‘—The legend of the Inca gold originates,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ said Jack and raised his hand to high-five me. ‘How amazing a coincidence is that? Anyway, we called the Oro staff from his phone, and they actually had a couple of spaces available that week, so I thought it would be a great thing to do with you, Si, before we moved on anywhere else.
‘I was already pretty close to Oro, so it made sense. They had another volunteer arriving from the UK the same day as you were meant to fly in, so I thought you could get a transfer together. It’s tricky to find it – it’s nestled among the mountains and you can only get there using one narrow road.’
‘So you went straight there?’ Mum asked.
‘Yeah. It was such an easy journey, considering. I arrived late in the evening and I was shattered so I checked in and went straight to bed. I was given one of the treetop rooms and I couldn’t wait to see the view in the morning. Everything was so clean. They even asked if I needed sterile water for my injections. I tried to message you, Mum, but there was no signal in my room and I didn’t have the code for the WiFi, but I figured I would go to reception the following morning and get it sorted out.
‘As you know, that never happened. A few hours later I was woken up by the room shaking. My bed was literally sliding across the floor.
‘I ran outside and managed to get down the ladder. There was an older man who had been sitting in a wicker chair in the lobby area and his chair had toppled over – he later told me he’d gone down there because he couldn’t sleep. I helped him to his feet and he kept telling me that it was going to be all right.’
‘It must have been terrifying,’ Mum said.
‘Yeah. The shaking stopped and then started up again, harder this time. There were tree branches falling around us and one of the treetop rooms came crashing to the ground. People were screaming and the manager was shouting instructions, but I couldn’t understand everything because they were in Spanish. I started panicking – I thought the shakes would keep getting bigger and bigger. But luckily they didn’t – all of a sudden they eased off. It was the weirdest thing – as though somebody had switched off the engine of the earth.
‘We were incredibly lucky, because we only got the edges of the earthquake. Even the buildings were mostly fine, other than some smashed windows and roof tiles falling off. It turned out that nobody had been staying in the treetop room that collapsed, which was a relief.’
‘The poor residents though. It must have been awful for them,’ Mum said. She was sitting next to Jack and had grasped his knee as he’d been telling his story.
‘They were surprisingly calm, although some of them had had some pretty serious falls. Then we had to evacuate the building before the management confirmed it was structurally sound, and later the big clean-up job started. I helped check that the residents were all OK and get them medical help.
‘The internet was down and there was no phone signal. The only landline they had wasn’t working. I kept trying to think of ways to get through to you, but I couldn’t. The only road into town was blocked with fallen trees. It’s around a twenty-minute drive into Cortagena and I thought about walking to try and find a phone, but my help was really needed. There were so many elderly residents who were either injured, or in a state of shock. The ones with dementia were particularly badly affected. The staff were doing all they could, but they needed as much support as possible before proper help arrived. You must have been mad with worry – I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not your fault, Jack,’ said Dad and he pulled him close. ‘We’re so incredibly relieved that you’re safe and that you’re back. I know that there are some families who haven’t been nearly as lucky as us.’
I’d never seen Dad hug Jack like that before and later that night, after I’d gone to bed, I heard the two of them up in Jack’s bedroom talking about uni. I shouldn’t have, but I sat on the landing and listened. I was hoping that Dad would tell Jack what he’d said to me and Mum, and he did.
‘I’ve been really unfair,’ I heard him say. ‘You need to do whatever makes you happy. Not me or anyone else. That’s the single most important thing.’
Twenty
The Young Writers’ Awards Ceremony was held after the Easter break in a big hotel in central London.
The winner from our school had been announced a couple of days after Jack came back, and I’d completely missed it as I hadn’t been checking online.
‘Well done,’ said Duncan’s sidekick, Max, as soon as I came into our form room the next morning. ‘You totally deserve it. Yours was clearly the best of our stories. I voted for it.’ Then several other people came to congratulate me and it all sank in.
‘I can’t believe I’m going to the awards,’ I told Keira. ‘What do I need to do? Who do I bring?’
All my questions were answered by Mrs Emmett. I was allowed up to six guests, so I invited Jack, Mum, Dad and Keira. And then I asked Mrs Emmett and Grandma Sylvie if they would come too. I could tell that Mum and Jack were chuffed that I’d invited Grandma and that she’d agreed to come.
The main hall of the hotel was already filled with people when we arrived and I felt lightheaded.
‘Goodness, it’s like the Oscars,’ Grandma whispered excitedly. ‘I never thought in my old age I’d get to see somewhere so grand again.’
‘Can I see your ticket?’ asked a lady in an immaculate blue uniform.
I put my hand in my coat pocket and was surprised to find two folded pieces of paper. One was the ticket, which I handed over, and the other was a small, grubby-looking square that looked as if it was torn from a notepad. As we sat down, I unfolded it and found a note in perfect handwriting.
I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. Your writing is incredible, and well… so are you. D.
P.S. I have a small present for you – a red beret. It made me think of you and Margot.
‘What is it?’ Keira whispered, peering at the piece of paper in my hand. ‘No way, is that from Duncan?’
‘Is he serious?’ I asked her, and I felt the heat rising in my face.
‘Obviously he is. I’ve always told you.’
I was still thinking about the note, when a man appeared on the stage, and the chatter subsided.
‘Welcome to the first national Young Writers’ Awards,’ he said. ‘Thank you for joining me and a very warm welcome to you. I wanted to begin by congratulating those of you who have been nominated by your schools to enter. You’ve already come an extremely long way to get to this stage.
‘As you know we have four different categories that we’ll be awarding prizes for – sci-fi, travel, romance and crime fiction, with first, second and third prizes for each. In between each category, we’ll hear readings from three famous children’s authors, who I’m sure you’ll all know and love.’
It was just my luck for crime to be the last category. But over the next hour I found that I was enjoying myself as I listened to the different authors reading their stories, and I almost forgot about being nervous.
When the third and second prizes in the crime categories were announced, I felt gutted that I hadn’t had a mention. There was no way that I would ever win it, but I had secretly hoped that I might have scraped third, or even second, place.
‘And the winner of this category is really not your usual crime fiction. It’s an entry that got the judges thinking because it’s a study of our personalities, a story about the importance of allowing others to be themselves and to do what they love. It’s entitled “The Case of the Beret and the Bell” and it’s by Felicity Chesterford. I strongly urge you to read it if you haven’t already.’
‘It’s you,’ said Jack ecstatically, nudging me in the ribs. He’d been home for over a month, and I still couldn’t get used to him being next to me. My fingers instinctively searched for the key around my neck, where it would now stay for ever. ‘You deserve it, Sergeant,’ Jack had said, giving me the key the night he arrived home, ‘in recognition of your outstanding
work.’
‘And the first prize in this category is a family weekend away in a cottage in Torquay where the famous crime writer Agatha Christie wrote some of her stories. Is there anything you want to say, Felicity? What was it that inspired “The Case of the Beret and the Bell”?’
I froze. Why hadn’t I paid attention to what the previous winners had said? All I knew is that they seemed to have had a long list of people they wanted to thank. Many had notes which they whipped out especially. Unlike me, they must have thought that they had a good chance of winning.
But then Keira wolf-whistled and the sound somehow spurred me into action.
‘Thank you,’ I said, and I was surprised to find that I sounded much calmer than I felt. ‘I honestly didn’t expect to be at this event and I really, really didn’t expect to be up here on stage. It’s true that “The Case of the Beret and the Bell” isn’t a typical crime story, although it started out as one. My brother inspired me to change it into something a bit different. So now it’s more of a mystery about people… Because it turns out that even the people you think you know well can be a very cryptic puzzle. There are layers and sides to a person that you can’t uncover until you have the right clues. To solve somebody’s personal mystery takes a lot of work but you can discover brilliant things if you manage to crack it. Anyway, I hope you enjoy Lady Abigail’s search.’
And then the audience applauded, and I saw Mum and Dad looking chuffed, and Jack cheering with his arms raised high. As I walked down the steps towards them, my hands were no longer shaking. I put them in my pockets and felt the outline of Duncan’s note. I heard the echo of my own words in my head – ‘Even the people you know well can be a cryptic puzzle.’
I remembered that he had clapped along with everyone else when I’d been declared our class’s nominee for the Young Writers’ Awards and he looked like he genuinely wanted to congratulate me. He had even given me a hopeful look when I’d recently bumped into him in the locker room. At the time I’d thought he was being weird. I decided that I might invite him to the rooftop playground soon and have a proper conversation for the first time ever.
That night, we sat down on Jack’s bed under the skylight. He was still in his suit, and I was in the posh navy dress that I’d borrowed from Keira.
‘Were you scared up there on stage?’ he asked me.
‘Only for a moment. Once I got over the shock of how many people were in the audience, it was OK.’
‘You were amazing. And you’re a great detective, you know. A great writer, too. You never told me that you were into creative writing. Or is this something that you discovered more recently?’
‘No, I’ve loved it for ages. You know all the riddles that you told me? I wrote them down to use as ideas for stories in the future. I’m still planning to develop them into a story collection when I get the chance to write them. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you. I suppose I wanted to write something that I was really proud of first. Otherwise they would be empty words…’
Jack sat up properly then and looked at me.
‘What you’ve just said – it’s how I’ve felt for as long as I can remember. I wanted to do something that I was proud of, you know – something impressive, that I could tell you and Mum and Dad, my plan for the rest of my life, or at least for the next few years.’
‘And do you know now?’
‘Well,’ he said, reaching up and opening the skylight. ‘I’m closer than I ever was. And as soon as I’m certain, you’ll be the first to know, I promise. I’m glad that we get to hang around for a bit longer before I go to uni. I know you’re thinking that it’ll be different after I go, and it will, but I’ll always come back. I don’t think I’d last too long in the field without my sergeant.’
He squeezed my hand and I knew that he was right. Things would be different, but maybe I was ready for that. If the search for Jack had proved anything, it was that I, Sergeant Flick, was stronger than I thought.
‘Are you glad you went to Oro, despite everything?’ I asked Jack.
‘Absolutely – I don’t regret it at all. It’s the most awesome place. I hope we might go together one day.’
‘N’oubliez pas de vivre?’
He laughed. ‘You saw it at Grandma’s? I’m glad you went to visit her. Not forgetting to live is especially important if there is something that might be stopping you…’ he said quietly.
‘Like your blood?’
‘Yeah, for example. But everyone’s different.’
And then he turned to me and said, ‘Hey, will you read me the ending of your story? I still haven’t heard it.’
‘Sure.’
Lady Abigail had never set foot in the Evelina Children’s Hospital before. Her family had always been treated by the private surgeon, Dr Marshall, so she hadn’t had reason to visit one of these ghastly places. With the recent epidemics of scarlet fever and TB, the hospitals were packed, and there were rumours that you were more likely to contract one of these illnesses by visiting an infirmary than by doing anything else in the outside world.
The market stall that Henry had mentioned was by the hospital entrance and was run by two young, dirty-looking street boys. Lady Abigail was shocked to see that they were both wearing the exact same beret that Margot had. On the small table was a display of knitwear, all in a bold, blood red that made her eyes hurt. She picked up one of the berets and noticed the pin straight away. The little paper cards with bells were attached to everything.
‘How can I help you, ma’am?’ asked one of the lads. He was surprisingly confident for a street urchin.
‘Why do they all have this tag? What does it mean?’ she asked.
‘The picture? It’s the symbol of the Bell Foundation, ma’am – the charity that supports the little nippers.’
Of course. How wrong she had been about the whole thing.
‘My daughter’s missing,’ Lady Abigail heard herself say. ‘She owned one of these. She must have bought it here.’
‘What does she look like?’ asked the smaller boy.
As Lady Abigail described her daughter – her flame-coloured hair, freckles and unusually long legs – she could see their eyes light up.
‘You mean the lass who works at the hospital? The young nurse?’
‘Sorry? No. No. That’s not the one. She doesn’t work anywhere. She’s only thirteen,’ said Lady Abigail, and then coughed awkwardly, realising the boy she was speaking to was probably no older than ten.
‘Well, there’s a lass called Margot who we know. She must look like your daughter,’ said the boy shrugging.
‘Margot? That’s her name! Where is she?’
‘She’s with the nurses in the infant infirmary,’ he replied, indicating a door to her left.
Lady Abigail ran into the building that had always repulsed her so much. The stench hit her as soon as she entered – but she ignored it. She called to the nearest nurse, a burly matron in a huge apron and white cap.
‘Sister, is there anyone called Margot here?’ she asked. ‘I’m looking for my daughter. Do you know where she is?’ Tears were spilling from her eyes now and she couldn’t stop them, no matter how embarrassed she felt.
The nurse looked Lady Abigail up and down. ‘Our Margot?’ she asked. But seeing her desperation, she eventually nodded and said, ‘Come with me, madam.’ They walked together down the long corridor, where the cries of infants could be heard from behind the doors on either side. It sounded as though there were hundreds of them, all in pain, all needing someone’s love. It brought to mind the Christmas collections at church to support orphanages – Lady Abigail made a mental note to donate more money. She would donate her entire fortune just to know that Margot was safe.
‘She’s in here,’ said the matron. ‘This is the ward where we treat abandoned babes. A sorry number of them are found on our doorstep at this time of year, and some of them suffering from scarlet fever. There are a lot of families out there who cannot feed another mouth and they count
on our help.’
‘Can I guess what happens next?’ asked Jack.
‘Yeah,’ I said, pleased at the thought. ‘It’s like a riddle from me to you.’
He thought for a moment, as I fiddled with the page of my exercise book. Just then, the 10.15 p.m. to New York appeared in the corner of Jack’s skylight and we both looked up, amazed that it was still there, even after everything else had changed.
‘I think that Lady Abigail and Margot reunite, but she stays working at the hospital. That’s what I want to happen,’ he clarified.
‘Why?’
‘Because I think it’s important to do what you believe in. Even if it’s not what other people want you to do. You need some guts, but I reckon Margot has plenty of guts.’
‘Ha! Maybe it’s because she’s based on you.’
‘Is she? I didn’t know,’ he said, pulling a face.
‘Of course you did,’ I said. ‘You knew from the moment that I started reading, didn’t you?’
‘Well, maybe we share some similarities,’ he said grinning. ‘I hope that we both end up doing something awesome. So…? Will you tell me what happens?’
I kept glancing at him, smiling, as I read:
Lady Abigail spotted Margot as soon as she walked through the door. She was dressed in a greying apron which made her look much older than she was, and she was leaning over a cot, swaddling the baby tightly against the cold. Then she gazed down at its little face with a look of happiness and love. Lady Abigail realised with a start that she hadn’t seen that expression on her daughter’s face in years.
Margot jumped when she saw her mother. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, alarmed and slightly frightened.
‘Looking for you,’ Lady Abigail whispered. ‘Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’
Margot took a long time to answer.
‘I thought that you wouldn’t understand,’ she said finally, looking down at the floor. ‘And I was worried that you might try to stop me coming. I love it, you see… I know that you think it’s a dirty and thankless job, but I love it.’
The Key to Finding Jack Page 13