Brightling

by Rebecca Lisle

  ‘Spitfyres have gone!’ Tapper snarled at her. ‘Anything to do with you?’

  ‘Gone? No. I’ve never … Tapper, I’ve never been near them. I haven’t!’ She almost felt relief. She wasn’t guilty of this. She breathed more easily. ‘I don’t know anything about the spitfyres,’ she said. ‘Promise.’

  ‘Sparrow did it.’

  ‘She freed the spitfyres? How? Is she all right?’

  ‘What’s it to you? Why’d you care about another blooming orphan?’ he snapped at her, pushing her across the muddy lawns towards the brown river.

  ‘I like her. She’s a real friend. Not like … ’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say Miss Minter, but she couldn’t. ‘She’s never let me down.’

  ‘And I s’ppose I have?’ he said bitterly.

  ‘No, you haven’t. You never! Oh Tapper, where are we going? Let’s go back. I’m really cold. I promised Miss Minter I’d be back straight away. I went to the doctor and –’

  ‘Doctor’s called Butterworth is he?’

  Glori felt her strength drain away; her knees went weak. He knew. He knew! Of course he knew. ‘I didn’t tell them anything, not really, I promise,’ she said. ‘Just that Sparrow was safe, so they wouldn’t worry. I knew they were worrying, Tapper! Ow!’ she cried as he yanked her arm. ‘I never told about you.’

  They were on the wooden jetty now. Far away down the river, a small fishing barge was chugging softly towards them. The water lapped against the posts and knocked the cluster of rowing boats so they clunked dully against each other. The air was very cold.

  ‘What are you doing? Where’re we going?’ she asked. But she thought she knew: he meant to throw her in. He was going to kill her.

  Tapper ignored her. He pushed her into one of the small boats and got in beside her so roughly that it rocked and the cold water splashed her.

  ‘Tapper!’ she cried. She hardly dared look at him; his face was immobile and white. His hair hung lankly over his eyes, eyes that were horribly glassy and empty.

  ‘Thought we was friends, Glori. Thought you and I was going to be happy together, and now what am I to think?’ he said, untying the boat and pushing off from the jetty into the swirling water. ‘You run off telling stories about me. You betray me. Me, your man!’

  ‘I swear I didn’t. I only told them about de Whitt – not about you. Believe me, I swear I didn’t say a word about you. Not a word.’ She clung to the sides of the little boat. Her fingers were quite blue with cold. Tapper was always menacing but now, now he was really terrifying. Oh how could she save herself?

  He grabbed the oars and set out, rowing past an island of scrub in the middle of the river, away from everything. Some ducks quacked a warning at them.

  Glori crouched as far from him as she could at the other end of the boat.

  ‘What are you going to do to me?’ she cried, staring out at the surging, dirty water. ‘You wouldn’t hurt me, would you? Would you?’ She paused as the boat cut on through the water, further and further from safety. ‘Ah, it don’t matter anyway, Tapper, I’m doomed. Don’t you know I’m doomed?’ Glori laughed suddenly. ‘Never seen how I glow at night, Tapper?’ she asked. ‘That’s the phosphorus, that’s what does it. Poison in my blood. Never wondered about my jaw and my bad teeth and the pain in my joints? Phosphorus. I’m full of it. I’m exploding with it, I’m … ’ She stood up. ‘See, I’m a gonner, Tapper, I’m done!’

  ‘Shut up!’

  In the distance the fishing barge hooted softly and suddenly.

  Glori lost her balance, her foot slipped and, before she could right herself, she’d toppled out of the boat and into the freezing water.

  ‘Tapper! Help!’

  The brown water surged over her head so, for a second, she was under. She held her breath and forced herself back up again, bobbing to the surface, sucking in air. She couldn’t see; her hair was in her eyes. She groped blindly for the boat.

  Oh the water was ice cold, so cold that her legs and arms went numb instantly. Her wet, heavy clothes were dragging her down; she could feel them pulling on her shoulders and hips as if strong hands were tugging her down to the riverbed. She went under again. Rising up the second time was harder; she was like a lead weight now. She pushed herself round in a circle, half-blind, searching for the boat. There it was; one wooden oar so close …

  ‘Help me, Tapper. Help me!’ she gasped, reaching for the oar. The oar seemed to retreat from her fingers … She groped for it again, staring up at Tapper.

  ‘Please, Tapper, please!’

  Tapper stared at her. Her beautiful hair, that he’d so admired, was wet and dark, ugly as slimy seaweed. He watched her fingers clutching at the end of the oar, watched them slip off, reach, slip off, and try again. She was getting weaker. The next time she reached for it, he snatched the oar from her so that it wasn’t there. She looked up at him, grasped at thin air, her fingers grabbed at nothing and with a sigh the water closed over her head.

  Tapper leaned over the side of the boat. Her face was hanging there, white and blue and ghastly. Her open eyes were staring and accusing. Her mouth was open; she was still saying his name. He could hear it, he could hear her calling him from far, far away.

  ‘Tapper … ’

  The fishing barge was nearer; he heard its chugging motor and it hooted twice. They mustn’t see him.

  He turned away quickly. Dragon’s teeth! Why had he looked into her eyes just now?

  He rowed to the bank as quickly as his shaky arms could do it.

  ‘Tapper, Tapper, Tapper, help me!’

  He hit himself on the side of his head with the flat of his hand, trying to stop the voice. But it followed behind him all the way to the road and beyond. Tapper. Tapper. Tapper.

  Ditching the boat, he set off back to the nest. Halfway there, he turned off and headed for the Old Blue Bear Tavern. The place was almost deserted. ‘Bark-beer,’ he told the barman. ‘Make it a big one.’ He took his drink to the darkest corner and sat down, expecting the bearded old man there to move.

  The man didn’t.

  The brown terrier who’d been dozing on the floor woke with a start, sniffed the air and whimpered. His white-haired owner shoved him with his foot. ‘Quiet!’ he snapped.

  Tapper was shivering uncontrollably. He stared at his trembling fingers and wrapped them around the glass to still them, but the beer jumped and jittered as if it wanted to escape his hands. He peered into the bark-beer and there was Glori’s face, bobbing beneath the foam. He slammed the glass on the table and turned his back on it.

  The man with the white beard and rheumy, red-rimmed eyes still hadn’t got up from his place. ‘Morning, mister,’ he said, grinning a toothless grin at Tapper. ‘Cold in’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean by sitting by me?’ Tapper said. ‘Don’t you see? No one sits by me! No one!’

  The old man laughed and rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. ‘I sit where I will.’

  ‘Why are you staring at me?’ Tapper demanded.

  ‘I’m looking at the fire.’

  ‘You’re staring at me!’

  The old man chuckled. ‘Why would I do that?’

  Tapper stared at him. ‘What can you see? What can you see?’ He got up and kicked the table so his glass fell with a crash to the floor. ‘There! There!’ he shouted. ‘She’s gone!’

  He raced out into the street again.

  What to do? Where to go? He began walking blindly but soon heard someone creeping along behind him. Someone was following him. He glanced over his shoulder but the road was empty. He walked on, only to stop again minutes later as the footsteps pattered along behind him. Glori’s footsteps, he recognised them.

  He spun round – no one.

  Tapper.

  Now a dense fog was gathering and the road was misty and sinister. He turned round and headed back the way he’d come but now and again something loomed up unexpectedly at him out of the fog and gave him a fright: a man with a black beard, a tree shaped l
ike a skull, a cart rumbling along almost silently. And still she was behind him; whichever way he went, Glori was there, trailing him, following behind him, watching his every move and sporadically calling out his name … Tapper!

  Tapper burst into the attic and flung himself down at the table.

  ‘Well?’ Miss Minter said. ‘Did you follow Gloriana?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. We’re lost!’ Tapper cried.

  Miss Minter grabbed his arm and pulled him closer. ‘What? What do you mean? What happened? Where is she? She wasn’t going to the doctor’s, was she?’ she cried. ‘She lied. Tell me everything.’

  The match-girls, normally so anxious to leave the room when Tapper was in it, now gathered around, perching quietly on the furniture like a flock of starlings, their heads on one side, listening.

  ‘She went … ’ Tapper began. He glanced over at Glori’s empty bed nervously, knowing she’d never sleep there again. He dragged his eyes back. ‘I followed her, she went to the Butt—’

  ‘Butterworths!’

  ‘She must’ve told them everything!’ he said with a groan. He looked again at her bed; just for a second he’d seen a movement there, a small rearranging of the sheets …

  ‘Why? Why did she do that?’ Agnes interrupted.

  ‘Be quiet!’ Miss Minter snapped. ‘Gloriana betrayed ME!’ Her face was pale and her hand shook.

  ‘What about Sparrow?’ Hettie’s little voice piped up. ‘Where’s she gone?’

  Miss Minter became very calm and cold. She sat up taller and clasped her hands together. ‘Sparrow has betrayed us all,’ she said. ‘She has released the spitfyres … ’

  ‘What?’ Connie cried.

  ‘How?’ Beattie asked.

  Miss Minter shushed them. ‘It doesn’t matter. It does. No. It’s done and the wicked girl has been dealt with.’

  ‘I don’t know how, but Glori knew about de Whitt,’ Tapper said, turning his back to the row of beds. ‘She told the Butterworths everything.’ He didn’t care now whether Glori had or hadn’t. He didn’t care that she’d sworn she’d not given up his name – she’d gone against him, sneaked behind his back. He couldn’t allow that.

  ‘How?’ Miss Minter said. ‘How could she know about de Whitt?’ She paused and peered intently at Tapper. ‘Where is Gloriana now?’

  Tapper stared into space and shook his head.

  Miss Minter didn’t ask more. She looked round at the frightened faces of the match-girls. ‘Right, girls,’ she said. ‘This is it. We’ve discussed it before, and you knew it might happen. Time to go. Pack a bag quickly. Our dear friend, our trusted Gloriana, has betrayed us. There may be guards knocking on the door any second now.’

  The girls let out a collective moan.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ Connie wailed.

  ‘Anywhere.’ Miss Minter said calmly. ‘Just get out. All of you! Get out and don’t come back for a long time.’

  ‘But we can come back?’ Agnes asked her, already stuffing clothes into her knapsack. ‘Later? Can’t we?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Miss Minter said. ‘This will all blow over, I’m sure. It must. When it has, I will leave a mark, a cross on the door. Orange. No, yellow. My favourite colour. It will be safe again. Meanwhile, GO!’

  ‘Can’t I stay, Miss Minter?’ Violet whispered. ‘I don’t want to be on my own again.’

  ‘No one can stay. I can’t look out for any of you now.’

  The match-girls had been hurriedly gathering their things and now they made a dash for the door, stumbling, shouting and dropping shoes and clothes behind them as they fled.

  Only Hettie remained. The nest was her home and the only place that she knew, the only place her sister might come and look for her, so she had to stay. She slipped into a corner behind the old leather trunk at the window and crouched there, unseen.

  The room was suddenly quiet and bare and desolate.

  Tapper seemed to breathe more easily without the girls there. ‘Sparrow safe?’ he asked.

  Miss Minter nodded. ‘Yes. Brittel caught her in the yard last night and locked her in the coal cellar. He was glad to pay her back.’

  ‘What’d she ever done to him?’

  Miss Minter laughed. ‘Long ago, Otto threw him out of the Academy. Otto is her uncle. What a laugh, eh? They’re even now, he says.’ She laughed, then the laugh died as she remembered. ‘We do not have any spitfyres. She let them go. Little idiot. But we do have her.’ She glanced at the window. ‘Look at the lovely thick fog! What could be better? I can’t think of a more perfect time to take her to de Whitt!’

  42

  Escape

  Sparrow was woken the next morning by Scaramouch’s sandpaper tongue, rasping her cheek. But was it morning? She didn’t know; everything was still black as ink around her.

  ‘What? What is it?’ she muttered, yawning. She rubbed and rubbed her eyes but still couldn’t see a thing. Then she remembered: she was in the cellar.

  She stretched her aching legs and arms. She was cold and hungry.

  ‘Meow!’ Scaramouch moved away, leaving her chilled.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she cried. ‘Not too fast!’ She got up slowly, shivering. ‘Ow! Scaramouch, hold on! I’m stiff and cold.’

  She found and took hold of the tip of his tail again and let him lead her through the horrible darkness. At last, tripping, stumbling, they came to an opening in the wall. Scaramouch stopped. Sparrow could smell fresh air and sensed an open space in front of her. Her spirits lifted. Feeling around quickly, she discovered a hearth and an iron grate – a fireplace.

  ‘Now what?’ she asked the blackness.

  She felt Scaramouch leap up past her, onto the grate. Even as her fingers touched him, she felt his fur slip away from her and he was gone.

  ‘Meow!’ His cry sounded hollow, softened by the thick wall between them. He’d gone up the chimney.

  ‘Oh no, Scaramouch. You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Meow.’

  He was.

  So she would have to do it.

  She reached for the grate and sat on it with her head inside the chimney. Sitting like that was not nice. The soot made her choke and cough and if it hadn’t been for the fresh air swooping down coldly from high above, she couldn’t have done it. She looked up – nothing. Not even a dot of light at the top.

  ‘It’s going to be a long climb, she said.

  ‘Meow!’ He was already further away, she could tell, and moving off. A shower of dust and soot and twigs fell on her.

  ‘Hang on, I’m coming!’

  She stood up very slowly. If only she could see, she thought. She was scared of smashing her head against something, frightened of touching something unpleasant like a dead bird or … Oh stop being such a sissy, she told herself. Get on with it.

  The inside of the chimney was rough and uneven, lined with bricks that had been laid so that they were not flush with each other but jutted out and formed make-shift footholds. I suppose we’re not the first, she thought, imagining the poor little chimney sweeps who once, long ago, had cleaned these chimneys.

  Scaramouch called for her to hurry. ‘Meow!’

  ‘Coming!’

  Her toes sought out the tiny ledges, she braced her back against the wall, her fingers gripped the protruding bricks and she began to shuffle and drag herself up the chimney. It was hard, especially doing it blind. Her legs were soon tired and aching and her hands were sore and scratched.

  ‘Wait – wait, Scaramouch,’ she called. ‘I can’t keep up. I need a rest.’

  She stopped and wedged herself with her knees bent and her back jammed against the bricks.

  She couldn’t see up or down. ‘My legs are burning!’ she told Scaramouch. ‘My head hurts. I’m thirsty. I can’t see.’

  He only answered with a soft, trilling ‘Meeee-ow.’

  ‘Yeah, I see. Encouraging up to a point!’ she said with a smile.

  She stayed put, getting her breath back. She couldn’t go back down now,
but how much further was there to go up? ‘I’ve heard about people finding the skeletons of chimney sweeps in their chimneys,’ she told the invisible Scaramouch. ‘They’ll know it’s me by my lovely red coat. Ruined,’ she went on, wiping her dirty, sweating hands down it. ‘Hilda will be so disappointed. And my boots will be scuffed! Heaven knows what my hair looks like.’

  ‘Meow.’

  ‘Yes, well it’s all right for you, you’ve only got fur and whiskers.’

  She gathered her strength and even though her thighs felt as if they were on fire and her fingers throbbed and every single nail was broken and torn, she went on and on and on.

  ‘Meow! Meow!’ Scaramouch’s cry was suddenly quite different. Not an alarm, more a call to say, ‘Look!’

  So Sparrow looked up and, for the first time, she saw light. It was still far away, but there it was, a small patch of sky.

  ‘There’s light at the end of the tunnel!’ she yelled, and her shout brought soot and dust toppling over her face, making her splutter and cough and laugh. ‘We’ll do it, Scaramouch, we will!’ Looking up she could even see Scaramouch now; he was on a wide ledge with his front paws resting on the stone above and his tail only inches from her face.

  Sparrow felt lighter. Her legs had some spring in them again. Out, she was going to get out! Every few feet that she climbed now, she stopped and glanced quickly up to the square of daylight, thrilled to see that it was growing bigger. And every time she looked up, there was Scaramouch, looking down at her with his lovely yellow eyes, urging her on. The air grew colder and clearer, as if it were coming down to meet her, and she breathed it in greedily. As she got nearer and nearer the top, desperation took hold of her, desperation to get out of the chimney and into the open. It overwhelmed her so that even when Scaramouch was standing on the very rim of the chimney, she forged ahead.

  She nudged Scaramouch out of the way. As he jumped over the side, Sparrow hooked her elbows over the edge of the chimney and hoisted herself up into the cold air.

  ‘We’re free!’ she cried.