by Robin Jarvis
"But it's all true," the boy whispered. "I promise."
"'Course it is," agreed the old man, "and soon as I get a chance I'll phone the head wizard and tell him what one of his dastardly pupils is up to. He'll be zapped into a toad quicker than you can blink and all the world's worries'll be over."
Ben said nothing. He had been wrong—Mr Roper didn't believe him either. Only Nelda and Aunt Alice would, but they were out of his reach.
"Now then," said Mr Roper becoming slightly more serious, "you'll be wanting to see old Fawkes. Hang on while I fetch the scoundrel. Guardians of Whitby!" he chortled to himself. "Very good." Leaving Ben in the front room, he went upstairs.
Ben decided it was pointless trying to make the old man believe him. It was clearly too fantastic a tale for anyone. He waited for his return and, remembering his hunger, ate a biscuit. What would happen if Mr Crozier got his way? According to what he had heard, nothing would be safe; the finality of that was only just beginning to sink in and the boy felt as if the doom of the world was approaching.
"Here we are," said Mr Roper, bursting through the door bearing a large, floppy figure. "Here's the very man."
The papier-mâché head was completely dry now and he had already attached it to the rest of the body. "As you can see," he went on, "I've used an old shirt o' mine for the top half, I don't suppose you brought that jumper o' yourn? Never mind, you can add it later. I've put an old pair o' socks on the end of the legs for feet and tucked the trousers into them. Looks mighty swanky, don't he? All he needs now is the face and I've got some paints left over from the last jumble sale posters I did for your aunt."
Ben wasn't really in the mood for painting that day—especially as the head reminded him of that other one last night. But Mr Roper had obviously worked extremely hard to bring the guy up to this state and he forced himself to take an interest. The shirt and socks were not old at all and Ben was touched by this display of generosity.
Presently a garish and angry face began to appear on the papier-mâché; two streaks of black gave it a neat little moustache and another, directly below the bottom lip, served for a pointed beard.
"What about eyebrows?" suggested Mr Roper. "That's right—blimey he looks fierce, an' no mistake." Throughout the whole of the delicate operation the old man did nothing but encourage Ben, he also supplied him with more biscuits and told him the funniest of his stories. The boy could not remember ever having spent a more enjoyable couple of hours, at times he even forgot the dreadful knowledge that he was burdened with.
When the painting was all done they both surveyed the figure and were greatly pleased. It was an almost perfect Guy Fawkes, all it required now was Ben's old jumper and perhaps a hat.
"Well done, lad," congratulated the old man, "he's right smart he is. Can't wait to see him sat on top of your bonfire. Got all your wood yet?"
"Yes, I've been collecting it for weeks. Aunt Alice helped too. There's a great pile of stuff against the fence at home. I should really get started on it this afternoon." He stared at the Guy's striking face; it seemed a shame to burn him, but with that beard he now resembled Mr Crozier and Ben felt that perhaps he would be happy to set it atop the bonfire after all.
"Would you look at the time," tutted Mr Roper, "it's your dinner you'll be missing if you're not careful. I don't want Edith Wethers on at me. You'd best take this villain home with you today, lad. A right scare he'll cause through the streets, I'll be bound."
Ben lifted the figure and slung it over his shoulder. Carrying it all the way home would be no problem—it was very light, being stuffed only with newspaper. "If you want," he said, "you can come and help me build the bonfire after dinner. I don't suppose Jennet will care to."
Mr Roper gave him a quick smile but answered, "I'm sorry, I can't today—there's a few things I've got to be attending to. Thank you all the same. Believe you me, there's nothing I wouldn't like better."
"Well, I'll see you tomorrow night then," said Ben hopefully, "you've got to come and watch it burn. Miss Wethers said she'd make toffee apples and baked potatoes—I might even get a sparkler out of her."
"Oh, lad," gasped Mr Roper unexpectedly. His voice trembled and before Ben knew what to think, the old man whisked away and returned carrying a large square tin. "These are for you," he said quietly, "I were going to save them for tomorrow as a surprise like, but you might as well have them now. I remember the best bit about fireworks was looking at them in the box—all them fancy wrappers wi' stars and flashes on 'em, wonderin' what sort of show they'd make."
"Fireworks!" cried Ben. "For me? Oh, thank you!" He threw his arms around the old man and gave him a great hug. Mr Roper uttered a startled cry, holding the boy as if it was the last time he would ever see him and when he next spoke his voice was thick with restrained emotion.
"Aye," he mumbled, "them's all yours. Wait till you gets home before peeking, mind, and enjoy 'em tomorrow, lad. Now come on, you'd best be off."
He led Ben to the front door, but when the boy turned back to wave the usual farewell he saw that his friend was crying.
"Mr Roper," he said, walking back along the path, "are you all right?"
The old man put a hand over his eyes. "I'm only tired lad," he replied, "don't you fret."
Ben wasn't sure what to do. Perhaps Mr Roper had been thinking about his late wife or the brothers killed in the First World War. Deciding it was best to leave him alone, Ben waved again. "See you tomorrow," he said.
The old man watched him turn down into the alleyway then closed the door. "Goodbye, lad," he wept.
***
The massive jaws of the dredger plunged into the water once more. It had already dumped the last load of silt out at sea and was beginning the unending process all over again. The chains rattled as the iron claw sank to the bottom and seized a great portion of sludge. Up it came, through the foaming water, dripping with thick mud and weed. A cloud of gulls hovered overhead, greedily watching for any fish that it may have disturbed rising to the surface. Round swung the crane arm, back over the open cargo hold, where the strong teeth parted and disgorged half a ton of muck and slime.
"Right," shouted Peter Knowles, one of the three crewmen, "she's all finished, Dunk her in again."
The crane jerked round till it was out over the water and the huge open grabber swung slowly on its chains.
Peter gave a signal to Bill Ornsley, the operator, who nodded and the jaws dropped back into the harbour. The dredger rocked gently, and Peter leaned against the deck rail while he waited for it to re-emerge. He was tired, and longed for his roast dinner which would be on the table by the time he finished this shift. At least this would be the last load of the day, he consoled himself, thinking of the Yorkshire pudding smothered in gravy which he would soon be devouring as efficiently as the jaws of the dredger itself. He glanced up, over the harbour bridge in the direction of his home and sighed wistfully.
A short figure wandered into his view, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. "There's that kid again," he said as a child ran across the bridge, "the one that waved before. Lives with that barmy old woman, doesn't he? She's too old to be fostering kids at her age. Hello? What's he got there then—looks like a dead body."
"Pete!" Bill's voice broke into his thoughts and all traces of roast dinners, cracked old women and ghoulish children vanished from his mind. Ornsley sounded worried.
"What's up?" he called.
The man pointed at the crane and then Pete too realised that something was wrong. The chains were groaning and an unhealthy whine issued from the winching motor.
"She's caught on summat," Bill cursed.
Peter peered over the side to where the chains disappeared into the water. "Like what?" he asked.
The other shrugged and scratched his balding head beneath his battered black cap. "Beggared if I know," he said, "could be anything—never know what's down theer. Mebbe some old timbers from a coble what sank years ago."
/> "Wouldn't we have come across 'em before?" asked Peter doubtfully. "We're here day in, day out."
Mr Ornsley gazed at the shimmering surface of the water and slowly shook his head. "No," he muttered, "you can't never tell what it's like on the harbour bottom. There's fathomless depths of mud swirling round, constantly shifting with the tide, coverin' and uncoverin' all sorts of stuff. Horrible suckin' mud that pulls you under and seals you up for a year or more." He pulled on the winch lever but the awful whining increased.
"Doesn't want to come up," Peter said. "Whatever it is must be stuck pretty good."
"She'll manage it," assured Bill.
At that moment the dredger pitched alarmingly and the crane juddered under tremendous strain. The water slopped over the deck as the vessel lurched from side to side and Peter only caught hold of the rail in time to save himself from being thrown into the harbour.
From the cabin at the stern the other member of the crew stuck his head out and bawled at them. "What was that?" he cried, gripping the wheel tightly. "Felt as though something pulled at us!"
Bill stared worriedly at the winch motor; wisps of smoke were now hissing from it and the taut chains looked close to snapping.
"Let it go!" shouted Peter. "Whatever it is, drop it!"
Mr Ornsley threw himself against the lever as another tremor rocked the dredger. "I can't," he yelled, "it's jammed!"
A high-pitched, painful noise of twisting metal screeched out from the crane—the arm was buckling. Peter ran forward and tried to help Bill release the jaws but the lever was locked solid.
"She's gonna break!" he cried. "The chains'll lash round like whips, take cover man!"
Suddenly the dredger catapulted backwards, the jaws were free and the chains rattled loudly as the motor wrenched them from the water.
Both men raised their heads as the grabber rose to the surface in a frenzy of boiling, seething water.
"Thought we were goners then, Bill," said Peter. "Good job it let go."
Mr Ornsley checked the controls. "No it ain't," he whispered, "whatever it were caught on is still in them teeth."
Up from the thick harbour mud it came, up into the bright sunlight that filtered down into the churning water in soft, slicing rays.
With an almighty splash, the jaws exploded from the waves and before the chains could wind them up, they struck the prow with a shuddering blow.
Peter held grimly to the rail as the dredger tipped violently to one side, its tilting hull clanging like a funeral bell. The angry spray stung his face and the vibrations of the collision stung his clenched fingers, jolting through his body. Yet he paid no attention to this. Though the man in the cabin struggled with the wheel for control, all Peter could do was stare at what was gripped in the great iron teeth of the grabber.
It was the most unusual thing he had ever seen, and from it rained a waterfall of sludge.
"What in heaven is that?" he breathed.
As the deluge of filthy mud diminished, the outline of the mysterious object became clearer. It seemed to be kite-shaped and twice the size of a man. Peter stared intently, although it appeared to be made of stone, it was difficult to be certain because, except for a clump of fibrous black seaweed that had attached itself to the base, it was totally encrusted with barnacles.
Mr Ornsley looked up from the controls "Beggar me!" he exclaimed. "What the 'ell?"
"P'raps it's some kinda shield," suggested Peter, "part of a massive coat of arms or summat."
"That ain't no shield," whispered Bill, "call yerself a man o' the sea, look at it, man!"
"I don't..." Peter's voice failed him as he saw what the other meant. "Impossible!" he cried.
"Aye," said Bill "but mark that bit at the bottom theer, where it tapers down. What do that look like?"
Peter felt ill. A dark red substance was trickling from the tangled mass of what he had at first assumed to be seaweed. The thing was bleeding!
"I might be gettin' on in years," murmured Bill, "but that looks like flesh to me."
Peter couldn't believe it. "You're wrong," he denied flatly.
"Face it, man," the other muttered darkly, "like it or not, that theer is the scale of a fish!"
Peter gulped and in a small voice whispered, "My God!"
They stared a moment more at the huge black diamond, then the jaws loosened. The weight was too much, the teeth parted and the giant object fell from its grasp.
"Fetch it back!" shouted Peter. "Don't let it disappear down there again!" He ran for the controls but Mr Ornsley seized his arm and pulled him away.
"You leave that be!" he said firmly. "There's some things I'll not mess wi'. Leave what you don't understand well alone—leave it!"
Peter whirled round, just in time to see the immense scale fall into the water. It smacked the surface then vanished completely, twirling slowly down into the concealing darkness once more, spiralling back into the mud.
Bill Ornsley turned away from the ever-widening circle of ripples. "All right, Mike!" he called to the man in the cabin, "it's all right now. No harm done, but I think we ought to give her a rest for the day, I'd like to give the motor a seeing-to this afternoon."
The man at the wheel waved his agreement and the dredger began chugging towards the quayside.
"Now then," Bill said looking squarely at Peter, "if you don't want to be laughed at for the rest of your days I wouldn't mention any of what you just saw to no one."
The other man gazed back at the water where a shred of torn flesh still floated until a gull swooped down and snatched it away. "Yeah," he mumbled, "I didn't see nothing."
"Nor did I," affirmed Mr Ornsley and he manoeuvred the grabber into the water once more, to wash away any traces of what neither of them had just seen.
9 - Mischief Night
Ben slid another long plank from the heap at the side of the fence and dragged it over the grass. The main skeleton of the bonfire had, after many frustrating attempts, finally been constructed and seemed to be holding together. Before she had gone to London, Miss Boston had prepared a section of her garden especially for this, having dug up a large square in the middle, carefully laying aside the turves to be replaced afterwards. In her usual manner, she had merely shrugged off Ben's gratitude and said that the ashes would be good for the soil.
"Put that piece over there," said Jennet, "it needs the support on that side."
The boy bit his lip, his sister was being a real pain. Since he had returned from Mr Roper's she had done nothing but scold him for being rude to "Nathaniel", and when he had tried to escape her she had followed him into the garden—only to criticise all his attempts at bonfire building. There was no getting away from her and he thought ruefully of the fireworks the old man had given him—he hadn't even had a chance to open the tin yet!
In spite of this, a smirk spread over his face, for before he had entered the cottage he had tapped on the parlour window and waggled the guy in front of it. Even outside he had heard Miss Wethers shriek and the memory of her shrill yelps was the only thing that kept his mind off Mr Crozier and blotted out his sister's reprimands—she hadn't found the joke with the guy very funny either.
"Not there, stupid!" Jennet repeated. "Over here!"
Determined to ignore her advice, he placed the plank on the opposite side to the one she directed. At once the entire framework collapsed like a house of cards.
"Told you," she said infuriatingly.
In his annoyance, Ben gave the scattered timbers a sharp kick, to which his sister tutted, "Temper, temper."
"Give me a hand," he appealed to her, "instead of barking your orders—who do you think you are?"
"I'm not getting my hands dirty on all that old wood," said Jennet in a superior tone. "I don't want to get splinters in them or snag myself on a rusty nail—you could get tetanus from that." She spread her hands in front of her and examined them carefully, trying to picture what they would one day look like. Jennet had become enamoured with the thought o
f having beautifully long fingernails. So far, they were all coming along nicely and the last thing she wanted was to tear them on her brother's childish bonfire.
Ben watched in disgust as she scrutinised herself—Jennet was really changing. With a resigned groan he began gathering up the wood again and tried to rebuild the framework. What it really needed was some string tied around the top of the main supports, but unfortunately he was too short to reach—perhaps he ought to fetch a stool from the kitchen.
"Nathaniel's gone to the museum today," Jennet murmured, giving voice to her thoughts.
Ben did not want to talk about that man with his sister. It was obvious she would not listen to a word against him. The best course of action was to ignore her.
"He's going to trace his family roots," she continued, "apparently he came from round here originally—or rather his ancestors did. He's going through all the old parish records as far back as he can. Isn't that interesting? I told him that I wished we could do that, but I wouldn't know where to start. Then he said that I was too pretty to waste my time in dusty old books—wasn't that nice?"
Her brother bit his lip, a week ago she would have been furious if someone had made such a sexist remark, but no—it seemed Mr Crozier could do no wrong. If only she knew...
Jennet watched Ben's clumsy efforts with the wood and took pity on him. "Really Ben," she said, "you're not practical at all, are you? Here, let me do it!"
"I can manage!"
"No you can't!" she grabbed the three main timbers and pushed each of them deep into the soft earth until the tepee structure was quite sturdy. "There," she grinned, "that's what should have been done in the first place."
Ben said nothing but stared truculently at the bonfire before leaving to fetch more wood. Jennet folded her arms and raised her eyebrows in the manner of Mrs Gregson. "Don't bother to thank me then!" she called after him.