ones who dig up dinosaur bones!’
‘Palaeontologists,’ I supply.
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