The Whitby Witches Trilogy

by Robin Jarvis

  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.’

  ‘Uncle Peter, yes—and Aunt Pat, his snotty wife.’

  ‘You were with them for just three months, were you not?’

  Jennet stared at the ground and mumbled, ‘Aunt Pat said she couldn’t cope with… well, with us.’ She hesitated before adding, ‘Ben was having a bad time, and there were other things.’

  ‘I see.’ Miss Boston turned to watch Ben playing. ‘So they put you both into care.’

  ‘Yes, then we were put with another family who actually wanted to adopt Ben and me, until… well, it didn’t work out that way.’

  ‘No.’ Miss Boston narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘Nor did it work out with three other families after that. You asked why I had not sent for you before now. My dear child, I was hoping that you would find a good home with a family who would care for you.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Alas, it was not to be, so I decided to enter the fray and applied a little pressure here, called in some old favours there. Well, here you are; stuck with a terrible old woman like me. I’m sorry, but I could not stand by and let you stay in that hostel until you were sixteen.’

  Jennet shifted uncomfortably on the tombstone. This woman had no idea why they had been unable to fit in. She looked round for Ben and suddenly saw that he was dangerously near the cliff edge. ‘Will he be all right there?’ she asked in alarm.

  ‘I think your brother has brains enough not to go leaping off cliffs,’ remarked Miss Boston. ‘Of course, he might get blown off. The wind is notoriously strong up here.’ She raised a hand and called the boy to them. ‘Do you know it gets so violent sometimes that it actually lifts the lead off the church roof? Last winter the vicar had to cancel the service because of the noise.’

  Ben began to make his roundabout way towards them. Miss Boston cleared her throat and said to Jennet, ‘I think I ought to tell you something before he rejoins us. It’s only fair you should know. You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, too sensible perhaps at times.’

  ‘What should I know?’

  ‘I received a letter from Mrs Rodice.’ Miss Boston pulled a sour expression. ‘Nasty, spiteful letter it was too. It concerned Benjamin. What an unpleasant creature she must be.’

  The colour drained out of Jennet’s face and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked shakily.

  Miss Boston snorted her contempt. ‘She is obviously an ignorant woman—unbalanced too, I shouldn’t wonder. She accused Benjamin of certain things which I refuse to believe. I threw the wretched piece of paper on the fire—wish I could do the same to her.’

  The girl glanced up and found Miss Boston looking at her steadily. Now was the time to tell her everything. If that was the end of their stay in Whitby, then so be it; at least she could put the old woman straight. Lord knows what the Rodice had put in that letter.

  ‘Ben has dreams,’ she stammered. ‘Sometimes he has them in the daytime and he gets muddled up. He used to think Mum and Dad came to see him after the accident. That—that’s not all. He used to tell some of the other kids at the hostel funny stuff that frightened them. We had a new girl come who used to live with her gran before she died and Ben told her that he could see an old woman sitting next to her when she was in the TV room, stroking her hair. Apparently that’s what this grandmother used to do. Yvonne started to wet the bed after that and the other kids used to look at Ben like he was some kind of freak.’

  ‘Go on,’ Miss Boston prompted her gently.

  ‘Well, that’s why we never settled down with the foster families. With Aunt Pat, the last straw came during one of her posh dinner parties. Ben came running downstairs saying he’d seen Mum. Aunt Pat went dead red; she hated the embarrassment of it, she didn’t want anyone to think she had a retarded relative in the house. I heard her and Uncle Peter talking one night—their room was next to mine and the walls were thin. She said she couldn’t stand it any more, and Uncle Peter had to go along with her. It was horrible listening to them discussing us like that. I wanted to shout out that I could hear them but I never did.

  ‘The other families were the same. One lot were really religious and thought Ben was possessed or something and the others just looked at us funny.’

  ‘You did not fully understand yourself. You are a very brave girl.’

  At this point Ben sauntered up to them. ‘Come here, Benjamin,’ said Miss Boston. ‘Get under my cloak and I shall tell you a tale. You too. Jennet.’

  The children huddled up to the old woman and sheltered from the bitter wind like chicks under their mother’s wings.

  ‘Do you see that?’ she asked them, nodding to a tall, thin cross. ‘That is Caedmon’s cross.’

  ‘Who’s he, then?’ Ben wanted to know.

  ‘Ah,’ Miss Boston explained, ‘Caedmon was a cowherd, long before the Normans came. He used to tend the cattle on the plain back there when the abbey was just a monastery. He was painfully shy and awkward, poor fellow. In the winter when fires were lit and songs were sung around them, all the other servants of the monastery would do their party pieces, except Caedmon. He felt so unhappy because he could not sing that he would retire early and his friends would shake their heads and feel sorry for him.

  ‘Then, one night, a vision came to him in a dream. It was an angel, which bade Caedmon sing of the glories of God the Maker. Do you know, when he awoke he felt confident as never before and began composing his own verse. Caedmon is recognised as the first English poet.’ And Miss Boston ended her tale with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘That’s soppy,’ sneered Ben, greatly disappointed.

  ‘You impudent rascal,’ cried Miss Boston with mock severity. ‘And what kind of stories do you like, may I ask?’

  ‘Scary ones—with monsters,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

  Miss Boston’s face became grim as she shook her head and gasped, ‘You mean you don’t know? Have you come here unprepared? Did you not pack your garlic?’

  Ben squirmed happily on the tomb, shaking his head. ‘Why?’ he giggled.

  ‘Because, child,’ she moaned in a horrified voice, ‘the most dreadful monster ever created came ashore at Whitby—Dracula himself. King of Vampires!’

  ‘He didn’t!’

  ‘Oh yes he did, young man—he changed himself into a great black dog and jumped from the doomed ship Demeter as she ran aground, just down there.’ Miss Boston paused for dramatic effect and they all stared down at the rough sea. ‘Now,’ she said in a bright, cheerful manner, ‘it’s getting colder—let us return home. Don’t pretend to be a vampire, Benjamin, you haven’t got the cloak for it.’ And she flapped her own, although she resembled a large green chicken more than a bat. Benjamin, however, was still staring down at the rocks below. He seemed to be watching something.

  The old woman squinted down and saw a blurred shape move quickly over the stones. ‘So,’ she whispered to herself, ‘he sees the fisher folk also.’ A slow smile spread over her face.

  Jennet waited for them at the top of the steep flight of steps. ‘Did Dracula re
ally live here?’ she asked nervously.

  Miss Boston chuckled. ‘Dracula is but a character of fiction. His creator, Bram Stoker, came here in 1890, a dozen or so years before I was born. Mind you, the black dog was a grisly creature of legend he borrowed from the locals—the Barguest. As big as a calf with fiery red eyes, it was supposed to stalk through the streets of Whitby at the dead of night. Anyone who heard it howling was doomed.’

  Jennet shivered. ‘That’s horrible. Miss Boston.’

  The old lady sighed. ‘Really, Jennet, you must stop calling me Miss Boston; I gave up lecturing a long time ago. My name is Alice.’

  ‘I can’t call you that. It doesn’t sound right.’

  ‘Then how about Aunt Alice? Will that do?’

  Jennet simply smiled in reply and slid her hand automatically into Aunt Alice’s.

  The seagulls woke Ben up; for a moment he wondered where he was and then he remembered. Hastily, he pulled his clothes on and ran downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Jennet finishing off a boiled egg.

  ‘Those seagulls are a bit loud, aren’t they, Jen?’ he said chirpily.

  Jennet blinked at him wearily. ‘It’s seven in the morning,’ she answered grumpily. ‘I’ll never get used to this.’

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Ben, heaving himself on to a stool.

  Jennet emptied the eggshell into a pedal bin and rinsed her plate under the tap. ‘She went out ten minutes ago. Says she always goes for a walk before breakfast.’

  ‘Where’s mine?’ demanded Ben hungrily.

  His sister poured some milk into a bowl of cereal and passed it to him. Ben picked up a spoon; it was an odd colour and he sniffed it suspiciously.

  ‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, Ben?’ said Jennet as she watched him munch his breakfast.

  ‘Um,’ he agreed, with his mouth full.

  ‘I hope we can stay here for a while; she’s a nice old lady. I feel a bit funny calling her “Aunt” though.’

  The latch on the front door rattled and Aunt Alice stepped in looking windswept and rosy. She stayed in the hall to hang up her hat and coat.

  ‘Don’t like these spoons, Jen,’ hissed Ben, waving his in the air.

  ‘Shush! They’re probably made of silver and very old—behave.’

  Aunt Alice entered, undoing the top button of her blouse. ‘There,’ she puffed. ‘I like to climb the hundred and ninety-nine steps, whatever the weather. Blows the sleepy cobwebs away, it does.’ She bent down and opened the door of an old-fashioned refrigerator. ‘Now,’ she mumbled, ‘will it be kippers today or scrambled eggs? Kippers it is!’

  Ben liked the smoky smell of the kipper but the taste was too strong for him—he preferred fish fingers, and said as much. Aunt Alice roared that he would get no fish fingers from her as long as he stayed in Whitby. He could eat fresh fish or none at all.

  Twenty minutes later, she was dabbing the corners of her mouth with a hanky and praising the art of a Mr Bill Fortune. ‘Well now, children,’ she addressed them as she pushed the plate away, ‘what do you intend to do today?’

  They shrugged and looked at her blankly.

  ‘Explore?’ suggested Jennet. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

  ‘Why should I mind, child? I hope you enjoy yourselves. I shall want to know what you have discovered when you return.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jennet disappointedly, ‘aren’t you coming too?’

  Aunt Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly not, I have far too much to do. You can look after yourselves—you won’t get lost in a small town like this.’ She rose and scraped the kipper bones into the pedal bin, then washed her plate with Ben’s breakfast things. ‘Now I think you ought to brush your teeth, don’t you?’

  Jennet was the first one down from the bathroom and she took her coat from the peg in the hall. ‘When should we come back. Aunt Alice?’

  ‘Oh, whenever you like, dear. I have to go out myself.’

  ‘But how shall we get in if you’re not here?’

  Aunt Alice came into the hall, dangling a key to the front door between her fingers. ‘A spare,’ she said.

  Jennet thanked the old woman. It had been a long time since anybody had trusted her like this and she appreciated it.

  ‘Just come back when you get hungry,’ beamed Aunt Alice. ‘I should be here by lunchtime.’

  Ben struggled into his coat while Jennet wiped the toothpaste from his mouth, then all three left the house. The weather looked promising. Aunt Alice waved goodbye to them and set off purposefully towards the West Cliff.

  It was still early and Jennet and Ben wandered through the narrow streets, gazing into shop windows which were filled with pieces of Whitby jet. It had been fashioned into all sorts of jewellery—rings, pendants, bracelets and tie-pins. Jennet looked longingly at a pair of jet earrings and stroked the glass dreamily. Ben tutted in disgust and walked away, muttering about the dullness of shops.

  Then he spied a joke shop. He pressed his face against its windows and uttered little yelps of delight. It had everything, from black-face soap to horrific rubbery masks. There were sugar cubes that turned to worms when placed in tea and ghastly sets of false teeth. He wondered what he could afford—maybe Aunt Alice would buy him something. He drooled over the possibilities until his sister came to look for him.

  Eventually the children came to the harbour and watched some late fishing boats return. A fresh, salty tang was in the air and they ran across the bridge to see the fish auction. It was being held in a large covered area on the West Cliff. Wooden crates filled with silvery fish were stacked into high piles, whilst an official in a white coat gabbled away, faster than they believed possible.

  Jennet wrinkled her nose at the strong, fishy smell. Ben peered into one of the crates and tried, unsuccessfully, to outstare the dead fish, until a gruff man in a black coat shooed them away.

  They walked along the Pier Road, but as it was only half past eight they could not go into the lifeboat museum. Instead, they chased each other along the sandy beach. The morning wore on, shops opened and the holidaymakers strolled out of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts.

  Jennet ran up to the green door and searched in her pockets for the key. Outside Aunt Alice’s cottage was an old barrel which overflowed with geraniums and above the door itself hung a curiously shaped stone with a hole worn into it.

  ‘Mornin’,’ said a voice suddenly. Jennet dropped the key in surprise.

  Leaning against one of the other doors in the yard was a thick-set, dark-haired, surly-looking woman. A cigarette was balancing on her bottom lip, and when she spoke it stayed in place as though it were glued on. Her face showed disdain as she looked Jennet up and down. She folded her bare, fleshy arms and said, ‘You one of them what’s come to stay wi’ her?’

  Jennet nodded, mesmerised at the acrobatic skill of the cigarette.

  ‘Given you a key as well, ‘as she? Me an’ my Norman know what she gets up to, her an’ them friends of hers. Oh, she thinks she’s so clever, bossing everyone about.’ The woman blew through the curling blue cigarette smoke. ‘Anyway, you make sure you keep your hands to yourself, you hear me? I know your sort, lass—don’t you come thievin’ round here. She might be daft as a brush, but I’m not.’

  Jennet was so taken aback by the woman’s outburst that before she could think of anything to say the dreadful creature had gone back into her house and slammed the door. Jennet stuck her tongue out and turned the key in the lock.

  Inside there was no sign of Aunt Alice. Jennet took off her coat, wondering whether she was in the parlour, having a nap. She knocked but there was no answer, so she turned the brass handle and peeped in.

  The parlour was papered a rich burgundy and fined with shelves full of dusty volumes. A large round table dominated the centre of the room and in the corner a tall grandfather clock monotonously ticked the time away.

  Jennet went into the kitchen and decided to make a cup of tea to await the old lady’s return. Just as the kettle began
to whistle, there came a furtive knock on the front door.

  ‘You took your time, Ben,’ she began. ‘What happened to—’

  But when the door opened she saw that the new arrival was not her brother after all. Another old lady blinked in surprise at her.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the stranger. ‘I suppose you must be Janet.’

  ‘Jennet,’ the girl corrected.

  ‘Of course. I’m Miss Droon—a friend of Alice’s. Is she in?’

  ‘No, but she should be back soon.’

  ‘Shall I come in, then, and wait? Thank you.’ And she barged through to the kitchen, where the kettle was whistling for all it was worth and steaming up the windows.

  Miss Droon was an odd-looking woman. Her hair was dark grey and very wiry, like a pan scrub. She wore thick, black-rimmed spectacles and a chunky blue sweater which was covered in short, white hairs. As she passed by. Jennet noticed a strong whiff of cats. This was rather appropriate, because Miss Droon had whiskers; they stuck out above her top lip and bristled along her chin. It was quite a struggle to keep from staring.

  Miss Droon made a pot of tea and helped herself to the Gypsy Creams. She planted her bottom on a stool and tapped the table distractedly; evidently there was something on her mind.

  ‘I’m sure Aunt Alice won’t be long,’ said Jennet, noticing the hairs that had fallen to the floor from Miss Droon’s sweater.

  ‘I hope you’re right, girl,’ she returned, ‘for Eurydice’s sake.’ She looked out of the window desperately.

  ‘Eurydice?’

  ‘Yes. She’s wandered off again and she could go into labour any minute.’ Miss Droon wrung her hands together anxiously.

  Jennet had visions of some woman roaming round Whitby, ready to give birth. ‘Maybe she’s gone to the hospital,’ she suggested hopefully.

  Miss Droon looked at her as if she were mad and opened her mouth. But at that moment, the front door opened and in came Aunt Alice with Ben. They had met in Church Street and Ben was giving her a detailed account of the morning’s activities. ‘Then we saw a statue of that Captain Cook and two huge whale bones made into an arch and I found a fossil thing on the beach—see?’