by Robin Jarvis
Although the morning was nearly over and his stomach was growling, Ben had no desire to return home. He desperately needed to confide in somebody, but who? With a slow, dawdling gait, he made for the swing bridge that linked the two sides of Whitby.
It really was a beautiful day; the harbour seemed filled with diamonds that glinted in the sunlight and the fishing cobles lazily rode the sparkling waves. Ben gazed blankly at the lovely scene. The dredger was chugging slowly out to sea, laden with the silt and sludge which it had scooped from the estuary floor and he absently waved at the crew. One of them returned the greeting but it did little to please the boy that morning.
"If only there was someone else," he sighed, turning his gaze from the harbour and across the bridge at the West Cliff. For a moment he contemplated going to the police station, but he doubted they would believe him—he found it difficult enough himself. If he tried to tell them what he had heard they would either laugh or put him in the care of a doctor. Still, he could always tell them that he had seen the man break into the church and leave out the rest of it—that might be enough for them to arrest him. No, it was only the word of an eight-year-old boy and Mr Crozier would soon squirm out of it. Ben recalled that even Miss Boston had been disbelieved when she had spoken against Rowena. No, this sort of business was beyond the reach of the normal authorities—their strong arms were helpless against the likes of Nathaniel.
Then it came to him, "Of course," the boy said brightly, "he's sure to listen!"
***
Mr Roper tucked the yellow duster into the pocket of his apron and replaced the lid on the can of spray polish. Whereas some people went to church on Sundays, he always tended to his collection, dusting and making them sparkle. Now his house smelled of polish and he cast his eyes over the crowded parlour in case one of the cruet sets had escaped the stroke of his cloth.
"Everything as it should be," he said with a gratified smile, "all gleaming and on parade."
It had been a long morning; the job increased with each new addition and, if his enthusiasm continued unchecked, he foresaw a time when it might take up the whole afternoon as well. Leaving the room, he untied the strings of the apron and, along with the polish, placed it in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
"Just time for a nice cup of tea," he murmured happily, "and as a reward after doing all that dustin', I'll treat myself to some jammy dodgers as well."
Some time later, Mr Roper carried a small tray into his front room and settled himself in the armchair. The radio was switched on, but the volume was turned quite low. It was only to provide a background noise as his favourite programmes were not due to begin till the afternoon. He had often felt that there was nothing worse than a silent house. So, with the radio's faint sounds burbling about him, he crunched into a biscuit and poured the tea.
"Oh who can that be?" he declared as the doorbell rang. "If it's that Pewitt woman come to invite me to the old-time dancing again she can go and jump. I wish she'd let me alone. All right, I can hear you!" Irked at this interruption, Mr Roper passed into the hall and opened the front door.
"Ben!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You're early, I wasn't expecting you till later this afternoon. Come in, come in." He led the boy inside, noticing that he was unusually quiet. "'Fraid I thought you were somebody else," the old man explained. "That woman from two doors down came round again last night after you'd gone. What a nuisance she's becoming. Keeps wantin' to foxtrot and tango with me. A body can only be polite for so long—don't know how I'll keep putting it off the way she goes on."
Leading Ben to the front room the old man asked gently, "What's addled you then, lad? You're in a right sulk this morning and that's a fact! You haven't even asked about poor old Guido."
Ben fidgeted for a moment. He wasn't sure how to broach the subject, he couldn't just blurt it out. "Mr Roper," he began uncertainly, "have you seen the man who's staying with the Gregsons?"
"Can't say that I have, but who'd be gormless enough to bide with them? She's a nasty tongue on her that Joan has—and her husband's a lazy good fer nowt."
"There is a man staying there," confirmed Ben, "his name's Crozier and..."
"Don't you like him?" asked Mr Roper kindly.
Ben shook his head. "Jennet does," he said, "I'm not sure what Miss Wethers thinks of him though, but no, I don't."
"Why's that then?"
"He's bad," Ben said simply.
Mr Roper leaned forward in his chair and put his teacup down. "What do you mean?" he asked solemnly.
And so Ben began to tell him all that had happened last night. At first Mr Roper seemed nervous and grew stern when the boy told how he had followed Nathaniel into the night. But, as the story progressed, a different look came over the old man's face.
"And then he smashed the head to bits," Ben said, coming to the conclusion of his tale, "and a great light shot out of the church roof and vanished into the sky. I waited till this morning to tell Jennet but when I woke up she was already downstairs with him. And now he knows that I saw everything and know what he's going to do to the other guardians if he can find them. When he does, something absolutely terrible is going to happen—I know it."
Mr Roper let out a deep breath, an admiring smile was on his lips. "Well I never," he said, "I never did hear the like before."
"What are we going to do about it?" cried Ben.
Mr Roper gave a chuckle. "Well, lad," he admitted, "I never thought you'd come up with something so elaborate. Ten out of ten is what I say to you. You had me going for a minute there, mind—very good. When I told you to come back with a story I wasn't expecting anything as rivetin' as that one, and you had it all off pat too. Full marks indeed, ho, ho!"
"But it's all true," the boy whispered. "I promise."
"'Course it is," agreed the old man, "and soon as I get a chance I'll phone the head wizard and tell him what one of his dastardly pupils is up to. He'll be zapped into a toad quicker than you can blink and all the world's worries'll be over."
Ben said nothing. He had been wrong—Mr Roper didn't believe him either. Only Nelda and Aunt Alice would, but they were out of his reach.
"Now then," said Mr Roper becoming slightly more serious, "you'll be wanting to see old Fawkes. Hang on while I fetch the scoundrel. Guardians of Whitby!" he chortled to himself. "Very good." Leaving Ben in the front room, he went upstairs.
Ben decided it was pointless trying to make the old man believe him. It was clearly too fantastic a tale for anyone. He waited for his return and, remembering his hunger, ate a biscuit. What would happen if Mr Crozier got his way? According to what he had heard, nothing would be safe; the finality of that was only just beginning to sink in and the boy felt as if the doom of the world was approaching.
"Here we are," said Mr Roper, bursting through the door bearing a large, floppy figure. "Here's the very man."
The papier-mâché head was completely dry now and he had already attached it to the rest of the body. "As you can see," he went on, "I've used an old shirt o' mine for the top half, I don't suppose you brought that jumper o' yourn? Never mind, you can add it later. I've put an old pair o' socks on the end of the legs for feet and tucked the trousers into them. Looks mighty swanky, don't he? All he needs now is the face and I've got some paints left over from the last jumble sale posters I did for your aunt."
Ben wasn't really in the mood for painting that day—especially as the head reminded him of that other one last night. But Mr Roper had obviously worked extremely hard to bring the guy up to this state and he forced himself to take an interest. The shirt and socks were not old at all and Ben was touched by this display of generosity.
Presently a garish and angry face began to appear on the papier-mâché; two streaks of black gave it a neat little moustache and another, directly below the bottom lip, served for a pointed beard.
"What about eyebrows?" suggested Mr Roper. "That's right—blimey he looks fierce, an' no mistake." Throughout the whole of the delicate o
peration the old man did nothing but encourage Ben, he also supplied him with more biscuits and told him the funniest of his stories. The boy could not remember ever having spent a more enjoyable couple of hours, at times he even forgot the dreadful knowledge that he was burdened with.
When the painting was all done they both surveyed the figure and were greatly pleased. It was an almost perfect Guy Fawkes, all it required now was Ben's old jumper and perhaps a hat.
"Well done, lad," congratulated the old man, "he's right smart he is. Can't wait to see him sat on top of your bonfire. Got all your wood yet?"
"Yes, I've been collecting it for weeks. Aunt Alice helped too. There's a great pile of stuff against the fence at home. I should really get started on it this afternoon." He stared at the Guy's striking face; it seemed a shame to burn him, but with that beard he now resembled Mr Crozier and Ben felt that perhaps he would be happy to set it atop the bonfire after all.
"Would you look at the time," tutted Mr Roper, "it's your dinner you'll be missing if you're not careful. I don't want Edith Wethers on at me. You'd best take this villain home with you today, lad. A right scare he'll cause through the streets, I'll be bound."
Ben lifted the figure and slung it over his shoulder. Carrying it all the way home would be no problem—it was very light, being stuffed only with newspaper. "If you want," he said, "you can come and help me build the bonfire after dinner. I don't suppose Jennet will care to."
Mr Roper gave him a quick smile but answered, "I'm sorry, I can't today—there's a few things I've got to be attending to. Thank you all the same. Believe you me, there's nothing I wouldn't like better."
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow night then," said Ben hopefully, "you've got to come and watch it burn. Miss Wethers said she'd make toffee apples and baked potatoes—I might even get a sparkler out of her."
"Oh, lad," gasped Mr Roper unexpectedly. His voice trembled and before Ben knew what to think, the old man whisked away and returned carrying a large square tin. "These are for you," he said quietly, "I were going to save them for tomorrow as a surprise like, but you might as well have them now. I remember the best bit about fireworks was looking at them in the box—all them fancy wrappers wi' stars and flashes on 'em, wonderin' what sort of show they'd make."
"Fireworks!" cried Ben. "For me? Oh, thank you!" He threw his arms around the old man and gave him a great hug. Mr Roper uttered a startled cry, holding the boy as if it was the last time he would ever see him and when he next spoke his voice was thick with restrained emotion.
"Aye," he mumbled, "them's all yours. Wait till you gets home before peeking, mind, and enjoy 'em tomorrow, lad. Now come on, you'd best be off."
He led Ben to the front door, but when the boy turned back to wave the usual farewell he saw that his friend was crying.
"Mr Roper," he said, walking back along the path, "are you all right?"
The old man put a hand over his eyes. "I'm only tired lad," he replied, "don't you fret."
Ben wasn't sure what to do. Perhaps Mr Roper had been thinking about his late wife or the brothers killed in the First World War. Deciding it was best to leave him alone, Ben waved again. "See you tomorrow," he said.
The old man watched him turn down into the alleyway then closed the door. "Goodbye, lad," he wept.
***
The massive jaws of the dredger plunged into the water once more. It had already dumped the last load of silt out at sea and was beginning the unending process all over again. The chains rattled as the iron claw sank to the bottom and seized a great portion of sludge. Up it came, through the foaming water, dripping with thick mud and weed. A cloud of gulls hovered overhead, greedily watching for any fish that it may have disturbed rising to the surface. Round swung the crane arm, back over the open cargo hold, where the strong teeth parted and disgorged half a ton of muck and slime.
"Right," shouted Peter Knowles, one of the three crewmen, "she's all finished, Dunk her in again."
The crane jerked round till it was out over the water and the huge open grabber swung slowly on its chains.
Peter gave a signal to Bill Ornsley, the operator, who nodded and the jaws dropped back into the harbour. The dredger rocked gently, and Peter leaned against the deck rail while he waited for it to re-emerge. He was tired, and longed for his roast dinner which would be on the table by the time he finished this shift. At least this would be the last load of the day, he consoled himself, thinking of the Yorkshire pudding smothered in gravy which he would soon be devouring as efficiently as the jaws of the dredger itself. He glanced up, over the harbour bridge in the direction of his home and sighed wistfully.
A short figure wandered into his view, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. "There's that kid again," he said as a child ran across the bridge, "the one that waved before. Lives with that barmy old woman, doesn't he? She's too old to be fostering kids at her age. Hello? What's he got there then—looks like a dead body."
"Pete!" Bill's voice broke into his thoughts and all traces of roast dinners, cracked old women and ghoulish children vanished from his mind. Ornsley sounded worried.
"What's up?" he called.
The man pointed at the crane and then Pete too realised that something was wrong. The chains were groaning and an unhealthy whine issued from the winching motor.
"She's caught on summat," Bill cursed.
Peter peered over the side to where the chains disappeared into the water. "Like what?" he asked.
The other shrugged and scratched his balding head beneath his battered black cap. "Beggared if I know," he said, "could be anything—never know what's down theer. Mebbe some old timbers from a coble what sank years ago."
"Wouldn't we have come across 'em before?" asked Peter doubtfully. "We're here day in, day out."
Mr Ornsley gazed at the shimmering surface of the water and slowly shook his head. "No," he muttered, "you can't never tell what it's like on the harbour bottom. There's fathomless depths of mud swirling round, constantly shifting with the tide, coverin' and uncoverin' all sorts of stuff. Horrible suckin' mud that pulls you under and seals you up for a year or more." He pulled on the winch lever but the awful whining increased.
"Doesn't want to come up," Peter said. "Whatever it is must be stuck pretty good."
"She'll manage it," assured Bill.
At that moment the dredger pitched alarmingly and the crane juddered under tremendous strain. The water slopped over the deck as the vessel lurched from side to side and Peter only caught hold of the rail in time to save himself from being thrown into the harbour.
From the cabin at the stern the other member of the crew stuck his head out and bawled at them. "What was that?" he cried, gripping the wheel tightly. "Felt as though something pulled at us!"
Bill stared worriedly at the winch motor; wisps of smoke were now hissing from it and the taut chains looked close to snapping.
"Let it go!" shouted Peter. "Whatever it is, drop it!"
Mr Ornsley threw himself against the lever as another tremor rocked the dredger. "I can't," he yelled, "it's jammed!"
A high-pitched, painful noise of twisting metal screeched out from the crane—the arm was buckling. Peter ran forward and tried to help Bill release the jaws but the lever was locked solid.
"She's gonna break!" he cried. "The chains'll lash round like whips, take cover man!"
Suddenly the dredger catapulted backwards, the jaws were free and the chains rattled loudly as the motor wrenched them from the water.
Both men raised their heads as the grabber rose to the surface in a frenzy of boiling, seething water.
"Thought we were goners then, Bill," said Peter. "Good job it let go."
Mr Ornsley checked the controls. "No it ain't," he whispered, "whatever it were caught on is still in them teeth."
Up from the thick harbour mud it came, up into the bright sunlight that filtered down into the churning water in soft, slicing rays.
With an almighty sp
lash, the jaws exploded from the waves and before the chains could wind them up, they struck the prow with a shuddering blow.
Peter held grimly to the rail as the dredger tipped violently to one side, its tilting hull clanging like a funeral bell. The angry spray stung his face and the vibrations of the collision stung his clenched fingers, jolting through his body. Yet he paid no attention to this. Though the man in the cabin struggled with the wheel for control, all Peter could do was stare at what was gripped in the great iron teeth of the grabber.
It was the most unusual thing he had ever seen, and from it rained a waterfall of sludge.
"What in heaven is that?" he breathed.
As the deluge of filthy mud diminished, the outline of the mysterious object became clearer. It seemed to be kite-shaped and twice the size of a man. Peter stared intently, although it appeared to be made of stone, it was difficult to be certain because, except for a clump of fibrous black seaweed that had attached itself to the base, it was totally encrusted with barnacles.
Mr Ornsley looked up from the controls "Beggar me!" he exclaimed. "What the 'ell?"
"P'raps it's some kinda shield," suggested Peter, "part of a massive coat of arms or summat."
"That ain't no shield," whispered Bill, "call yerself a man o' the sea, look at it, man!"
"I don't..." Peter's voice failed him as he saw what the other meant. "Impossible!" he cried.
"Aye," said Bill "but mark that bit at the bottom theer, where it tapers down. What do that look like?"
Peter felt ill. A dark red substance was trickling from the tangled mass of what he had at first assumed to be seaweed. The thing was bleeding!
"I might be gettin' on in years," murmured Bill, "but that looks like flesh to me."
Peter couldn't believe it. "You're wrong," he denied flatly.
"Face it, man," the other muttered darkly, "like it or not, that theer is the scale of a fish!"
Peter gulped and in a small voice whispered, "My God!"
They stared a moment more at the huge black diamond, then the jaws loosened. The weight was too much, the teeth parted and the giant object fell from its grasp.