Granny Bike cocked her head at me, as if to say, Go on.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I just want to put things right now. Can you help me?’
Granny Bike nodded. She offered a wrinkly, papery hand, and pulled me up so I was facing her. I put the wishing book down on the floor of white nothing and gave her a hug.
She patted me on the back and took the pencil out of my hand. Then, creaking low on her ancient knees, she picked up the book, turned to the last blank page and began to draw.
‘Granny Bike,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’
And she started to draw, faster and faster, scribbling and shading in, till it seemed that sparks were flying off the page.
I began to feel a funny, tingling feeling in my feet. I looked down and they were beginning to disappear, vanishing into thin air.
‘Granny Bike!’ I screamed. ‘No! That’s not fair!’
I lunged, trying to grab the pencil out of her hands, but I couldn’t, because my arms had disappeared.
The last I saw of her was her pen scribbling and scribbling away, until she dwindled to a circle of a grinning, cackling mouth and then—
I was inside the wishing book.
I felt flatter and squashed, at first, but then I shook my hands and feet around a bit and the blood began to return. Gasping for air, I looked around and was surprised to find that the pages weren’t white-and-black, as I had imagined.
They were full of colour and life. The trees of the park across the street from us were there, still laden down with their winter snow. A snowman with a shiny top hat and a carrot for a nose. Tower blocks twinkling with light in the distance, clouds of smoke puffing into the sky from a factory chimney – a helicopter buzzing in between them.
A bell made me swerve sharply, as a cyclist sped past.
Then I felt a pair of hands on my shoulders, and I twisted around. ‘Where did you get to?’ said Dad. His face was flushed and he was out of breath. Then I looked down, and saw the snowball rolled up in his gloved palm. ‘You don’t think Christine’s going to let you get away with it that easily, do you?’
Christine? I thought. That doesn’t make any sense. Christine would never—
Then a snowball caught me square in the back, and I whipped round, to see Christine doubled up with laughter. She was in a fur coat – which meant it was definitely my stepmum and not an impostor – but she was covered in snow and leaves and having a laugh. As was the older woman next to her, bright red in the face, as she tried to roll the biggest snowball I’d ever seen . . .
‘Frightfully common!’ said Granny Car. ‘And frightfully funny! Come on, Ethel, chase me!’
And she tried to waddle off through the drifts.
It was like the world I knew, only changed a bit to the left. Only better.
There was just one thing. ‘Dad?’ I said, tugging at his sleeve, before he ran off to pull his mother-in-law out of the hedge she had fallen into. ‘Is Granny Bike here?’
He looked at me weirdly for a moment, then mussed my hair, and gave me the biggest Dad-hug I’d ever had from him. ‘Oh, love, I wish she was, I really do. But I know what you mean. And I like to think she still is, somehow, looking down on us all.’
Dad turned his head up to the night sky and I followed his gaze up above the snowy trees, over the tops of the tower blocks, through the cloud of factory smoke, and far, far away into the endless starry sky.
There, hanging in the middle of space, like a porthole shining down from another world, was a huge moon. And do you know the strangest thing? If you angled your head and looked at the moon in a certain way, it looked exactly like the white face of a crooked old lady, with her bent nose and warty chin.
With just perhaps the trace of a smile.
So, go on, then. Tell me if I’m lying or not.
Abi Elphinstone
There was nothing unusual or especially exciting about Whistlethrop. It was an ordinary English town. A string of shops and restaurants lined the High Street and behind them back roads filtered out into rows of red-brick houses, semi-detached gardens and a park with swings and a slide. The town had a church, too, with a steeple that towered above the slated roofs and a graveyard ringed with yew trees. And to most people who lived there, this was all that Whistlethrop was.
But to Phoebe, who peered at things more closely, the town was a very different place. She knew that there was a badger sett in the woods beyond the park; she knew that when almost everyone was asleep and the street lamps glowed bright, an old lady hobbled out of her house and then sat on a bench in her garden to watch the moon; she knew that if you listened hard enough you could hear the weathervane creaking on top of the church spire. She also knew, though she wished she didn’t, that the vicar practised yoga without his robes (or indeed his trousers, shirt, socks or pants) in his bathroom on Wednesday nights. And Phoebe knew all of this because she watched, every evening, from the skylight window of an attic in Griselda Bone’s Home for Strays.
She leaned forward onto the balls of her feet, and the tower of books below her wobbled. Then she clung tighter to the skylight and nudged it open, because she knew that although it was dangerous to stand on top of forty-three encyclopedias, it was also extremely important. She pushed her elbows through the gap in the window, rested her chin on her hands and let her blue eyes grow large and round.
It was Christmas Eve, and from her perch on the outskirts of town, Phoebe could see that Whistlethrop was covered in a thick layer of snow. It was the first snow of the winter and it had come silently in the night – the way magic often does – but unlike the shadows and the moonbeams and the stars, this magic had stayed until morning. It had covered her ordinary world and transformed it into a glittering white kingdom, and as Phoebe looked upon it, her body tingled. The snow felt like a promise somehow, a pledge that today might be different from all the other days and that possibly, just possibly, there might be even more magic waiting for her.
She ran her eyes along the rooftops. They were coated white and pricked here and there by the feet of tiny birds – the redwings, jays and fieldfares Phoebe often left titbits of food for. Pavements glistened in the early morning sun, unspoiled by trampling feet, and the countryside beyond the town – fields, hedgerows and copses of woodland – spread out like ripples of milk beneath the clear blue sky.
A holly wreath had been fixed to the door of the church across the street and just as Phoebe was craning her neck to look at the tinsel strewn along the windowsills of the house beside it, two boys clutching sledges hurtled out of the front door in hats and scarves. Phoebe watched as they scooped up handfuls of snow and flung them at each other, then she sighed.
She wanted to rush out and join them, but Griselda Bone’s Home for Strays wasn’t the kind of place you could easily leave. A high stone wall encircled the grounds, locking in the patch of gravel in front of the house, the kennels to the sides and the neglected garden at the back, and tall iron gates barred the way in and out. Once you were in, you were very firmly in. Until Miracle Day, that was . . . Because at Griselda Bone’s Home for Strays the strays weren’t actually dogs – they were children – and the home was, in fact, an orphanage.
Once a month, Griselda opened the gates of the orphanage to parents hoping to adopt a child and they spent the day helping the orphans in lessons and talking to them over meals. For some reason Griselda dished out muffins instead of punishments on those days, and she even remembered to turn on the central heating so that Phoebe didn’t have to wear three vests under her shirt. And at the end of the day, after the parents had left and Griselda had turned the central heating off, the orphans were summoned to the hall and told whether a family wanted to adopt them. A few weeks later, once the paperwork was complete, the child could leave the orphanage with their new family and that day – that marvellous day filled with longing – was Miracle Day. Only it never seemed to happen to Phoebe.
Griselda had a habit of forgetting to introduce
her to the visiting parents and the only times she really seemed to acknowledge Phoebe was when she tripped over her in the corridor – and even then she seemed confused as to who on earth Phoebe was. And it was events like these that made Phoebe wonder whether she might in fact be invisible to Griselda, a thought that was both tremendously exciting and deeply troubling. But after thinking long and hard about the situation, Phoebe had come to the lamentable conclusion that she was not invisible. She was merely forgettable. Like an umbrella on a bus, or house keys when you’re in a rush. And while many of Phoebe’s friends had been adopted, Phoebe herself had almost given up hope of her Miracle Day ever arriving. After all, what would be the point of adopting someone you were likely to forget about before breakfast?
The pile of books beneath Phoebe swayed suddenly and she clung to the roof. Then there was a scratching sound followed by a yap.
‘Stop distracting me, Herbert,’ Phoebe hissed.
There was another yap and the encyclopedias swerved to the left. Phoebe peered down into the cramped attic. Objects had been piled up against the sloping eaves and dusty walls: boxes containing hand-drawn maps, trunks full of fir cones, feathers and owl pellets, and glass bottles stuffed with marbles and ancient coins that Phoebe had dug up in the garden. But a space had been made in the middle of the clutter for a wicker basket plumped with cushions. And inside that was a chestnut sausage dog wagging its tail.
Phoebe rolled her eyes. ‘Up you come, then. It’s a good morning for looking.’
The sausage dog clambered up the tower of encyclopedias – one paw on Einstein’s ear, another smack in the middle of Alaska – until he reached the top and nuzzled against Phoebe’s jeans. She lifted Herbert up, squeezed him through the skylight and set him between her arms.
‘Snow, Herb. Isn’t it brilliant?’
Herbert eyed the slanting roof then shivered. He was only really interested in two things: cuddles from Phoebe and, despite his little legs, dancing.
‘Jack’s Miracle Day today,’ Phoebe said, trying her best to smile.
She thought back to the beginning of the month, when Griselda had told Jack somebody wanted to take him home. Phoebe remembered how happy she had been for him, how she had hugged him even though there was a strange little lump in her throat. And then later that same evening, when she was alone in her cold, empty dormitory, the lump had grown bigger and she had burrowed beneath her sheets and cried. Because with Jack gone, she knew that she would be the only child left in the orphanage.
Phoebe looked at the orphanage gates wistfully. ‘In a few hours, Jack’ll be part of a real family, Herb – with a mum and a dad and maybe brothers and sisters, too.’
Herbert snuggled into Phoebe’s hair, which was long and blonde and a mixture of very big curls and even bigger knots, but Phoebe liked it that way because she could store small, useful objects inside the tangles. Today, there was a paperclip, a pencil, a reel of thread and four cranberries she’d pinched from the kitchen.
Phoebe stroked Herbert’s velvet ears. ‘It’s just you and me now.’
There was a crash from somewhere further down the orphanage, then a woman’s voice, low and gravelly, shouting something fierce.
‘And them,’ Phoebe muttered.
She twisted her head round to the gates in front of the house to see a car had pulled up on the road outside. A man and a woman were talking and laughing on the pavement with a young boy and though Phoebe smiled, she couldn’t help wishing that Miracle Days might start happening to her rather than around her.
‘I know it’s against the rules,’ Phoebe whispered after a while, ‘and I know we’re planning on staying out of Griselda’s way so that we can spend the day together tomorrow and not get dragged into the Christmas Hunt . . .’
Herbert shuddered at the mention of the Christmas Hunt, an annual event that saw Griselda and her pit bull terrier, Slobber, chasing the children through the orphanage until Slobber found the juicy bones they were forced to clutch.
‘. . . but if we’re quick, we’ll have time to wave Jack off and hurry back up here before Griselda finds us.’
Herbert gazed down into the attic until his eyes rested on the branch he and Phoebe had dragged up from the garden and decorated with tinfoil stars. It wasn’t much of a Christmas tree, both of them knew that, but it was a start. And it was their secret. Phoebe scrambled out onto the slated roof with Herbert in her arms and the sausage dog let out a feeble little moan.
Whistlethrop was awake now: a man was shuffling along the pavement towards the newsagent’s, a woman was hanging a string of fairy lights above her door and a whole family were making snow angels in their garden. Crouched low to the slates, Phoebe set Herbert down, slipped a hand into her hair and pulled out the cranberries she’d smuggled from the kitchen the night before. She laid them in the snow.
‘Important to feed the waxwings, even if we’re in a rush.’
Phoebe smoothed her duffle coat beneath her bottom then sat on it, and after scooping up Herbert and clasping him to her chest, she pushed off and slid down the roof towards the fire escape.
They skidded along, snow spurting around them and loose tiles shaking free, before coming to an abrupt halt as Phoebe’s trainers hit the gutter. Herbert shook the snow from his fur and cocked one ear. Car doors were closing; Jack was almost off. Phoebe swung her body onto the metal rungs of the ladder that scaled the side of the orphanage, then with Herbert tucked under one arm, she hurried on down.
‘Try to see this as an adventure, Herb.’
Herbert’s head clanged against a rung and he groaned then Phoebe jumped off the ladder and they raced past the row of dog kennels, ducking low to avoid being seen from Griselda’s study, before swinging round to the front of the orphanage. The car was pulling away now but Jack was looking over his shoulder, his brown hair flicked across his eyes, as if he was searching for something or someone. Phoebe waved through the gates and her friend’s eyes lit up as he wound down his window.
‘I’ll miss you!’ he shouted. ‘And I’ll write!’
Then the car slipped off down the street and Phoebe was left standing beside Herbert before the tall dark gates. She’d never received a letter before, but the thought of an envelope with her name on, and words inside it that were meant just for her, made her smile.
She glanced at the orphanage motto engraved into the wall next to the gates – He Who Bites Hardest Usually Wins – and then there was a low and very long growl, as if it was trying to make a point. Phoebe’s skin crawled with dread as Herbert scurried behind her legs, and with a sinking heart, she turned around.
A black pit bull terrier stood on the gravel before the front door. Its squat legs and hunched shoulders framed a big square head, two narrow eyes and a spiked dog collar while ropes of saliva hung from its muzzle.
There was another growl, but it came from behind the pit bull terrier and this time there were words attached to it. ‘Slobber! Where have you got to?’
A woman appeared in the doorway suddenly: short and stocky, with shoulders that almost gobbled up her neck, hands that curled into large fists and dark hair pulled so tightly into a bun that it flattened her ears to her head. Had she not been squeezed into a pinstripe trouser suit she might have passed for a pit bull terrier herself. She held a briefcase to her chest, like some sort of protective shield, and at the sight of it Phoebe shuddered.
Griselda flicked the briefcase open and drew out a clipboard. ‘I thought we had disposed of the last of the orphans, Slobber, but it appears there is still somebody left on the register.’ She began to read: ‘Girl with hair as white as snowdrops and eyes as large and round as puddles. What an absolutely ridiculous description. Who is this?’
Phoebe was used to reintroducing herself to Griselda whenever they crossed paths – and realizing there was no getting out of this situation, she took a small step forward. ‘Me, miss.’
Griselda peered over her clipboard, a barrel of indignant pinstripe, then her nose twitche
d. ‘You? I thought we got rid of you last year?’
Phoebe scuffed the gravel with her trainer. ‘No. I’m still here.’
Griselda raised a whistle to her mouth and as she blew it, the fat on her cheeks jostled up and down. Eyes glued to the ground, Phoebe and Herbert walked towards the orphanage. They stopped in front of Slobber, who snarled, and then Griselda raised one of her shoes and glared at Herbert, who hastily scurried beneath it. Phoebe winced. She had often wondered whether the sausage dog’s love for dance stemmed from being forced to lie completely still every day, as a footrest for Griselda.
The woman raised one greasy eyebrow. ‘You’re the one who’s always daydreaming through lessons, aren’t you?’
Phoebe picked at the cuff of her duffle coat.
‘The one who looks under stones for beetles and peers at nothing through every window?’
Phoebe shook her head. ‘Oh, it’s never nothing, Miss Bone. There’s always something to see, even when it’s cloudy. In fact, it’s often better when it’s cloudy because the sky puffs out shapes: goblins, imps.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Even dragons, on really good days.’
Griselda pressed down with her shoe and Herbert gave a little squeak. ‘Goblins, imps and dragons,’ Griselda spat, ‘are stupid and childish and absolutely not allowed.’
Phoebe tried to nod.
‘You should know already that at this institution, daydreaming is banned, skipping is forbidden, doodling is frowned upon and—’
‘—hide-and-seek is out of the question,’ Phoebe finished.
She had heard the mantra for as long as she could remember – ever since the day she had arrived at the orphanage as a baby, after her parents had been killed in a car crash – and she knew the story behind it. Griselda had inherited the house, once a place of laughter and warmth, from her father many years ago on Christmas Day, but on that very day an unfortunate episode had occurred. During a game of hide-and-seek, an orphan had hidden inside a tumble dryer with Griselda’s first dog, a Rottweiler called Drool, and regrettably, the machine had been switched on while the two were inside it. The orphan had survived the ordeal. Drool, however, had not, and incensed by the event, Griselda had vowed to wage war on ‘childishness’. She dedicated every spare moment she had to working for the government, drawing up new and complicated policies to reform the education system where she believed the roots of childish behaviour lay. And while Phoebe was all for change, the kind of change that involved more exams, trickier tests, large filing cabinets and hundreds of reports wasn’t really the sort she liked.
Winter Magic Page 24