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‘Step inside,’ Mrs Griffin said, brushing a spider-hair back from her furrowed brow.
But Harvey still hesitated, and he might have turned round and never stepped inside the House except that he heard a boy’s voice yelling:
‘I got ya! I got ya!’ followed by uproarious laughter.
‘Wendell!’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘Are you chasing the cats again?’
The sound of laughter grew even louder, and it was so full of good humour that Harvey stepped over the threshold and into the House just so that he could see the face of its owner.
He only got a brief look. A goofy, bespectacled face appeared for a moment at the other end of the hallway. Then a piebald cat dashed between the boy’s legs and he was off after it, yelling and laughing again.
‘He’s such a crazy boy,’ Mrs Griffin said, ‘but all the cats love him!’
The House was more wonderful inside than out. Even on the short journey to the kitchen Harvey glimpsed enough to know that this was a place built for games, chases and adventures. It was a maze in which no two doors were alike. It was a treasure-house where some notorious pirate had hidden his blood-stained booty. It was a resting place for carpets flown by djinns, and boxes sealed before the Flood, where the eggs of beasts that the earth had lost were trapped and waiting for the sun’s heat to hatch them.
‘It’s perfect!’ Harvey murmured to himself.
Mrs Griffin caught his words. ‘Nothing’s perfect,’ she replied.
‘Why not?’
‘Because time passes,’ she want on, staring down at the flowers she’d cut. ‘And the beetle and the worm find their way into everything sooner or later.’
Hearing this, Harvey wondered what grief it was Mrs Griffin had known or seen to make her so mournful.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, covering her melancholy with a tiny smile. ‘You didn’t come here to listen to my dirges. You came to enjoy yourself, didn’t you?’
‘I suppose I did,’ Harvey said.
‘So let me tempt you with some treats.’
Harvey sat himself down at the kitchen table, and within sixty seconds Mrs Griffin had set a dozen plates of food in front of him: hamburgers, hot dogs and fried chicken; mounds of buttered potatoes; apple, cherry and chocolate pies, ice cream and whipped cream; grapes, tangerines and a plate of fruits he couldn’t even name.
He set to eating with gusto, and was devouring his second slice of pie when a freckled girl with long, frizzy blonde hair and huge, blue-green eyes ambled in.
‘You must be Harvey,’ she said.
‘How did you know?’
‘Wendell told me.’
‘How did he know?’
She shrugged. ‘He just heard. I’m Lulu, by the way.’
‘Did you just arrive?’
‘No. I’ve been here ages. Longer than Wendell. But not as long as Mrs Griffin. Nobody’s been here as long as she has. Isn’t that right?’
‘Almost,’ said Mrs Griffin, a little mysteriously. ‘Do you want something to eat, sweetie?’
Lulu shook her head. ‘No thanks. I haven’t got much of an appetite at the moment.’
She nevertheless sat down opposite Harvey, stuck her thumb in the chocolate pie, and licked it clean.
‘Who invited you here?’ she asked.
‘A man called Rictus.’
‘Oh yes. The one with the grin?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He’s got a sister and two brothers,’ she went on.
‘You’ve met them then?’
‘Not all of them,’ Lulu admitted. ‘They keep themselves to themselves. But you’ll meet one or two of them sooner or later.’
‘I … don’t think I’ll be staying,’ Harvey said. ‘I mean my Mum and Dad don’t even know I’m here.’
‘Of course they do,’ Lulu replied. ‘They just didn’t tell you about it.’ This confused Harvey, and he said so. ‘Call your Mum and Dad,’ Lulu suggested. ‘Ask ’em.’
‘Can I do that?’ he wondered.
‘Of course you can,’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘The phone’s in the hallway.’
Carrying a spoonful of ice-cream with him, Harvey went to the phone and dialled. At first there was a whining sound on the line, as though a wind was in the wires. Then, as it cleared, he heard his Mum say:
‘Who is this?’
‘Before you start yelling—’ he began.
‘Oh, hello dear,’ his Mum cooed. ‘Have you arrived?’
‘Arrived?’
‘You are at the Holiday House, I hope.’
‘Yes, I am. But—’
‘Oh, good. I was worried in case you’d lost your way. Do you like it there?’
‘You knew I was coming?’ Harvey said, catching Lulu’s eye.
I told you, she mouthed.
‘Of course we knew,’ his Mum went on. ‘We invited Mr Rictus to show you the place. You looked so sad, you poor lamb. We thought you needed a little fun.’
‘Really?’ said Harvey, astonished by this turn of events.
‘We just want you to enjoy yourself,’ his Mum went on. ‘So you stay just as long as you want.’
‘What about school?’ he said.
‘You deserve a little time off,’ came the reply. ‘Don’t you worry about anything. Just have a good time.’
‘I will, Mum.’
‘’Bye, dear.’
‘’Bye.’
Harvey came away from the conversation shaking his head in amazement.
‘You were right,’ he said to Lulu. ‘They arranged everything.’
‘So now you don’t have to feel guilty,’ said Lulu. ‘Well, I expect I’ll see you around later, huh?’
And with that she ambled away.
‘If you’ve finished eating,’ Mrs Griffin said, ‘I’ll show you to your room.’
‘I’d like that.’
She duly led Harvey up the stairs. At the half-landing, basking on the sun-drenched windowsill, was a cat with fur the colour of the cloudless sky.
‘That’s Blue-Cat,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘You saw Stew-Cat playing with Wendell. I don’t know where Clue-Cat is, but he’ll find you. He likes new guests.’
‘Do you have a lot of people coming here?’
‘Only children. Very special children like you and Lulu and Wendell. Mr Hood won’t have just anybody.’
‘Who’s Mr Hood?’
‘The man who built the Holiday House,’ Mrs Griffin replied.
‘Will I meet him too?’
Mrs Griffin looked discomfited by the question. ‘Maybe,’ she said, her gaze averted. ‘But he’s a very private man.’
They were up on the landing by now, and Mrs Griffin led Harvey past a row of painted portraits to a room at the back of the House. It overlooked an orchard, and the warm air carried the smell of ripe apples into the room.
‘You look tired, my sweet,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘Maybe you should lie down for a little while.’
Harvey usually hated to sleep in the afternoon: it reminded him too much of having the flu, or the measles. But the pillow looked very cool and comfortable, and when Mrs Griffin had taken her leave he decided to lie down, just for a few minutes.
Either he was more tired than he’d thought, or the calm and comfort of the House rocked him into a slumber. Whichever, his eyes closed almost as soon as he put his head on the pillow, and they did not open again until morning.
IV
A Death Between Seasons
THE SUN came to wake him soon after dawn: a straight white dart of light, laid on his lids. He sat up with a start, wondering for a moment what bed this was, what room, what house. Then his memories of the previous day returned, and he realized that he’d slept through from late afternoon to early morning. The rest had strengthened him. He felt energetic, and with a whoop of pleasure he jumped out of bed and got dressed.
The House was more welcoming than ever today, the flowers Mrs Griffin had set on every table and sill singing with colour. The front door stood open, and sliding down the gleaming bannisters Harvey raced out on to the porch to inspect the morning.
A surprise awaited him. The trees which had been heavy with leaves the previous afternoon had shed their canopies. There were new, tiny buds on every branch and twig, as though this were the first day of spring.
‘Another day, another dollar,’ said Wendell, ambling round the corner of the House.
‘What does that mean?’ said Harvey.
‘It’s what my father used to say all the time. Another day, another dollar. He’s a banker, my Dad. Wendell Hamilton the Second. And me, I’m—’
‘Wendell Hamilton the Third.’
‘How’d ya know?’
‘Lucky guess. I’m Harvey.’
‘Yeah, I know. D’ya like tree-houses?’
‘I never had one.’
Wendell pointed up at the tallest tree. There was a platform perched up amongst the branches, with a rudimentary house built upon it.
‘I’ve been working up there for weeks,’ said Wendell, ‘but I can’t get it finished alone. Ya want to help me?’
‘Sure. But I’ve got to eat something first.’
‘Go and eat. I’ll be around.’
Harvey headed back inside, and found Mrs Griffin setting out a breakfast fit for a prince. There was milk spilt on the floor, and a cat with a tail hooked like a question mark lapping it up.
‘Clue-Cat?’ he said.
‘Yes indeed,’ Mrs Griffin said fondly. ‘He’s the wicked one.’
Clue-Cat looked up, as if he knew he was being talked about. Then he jumped up on to the table and searched amongst the plates of pancakes and waffles for something more to eat.
‘Can he do whatever he likes?’ Harvey said, watching the cat sniff at this and that. ‘I mean, does nobody control him?’
‘Ah, well, we all have somebody watching over us, don’t we?’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘Whether we like it or not. Now eat. You’ve got some wonderful times ahead of you.’
Harvey didn’t need a second invitation. He dug into his second meal at the Holiday House with even more appetite than he had the first, and then headed out to meet the day.
OH, WHAT A day it was!
The breeze was warm, and smelt of the green scent of growing things; the perfect sky was full of swooping birds. He sauntered through the grass, his hands in his pockets, like the lord of all he surveyed, calling to Wendell as he approached the trees.
‘Can I come up?’
‘If you’ve got a head for heights,’ Wendell dared him.
The ladder creaked as he climbed, but he made the platform without missing a step. Wendell was impressed.
‘Not bad for a new boy,’ he said. ‘We had two kids here couldn’t even get half-way up.’
‘Where’d they go?’
‘Back home, I s’pose. Kids come and go, you know?’
Harvey peered out through the branches, upon which every bud was bursting.
‘You can’t see much, can you?’ he said. ‘I mean, there’s no sign of the town at all.’
‘Who cares?’ said Wendell. ‘It’s just grey out there anyway.’
‘And it’s sunny here,’ Harvey said, staring down at the wall of misty stones that divided the grounds of the House from the outside world. ‘How’s that possible?’
Wendell’s answer was the same again: ‘Who cares?’ he said. ‘I know I don’t. Now, are we going to start building, or what?’
*
THEY SPENT THE NEXT two hours working on the tree house, descending a dozen times to dig through the timbers heaped beside the orchard, looking for boards to finish their repairs. By noon they’d not only found enough wood to fix the roof, but they had each found a friend. Harvey liked Wendell’s bad jokes, and that who cares? which found its way into every other sentence. And Wendell seemed just as happy to have Harvey’s company.
‘You’re the first kid who’s been real fun,’ he said.
‘What about Lulu?’
‘What about her?’
‘Isn’t she any fun?’
‘She was okay when I first arrived,’ Wendell admitted. ‘I mean, she’s been here months, so she kind of showed me the place. But she’s got weird the last few days. I see her sometimes wanderin’ around like she’s sleep-walkin’, with a blank expression on her face.’
‘She’s probably going crazy,’ Harvey said. ‘Her brain’s turning to mush.’
‘Do you know about that stuff?’ Wendell wanted to know, his face lighting up with ghoulish delight.
‘Of course I do,’ Harvey lied. ‘My Dad’s a surgeon.’
Wendell was most impressed by this, and for the next few minutes listened in gaping envy as Harvey told him about all the operations he’d seen: skulls sawn open and legs sawn off; feet sewn on where hands used to be, and a man with a boil on his behind that grew into a talking head.
‘You swear?’ said Wendell.
‘I swear,’ said Harvey.
‘That’s so cool.’
All this talk brought on a fierce hunger, and at Wendell’s suggestion they climbed down the ladder and wandered into the House to eat.
‘What do you want to do this afternoon?’ he asked Harvey as they sat down at the table. ‘It’s going to be really hot. It always is.’
‘Is there anywhere we can swim?’
Wendell frowned. ‘Well, yes …’ He said doubtfully. ‘There’s a lake round the other side of the House, but you won’t much like it.’
‘Why not?’
‘The water’s so deep you can’t even see the bottom.’
‘Are there any fish?’
‘Oh sure.’
‘Maybe we could catch some. Mrs Griffin could cook ’em for us.’
At this, Mrs Griffin, who was at the stove piling up a plate with onion rings, gave a little shout, and dropped the plate. She turned to Harvey, her face ashen.
‘You don’t want to do that,’ she said.
‘Why not?’ Harvey replied. ‘I thought I could do whatever I wanted.’
‘Well yes, of course you can,’ she told him. ‘But I wouldn’t want you to get sick. The fish are … poisonous, you see.’
‘Oh,’ said Harvey, ‘well maybe we won’t eat ’em after all.’
‘Look at this mess,’ Mrs Griffin said, fussing to cover her confusion. ‘I need a new apron.’
She hurried away to fetch one, leaving Harvey and Wendell to exchange puzzled looks.
‘Now I really have to see those fish,’ Harvey said.
As he spoke, the ever-inquisitive Clue-Cat jumped up on to the counter beside the stove, and before either of the boys could move to stop him he had his paws up on the lip of one of the pans.
‘Hey, get down!’ Harvey told him.
The cat didn’t care to take orders. He hoisted himself up on to the rim of the pan to sniff at its contents, his tail flicking back and forth. The next moment, disaster. The tail danced too close to one of the burners and burst into flames. Clue-Cat yowled, and tipped over the pan he was perched upon. A wave of boiling water washed him off the top of the stove, and he fell to the ground in a smoking heap. Whether drowned, scalded or incinerated, the end was the same: he hit the floor dead.
The din brought Mrs Griffin hurrying back.
‘I think I’m going to go and eat outside,’ Wendell said as the old woman appeared at the door. He snatched up a couple of hot dogs, and was gone.
‘Oh, my Lord!’ Mrs Griffin cried when she set eyes on the dead cat. ‘Oh … you foolish thing.’
‘It was an accident,’ Harvey said, sickened by what had happened. ‘He was up on the stove—’
‘Foolish thing. Foolish thing,’ was all Mrs Griffin seemed able to say. She sank down on to her knees, and stared at the sad little sack of burned fur. ‘No more questions from you,’ she finally murmured.
The sight of Mrs Griffin’s unhappiness made Harvey’s eyes sting, but he hated to have anyone see him cry, so he fought back his tears as best he could and said:
‘Shall I help you bury him?’ in his gruffest voice.
Mrs Griffin looked round. ‘That’s very sweet of you,’ she said softly. ‘But there’s no need. You go out and play.’
‘I don’t want to leave you on your own,’ Harvey said.
‘Oh, look at you, child,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘You’ve got tears on your cheeks.’
Harvey blushed and wiped them away with the back of his hand.
‘Don’t be ashamed to weep,’ Mrs Griffin said. ‘It’s a wonderful thing. I wish I could still shed a tear or two.’
‘You’re sad,’ Harvey said. ‘I can see that.’
‘What I feel is not quite sadness,’ Mrs Griffin replied. ‘And it’s not much solace, either, I’m afraid.’
‘What’s solace?’ Harvey asked.
‘It’s something soothing,’ Mrs Griffin said, getting to her feet. ‘Something that heals the pain in your heart.’
‘And you don’t have any of that?’
‘No, I don’t,’ Mrs Griffin said. She reached out and touched Harvey’s cheek. ‘Except maybe in these tears of yours. They comfort me.’ She sighed as she traced their tracks with her fingers. ‘Your tears are sweet, child. And so are you. Now you go out into the light and enjoy yourself. There’s sun on the step, and it won’t be there forever, believe me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll see you later then,’ Harvey said, and headed out into the afternoon.
V
The Prisoners
THE TEMPERATURE had risen while Harvey had been at lunch. A heat-haze hovered over the lawn (which was lusher and more thick with flowers than he remembered) and it made the trees around the House shimmer.
He headed towards them, calling Wendell’s name as he went. There was no reply. He glanced back towards the House, thinking he might see Wendell at one of the windows, but they were all reflecting the pristine blue. He looked from House to heavens. There was not a cloud in sight.
And now a suspicion stole upon him, which grew into a certainty as his gaze wandered back to the shimmering copse and the flowers underfoot. During the hour he’d spent in the cool of the kitchen the season had changed. Summer had come to Mr Hood’s Holiday House: a summer as magical as the spring that had preceded it.
That was why the sky was so faultlessly blue, and the birds making such music. The leaf-laden branches were no less content; nor the blossoms in the grass, nor the bees that buzzed from bloom to bloom, gathering the season’s bounty. All were in bliss.
It would not be a long season, Harvey guessed. If the spring had been over in a morning, then most likely this perfect summer would not outlast the afternoon.
I’d better make the most of it, he thought, and hurried in search of Wendell. He finally discovered his friend sitting in the shade of the trees, with a pile of comics at his side.
‘Wanna sit down and read?’ he asked.
‘Maybe later,’ said Harvey. ‘First I want to go and look at this lake you were talking about. Are you going to come?’
‘What for? I told you it’s no fun.’
‘All right, I’ll go on my own.’
‘You won’t stay long,’ Wendell remarked, and went back to his reading.
Though Harvey had a good idea of the lake’s general whereabouts, the bushes on that side of the House were thick and thorny, and it took him several minutes to find a way through them. By the time he caught sight of the lake itself the sweat on his face and back was clammy, and his arms had been scratched and bloodied by barbs.
As Wendell had predicted, the lake wasn’t worth the trouble. It was large – so large that the far side was barely visible – but gloomy and drear, both the lake and the dark stones around it covered with a film of green scum. There was a legion of flies buzzing around in search of something rotten to feed on, and Harvey guessed they’d have no trouble finding a feast. This was a place where dead things belonged.
He was about to leave when a movement in the shadows caught his eye. Somebody was standing further along the bank, almost eclipsed by the mesh of thicket. He moved a few paces closer to the lake, and saw that it was Lulu. She was perched on the slimy stones at the very edge of the water, gazing into their depths.
Speaking in a near-whisper for fear he’d startle her, Harvey said:
‘It looks cold.’
She glanced up at him, her face full of confusion, and then – without a word of reply – turned and bounded away through the bushes.
‘Wait!’ Harvey called, hurrying towards the lake.
Lulu had already disappeared however, leaving the thicket shaking. He might have gone in pursuit of her, except that the sound of bubbles breaking in the lake took his gaze to the waters, and there, moving just below the coating of scum, he saw the fish. They were almost as large as he was, their grey scales stained and encrusted, their bulbous eyes turned up towards the surface like the eyes of prisoners in a watery pit.
They were watching him, he was certain of that, and their scrutiny made him shudder. Were they hungry, he wondered, and praying to their fishy gods that he’d slip on the stones and tumble in? Or were they wishing he’d come with a rod and a line, so that they could be hauled out of the depths and put out of their misery?
What a life, he thought. No sun to warm them; no flowers to sniff at or games to play. Just the deep, dark waters to circle in; and circle, and circle, and circle.
It made him dizzy just watching, and he feared that if he lingered much longer he’d lose his balance and join them. Gasping with relief he turned his back on the sight, and returned into the sunlight as fast as the barbs would allow.
Wendell was still sitting underneath the tree. He had two bottles of ice-cold lemonade in the grass beside him, and lobbed one to Harvey as he approached.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘You were right,’ Harvey replied.
‘Nobody in their right mind ever goes there.’
‘I saw Lulu.’
‘What did I tell you?’ Wendell crowed. ‘Nobody in their right mind.’
‘And those fish—’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Wendell said, pulling a face. ‘Ugly boogers, aren’t they?’
‘Why would Mr Hood have fish like that? I mean, everything else is so beautiful. The lawns, the House, the orchard …’
‘Who cares?’ said Wendell.
‘I do,’ said Harvey. ‘I want to know everything there is to know about this place.’
‘Why?’
‘So I can tell my Mum and Dad about it when I go home.’
‘Home?’ said Wendell. ‘Who needs it? We’ve got everything we need here.’
‘I’d still like to know how all this works. Is there some kind of machine making the seasons change?’
Wendell pointed up through the branches at the sun. ‘Does that look mechanical to you?’ he said. ‘Don’t be a dope, Harvey. This is all real. It’s magic, but it’s real.’
‘You think so?’
‘It’s too hot to think,’ Wendell replied. ‘Now sit down and shut up.’ He tossed a few comics in Harvey’s direction. ‘Look through these. Find yourself a monster for tonight.’
‘What’s happening tonight?’
‘Hallowe’en of course,’ Wendell said. ‘It happens every night.’
Harvey plunked himself down beside Wendell, opened his bottle of lemonade and began to leaf through the comics, thinking as he leafed and sipped that maybe Wendell was right, and it was too hot to think. However this miraculous place worked, it seemed real enough. The sun was hot, the lemonade was cold, the sky was blue, the grass was green. What more did he need to know?