by Jen Storer
They dumped their bikes and jumped over the retaining wall to the sand below. The smell of fried donuts drifted by on the breeze. Up to the left, on a grassy hill, the Donut Lady poked her head out of her caravan window.
‘Martha, Angus!’ she bellowed. ‘Come. I make extra for you.’
‘Sweet.’ Martha kicked off her sandals and dropped her stripy tote bag. ‘She’s in a good mood. We might get some freebies.’
Angus was busy spreading out his beach towel. Which side should face up? The line-dancing frogs? Or the tap-dancing octopus? He tossed the towel at the retaining wall. Both sides were mortifying.
Martha was already scrambling up the hill to the Caravan of Delight and Angus ran after her. He did not want Martha to ruin their chances of a free treat. The Donut Lady was Russian and she was easily offended — she didn’t always get English sayings. Unfortunately Martha, who was prone to yabbering, offended her a lot.
Angus was hungry. And the smell of hot donuts made it worse. He hurried. But by the time he reached the caravan, the Donut Lady was leaning out of the servery window, plucking at her hairy chin, whispering intently to Martha.
‘Great,’ groaned Angus, ‘they’re bonding.’
He approached with caution.
The Donut Lady and Martha stopped talking and looked up.
‘Morning,’ said Angus. It sounded lame — polite and British, like something his dad would say. Angus felt his face flare.
The Donut Lady clucked her tongue at him as she handed Martha two bags of piping-hot donuts. Angus fumbled in his pockets for some coins.
‘No, no, no.’ The Donut Lady waved her sturdy, sun-damaged hands. ‘Just go,’ she snapped. ‘And remember what I say,’ she added, frowning deeply. ‘Beware!’ In her thick Russian accent it sounded like ‘Bevare!’
CHAPTER FOUR
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Deadlocked
They sat in the shade of the retaining wall, poured themselves some cordial from the water-cooler and tore open the first bag of donuts. They were sweet, crisp and incredibly fluffy inside. So what if her caravan was old and dented and vaguely grubby? The Donut Lady was queen of this beach.
‘Okay, Martha,’ said Angus as he bit into a donut, ‘spill.’
‘You’re not allowed to laugh,’ said Martha, shaking the watercooler. The ice rattled lazily.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re not allowed to laugh and you’re not allowed to bang on about the facts.’
‘Martha,’ said Angus, ‘the ocean is calling. If you don’t tell me what I have to bevare of, I’m outta here.’
‘Fine,’ said Martha.
‘Fine,’ said Angus, licking his fingers — his sister would crack any moment.
‘The Donut Lady got robbed!’ she blurted.
‘Robbed?’ Angus was genuinely shocked. Everyone knew the Donut Lady kept a bunch of Cossack swords in her annexe. It was common knowledge even to newcomers like Angus and Martha. It would take a very brave or very stupid thief to tackle her and those deadly ‘dice and slicers’.
‘When? How? What did they take?’ asked Angus. ‘Money? Jewellery? Her antique video player?’
‘Cinnamon sugar,’ said Martha.
‘I know.’ Angus looked down at his shirt. ‘It’s all over me too.’
‘No,’ said Martha. ‘They broke in last night and stole cinnamon sugar. Ten kilos, plus four litres of donut mixture. The Donut Lady had made it for this morning. She likes to catch the dawn joggers and —’
‘Hold on,’ said Angus. ‘You mean to tell me the thief stole cinnamon sugar and donut batter?’
‘That’s right,’ said Martha.
‘That’s ludicrous.’
‘Her cat’s missing too,’ said Martha. ‘You remember Vladimir? He’s a Russian blue with a torn ear. She said he’d been acting bonkers all day yesterday. Leaping about the annexe, knocking her chessboard flying, sharpening his claws on the walls. Then this morning when she unlocked the annexe he just took off. She hasn’t seen him since.’
The fate of Vladimir didn’t concern Angus. But he was intrigued by the robbery. ‘Where was the Donut Lady when the robbery took place?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Martha, sipping her drink.
‘Pardon?’
‘That’s the whole point. She didn’t go anywhere last night. She was supposed to have a date but it got cancelled. She stayed in all night and watched Bruce Willis videos.’
‘The Donut Lady had a date?’ said Angus incredulously. ‘That’s beside the point,’ cried Martha. ‘The point is she was in the annexe the whole time and she didn’t see a thing. And Angus, the only way into the Caravan of Delight is through the annexe.’
‘The servery window?’
‘Deadlocked.’
‘Then the thief must have crept in while the Donut Lady was asleep,’ said Angus. ‘It’s the only explanation.’
‘The annexe was deadlocked too,’ said Martha, flicking her dark hair out of her eyes. Her fingernails were bitten and ragged. ‘And besides,’ she went on, ‘Vladimir would have gone berserk if someone tried to get in.’
‘Curious.’ Angus sounded like a character in a Sherlock Holmes novel.
‘Angus,’ breathed Martha, as if the entire beach were listening, ‘the Donut Lady is a special kind of person. You must be able to see that.’
‘Totally unique,’ said Angus insincerely.
‘She’s sure this is a sign,’ said Martha. ‘She’s seen this kind of unexplained pheno-me-thingy back in her home country. She said it always comes before some kind of ...’ Martha paused.
‘Some kind of what?’ Angus looked sceptical.
‘Calamity,’ said Martha, wiping her cordial moustache. She was wide-eyed. Even her freckles glowed with excitement.
Angus tried to keep a straight face. He stuffed another donut in his mouth. ‘Come on,’ he said, jumping up. ‘Last one in is a mouldy kipper.’
CHAPTER FIVE
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A sign of madness
How did she manage that?’ said Martha.
It was late afternoon and the kids were sitting on their bikes across the road from number thirteen. The empty water-cooler dangled from Martha’s handlebars. The sun was low. It burned their backs through their damp T-shirts. Melted zinc cream smeared their faces like war paint. They had spent the entire day at the beach.
‘She couldn’t have painted that herself,’ said Martha, examining the lettering. ‘She was painting like a two-year-old when we left this morning.’
‘Dribbling on the glass,’ said Angus.
The letters shimmered. They almost looked three-dimensional.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ said Angus, ‘she doesn’t have her metaphors right.’
‘Huh?’
‘The globe has only four corners,’ said Angus, pushing off. ‘Metaphorically speaking.’
Martha shrugged and pushed off after her brother, grunting with the effort. ‘I can’t wait for it to open,’ she said as her bike wobbled up the steep footpath. ‘I bet it’s full of treasures.’
Angus didn’t bother answering. Full of treasures, was it? Full of old rubbish more like it. A globe with five corners. Dodgy opening hours. Curious Curiosities. More like Worthless Junk.
Wasn’t it obvious? The new neighbour was batty. As mad as a March hare. And that was no metaphor.
CHAPTER SIX
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The boat
That night, both kids were restless. Angus tossed and turned and woke repeatedly. He could smell the sea again. Not the crisp, playful waters of the local beach but a wild, salty sea he had never seen before, never visited in his life, yet somehow yearned for. He hated waking up with this feeling. He sat up in bed and grabbed his sketchpad to distract himself. Normally he only ever drew architecture: buildings, bridges, even pyramids. Definitely nothing frivolous or fantastical. But tonigh
t he drew sea eagles. He’d been dreaming of sea eagles for days. As usual he had checked the facts, done his research. To his immense relief, he hadn’t made them up or imagined them. Sea eagles — big, beautiful and many breeds extinct. Some of those birds had a wingspan of more than two metres. It was a fact that impressed Angus no end ... He drew by candlelight — mostly because it would tick off his father if he knew. Their father was paranoid about safety. Which was ironic, considering how much he neglected them.
In her own bedroom, Martha lay between the ‘poppy blossom’ sheets that had once belonged to her mother, and tossed and turned. She could not get the shop Frozen in Time out of her mind. She pictured herself in there on her first visit, sifting through the junk, uncovering breathtaking treasures. If only she had a friend to share the adventure with. She had longed for a friend — a true friend, someone who really cared, who shared her own phantasmagorical imagination — for months. But at the new school she was just the weird new kid and now it was over for the summer. As for this new neighbourhood, the only thing it had going for it was the beach. Maxwell! Their father only ever thought about himself. He’d made yet another brainless choice by dragging them here. She hadn’t met one single kid her age, girl or boy. The suburb was full of cosy couples with designer babies and designer dogs, or daft weirdos like her father and that woman next door. As for her old school friends, they all lived on the other side of the city, so what was the good of that? They went away for the holidays too, camping and boating and tripping around to places like Fiji and Bali. They went on family holidays — whatever they were. Martha punched her pillow. There was no way she was going to cry. No way in the wide, wide world. Martha Jack never cried. She prided herself on it.
In his study Maxwell Jack sat at his desk with his work scattered before him. He looked at the mess around the room. Boxes and cartons of research papers, textbooks, stationery. His career as a history professor was intense and it always kept him busy. But he’d have to unpack soon, even if he had to take a day off to do it. He’d come this far, he couldn’t give in to the numbness that was already seeping back into his bones. This move, this was the one that would do the trick. This move would change everything, it was exactly what they needed, he was certain of it ... And yet the familiar temptation to shut down, turn off, lose himself in work and other distractions was hard to resist. Other distractions. He cringed at the thought. His work colleagues had insisted he start dating. Even his secretary, dear old frumpy Gerda, had sent him on a blind date! They all insisted he ‘get out there’, that he had to start to live again. In a way he supposed they were right. He had to try, or at least pretend to be ‘normal’. Even if it was just for the sake of his kids. Four years was a long time. A long time to grieve. He was a handsome man, everyone said it. Women were drawn to his dishevelled looks and remote manner. But so what? No-one would ever replace Helen.
He rested his elbows on the desk and covered his face with his hands — it was a sad irony that Maxwell Jack’s grief gave him an irresistible air of mystery.
Once again his thoughts turned to the UK. He still daydreamed about throwing in this ‘lifestyle change’ and moving back. But Helen had died in England’s bone-cold North Sea and he wanted to be as far away from there as possible. Besides, he assumed the Australian sunshine was good for kids. Especially sad kids. And Helen had loved it here when they’d come for a holiday: the beaches, the sunshine, the friendly people. Since taking the gamble and coming to this country, this city, he’d moved his little family seven times. He tried to reason it out. It was a settling-in period, surely? Searching for the perfect place was worth the effort. They couldn’t go running back to ol’ Blighty just because they felt a bit ... displaced. They were building a future, not living in the past. They had to stick this out, ‘make a go of it’ as the Aussies would say.
The Prof rubbed his brow as if to clear his thoughts, and turned back to what he was doing. He should have been editing a research paper. But instead he was sketching a large snow dome he’d spotted in the junk shop next door. The snow dome was unique, an astonishing relic. His interest in archaeology had always been little more than a hobby. But since his wife’s death it had become his passion; the one driving force that got him out of bed in the morning — somehow it made him feel closer to her.
The Prof had looked at the snow dome several times already. Unbeknown to his children, he had persuaded the old woman into letting him look around the shop before it was officially open. Actually, she hadn’t needed much persuading at all. In fact, she seemed almost eager to have him visit, proud to show him her ‘elaborates’. As for the snow dome, what was its true purpose? Where had it come from? The crone was happy for him to look at it but she wouldn’t let him hold it. She was obviously dotty and acted vague and airy when he tried to question her closely. He suspected she knew way more than she was letting on and that made him even more curious. Cunning old fox. As for his own research, so far he had drawn a blank. He had never seen anything like it ... Never. Its very existence plagued his imagination.
He thought about the old woman, the ‘proud proprietor’ as she had introduced herself. He’d never seen anyone like her either. At least, not outside the walls of amateur theatre halls. She was an oddball, that was for sure — and she seemed to have some kind of sugar addiction. He’d seen her several times furtively stuffing her face with fairy floss when she thought no-one was looking. Australians, hey, who would have thought? Behind him, the tall cheval mirror suddenly swung to and fro, as if pushed by an invisible hand. The professor’s head shot up — and the mirror fell still.
Meanwhile, as the Jack family struggled to settle on that clammy night, another drama was unfolding in a secluded cave, beyond the rock pools and safe swimming divisions of the beach.
‘I can’t see a thing,’ said Barney, scratching his head. ‘Just a clapped-out old skiff.’
‘Look harder,’ urged the Donut Lady. ‘Squint your eyes, Barney. See what is really before you.’
Barney screwed up his nose and squinted. He focused on the skiff and allowed his eyes to blur. He concentrated.
He let out a whistle. ‘Lord love a duck.’ Barney wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘I mean to say, blimey! I’ve never seen nothin’ like it. Never!’
‘Ah, Barney,’ the Donut Lady hitched up her hippy pants, ‘you must have seen such things as this. I see your tattoos. These anchors on your arms. These bluebirds at your neck. You have travelled many nautical miles, for sure. And believe me, I have watched your little puppet show. I know where you get these ideas.’
The Donut Lady tapped the side of her nose and Barney flashed a cunning smile. His front teeth were missing.
‘You don’t let me get away with much, do you?’ he said, sliding his arm around the Donut Lady’s waist.
She pushed him away. ‘The old ones like you and me, we have been around.’ She shrugged. ‘We see things. We know things. This is how it is.’
Maybe she should not have brought Barney here. She could already see the greed twinkling in his eyes. But she had to share this with someone and so she’d taken a chance. She only hoped Barney would not betray her. But just in case, she would keep an eye on him for the next few days.
She twisted her long grey hair into a topknot and stabbed a hairpin through it. She needed to think.
The night was growing dark under a moon shrouded in clouds. The incoming tide lapped at their ankles. Soon the cave would not be safe. They would have to hurry.
The Donut Lady held her torch high and sloshed around the boat. She stroked the tall serpent figurehead at the prow. It had intelligent almond-shaped eyes and flared nostrils, sooty and scorched as if from breathing real fire. The boat’s timber was aged and smooth and icy to touch. Yet it was rich and dark too, not in the slightest bit weathered as one might expect.
‘Serpents of the Sea,’ said Barney.
‘Yes,’ said the Donut Lady. ‘This is what they called the Viking vessels.’
‘
But this ain’t a Viking vessel,’ said Barney. ‘I mean to say, it’s clinker built just like the Viking style. But that cabin’s too fancy. And the whole caboodle’s too small. Too small by miles.’
Barney ran his hand over the boat’s carvings and a shiver ran up his spine. He could sell this, oh yeah, he could sell this quick as lightning on the black market. He could even bust it up and sell it in bits; label them as ‘Pirate Relics’, ‘Shipwreck Mementoes’. Or what about ‘Splinters from the Ark’? He could see it now. He’d clean up!
He wanted to slap himself. The old girl had trusted him and now here he was planning to pull a swifty. How could he? How could he be such a bounder? Guilt made him squirm. And this boat made him sweat.
The Donut Lady shone her torch on the stern. It too had elaborate carvings.
‘What is it?’ The Donut Lady sighed as she trailed her hand along the side of the boat.
‘Probably some rich arty-farty built it for his kids,’ said Barney casually.
‘And put a spell on it?’ said the Donut Lady. ‘An ancient concealment spell?’
Barney shrugged.
‘No,’ said the Donut Lady, ‘there is no arty-farty here, Barney. This vessel, she is not from around here. Not ever. Her timber ... Her wood ...’ The Donut Lady laid her hands on the smooth hull. ‘It speaks to me, Barney. It speaks to me of ice and creeping fog. Of grief and terror and ... lost memories.’ She drew back her hands quickly. ‘It speaks to me of ancient magick!’
By now the water was up to their knees. The Donut Lady’s hippy pants were soaked and clung to her fleshy legs. Barney tried not to notice.
He ran his fingers along the rope that secured the boat to an iron ring further up the cave wall. He clambered up the rocks for a closer look.