‘I don’t know, Sir.’
‘You don’t know, and neither do I, but here’s something I do know. This evening, when the rest of the group is listening to a story in the hotel lounge, you will be in your room writing two apologies – one to the children for having kept them waiting, and one to me for having disobeyed my instructions. When both apologies have been written to my satisfaction, this torch will be returned to you. In the meantime you can leave it with me. Go to your seat.’
‘What the heck did you do that for?’ whispered Fliss, as Lisa slid into her seat. Lisa was one of those girls who seldom step out of line and are rarely in trouble at school.
She shook her head miserably. ‘I don’t know, Fliss. I don’t even need a torch – I’ve got a better one at home. You’ll think I’m crazy, but I couldn’t help it – it was as though my feet were going by themselves.’
‘Oh, don’t you start,’ groaned Fliss.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘Nothing. Forget it.’ She looked out of the window. They passed a sign. North Yorkshire Moors National Park. The coach was climbing. Fliss gazed out as green pasture gave way to treeless desolation. She shivered.
‘HEY LOOK!’
A boy on the right-hand side near the front of the coach stood up and pointed. Everybody looked. Out of the bleak landscape rose three white, dome-shaped objects, like gigantic mushrooms breaking through the earth. As the coach carried them closer, they saw a scatter of low buildings and a fence. The great spheres, gleaming in the sunlight, looked like objects in a science-fiction movie.
‘Wow! What are they, Sir?’
Mr Hepworth got up. ‘That’s the Fylingdales early-warning station,’ he told them. ‘Inside those domes is radar equipment, operated by the British and American forces. It maintains a round-the-clock watch for incoming missiles. They say it would give us a three-minute warning.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Three minutes in which to do whatever we haven’t done yet and always wanted to.’
‘What would you do, Sir?’ asked a grinning Waseem Kader.
‘What would I do?’ The teacher thought for a moment. ‘I think I’d get a brick and throw it through the biggest window I could find.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve always fancied that.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t, Sir – I’d run to the Chinese and get chicken chop-suey ten times and gobble it right quick.’
‘Yeah!’ cried Sarah-Jane Potts. ‘That’s what I’d do and all – we wouldn’t have to pay, would we, Sir?’
‘I’d get a big club and smash our Shelley’s head in,’ said Ellie-May. ‘I hate her.’
‘There’d be no point, fathead!’ sneered a boy behind her. ‘She’d be dead in three minutes anyway.’
The noise level rose. Excited voices called back and forth across the coach as everybody tried to outdo everybody else in what they’d do with their last three minutes. The fact that many of them would have needed several hours or even days to carry out their plans was disregarded, and the discussion continued till the vehicle topped the highest rise and Mrs Marriott raised her voice, drawing everybody’s attention to the ruins of Whitby Abbey, which were now visible in the hazy distance.
Gary Bazzard knelt, leering at Fliss over the back of his seat. ‘See – that’s where Dracula lives – in the ruins. Old Hepworth told us.’
‘Old Hepworth told you no such thing.’
The boy’s remark had coincided with a lull in conversation as everybody strained for a glimpse of the abbey, and Mr Hepworth had heard it. ‘Old Hepworth told you that Bram Stoker, who created the character of Dracula, was inspired to do so after having seen the ruined abbey. Dracula does not live there or anywhere else. He is a figment of Stoker’s imagination, Gary Bazzard, and sometimes I wish the same might be said of you.’
There was laughter at this. The boy’s cheeks reddened as he resumed his seat. Fliss smiled faintly, gazing out at the distant ruins and beyond them to the sea.
It was ten past twelve when the coach drew up outside The Crow’s Nest Hotel. Mr and Mrs Wilkinson, who ran it, were standing on the top step waiting for them. Lisa flushed, remembering what Mr Hepworth had said about it being all her fault. She hoped he wouldn’t point her out to the Wilkinsons as the culprit.
‘Check under your seats and on the luggage rack,’ warned Mrs Marriott, as everybody stood up. ‘Don’t leave any of your property in the coach.’ The children checked, then filed slowly along the aisle and down on to the pavement. It was sunny, but a breeze blew from the sea, making it cooler than it would now be in Bradford. The driver went round the back and started unloading bags and cases, which their owners quickly claimed.
Fliss looked at the hotel. There was something vaguely familiar about the steps. The porch. Even the breeze, and the distant sound of the sea.
When everybody had their luggage Mr Hepworth led them into the hotel. Fliss looked at the iron bird on the black gate. For a moment she thought it was meant to be a gull, but then she remembered the name of the place and decided it was probably a crow. Somebody had made a poor job of painting it. Drips had run down to the edges of its wings and hardened there, giving them a webbed, spiky appearance, so that it looked more like a bat than a bird.
‘RIGHT, LISTEN!’
Lunch over, they had crammed themselves into the lounge with all their baggage, squeezing into chairs and settees, perching on the edges of tables, sitting on bags and cases on the floor while the three teachers sorted out room allocations and other matters with the Wilkinsons in the hallway. They had taken in the view from the bay window, looked at the prints round the walls and were starting to get restless when Mr Hepworth stuck his head through the doorway.
‘I’m waiting, Andrew Roberts.’ The noise faded as Andrew Roberts stopped using the top of his suitcase as a drum and everybody looked towards the teacher. ‘There are bedrooms on four floors in this hotel, and two rooms to a floor. I’m going to give you your room numbers now, and tell you which floor your room is on. As soon as you know your floor and number, I want you to pick up your luggage and walk quietly up to your room. What do I want you to do, Gemma Carlisle?’
‘Sir, go up to our room, Sir.’
‘And how do I want you to go?’
‘Walking quietly, Sir.’
‘Right.’ Mr Hepworth glared about the crowded room from under dark, bushy eyebrows. ‘Walking quietly. Not charging up the stairs like a crazed rhinoceros, swinging your case, smashing vases and screaming at the top of your voice. And when you find your room, go in and wait. Don’t touch anything, and don’t start fighting about whose bed is which, or who’s going to have this wardrobe or that drawer. The teacher responsible for your floor will come and sort all that out as soon as possible.’ He put on his spectacles and began reading from a list.
‘Joanne O’Connor, Maureen O’Connor, Felicity Morgan and Marie Nero, top floor, room ten.’
‘Aw, Sir –’
‘Moaning already, Felicity?’
‘Me and Lisa wanted to be together, Sir.’
‘Well you’re not, are you? We’d be here all day if we started trying to put everybody with their best friend. Off you go.’ He scanned his list again. ‘Vicky Holmes, Samantha Storey and Lisa Watmough, top floor, room eleven.’
Fliss carried her case up the stairs. There were brown photographs in frames all the way up. Ships and boats with sails. Old-time fisherfolk in bulky clothes. A wave breaking over a jetty.
Room ten contained a pair of bunk-beds and a double bed. There were two wardrobes, a chest of drawers and a dressing-table. The carpet was green and thin. A small washbasin stood in one corner. A brown photograph on the wall showed two children playing with a toy boat in a rock-pool.
Maureen went to the window. ‘Hey! We’re ever so high. You can see the sea from here.’ Joanne and Marie went to look. Fliss put her case down and joined them. Beyond the road an expanse of close-mown grass, bisected by a footpath, stretched almost to the clifftop. There were wooden seats at intervals along the footpath. A
way to the left was something which might be a crazy-golf course, while to the right stood a shelter with benches and large windows, and a telephone kiosk. In the shelter an old woman sat. She was dressed in black, and seemed to be looking straight at them. Beyond all this, glinting blue-grey under the sun, lay the sea.
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ breathed Marie.
‘Hmm.’ Maureen’s eyes followed a gull that swooped and soared along the line of the cliff. Joanne peered towards the horizon and thought she could make out the long, low shape of a ship – a tanker, perhaps.
Fliss gazed out to sea too, but she wasn’t looking for a ship. She was thinking, Marie’s right. It is lovely, but not nearly so beautiful as at night, when the moon makes a silver path across the water.
Behind them somebody knocked loudly on the door and flung it open. ‘Hey, Fliss!’ It was Lisa. ‘We’re right next door – come and see our room.’
Fliss was starting towards the door when Mrs Marriott’s voice sounded on the landing. ‘What are you doing there, Lisa Watmough? Didn’t you hear Mr Hepworth say you were to wait in your room?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ There was a scampering noise. Lisa’s face disappeared. Fliss waited a moment then looked out. There was nobody on the landing. The door of number eleven was half-open, and she heard Mrs Marriott asking Lisa if she didn’t think she’d caused enough trouble for one day.
There were two other doors. One had twelve on it, and Fliss guessed that was the bathroom. The other had no number, but she knew what number it would have if it had. She was gazing at it, wondering what sort of room it concealed when Mrs Marriott came out of number eleven.
‘Why are you standing there, Felicity Morgan?’ she enquired.
‘Please, Miss, I was just wondering what sort of room that is.’ She pointed to the numberless door.
The teacher glanced at it. ‘Linen cupboard, I should think.’
‘It’s big for a cupboard, Miss.’
The teacher nodded. ‘Hotels need big cupboards, Felicity. All those sheets. Or it could be a broom cupboard, I suppose. Anyway, let’s get your room organized.’
Felicity got the bottom bunk. She was glad. She hadn’t fancied sharing the double bed. Mrs Marriott put Joanne and Maureen in that. They were twins, so that was all right. Marie had the top bunk. They had half an hour to unpack, put their things away and tidy up, then everybody was going down to the seafront for a look around.
Excited, anxious to be off, Fliss’s three companions worked quickly. They chattered and giggled, but Fliss was silent. She was wondering when it was that she’d seen the sea under the moon, and noticing how broom rhymes with room, and also with doom.
IT WAS THREE o’clock when the children gathered on the pavement outside the hotel. There were thirty-one of them, and Mr Hepworth split them into two groups of ten and one of eleven, with girls and boys in each group. ‘Remember your group,’ he said, ‘because we’ll be in groups a lot of the time while we’re here.’ Fliss found herself in Mrs Evans’ group, and to her disgust Gary Bazzard was in it too. Gary was pretty disgusted himself, because his best friend David Trotter had ended up in Mrs Marriott’s group. Lisa was in that group too.
It was breezy, but sunny and quite warm. The groups set off at intervals, turning right and walking in twos down North Terrace towards Captain Cook’s monument and the whalebone arch. Fliss’s group went second. As they passed the shelter, Fliss saw that the old woman was still there. She was gazing towards the hotel and seemed to be talking to herself. The first group was looking at the monument, so Mrs Evans led them to the arch.
‘Now: can anybody tell me why there should be a whalebone arch at Whitby?’ she asked. ‘Yes, Roger?’
‘For people to walk through, Miss.’
‘Yes, Roger, I know it’s for people to walk through, but why should it be made from whalebone? Anybody?’
Tara Matejak raised her hand. She was Fliss’s partner. ‘Miss, because there were whaling ships at Whitby in the olden days.’
‘That’s right, Tara. And who knows why whales were valuable? Roger?’
‘Oil, Miss. They used whale-oil for margarine and lamps and that. And they used the bones for women’s dresses, Miss.’
‘That’s right.’ Mrs Evans shielded her eyes with her hand and squinted up at the arch. ‘What part of the whale’s skeleton is this arch made from, d’you think?’
‘Its jawbones, Miss,’ said Maureen.
‘Right. And they’ve put something on top, haven’t they – it looks like an arrow. Can anybody guess what it actually is?’
Everybody gazed up at the object but nobody answered. After a moment Mrs Evans said, ‘Well, I’m not absolutely sure, but it looks to me like the tip of a harpoon. An old-fashioned harpoon – the sort they threw by hand from the bows of a whaleboat. Who’s read Moby Dick?’
‘Miss, I’ve seen Jaws on the telly.’
‘What on earth has that got to do with it, Richard Varley?’
‘Miss, nothing, Miss.’
‘Then don’t be so stupid, you silly boy!’
Nobody had read Moby Dick.
Mr Hepworth’s group was now approaching, so Mrs Evans led Fliss and the others to Captain Cook’s monument. They surrounded it, looking at the lengthy inscriptions on its plinth.
‘Who can tell us something about Captain Cook?’
‘Miss, he had one eye and one arm.’
‘Rubbish, Michael Tostevin! That was Lord Nelson. Yes, Joanne?’
‘He had a peg leg, Miss, and a parrot on his shoulder.’
‘That was Long John Silver, dear – a fictitious character.’ Mrs Evans sounded tired.
When they’d finished with Captain Cook, they went down a flight of stone steps on to a road called the Khyber Pass, and from there to the sea-front. There, Mrs Evans turned them loose for a while to join their classmates on the sands, while she sank on to a bench which already supported her two colleagues.
Fliss found Lisa at the water’s edge. ‘What d’you think of it so far?’
Lisa pulled a face. ‘Dead captains. Dead whales. Dead boring.’
Fliss laughed. ‘It’s OK down here though, isn’t it?’
Lisa nodded. ‘You bet. Let’s find some flat pebbles and play at skimming.’
THEY PLAYED ON the sand for an hour or so, until Mr Hepworth called them together at the foot of the slipway which connected the promenade with the beach.
‘Right. What I thought we’d do between now and teatime is this: walk along the road here and have a look at the fish quay, then along the quayside to the swing-bridge and over into the old town. There are lots of interesting shops in the old town, including some specializing in Whitby jet. We could have a look in some of the windows, but I don’t think we should shop today – otherwise some of us might run out of pocket-money halfway through the week. At the end of the old town is a flight of steps leading up to the abbey and a church. There are a lot of steps, and I want you to count them as we go up and tell me how many there are. We’ll go in groups again – d’you know your group, Barry Tune?’
‘Sir.’
‘Good. Here we go, then.’
The three teachers moved apart and called their groups to them. The children got into twos, and this time Fliss had Gary for a partner. He grinned at her. ‘Holding hands, are we?’
‘No chance. I’ve to eat my tea with this hand when we get back.’
‘I’ll be using a knife and fork.’
‘Ha, ha, ha.’
They looked at the fish dock, but there were no boats in and the sheds with their stacks of fish-boxes were shut. They went along the quayside, threading their way between strolling holiday-makers, looking in shop windows or at the different kinds of boats in the harbour. There was that exciting smell in the air which you get at the seaside – that blend of salt and mud and fish and sweet rottenness which has you breathing deeply and makes you tingle.
They were taking their time – the evening meal was not until six-thirty – and Flis
s was looking at a coble with her name, Felicity, painted on its prow when Gary grabbed her hand and cried, ‘Hey – look at this!’
‘What?’ She spoke irritably and jerked her hand away, but looked where he pointed and saw a narrow building with dark windows and a sign which said ‘The Dracula Experience’. A tall man with a pale face, dressed all in black, smiled from the doorway at the passing group. His teeth seemed quite ordinary.
Gary raised his hand and waved it at Mrs Evans. ‘Miss – can we go in here, Miss, please?’
Mrs Evans, who had been looking out over the harbour, turned. She saw the building, read the sign, smiled faintly and shook her head. ‘Not just now, Gary. On Thursday, everybody will be given some free time to shop for presents and spend what’s left of their money in whatever way they choose. You’ll be able to buy yourself some Dracula Experience then.’ She looked into the eyes of the smiling man and added, loudly, ‘If you must.’
They crossed the bridge and sauntered through the narrow streets of the old town till they came to the church steps. By the time they reached the top, Fliss was out of breath. She’d counted a hundred and ninety-seven steps but Mr Hepworth, whose group had got there first, said there were a hundred and ninety-nine and she believed him.
The top of the steps gave on to an old graveyard. Weathered stones leaned at various angles, so eroded you couldn’t read the epitaphs. Long grass rippled in the wind. There was a church, and a breathtaking view of Whitby and the sea.
They had a look inside the church. It was called St Mary’s. Mr Hepworth pointed out its special features. You could buy postcards and souvenirs by the door. Fliss bought a postcard of the ruined abbey to send home. When they were gathered outside she said, ‘Are we going to the ruins, Sir?’ She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to or not.
‘Not today, Felicity. We’ll be looking at them on Wednesday morning, before we set off to walk to Saltwick Bay.’
They poked about in the churchyard for a while and visited the toilets near the abbey. Then they descended the hundred and ninety-nine steps and began making their way back to The Crow’s Nest. The fresh air and exercise had sharpened everybody’s appetite, and most of the children spent the walk back wondering what was for tea. Fliss did not. She was thinking about the landing at the top of the house, and what it would be like in the dark. The funny thing was, she seemed to know.
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