by Robin Jarvis
Jennet handed her the cup of tea she had poured out for her and Edith took it hurriedly, the crockery rattling in time with her jangled nerves.
"Well, I still think Mr Crozier's charming," Jennet told herself.
5 - A Shock For Miss Wethers
Ben lay before the coal fire, tackling a bowl of wallpaper paste and a pile of torn newspapers. He had already covered one half of a balloon with the grey porridge-like substance and was busily applying more to the other half.
Mr Roper's front room was the perfect cosy spot to spend a rainy afternoon. It was like one of those exhibits in a museum which demonstrates how people used to live. The rose-patterned wallpaper had not been changed for thirty years and neither had the lemon yellow curtains—even the light switches were the out-dated, round type. The old man's furniture also hailed from the time his wife had been alive to choose it and, over the years, the table, chairs and sideboard had steadfastly occupied their rightful places, so much so that they almost seemed part of the fabric of the house.
Jammed between the fading photographs that crowded the mantelpiece was an ugly clock that sombrely ticked the time away and gave rhythm to his days. Mr Roper possessed no television, such an intrusion into his home would have been unthinkable, instead a large wooden radio dominated one alcove and he spent many a pleasant evening listening to the classical music programmes. The overall effect lent the room a warm, brown glow and when the fire crackled in the grate it was a delicious, snug nest that any tourist could peer in at and envy.
Mr Roper lived by himself on the West Cliff. For many years, since the death of his wife, he had become increasingly isolated from other people. Without his Margaret he found the world a bleak, confusing place and the struggle of existence a meaningless chore. When Miss Boston first met him he was in a lamentable state, unshaven and dirty, not caring how he looked or lived. It was she who shook him out of his despondency and snatched him back from the brink just in time.
Now he took pride in himself again and kept the house as Margaret would have wished. He had a lot to thank Miss Boston for and never forgot that fact, supporting her in all her endeavours—however bizarre.
When she had first mentioned that she was going to foster two unknown children, he was the only one in all her circle of friends who gave her encouragement and now he was glad that he had.
Ben and Mr Roper got on famously and once a week the boy would visit the old man. It was good to escape the female household of Aunt Alice and his sister once in a while. On fine days they would go fishing off one of the piers, but more frequently, when the rain kept them indoors, the old man would entertain Ben by recounting stories of his life and those of his family. All three of Mr Roper's elder brothers had been killed in the Great War and he himself had won a medal in the one that had followed. He kept this in the top drawer of the sideboard and only took it out on Remembrance Day and when Ben wanted to look at it. Although the stories he told about the war fascinated the boy, Mr Roper never went into too much detail. He had survived some ghastly experiences and Ben was wise enough to understand; he never insisted on hearing a tale if he saw that it troubled his old friend. For Mr Roper, many memories were still too terrible to recall, as if the mere utterance of them would awaken the pain and horror once more.
Ben dunked another scrap of paper into the paste and plastered it over the shiny surface of the balloon. He hated the feel of papier-mâché, it made his finger-tips pucker up and look like raisins, and if any splashed on to the backs of his hands or arms and dried, it became painfully glued to the hairs. The only good point about the messy process, as far as he could see, was that afterwards his flaking hands looked like the mummified remains of a grotesque zombie that had risen from a cold grave.
He wiggled his fingers menacingly before his eyes and gave a sepulchral moan—just as Mr Roper returned carrying a glass of lemonade.
"Ah, well done," said the old man setting the glass down by the boy, "you've nearly finished the first layer. I think two good'uns should be sufficient. He only has to last between here and the bonfire, remember." He eased himself into his favourite, battered armchair and watched as Ben slapped another layer all around.
"Did you manage to find any clothes?" the boy asked. "I've got an old jumper with holes in, but all my trousers are too good to burn."
Mr Roper nodded. "Don't you worry," he told him, "there's an old pair of trousers in the wardrobe upstairs. I'll fish them out in a minute—there's a couple of odd gloves in a drawer somewhere too, they'd look right grand on him."
"He's going to be the best Guy Fawkes in Whitby!" said Ben proudly.
"In Yorkshire!" corrected Mr Roper, putting some more coal on the fire. "Did I tell you I got another addition to my collection the other day? Hang on then, I'll just fetch it."
Ben continued spreading the papier-mâché over the balloon as the old man padded into the parlour. Since the death of his wife there had only been one love in his life and that was given wholly over to his beloved collection. Mr Roper collected cruet sets.
His parlour was a virtual shrine to salt and pepper pots of all shapes and sizes; there were china elephants, lighthouses, an entire pack of dogs, three cottages, a couple of penguins that wobbled when touched, an aeroplane, two cows, a glass camel, three people in a boat, a basket of fruit, comical bees set into a hive that contained marmalade, a Spanish flamenco dancer, spaceships, a miniature hatstand with the hats as the pots, a group of cartoon mice popping out of a Swiss cheese and many many more. Somehow he had managed to squeeze them all into his small parlour. They were displayed in glass-fronted cabinets, adorned the window-sills, huddled on shelves, jostled for position on the tops of cupboards and the aeroplane had even been suspended on a wire from the ceiling.
He loved them all and much of his ample spare time was now devoted to scouring the local antique and bric-a-brac shops for anything new to add to them. It was his little haven of joy, where his sole delight was inspecting and dusting them. In a way they were the children he had never had and he treated them with the same amount of care and attention.
"Now then," he chuckled with pride as he gently took hold of his latest charge, "let's show you to a young friend of mine." He hurried back to the front room where Ben held the now heavy balloon between his slippery fingers. "Have you finished lad?" he asked. "Well, what do you think of this little beauty? Quite appropriate, isn't it?"
Upon his tender palm were a pair of china salt-and-pepper-pots, both in the shape of fireworks. They had been delicately made to look like rockets with yellow stars and scarlet lightnings painted on them; there was even a sculpted twist of blue touch-paper that came away to enable the salt and pepper to be poured inside.
Ben stared at them admiringly. "They're beautiful," he said.
Mr Roper nodded, too honest to disagree. "I think they're my favourites at the moment," he sighed, "I've put them pride of place next to the penguins."
"I wish I could have some fireworks," muttered Ben enviously, "real ones I mean. I bet Miss Wethers won't let me have any."
The old man smiled. "She might at that," he said kindly. "Now, I must put these fellows back with the others." He returned to the parlour and called over his shoulder. "As you've finished, you'd best go and give your hands a wash and leave that rascal's head there to dry."
"When will I be able to paint a face on him?" asked Ben. "He will be ready in two days' time won't he?"
In the parlour Mr Roper laughed and came back to the front room. "Aye, he'll be ready. If you come back tomorrow he should be dry enough and you can paint the bounder." He gave a little chuckle then added, "Mind you, we shouldn't really be doing this you know, old Fawkes was a fellow Yorkshireman and a soldier to boot. It's Bob Catesby who should be stuck on the bonfire—were his idea after all."
"But you've got to have a Guy Fawkes," Ben started to protest, "if I can't have any fireworks, at least..." then he saw that the old man was not being serious.
"I'm only pulling yo
ur leg," smiled Mr Roper. "Now, where are them old trousers of mine?" He disappeared upstairs for a while and Ben could hear him pulling everything out of the wardrobe. The boy wandered into the kitchen where he washed his hands in the big square sink and thought about the face he would paint on the papier-mâché head.
"Here we are," said Mr Roper brandishing a pair of grey trousers that smelled of mothballs. 'I'll tie some string round the legs and then we can start stuffing them with that newspaper you've got left.
Ben dried his hands and waited while the string was tightly fastened. Then they took great handfuls of paper, scrunched them up, and thrust them down the trouser legs.
"Tell me about the war again," Ben asked.
"You don't want to listen to my boring stories," chortled the old man, "it's time you told me one of your own."
"I don't know any," came the reply, "please."
"You don't know any?" cried Mr Roper in disbelief. "Why don't you go telling me that in the short time you've been in Whitby Alice Boston hasn't been filling your head full of tales. I've never known that lady resist the chance of entertaining someone who's willing to listen. A wealth of stories she's got!"
Ben grinned but as he glanced out of the window he saw that it was growing dark. He groaned inwardly. Miss Wethers had told him to be back before nightfall and he dreaded to think what fuss she would make if he stayed out one minute later than he ought to.
Mr Roper knew what the boy was thinking. "All right lad," he said, "you'd best get going. I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of one of Edith Wethers' mithering lectures." He went into the hall and brought Ben's duffle coat from the peg. The boy was staring thoughtfully at the stuffed trousers and the lumpy papier-mâché head. "Don't you fret now," the old man told him, "Fawkes'll be dry by tomorrow—you come then and put as grim a face on him as possible."
Ben wriggled into his coat, fastening the toggles as he wandered from the cosy front room. "I'll bring that jumper of mine tomorrow as well," he said, "then he'll be totally finished."
Mr Roper opened the door and the chill November afternoon blew in as Ben wandered down the short path. When he reached the gate the old man called to him, "And make sure you remember a story to tell me—you'll not get out of it that easily."
Laughing, the boy waved and set off home.
Mr Roper closed the door and returned to the warmth of the fire. Switching on the radio, he sat in the chair once more and picked up a copy of The Dalesman to read. Presently he began to nod and slipped into a peaceful doze as the music of a bygone era swelled about him. To the sound of the big dance bands he held his Margaret in his arms once more and together they glided over the floor of his pepper-pot-scattered dreams.
Ben plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets, it was getting very cold. He quickened his pace, anxious to reach Aunt Alice's cottage in time. Gloom was gathering over Whitby, the narrow ginnel that ran down the side of Mr Roper's house was already filled with shadow. But for the crying of gulls it was eerily quiet. The boy hurried and was glad when he emerged into Bagdale, one of the main routes into the town. Past half-empty guest houses he went, only stopping to look up at the rising hill of Pannet Park where the museum was situated.
He thought about his sister and wondered what she had been doing all day—Jennet had been in a strange mood lately, always wanting to be on her own and refusing to play. When he had confided this to Miss Boston, she told him that Jennet was growing up. Ben did not like to dwell on this alarming fact too much, "growing up" meant that his sister would start having boyfriends, and he was afraid that sooner or later he would lose her. The pair of them had always been together and after the death of their parents it was she who protected and cared for him. Life without Jennet—even if she was a pain sometimes—was unthinkable. Ben pulled a glum face and hoped it would be a long time before he had to 'grow up'.
"CRET!" screeched a voice.
Ben spun round and there, to his dismay, he saw Danny Turner tearing towards him.
"I'm gonna kick you in!" the thug yelled.
Ben fled; after Jennet's attack on Danny yesterday there was no telling what he would do to get revenge. Breathlessly he ran as hard as he could, but knew there was no hope of escape, for Danny was faster than him. He cursed the awkwardness of his duffle coat—it was so heavy that it slowed him down. Soon he would feel rough fingers catch hold of the hood and he would become a punchbag for Danny's fists.
"Come 'ere, Cret!" his pursuer demanded.
Ben was terribly afraid, there was no way he could cross the bridge and reach Aunt Alice's cottage—he was done for. Desperately he glanced over his shoulder, Danny was closing on him.
"Coward!" accused the snarling voice. "Ain'tcha got yer sister to fight for yer?"
The pavement streaked beneath the two boys' feet as they pounded down the sloping road towards the harbour, but there was still a long way to go. This was no good, Ben told himself. He had only one chance and that was to hide.
Recklessly he leapt into the road. A car screamed and the driver stamped on the brakes. Ben dodged aside as it skidded to a halt and then he was across. The man in the car leaned out of the window and bawled at him but the boy had scurried up into Pannet Park, up to where the shrubs and bushes screened him from the traffic below.
"Ruddy idiot!" the driver fumed. "Could've killed him!" He took hold of the steering wheel once more and gave a slight shudder at the thought. Then another boy darted out in front of him.
This one slapped the bonnet of the car as he passed and shouted, "Up yours Grandad!" then he too disappeared up the steps into the park.
Pressing close to the dense rhododendrons, Ben hurried from one side of the park to the other. Already he could see the exit to St Hilda's Terrace which led directly to the bridge—ought he to chance it he wondered? He waited indecisively, hiding beneath the drooping dark leaves of the shrubbery. Where was Danny? Ben held his breath and listened—he could hear nothing behind him, the Turner boy must have given up or gone the other way.
Stealthily he crept from the cover and peered back down the sweeping lawns he had just climbed.
"Oh no," he whispered.
Up came Danny, his face resolute and angry. "Laurenson!" he shrieked. "Yer for it now!"
Ben scrambled over the grass, hurtling towards the gateway. In a trice he was through, but instead of careering down the hill, he leapt over the wall of a nearby house and ducked quickly. With his face half-buried in a pile of damp, dead leaves he froze and waited.
Danny Turner shot from the park and glared about him. There was no trace of the Laurenson boy anywhere. "I'll get yer!" he shouted. "Ain't no use hidin'. Come out, yer whingin' Jessie!"
Ben remained exactly where he was, his chin submerged beneath the deep decay of autumn. He was extremely uncomfortable; the damp had soaked through his trousers and a repulsive, cloying smell of mould fouled his nostrils. A cloud of agitated flies buzzed around his head and his flesh crawled when one landed on his lip. If only Danny would give up and go home. "Go away," he mouthed, willing his enemy to retreat, "get lost."
Across the street, Danny snorted and spat with disgust. "Flamin' baby," he muttered, "next time I sees him—or that stinkin' sister, they'll be sorry."
He wandered along the terrace, kicking the gates of the houses as he passed by. In his cramped hiding place, Ben could hear the vicious 'clangs' growing fainter. He let out a sigh of relief. Now he could move. The dead leaves squelched as he stirred. Ben was glad to be free at last—he couldn't bear another minute with all those flies amid that putrid smell.
He raised his head from the wet pile, but what he discovered made his eyes bulge round and wide. Now he knew where the stench was coming from—and why there were so many flies. On the ground, just next to where he had been crouching, were the gutted remains of a cat.
Ben let out a cry of horror. The poor creature had been in a terrible fight. What meagre tatters of skin it had left were covered in vile rents and savage
claw marks. He leapt to his feet and the flies zoomed back to their feast—Ben felt ill.
"What sort of animal would do that?" he murmured. "Not a dog surely?"
Then he noticed the colour of the bloodstained fur—it had been a marmalade cat. He thought of the woman he and Jennet had met yesterday and how frantic she had been. Here then was Mrs Rigby's Mokey, this awful carcass was all that was left of her little darling. It had been eaten. The back of Ben's throat burned as the bile bubbled up from his stomach and he turned away.
"Gotcha!" sniggered a voice.
Danny Turner jumped over the wall and grabbed Ben round the neck. It was too quick and sudden for the boy to resist and he felt his legs give way as Danny kicked them. Down he went and the Turner lad pushed him into the leaves a second time.
"Try to run, did yer, Cret?" hissed Danny, delivering a spiteful punch to Ben's ribs. "I'll show you and yer sister not to make a fool of me. Good job she never broke me nose or I'd have got me Dad's air pistol at the pair of yer. It puts eyes out it does—an' believe me I'd do it an' all!" He raised his fist to give Ben another punch but the blow never fell. His own eyes had lit upon Mokey's body.
Danny let out a long, admiring whistle. "Fwor!" he cooed. "Look at this!" He reached over and picked the corpse up without flinching. "This'd make a great mascot for the front of me bike," he drooled, "I could tie it to the handle bars—look at them eyes stickin' out on stalks!"
"Put it down!" shrieked Ben in outrage. "Leave it alone!"
A horrible smile flickered over Danny's thuggish face. "Put it down," he repeated in a whining imitation of Ben's voice. "Doesn't yer like it, Diddums? Does it scare yer?" He dangled the grisly body above the boy's head, bobbing it up and down like a yoyo. "Woooo," he taunted, "have a look at the big gash in its froat. Open yer peepers, soft lad! Look, I can make its tail twitch by pulling this bit."