Brightling

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘You shouldn’t have such a guilty conscience, girl. Seen the posters?’ Tapper asked her, nodding towards one. ‘Rum, eh? Now they’re saying she’s like family and everything, but we all know she’s an orphan.’

  ‘I don’t know, is she? I don’t know … I’ve got toothache, Tapper. I can’t think. I’m feeling bad.’ She looked along the street; the nest was close, she longed for the nest. ‘I need to –’

  ‘Come on, my girl, let’s go have some food,’ Tapper said, linking his arm through hers. ‘Things are looking up again and we’re in clover.’

  ‘I’d rather not, Tapper, really … ’

  Tapper froze. ‘Rather not? I don’t think so. I want lunch with you, my girl, and lunch with you is what I’ll have.’

  ‘Yes, Tapper.’

  They soon had a table in the busy tavern.

  ‘See how they move out for me, eh?’ Tapper said as they sat down on seats still warm from the first occupants. Tapper smiled into his bark-beer and Glori miserably watched the bubbles disappear.

  A steaming rabbit pie was placed on the table for them.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ Glori said, pushing her pastry round her plate. ‘Sorry, Tapper.’

  ‘Eat.’

  Glori tried, but the pastry tasted like cardboard and the meat was like chewing leather.

  ‘Here. I’ll eat it.’ He scooped up the rest of the pie. ‘I’m always hungry. I’m hungry for life, I am. Oh Glori, are we going to have a good time, you and me?’

  ‘Are we?’ Her voice came out cracked and feeble.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked, tossing his hair aside and fixing his cold eyes on her. ‘Come on, tell me. You know you will in the end.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, rubbing her jaw.

  ‘Glori, you can’t keep nothing from me and you know it.’ He suddenly grabbed her arm, squeezing it tightly. ‘Glori, speak up. Don’t make me be mean. I don’t want to be mean, but you make me.’

  ‘I’m not very well,’ she said. ‘It’s my teeth.’

  He picked up a fork and stabbed it inches from where her hand lay on the tabletop, digging the prongs in deep then rocking the fork backwards and forwards. ‘Glori? I’m warning you … Glori, don’t … ’

  She had to tell him something … she pretended to crumble.

  ‘Sparrow told me … She said she’d been in a house by the swamp and it was your house and you’d made her sew the spitfyres and locked her up. I saw the spitfyre, Tapper. I saw it and it’s true.’

  Tapper laughed.

  ‘She’s a one, that Sparrow,’ Tapper said, smiling at his pie, which immediately stopped steaming. ‘I must have a little word with her when I get back to the nest. She was a guest in our house, Glori, and my ma fed her and looked after her like she were her own dear daughter. What a little minx to lie about it.’

  Glori tried to look relieved but didn’t feel anything except certainty, certainty that he was lying.

  ‘But you do make spitfyres for them Butterworths?’

  ‘How was I to know she were connected to them? How? That’s just bad luck … or good luck. Oh I know, I know what this is leading up to,’ Tapper said. ‘You’ve seen the posters and you want us to send her back to them, don’t you?’

  ‘Why not, Tapper?’ Glori cried, grabbing his arm. ‘She could have a real, loving family then and belong somewhere. A real family and they’re so kind and –’

  ‘How d’you know they’re so kind?’ he interrupted her.

  ‘I mean … I mean she told me they were kind. Nice. It’s what she said.’ Glori cast her eyes down and quickly sipped her drink.

  Tapper leaned back in his chair. ‘It ain’t going to happen, Glori, no way.’ He shook her off when she reached out for him. ‘No. And don’t paw me!’

  ‘But why not?’ Glori took hold of his hand again, pleading. ‘Please, Tapper. We could just do this one good thing and make her happy. Then you and me, we’d still be all right. We could –’

  ‘You’ve forgot about the money,’ Tapper said coldly.

  ‘But we’d get the money. The Butterworths’ reward.’

  ‘No.’ Tapper snatched his hand away. ‘No.’

  ‘But why not?’

  Tapper turned away and stared at the wall. A black spider scuttled off down a deep crack. ‘I can get more for her, that’s why not.’

  ‘Who’d pay more for her than her uncle?’ Glori asked, although she knew. She waited, wanting him to commit himself, to fall into her trap. If he was prepared to let Sparrow go to de Whitt and certain death then she was all set to do anything – anything – to save her friend.

  ‘Never you mind. All I’ll say is we’ll get more. I promise. We’ll get more.’

  ‘But she’s got a real family! What we all want!’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Tapper snapped. ‘I don’t want my old ma!’ Then he grinned. ‘Yeah, she’s got more family than you can shake a hat at, has Sparrow. Now leave off. I’ve done with talking about Sparrow. Talk about us. Talk about that little house we’re going to get and what fine clothes we’ll have, eh? I’ve found the place, right near the nest it is, and you’ll love it. End of discussion.’

  38

  Free

  The other match-girls were asleep; the fire had burned down low.

  Sparrow looked over at Glori’s sleeping shape. Glori had been upset when she came in, too ill to talk, she’d said. Sparrow had wanted to ask her about the spitfyres outside in the yard. She hoped Glori didn’t know about them, that she wasn’t part of that business. Glori was too kind, too caring to be so cruel.

  She was going to help those creatures tonight. She had to.

  It was quiet and still. She turned back her covers gently and crept out of bed. She pulled on two jumpers and two pairs of socks; took her coat from the peg and picked up her boots. Her breath clouded in front of her; her teeth rattled in her head.

  She tiptoed silently out of the attic.

  At the top of the long flight of stairs she stopped, lit a candle using stolen matches and put on her boots. Then she made her way down.

  Her heart seemed to have ballooned and was filling her throat, thumping massively in her chest, booming in her ears. If only Scaramouch were here, she thought. Dear Scaramouch, please find me Scaramouch, if you’re here somewhere. That’s what she’d do next, she thought; after helping the spitfyres, she’d go into every single room in this place, every single room and look for him.

  She crept down the stairs, feeling for the rail in the dark, and on through the draughty, echoing hall. What if the door at the end of the corridor was locked? What if Brittel kept watch at night? She reached out for the door nervously, turned the handle. It moved. It opened.

  Freezing air rushed in at her.

  The wind rustled in the tall trees and made a horrible, sad moaning sound as if the entire courtyard was alive with phantoms and trapped spirits.

  Her candle went out.

  She stood and waited, letting her eyes adjust, trying not to let her fears take over. No lighted windows showed in the tall buildings behind the trees. There was no sign of life anywhere; she felt very alone.

  The four stalls in the stables glowed with a dull, orangey light. The heat from the spitfyres had melted the ice on the roof and water dripped from it. She made her way across the cluttered yard towards the animals. In the first stable the grey, dirty spitfyre lay on the floor, weak and still. It hardly moved when she went in.

  ‘Dear spitfyre,’ she whispered, kneeling beside it. ‘I’ve come to save you.’

  The spitfyre opened its eyes and blinked at her blankly. ‘Come on,’ Sparrow said. ‘Come on.’ She undid the rope from around its neck. ‘You’re free. Look, you’re free.’ She pointed to the open door. ‘This is your chance.’

  The spitfyre hauled itself up onto its knees and then slowly stood, panting, its sides heaving with the effort. ‘There, you did it! You did it!’ she said. ‘Well done.’ Next she ripped off the cloth that was wound around its body.
The moment its wings were free, it lifted its head and its ears pricked up and life came flooding back into its eyes as if some internal energy source had been turned on. It shook out its mane and flicked its tail from side to side. Gobs of thick dirt and old paint fell from its coat. ‘Lovely thing!’ she said, patting its neck. ‘You feel better already, don’t you? Go outside, move around and flap those wings about.’

  The spitfyre staggered out into the yard. Its hooves made such a clatter on the stones she was immediately frightened someone might hear. She pulled armfuls of straw from the stable and threw it down, trying to cover as much of the stone as she could.

  Then quickly she went into the other stalls and did the same for the rest of the spitfyres.

  Kopernicus and Seraphina, the circus spitfyres, hadn’t been kept prisoner there for so long and were not so weakened. Their eyes gleamed with unshed, golden tears. They puffed out miniscule sparks and thin smoke rings. Whinnying softly, they walked round and round the yard, stretching their legs and opening and closing their wings. They seemed to glow with an inner light and soon the whole yard was warm and lit by them.

  As the spitfyres beat their leathery wings up and down, the wings plumped up and refilled with blood. They changed colour from paper-white to pink and purple and orange and yellow as the tiny blood vessels filled and nourished them. ‘You are so lovely, so marvellous!’ Sparrow said. ‘How could Miss Minter, or anyone, ever hurt you?’

  Round and round the spitfyres went, jumping carefully over the rubbish, snorting out orange and yellow sparks, stopping now and again to beat their wings, blowing and puffing to each other, tossing their heads, flexing their limbs.

  Suddenly, Seraphina reared up on her back legs with a high-pitched whinny.

  Sparrow quickly backed away as the spitfyre pawed the air and then crashed down with a hollow clatter to the ground, throwing her head from side to side as if she were shaking something off.

  ‘Hush! Oh be quiet!’ Sparrow cried, looking round at the blank windows, dreading a light appearing. ‘Gently, Seraphina, gently!’

  But the spitfyre was unstoppable. She arched her neck and spat and roared like a dragon. Again and again the spitfyre gazed round at the confines of the yard, and then stared up to the night sky.

  Sparrow looked up too, at freedom.

  ‘Go, go if you can!’ she urged the spitfyre. ‘Go.’

  Seraphina tossed her head and whinnied as if to say she would. She spun round on a tight circle, like something clockwork winding itself up, then she suddenly leaped over a heap of barrels, up onto the shed by the stable, up onto the stable roof and up onto the very top of the roof. Her hooves slipped and slates came loose and slithered, crashing to the ground. Right on the top of the pointed roof she somehow balanced, wings held out like a tightrope walker might hold a pole. She looked again into the sky above and began to thrash her wings, preparing to jump. The other spitfyres watched her, pawing the ground expectantly.

  Seraphina tensed, bent her legs as if they were springs, clamped her wings tight to her sides, and jumped. Straight up, she went, like a giant rocket. Skimming the tops of the trees, she unfurled her wings and began flying; up, up into the dark night sky. Orange flames streamed from her mouth; she looked like a shooting star.

  Sparrow clapped her hands. Wonderful! Glorious! Oh what a pity there is no one else to see this, she thought, as Seraphina flew off over the rooftops and disappeared. Well done, Seraphina! Farewell!

  The other spitfyres were electrified; it was as if Seraphina’s escape had empowered them; the yard was hot and sparky and tingling with energy. Kopernicus was up onto the stable roof in two giant strides. She pirouetted, leaped, and then spiralled up into the darkness. Soon he had flown away over the houses and trees. Gone.

  Sparrow ran back to the first spitfyre, who looked dazed and confused still. ‘Come on, come on,’ she urged it, patting its flanks. It was very weak. ‘This is your only chance – come on! You must go! You must!’

  ‘Stop right there!’

  Sparrow spun round.

  Brittel.

  She screamed and ran but he was too quick; in an instant he’d leaped over the clutter and caught her, immediately clamping his hand across her mouth before she could utter another sound. He forced her arm up her back, twisted her about and marched her back towards the house.

  ‘Idiot. Stupid little brat! Fool!’ he spat, close beside her ear.

  Sparrow kicked and struggled. She tried to bite his hand but each time she did he just yanked her arm harder and more painfully. ‘Stop! Keep still!’ he hissed.

  There was a sudden roar, the air swirling and whooshing around them, making Brittel swing round just as the third spitfyre soared into the air.

  It flew up off the stable roof and then suddenly swooped down low, its hooves brushing Brittel’s head. A shower of hot ash sprayed over him. Brittel nearly let her go; he was torn between avoiding the pain, catching the animal and stopping Sparrow. She felt him waver and she almost yanked herself free, but then he had her again, his grip tighter than ever.

  ‘You stupid little fool!’

  He pushed her up to the wall and held her there, her face pressed into the stone while he kicked open a low metal door beside them with a loud clatter.

  Behind them they heard the fourth spitfyre trying to clamber onto the stable roof. Brittel swirled round as tiles clattered to the ground and smashed on the cobbles. The spitfyre wheezed. It was weak. It had no strength. Sparrow urged it on. Go, go, she willed it.

  The spitfyre whinnied, blew out a gust of black smoke and made it onto the roof.

  Go, go!

  Its hooves slipped, its wings thrashed and suddenly, with a startling cry, it soared into the air, throwing out a shower of silvery sparks and clouds of dusty ash.

  Sparrow’s own heart flew up into the stars with it.

  ‘By the dragon, she’ll kill you for this,’ Brittel said, watching the orangey-golden glow fade into the sky, ‘if you don’t rot down there first.’

  He doubled her over and pushed her roughly through the low opening in the wall, and bolted the door behind her.

  39

  Coal Cellar

  Sparrow was falling. Not free falling, but sliding down a steep, metal chute. Instinctively she made herself into a tight ball as she shot down the narrow shaft, bumping and banging against the edges, rolling and sliding faster and faster until she somersaulted onto a pile of coal at the bottom.

  So, she was in the coal cellar.

  She couldn’t see a thing; it was pitch black. Her shoulder hurt. Her left hand stung from where it had scraped against the metal slide. She lay for a few seconds, trying to decide if she was badly hurt or not and listening to the awful sound of her breath – short and hard and rough. It was freezing and damp. The air was thick with the smell of coal dust and something sharp and drainy.

  She began to shiver and sat up and hugged herself.

  The darkness was incredible. Not a chink of light anywhere. Wherever she turned her head it was the same; the same dense, impenetrable blackness.

  She had a sudden vision of the spitfyres launching off the roof, and grinned. At least I did that, she thought. At least I set them free.

  She rolled off the pile of coal cautiously. The lumps rattled around her to the floor. Someone will come and get coal, she thought. We have a coal fire nearly every day … Who goes for the coal? Violet. It was always Violet, her least favourite person. But even Violet wouldn’t leave her here … would she?

  And I’m not scared, she told herself. It’s only blackness and I’m used to that. The coal cellar below the kitchen at the Knip and Pynch Home was the same, and how often had she been left down there? This was home from home. Someone will come. If the spitfyres can escape, so can I. I can and I will.

  She stood up warily and stuck her arms out and waved them around. She couldn’t see them. Nothing. She took a step forward and another and cracked her head on a low archway. Lights danced in front of her eyes
.

  When the pain and lights had subsided she moved forward again, this time ducking down and bending almost double. With one hand above her head, feeling for the low ceiling with her fingertips, she inched forward and, when the ceiling disappeared, she stood up again. Her fingers were covered in crumbly plaster and cobwebs and so was her hair. Not nice, but it could be worse, she told herself. She must have come through a sort of doorway into an adjoining room. There must be a door out into the main house, but where? Perhaps there had been one back in the coal room. Should she go back and work her way around the entire room, searching for it? She stood for a moment, thinking, wondering what to do.

  It was dark and totally silent.

  And then she heard the trickle of rubble, soft and crumbly and very alarming.

  Her heart went bang. She stood stock-still.

  The blackness was deep, totally impossible to see through. She spun round, trying to locate the sound.

  There was something there.

  ‘Hello?’

  She turned in a complete circle, straining her ears. She heard it again. More tiny, shifting sounds, something moving over loose bits and pieces, broken slates or tiles or …

  A cry cut through the air.

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose up and she shivered violently.

  ‘Oh! Oh!’ she cried. ‘Scaramouch! Is it you?’

  ‘Meow! Meow!’

  It was Scaramouch. She would have recognised his call even if a thousand cats had been down in the cellar and all crying at the same time.

  ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’ she cried. ‘Oh Scaramouch, I can’t see, keep calling! Don’t stop!’

  She inched forward, keeping her fingertips in contact with the wall, and crept towards his voice.

  ‘Meow!’

  ‘I know, it’s not nice. Oh dear Scaramouch, where are you? How long have you been here? Are you all right, my dear Scaramouch? I’m coming!’