First published in Great Britain in 1991 by Simon & Schuster Young Books

This edition published 2017 by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 1991 Robin Jarvis

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

First e-book edition 2017

ISBN 978 1 4052 8540 7

Ebook ISBN 978 1 7803 1775 5

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Map illustration copyright © 2017 Robin Jarvis

Cover and interior illustrations copyright © 2017 Rohan Eason

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

I Difficult Cases

II Eurydice

III The Ladies’ Circle

IV The Aufwader

V A Grisly Catch

VI Cream Cakes and Death

VII The Figure on the Cliff

VIII Knife and Tooth

IX ‘But a Little Time to Live’

X Eurydice Again

XI The Half Child

XII Once in Nine Hundred Years

XIII Struggle at Sea

XIV The Empress of the Dark

Special Bonus Material

Look, look! Down on the sands of Tate Hill Pier; see there, my friend. Three small, strange figures – do you not see them? Listen to them calling to the cliff. Ah, the sound is lost on the wind. But, there, you must see them – they are searching for something. One of them stops and turns to us – its jet-black eyes glare up at me.

It is not quite dawn and the light is poor, perhaps that is why you cannot see. You tell me to come indoors, you say the damp morning has chilled me and take my arm. I glance back; the figures have gone. Can I have seen the fisher folk? The old whalers of Whitby town?

The boats will soon return with their catches. I must speak to no one. I shall let the fisher folk be and try to forget them. Perhaps when I sit by the fire, as my toes uncurl and my head begins to nod, that face shall haunt my dreams.

No, they are but childhood fancies and I am too old. The kettle whistles on the stove and I draw on the pipe which trembles in my shaking hand. Yes, it is a cold morning and I am chilled.

I

DIFFICULT CASES

Mrs Rodice perched herself on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips. She was relieved, for two of her more trying charges had left today – she had put them on the train personally. A delicious shudder ran down her spine as she sank her small, irregular teeth into a dunked digestive. This was her favourite part of the day – a special, secretive hour when she could close the door and relax with her Royal Doulton and occasional romantic novel.

Margaret Rodice ran a hostel for children, those whose parents were dead, indifferent or ‘inside’. It was a difficult, demanding role: trying to manage a maximum of sixteen young people while at the whim of the local authority grant policy. If only Mr Rodice had not departed from the world so shortly after their wedding. She wondered how different her life would have been; perhaps there would have been children of her own – even a grandchild by now.

Mrs Rodice rattled the cup on its saucer in agitation and placed them both on her desk. She really must stop dwelling on the past. Donald was a vague shadow from her youth and she rarely thought of him now – up until recently, that is. But now that creepy little boy had gone and she hoped things would get back to normal. Oh, for the run-of-the-mill occurrences: the runaways, the girls who pinched, even (God forbid) nits would be welcome after the turmoil of the last three months.

She rose to peer out of the narrow window and watched the rain streak down over Leeds. After some minutes of contemplating, Mrs Rodice returned to her desk, but refrained from draining her cup. The tea leaves at the bottom would only remind her of the recent troubles.

‘Of course I was right to send that letter,’ she reassured herself. ‘Even if the old bat does know someone on the board, she had to be aware of what she was letting herself in for.’ Mrs Rodice shook her head at the folly of the old woman in question.

‘At her age! I ask you,’ she addressed the table lamp. ‘Well, it won’t last – it never does with them.’ A thin smile twitched her mouth. ‘Still,’ she muttered, shuffling her papers, ‘whatever happens, they’re not coming back here.’

She bent her greying head over the spread of forms and took up her pen purposefully, then with a tut of consternation looked up at the ceiling and groaned. ‘I hope Yvonne won’t wet again tonight.’

Ben stared out of the window and watched the green landscape race by. He pressed his face against the glass and the motion of the train vibrated through his nose.

‘Don’t do that,’ sighed the girl beside him, as she pulled him back to his seat.

The boy squirmed and plucked crumbs of sausage roll from his sweater. ‘Bored, Jen,’ he grumbled.

Jennet fished a comic out of a large blue canvas bag beside her and shoved it under her brother’s nose.

‘I’ve read it,’ he said, without bothering to look.

The girl let the comic sprawl on the table and turned away. Ben’s eyes flickered over the colourful pages. He pursed his mouth with his usual show of contempt and returned his attention to the window. A curtain of silence and resentment fell between the children.

The train slowed and pulled into Middlesborough. Ben twisted on his seat, his eyes following the people who got off. He was eight years old, a serious-looking boy with mousy hair and eyes which were set unusually deep below his frowning brows. His sister, Jennet, had the same oval face and unremarkable, blobby nose, but her long waving hair was darker and her eyes were less troubled.

The guard strode by, slamming the doors of the carriages, and Ben kicked the seat impatiently with his heels. Jennet said nothing but looked at him disapprovingly. Ben considered himself scolded and the kicks subsided.

‘We nearly there?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I don’t think it’s far now,’ she answered.

Ben abandoned the delights of the window and faced his sister. With one of his disconcerting stares, he asked her soberly, ‘Jen, what do you think it will be like this time? Will we be there long?’

The girl shrugged. ‘Miss Boston’s old, that’s all I could get out of the Rodice.’

At the mention of that name Ben screwed up his face. ‘I hated her,’ he said passionately. ‘I’m glad we’re not there now. She used to frighten me.’

‘Not as much as you frightened her,’ remarked his sister dryly. ‘Listen, remember what I said.’ A warning note crept into her voice. ‘You’re not to talk of that with this one, right?’

Ben nodded and hastened to change the subject. ‘Will we really live near the sea, Jen?’

‘Yes, I think I heard Rodice say Whitby was on the coast – it’s the end of the line, anyway.’

‘And did Peter Pan live there too?’

Jennet picked up his discarded comic and flicked through it herself. ‘Peter Pan?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Yes. Mr Glennister who put them flags down last week told me Captain Hook came from there.’

‘He must have been pulling your leg, then,’ said Jennet flatly.

‘Oh.’ Ben was deflated and slouched back. ‘Didn’t like them flags anyway,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s no grass left now.’

‘Rodice said it would be cheaper in the long run,’ said Jennet distractedly. Then she raised her head and, imitating Mrs Rodice’s humourless nasal tones, added, ‘Grass needs regular mowing in the summer and in the winter the passages are covered in mud.’

Ben chuckled; he approved of anything that made fun of the dreaded Rodice. He rubbed his eyes, then asked, ‘Don’t you know anything else about this place?’

But Jennet was trying to concentrate on the comic, and ignored him. A year – perhaps eight months – before she would have been nervous and excited at the prospect of moving to somewhere new. She might even have looked the place up in the library to learn something about it beforehand. But that was four different foster homes ago.

‘I think I’ll like the sea,’ continued Ben. ‘Have I been to the seaside before, Jen?’

‘When you were five.’

‘Were they there too?’

She coughed and stared at the comic intently. ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly.

Ben frowned and put on his most serious face. ‘What I mean is . . .’ he struggled to choose the right words, ‘were they really there?’

Jennet threw the comic down and snapped sharply, ‘You’ve seen that photo of us, haven’t you?’

Ben’s eyes grew large and pleading. ‘Not for a long time, Jen – you won’t show me the photos any more. Couldn’t I see just one of them now?’

‘No, they’re at the bottom of the bag. Besides, you don’t need to see photos of Mum and Dad, do you?’ It was an accusation, spat out bitterly. She folded her arms crossly and stared down the carriage at a toddler sleeping in his mother’s arms. Ben began to kick the seat again and rested his head sulkily on the window.

Jennet was tense. In the past they had always met the foster families before going to stay with them, but this time everything was different and rushed. Mrs Rodice was probably only too glad to get them off her hands and no doubt had hurried the procedures along. Still, it was very odd. The first Jennet had heard of this Miss Boston was two weeks ago, but presumably negotiations had been going on long before that. Jennet was curious. Why would an old woman go out of her way to foster two children she had never even seen, and why would the authorities let her? If only the Rodice had said more. But then Jennet had not bothered to probe into the matter very deeply. She and Ben had never had much say about where they were shunted off to, and now that they were categorised as ‘difficult cases’ they had none at all.

Jennet was now beginning to regret her lack of interest. Miss Boston seemed such a mysterious figure. All she knew about her was that she was old. Would Miss Boston be there in person to meet them at Whitby station, she wondered, and just how old was she?

Jennet allowed a smirk to spread over her face; perhaps some wizened hag in a bath chair would be waiting for them. A new thought struck her: maybe the old lady had money. That would explain the haste with which their fostering had gone through the system. The bath chair vanished abruptly from beneath the imaginary figure and was replaced by an ancient Rolls Royce, with a chauffeur in grey livery holding open the door. Inside was the same old woman, now swathed in furs, her wrinkled hands dripping with diamonds.

If money was involved Jennet wondered whether she would be sent to a posh school. That’s what rich people did with children. It was an unwelcome thought and she mulled it over miserably. She and Ben had not been separated since the accident. Jennet could not imagine life without her brother, however much trouble he caused.

The stations the train stopped at were becoming smaller, their names spelled out in whitewashed stones on well-mown slopes. Some even had hanging baskets dangling from the eaves. It was like taking a journey back to the age of steam and Jennet half-listened for the ‘chuff chuff ’ she had heard in old films.

The scenery was beautiful. Wild expanses of rolling moorland dotted with sheep shot by, then a dense pine forest, some farm buildings with a gypsy caravan parked outside, and then more wide acres of heather, cut through by a little brook.

The railway track became a single line. Just how far away was Whitby? It seemed as if they were going beyond the reaches of the civilised world. Jennet wondered how regularly the trains went there and wished she had thought to look at a timetable when they had changed at Darlington.

‘Look,’ said Ben excitedly, ‘there’s a river and there’s a boat, see!’

A ribbon of water ran parallel to the track. For some moments it was obscured by dense trees, then was revealed once more, wider than before. Buildings clustered on the far bank and the river swelled into a marina, with yachts. Jennet caught a glimpse of a high cliff, then the vision was snatched from view and the train, wheezing with exhaustion, finally drew into Whitby station.

‘I saw the sea,’ declared Ben, jumping up and down on the seat. ‘And there were lots of fishing boats. Listen to the seagulls, Jen.’

She grunted an acknowledgement and stuffed the wreckage of the journey into her large blue bag. She left the empty can of lemonade and two brown apple cores on the table and told Ben to put his coat on.

‘But it isn’t cold,’ he protested obstinately.

‘Put it on,’ she insisted.

Ben mumbled a sentence, but the only word Jennet could catch was ‘bossy’. When he had fastened the top button of his coat, she guided him in front of her and swung the heavy bag over her shoulder.

There were only a few other passengers on the train; they filed past the children with neat little suitcases and hold-alls, smiling as they gave their tickets to the man at the barrier. Ben stared at the sky. The rain had left behind a bright August day with big white clouds rolling inland. The seagulls circled high above and cried raucously.

‘I can’t see anyone,’ said Jennet, looking up the platform. ‘Come on, maybe she’s waiting for us outside in her car.’

They trudged up to the barrier and Jennet began to rummage in her pockets for the tickets. The ticket collector cast a weary glance their way and held his hand out impatiently. Ben stared up at him and pretended to pick his nose. The man set his jaw and glared down icily. Jennet, meanwhile, was still rifling through her pockets.

‘Come on now, miss,’ said the man.

Jennet was flustered; she could not think what had happened to the tickets.

‘Has it arrived, George?’ came a brisk female voice.

The ticket collector turned and nodded to the newcomer. ‘Aye, an’ three minutes early, Miss Boston.’

Jennet looked up sharply. There, with her hands clasped firmly behind her back, stood a stout, white-haired woman. She wore a jacket of sage-green tweed with a matching skirt, and on her head sat a shapeless velvet hat. The cobweb lines around her grey, bird-like eyes suggested the old lady’s age to be about seventy but her stance was like someone much younger.

‘Ah, three minutes, is that so?’ Miss Boston spoke challengingly and raised her eyebrows at the ticket collector. ‘Well, well, what a day for wonders, to be sure.’

Then the old woman saw the children and her face lit up. The eyes blinked and disappeared and the rolls of skin beneath the chin shook like jelly. ‘Oh, these must be mine,’ she cried, clapping her hands together like an eager child.

‘Yours, Miss Boston?’ asked the ticket collector, baffled.

‘Yes, yes, George. Now let them through that wretched thing.’

‘But they an’t give me their tickets.’

‘Oh stuff !’ she exclaimed in exasperation. ‘Let them through at once, they’re with me.’ And she stamped her foot and gave the man a look which no one would have dared to disobey.

‘This is most irreg’lar,’ he said as the children squeezed past him, ‘most irreg’lar.’

Miss Boston clucked gleefully as she ran her keen eyes over Jennet and Ben. ‘Let me have a good look at you,’ she demanded. ‘So, you’re Jennet.’

‘Yes,’ the girl replied, returning the interested stare.

‘Pretty name – far better than Janet or Jeanette. Now I believe you are twelve, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mmm. You look older – act it too. Not surprising, really.’ Miss Boston nodded as though satisfied with the girl and turned her attention to the boy.

‘And this is Benjamin, I presume.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

The child stared back and said nothing.

‘He’s shy with strangers,’ put in Jennet.

‘Of course he is,’ the woman returned. ‘All sensitive children are timid.’

‘Ben’s not sensitive, just shy,’ corrected Jennet firmly.

‘Ah, yes – you must forgive me.’ Miss Boston’s face looked like someone guiltily sucking a boiled sweet. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘I trust I shan’t be considered a stranger for very much longer – by either of you.’ Her smile was warm and genuine. ‘Now, come,’ she cried, waving them out of the station, ‘let us retire to my home and have a bite to eat before you unpack.’

As they left the station Jennet saw for the first time the town of Whitby. The girl stood stock still and absorbed the sight breathlessly. The station was close to the quayside and the harbour was filled with fishing boats, from large fat vessels with wide hulls and tall radio masts down to the simplest coble, painted red and white. Close by there was a long red boat which ran fishing trips for the tourists.

On the far side of the harbour was a jumble of buildings with roofs of terracotta tiles, nestling snugly alongside each other like a queue of nervous bathers waiting for someone to take the first leap into the water. They were built on a steep cliffside and the hotch-potch of sandstone and whitewash somehow seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape. They felt right, as though they had been there from earliest times and without them the land would be naked and ugly.

Jennet’s eyes scanned up beyond the houses, to where the high plain of the cliff reached out to the sea. She gasped and stared. For there, surmounting everything, was a ragged crown of grey stone – the abbey.

The building was in ruins, but that did not diminish its power. The abbey had dominated Whitby for centuries and waves of invisible force flowed down from it. The ruin was a guardian, watching and waiting, caring for the little town that huddled beneath the cliff. It was a worshipful thing.

Miss Boston nodded. ‘Yes,’ she sighed dreamily, ‘the abbey. It is indeed lovely. There has been a church on that site for at least fourteen hundred years. One gets a marvellous sense of permanence, living under such an enduring symbol of faith. If one believes in the genius loci – the spirit of place – then surely therein dwells something divine. The Vikings came, Henry did his best to destroy the abbey with the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in the Great War German ships bombarded it. Yet still it stands – stubborn and wonderful. They say a true inhabitant of Whitby is lost if he cannot see the abbey.’ She paused and looked at the ground. ‘Well,’ she went on again breezily, ‘there I go, off at tangents again. You two may have eaten but I have not. Come, tea awaits.’

Jennet dragged her eyes from the cliff and glanced about the road. ‘Where’s your car?’ she asked curiously.

Miss Boston puffed herself up indignantly. ‘A car?’ she cried, her chins wobbling. ‘I don’t need a car. Whitby is not big enough to warrant the use of an automobile, child. However, I do have transport, now you mention it.’ She strode round to where an old black bicycle was leaning against the station wall.

Jennet bit her lip to stop herself cracking up with laughter at the thought of the old woman riding round on that. Had she and Ben come to stay with the local nutter?

Miss Boston announced that she would not ride but walk, for the sake of the children. ‘Now, this way,’ she declared, setting off. The bicycle clattered and whirred beside her.

Ben had been silent since they had met but by now he had decided that the old woman was harmless and much friendlier than the Rodice. There were none of those phoney smiles and patronising looks which were a feature of the Rodice’s way with children. He was also relieved that this adult had not tried to pat him on the head or ruffle his hair, like some others had done.

Now his excited eyes saw the fishing boats with their gleaming paintwork, orange nets and lobster pots. A twinge of pleasure tugged at his insides when he thought of actually sailing in one of them. It was not impossible. If the old woman liked him and Jennet and if he kept quiet about certain things, they might stay here just long enough.

Ben was already beginning to find Whitby a thrilling place, full of possibilities. Suddenly he remembered again what Mr Glennister had told him. As he walked behind his sister along the New Quay Road a determined expression crossed his face and, forgetting his bashfulness, he pulled at the old woman’s sleeve.

‘Where’s Peter Pan?’ he demanded.

Miss Boston stopped and blinked. ‘Whatever does the dear boy mean?’ she asked Jennet in surprise.

‘He was told Captain Hook lived here,’ explained the girl in an apologetic tone.

Miss Boston hooted loudly and frightened some gulls on the quayside. ‘Bless me, Benjamin,’ she chuckled, ‘it’s Cook, not Hook. Captain Cook lived here.’

‘Oh,’ murmured Ben. He felt babyish and all the shyness returned in a great flood. He waited for the old woman to call him stupid, but instead she said something quite unexpected.

‘Peter Pan, eh?’ Miss Boston mused to herself. ‘Do you know, young man, you have crystallised something I have felt without realising. For some time I have sensed that there is, oh how shall I say? something special about this place of ours. It almost seems to have been neglected by time. Oh yes, we have motor cars passing through and amusement arcades on the West Cliff, which scream of the twentieth century, plus of course the summer visitors snapping their cameras, yet . . . there is an aspect of the town which belongs to the past. Never-Never Land is a good comparison . . . yes, most interesting. How perceptive you are.’

She wheeled her bicycle on once more. Ben looked up at Jennet, who gave him a frosty stare.

‘Just don’t be too perceptive,’ she whispered harshly.

‘Captain James Cook was a very famous mariner,’ Miss Boston called to them over her shoulder. ‘He lived for some time in Grape Lane on the East Cliff – we shall pass by there on the way to my cottage. He discovered Australia, you know. Still, we must not hold that against the man.’

They came to a bridge spanning the river. It was only wide enough to take one line of traffic at a time and was jammed with pedestrians, swarming everywhere.

‘Our busiest time of year,’ Miss Boston explained as she ploughed her way through. ‘We’ve just got over our regatta and the folk week starts in two days.’

‘Folk week?’ queried Jennet.

‘Yes, with lots of morris dancing – people come from miles. The town is always packed with bearded men who black their faces and walk about in clogs – such fun.’

When they were halfway across the bridge, Ben glanced back. The road they had left was just beginning to get interesting. He heard the crackle of electronic guns and the amplified voice of the bingo caller. A row of glittering arcades stretched out towards the sea beneath another cliff.

‘That is the West Cliff,’ said Miss Boston as she negotiated her way through a crowd of giggling girls. ‘Traditionally the East Cliff was for the fishermen and the West for the holidaymakers. Of course it’s got a little mixed up over the years; most of the fishermen can’t afford to live here any more so they have to travel in.’

They reached the far side of the river. ‘Down there is Grape Lane,’ indicated Miss Boston, waving her hand.

The buildings of the East Cliff were more densely bunched together than Jennet had at first thought. They had been built in the days before planning permission was heard of and their higgledy-piggledy clusters formed a vast number of dark alleys, lanes and yards. The Whitby of the East Cliff was gazing at the world from an earlier time all its own.

Miss Boston led them up a narrow cobbled road called Church Street. It was the main thoroughfare of the East Cliff, yet still cars had difficulty making their way down it. Old buildings hunched over on either side in a forbidding manner and tiny lanes led off through sudden openings to unseen doorways.

‘Afternoon, Alice.’ A thin, elderly woman greeted Miss Boston courteously. She had the palest blue eyes that Jennet had ever seen and her silvery hair was scraped tightly over her head, to be bound in a fist-sized bun at the back. She wore a grey cardigan over a lemon yellow blouse, fastened at the neck by a cameo brooch, and clasped a brown handbag primly in front of her.

‘Oh, Prudence,’ returned Miss Boston hastily. ‘Did you manage to come across that book?’

The other shook her head and sniffed. ‘Sorry, Alice – must have thrown it out with Howard’s things after all. Never kept much of his stuff you know.’ Her voice was clipped and precise. Then she regarded the children and waited for an explanation.

‘My guests, Prudence: Jennet and Benjamin.’

‘Yes, well. They’re younger than I thought. I hope you know what you’re doing.’ She then continued the conversation, ignoring the children completely. ‘Actually, Alice, I have just come from your cottage. That Gregson woman told me you were not at home.’ She shook herself and adjusted the cameo. ‘So I was about to take myself off to call on Tilly. Haven’t seen her for over a week – more kittens I imagine. It’s all getting too ridiculous. Well, must cut along. Goodbye.’ And with that, she walked briskly away.

‘Don’t forget Sunday,’ Miss Boston called after her.

Without slowing her brisk stride the woman raised her hand dismissively and called back, ‘Naturally.’ Then she was lost in the crowds.

Miss Boston turned back to the children and sucked her breath in sharply. ‘That was Mrs Joyster,’ she informed them. ‘Rather a cold woman, I’m afraid – husband was army and it rubbed off on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m being drilled when she talks to me. Mind you,’ she added, ‘she can be very pleasant at times.’

The bicycle began to clatter once more. ‘I recall how I used to hate it when adults pretended I wasn’t there; dear me, that was a long time ago now. Do you prefer blackberry or raspberry jam? I confess I have a passion for both – especially on hot scones. My cottage is not far now.’

Jennet and Ben were beginning to find Miss Boston’s abrupt changes of thought bewildering. It did, however, occur to them that they would have no difficulty polishing off a plate of jammy scones.

An odd, square building on the left caught their attention. It was set a little apart for one thing. Pillars supported the upper storey and right at the top, in the middle of the roof, was a clock tower and a weather vane shaped like a fish.

‘This is Market Place,’ said Miss Boston, waving a proud hand. ‘If you’re keen, you could go on this.’ She pointed to a black sign with white letters advertising a Ghost Tour.

Ben’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously. The sign drew him like a powerful magnet. Jennet pulled him roughly away as if from a fire.

‘No!’ she told the old woman. ‘We don’t like that sort of thing at all.’

If Miss Boston was surprised by the severity of Jennet’s outburst then she did not show it. ‘Really, dear?’ she said mildly. ‘Then I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place entirely. You know I sometimes think Whitby has more ghosts than living residents.’ She waggled her chins at the sign and muttered. ‘Just as well, really – I’ve been banned from going on the tours anyway. Well, the young man who runs them seemed to resent my chipping in. Got quite irate once when I corrected him. He gave me my money back on the proviso I never bothered him again. Astounding state of affairs.’

They had come to another of those sudden openings and Miss Boston wheeled her bicycle through it. After about five metres the alley opened out into a spacious yard. She walked up to a flight of steps, rested her bicycle against a rail, opened a green door and said, ‘Well, come in then.’

Jennet was downstairs, talking to Miss Boston. Ben lay on an embroidered quilt and stared at the primroses in the wallpaper. It was a small room but just big enough for him, and for a change, he had it all to himself. There was a bed, a chest of drawers next to it with a lamp on top and a small wardrobe. He licked the jam from his chin and rolled over to gaze at the sloping ceiling.

It was a funny house. There were lots of weird prints on the walls and old sepia photographs of Victorian Whitby. There were also a good many corn dollies hanging up all over the place. A table in the hall was reserved for things Miss Boston had found while out walking: pine cones, bright orange rosehips, a bunch of heather, sheep’s wool found in a hedge, complete with twigs and fragments of leaf, the broken shell of a blackbird’s egg, several interesting pebbles, a gnarled piece of driftwood and a white gull’s feather.

This was not what he or Jennet had expected, and it certainly disproved the idea that Miss Boston was rich – unless she kept a secret stash of tenners under the mattress. It was not the sort of house you would expect an old lady to live in, whether she was rich or not. There were no china shepherdesses or rows of dainty cups, no bits of fussy lace, no piles of women’s magazines heaped in the corner, no obvious signs of knitting, no fat lazy cat sprawled on the sofa clawing away at the cushions and – best of all to Ben – the place did not smell of lavender. He thought he would like it here. Miss Boston was not the average old lady; there was something vital and a little bit eccentric about her.

An idea came to him as he lolled on the bed. Gingerly, he crept out of his room and went into Jennet’s. He could still hear the faint hum of voices downstairs so he knew he was safe.

Ben fumbled with the zip on the blue canvas bag and delved through piles of neatly folded clothes and small treasures. There, right at the bottom, his groping fingers touched what felt like a book. Gently, he slid the photograph album out of the bag and stroked it lovingly with his hands. With great care and reverence he opened it and turned the pages. This was a hallowed thing to him and Jennet and lately she had been withholding it from him.

There were his mother and father on their wedding day, smiling up out of the album, about to cut the cake. Another page and there they were on honeymoon in Wales. Ben’s father was a tall man with thick, dark hair and a broad grin. His mother, a petite blonde, had blinked at the wrong moment, and here she was, frozen into an eternal doze. The opposite page showed Jennet when she was a baby, sitting on her father’s lap.

Ben examined the photographs carefully. Here they were: images of his parents locked in happy events – birthdays and holidays sealed into the album forever. But the eyes staring out at him were unseeing. They were focused on the person taking the photograph and that had never been Ben. His mother and father were looking out at someone else, not him. He was confused. The memories of who they had been – everything they were – were now transferred to six inches by four of glossy paper.

He turned the last page. There was the photograph he sought above all. A younger version of himself sat astride a donkey on the sands of Rhyl and beside him were his mother and father. Jennet must have taken the picture. Try as he might, Ben had no memory of the occasion. He imagined sitting on a donkey and hearing his father’s voice, but no – there was nothing there. The photograph had been taken on the final day of their last holiday together. Six months later both his parents had been killed in a car accident.

Ben closed the album, then frowned and chewed his lip. He understood that his parents were dead. He and Jennet had gone to the funeral and watched the coffins lowered into that deep hole. He remembered that because he had worn those shoes that pinched and Jennet had cried a lot and had to be put to bed. Yes, his parents were dead; everyone told him that. So why was it that every now and then, in a mirror or at the end of his bed before he went to sleep, he could see his mother and father smiling at him?

II

EURYDICE

‘I knew your dear mama’s aunt,’ said Miss Boston, above the buffeting wind.

Jennet sat on the tombstone and hugged her knees. ‘Great Aunt Connie?’

Miss Boston held on to her hat and nodded. ‘She was one of my pupils,’ she said. ‘A good student but never made any use of her education – shameful waste.’

‘And you say she wrote to you about Ben and me?’

‘Yes, over the years we have kept a correspondence going. She was very fond of your mama, you know, and when she heard about the accident, well . . .’

They had climbed the hundred and ninety-nine steps to the top of the East Cliff in order to see the abbey, only to find it was too late and the man in the office had gone home. Still, there was plenty to see. At the top of the steps was St Mary’s church, a solid building surrounded by ancient graves whose stones were nearly worn smooth. They had settled themselves on a large, mossy tomb while Ben ran off to play among the stones and lean into the strong wind.

There was a magnificent view of the town below. On the West Cliff, directly opposite, bedroom lights were flickering on and the glitter of the arcades was becoming more noticeable in the gathering dusk. Dark night clouds were moving in from the sea and the sun was pale and low, catching a last, weak glint from the tiled roofs before it set.

Miss Boston, wrapped in a tweed cloak, stared at the horizon and said, ‘Of course, if Constance had not been in that home she would have taken you and Benjamin in herself.’

Jennet spoke into the darkening sky, tilting her head back and sweeping the hair out of her eyes. ‘She couldn’t have coped with Ben and me, she’s too old.’

Miss Boston snorted. ‘Too old? My dear girl, Constance is a mere sapling compared to me.’

‘But Aunt Connie’s seventy and walks with a frame.’

Miss Boston puckered her face up and asked, ‘How old do you think I am, child?’

Jennet looked at the figure blanketed in sage-green tweed. Only the face was visible and it was difficult to put an age to it. Miss Boston’s skin was lined, yet one grin could banish the wrinkles. Only the tufts of white woolly hair poking out beneath the hat gave any real clue to her age.

‘Seventy-five?’ Jennet ventured uncertainly.

Miss Boston closed her eyes and raised her head. ‘I am ninety-two,’ she solemnly informed her. ‘Don’t be alarmed, dear – some of us do survive for that length of time.’

‘But you’re not frail or anything,’ Jennet declared in surprise.

‘As to that,’ Miss Boston lifted a finger to her nose in a gesture of secrecy, ‘I have little methods all my own. Old age is terribly unfair. Usually either the mind or the body succumbs. Hospitals and nursing homes are filled with shambling near cadavers who still possess all their marbles; intelligent people who can’t go to the bathroom by themselves or even get out of bed, in some cases. Then there is the other variety: the sprightly gibberers, I call them, senile but with perfectly healthy bodies. What a cruel joke old age is, to be sure.’

A flock of gulls soared out over the sea, spreading their wings and hanging on the air. Miss Boston followed their course with interest. ‘They’re not supposed to be able to fly over the abbey, you know,’ she told Jennet. ‘Legend says that if they try, they are overcome and fall to the ground. There they must pay homage to St Hilda, the founder of the abbey, until she releases them.’

‘That’s silly,’ said Jennet.

Miss Boston agreed. ‘I suppose so, but it is a lovely notion, don’t you think? St Hilda was a remarkable woman, after all.’

They sat in silence for some time, listening to the wind rushing through the grass and hearing Ben’s squawks as he chased the gulls.

‘Why now?’ asked Jennet, breaking the calm. ‘Why didn’t you send for us before? Why wait over two years?’

The old woman put her hand on Jennet’s and explained. ‘After the accident, Constance wrote to me and told me you had gone to stay with your father’s brother.’

‘Uncle Peter, yes – and Aunt Pat, his snotty wife.’

‘You were with them for just three months, were you not?’

Jennet stared at the ground and mumbled, ‘Aunt Pat said she couldn’t cope with . . . well, with us.’ She hesitated before adding, ‘Ben was having a bad time, and there were other things.’

‘I see.’ Miss Boston turned to watch Ben playing. ‘So they put you both into care.’

‘Yes, then we were put with another family who actually wanted to adopt Ben and me, until . . . well, it didn’t work out that way.’

‘No.’ Miss Boston narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. ‘Nor did it work out with three other families after that. You asked why I had not sent for you before now. My dear child, I was hoping that you would find a good home with a family who would care for you.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Alas, it was not to be, so I decided to enter the fray and applied a little pressure here, called in some old favours there. Well, here you are; stuck with a terrible old woman like me. I’m sorry, but I could not stand by and let you stay in that hostel until you were sixteen.’

Jennet shifted uncomfortably on the tombstone. This woman had no idea why they had been unable to fit in. She looked round for Ben and suddenly saw that he was dangerously near the cliff edge. ‘Will he be all right there?’ she asked in alarm.

‘I think your brother has brains enough not to go leaping off cliffs,’ remarked Miss Boston. ‘Of course, he might get blown off. The wind is notoriously strong up here.’ She raised a hand and called the boy to them. ‘Do you know it gets so violent sometimes that it actually lifts the lead off the church roof ? Last winter the vicar had to cancel the service because of the noise.’

Ben began to make his roundabout way towards them. Miss Boston cleared her throat and said to Jennet, ‘I think I ought to tell you something before he rejoins us. It’s only fair you should know. You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, too sensible perhaps at times.’

‘What should I know?’

‘I received a letter from Mrs Rodice.’ Miss Boston pulled a sour expression. ‘Nasty, spiteful letter it was too. It concerned Benjamin. What an unpleasant creature she must be.’

The colour drained out of Jennet’s face and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked shakily.

Miss Boston snorted her contempt. ‘She is obviously an ignorant woman – unbalanced too, I shouldn’t wonder. She accused Benjamin of certain things which I refuse to believe. I threw the wretched piece of paper on the fire – wish I could do the same to her.’

The girl glanced up and found Miss Boston looking at her steadily. Now was the time to tell her everything. If that was the end of their stay in Whitby, then so be it; at least she could put the old woman straight. Lord knows what the Rodice had put in that letter.

‘Ben has dreams,’ she stammered. ‘Sometimes he has them in the daytime and he gets muddled up. He used to think Mum and Dad came to see him after the accident. That – that’s not all. He used to tell some of the other kids at the hostel funny stuff that frightened them. We had a new girl come who used to live with her gran before she died and Ben told her that he could see an old woman sitting next to her when she was in the TV room, stroking her hair. Apparently that’s what this grandmother used to do. Yvonne started to wet the bed after that and the other kids used to look at Ben like he was some kind of freak.’

‘Go on,’ Miss Boston prompted her gently.

‘Well, that’s why we never settled down with the foster families. With Aunt Pat, the last straw came during one of her posh dinner parties. Ben came running downstairs saying he’d seen Mum. Aunt Pat went dead red; she hated the embarrassment of it, she didn’t want anyone to think she had a retarded relative in the house. I heard her and Uncle Peter talking one night – their room was next to mine and the walls were thin. She said she couldn’t stand it any more, and Uncle Peter had to go along with her. It was horrible listening to them discussing us like that. I wanted to shout out that I could hear them but I never did.

‘The other families were the same. One lot were really religious and thought Ben was possessed or something and the others just looked at us funny.’

Miss Boston frowned. ‘Yes, I can see that some people might not feel comfortable with that sort of thing – it unnerves them and upsets their established ideas of the universe.’

‘It got really bad, though, at the hostel,’ Jennet continued. ‘About three weeks ago Ben goes and tells the Rodice he’s seen a man on the stairs. Course, there was nobody there but Ben describes the man to her and says he told him his name was Donald. She got all angry and shook Ben, calling him a liar. He had bruises on his arms where she’d grabbed him. That frightened her, that did – they’re not supposed to hit us, see. Well, after that she had as little to do with us as possible and I actually saw her shudder when Ben pushed past her once.’

Miss Boston put her arm around the girl and tried to comfort her. ‘Well, it won’t bother me, I assure you, dear. Benjamin can natter to an army of ghosts and I shan’t mind – I’m nearly one myself, after all. Tell me, do you ever see anything like that?’

Jennet shook her head. ‘No. At first I thought Ben was making it all up to annoy Aunt Pat, but he wouldn’t have kept it up this long, would he? I’ve told him to stop but he won’t.’

‘Of course not, dear – he cannot. It is the most natural thing in the world for him to see these things. I believe Benjamin is a very special child. He has “the sight”, a marvellous gift which should be encouraged. He must not feel that it is something to be ashamed of or he will lose it. Yes, he is special – and so too are you, Jennet. Throughout all this you have stood by him and protected him, even though you did not fully understand yourself. You are a very brave girl.’

At this point Ben sauntered up to them. ‘Come here, Benjamin,’ said Miss Boston. ‘Get under my cloak and I shall tell you a tale. You, too, Jennet.’

The children huddled up to the old woman and sheltered from the bitter wind like chicks under their mother’s wings.

‘Do you see that?’ she asked them, nodding to a tall, thin cross. ‘That is Caedmon’s cross.’

‘Who’s he, then?’ Ben wanted to know.

‘Ah,’ Miss Boston explained, ‘Caedmon was a cowherd, long before the Normans came. He used to tend the cattle on the plain back there when the abbey was just a monastery. He was painfully shy and awkward, poor fellow. In the winter when fires were lit and songs were sung around them, all the other servants of the monastery would do their party pieces, except Caedmon. He felt so unhappy because he could not sing that he would retire early and his friends would shake their heads and feel sorry for him.

‘Then, one night, a vision came to him in a dream. It was an angel, which bade Caedmon sing of the glories of God the Maker. Do you know, when he awoke he felt confident as never before and began composing his own verse. Caedmon is recognised as the first English poet.’ And Miss Boston ended her tale with a satisfied sigh.

‘That’s soppy,’ sneered Ben, greatly disappointed.

‘You impudent rascal,’ cried Miss Boston with mock severity. ‘And what kind of stories do you like, may I ask?’

‘Scary ones – with monsters,’ he whispered conspiratorially.

Miss Boston’s face became grim as she shook her head and gasped, ‘You mean you don’t know? Have you come here unprepared? Did you not pack your garlic?’

Ben squirmed happily on the tomb, shaking his head. ‘Why?’ he giggled.

‘Because, child,’ she moaned in a horrified voice, ‘the most dreadful monster ever created came ashore at Whitby – Dracula himself, King of Vampires!’

‘He didn’t!’

‘Oh yes he did, young man – he changed himself into a great black dog and jumped from the doomed ship Demeter as she ran aground, just down there.’ Miss Boston paused for dramatic effect and they all stared down at the rough sea. ‘Now,’ she said in a bright, cheerful manner, ‘it’s getting colder – let us return home. Don’t pretend to be a vampire, Benjamin, you haven’t got the cloak for it.’ And she flapped her own, although she resembled a large green chicken more than a bat. Benjamin, however, was still staring down at the rocks below. He seemed to be watching something.

The old woman squinted down and saw a blurred shape move quickly over the stones. ‘So,’ she whispered to herself, ‘he sees the fisher folk also.’ A slow smile spread over her face.

Jennet waited for them at the top of the steep flight of steps. ‘Did Dracula really live here?’ she asked nervously.

Miss Boston chuckled. ‘Dracula is but a character of fiction. His creator, Bram Stoker, came here in 1890, a dozen or so years before I was born. Mind you, the black dog was a grisly creature of legend he borrowed from the locals – the Barguest. As big as a calf with fiery red eyes, it was supposed to stalk through the streets of Whitby in the dead of night. Anyone who heard it howling was doomed.’

Jennet shivered. ‘That’s horrible, Miss Boston.’

The old lady sighed. ‘Really, Jennet, you must stop calling me Miss Boston; I gave up lecturing a long time ago. My name is Alice.’

‘I can’t call you that. It doesn’t sound right.’

‘Then how about Aunt Alice? Will that do?’

Jennet simply smiled in reply and slid her hand automatically into Aunt Alice’s.

The seagulls woke Ben up; for a moment he wondered where he was and then he remembered. Hastily, he pulled his clothes on and ran downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Jennet finishing off a boiled egg.

‘Those seagulls are a bit loud, aren’t they, Jen?’ he said chirpily.

Jennet blinked at him wearily. ‘It’s seven in the morning,’ she answered grumpily. ‘I’ll never get used to this.’

‘Where is she?’ asked Ben, heaving himself on to a stool.

Jennet emptied the eggshell into a pedal bin and rinsed her plate under the tap. ‘She went out ten minutes ago. Says she always goes for a walk before breakfast.’

‘Where’s mine?’ demanded Ben hungrily.

His sister poured some milk into a bowl of cereal and passed it to him. Ben picked up a spoon; it was an odd colour and he sniffed it suspiciously.

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, Ben?’ said Jennet as she watched him munch his breakfast.

‘Um,’ he agreed, with his mouth full.

‘I hope we can stay here for a while; she’s a nice old lady. I feel a bit funny calling her “Aunt” though.’

The latch on the front door rattled and Aunt Alice stepped in looking windswept and rosy. She stayed in the hall to hang up her hat and coat.

‘Don’t like these spoons, Jen,’ hissed Ben, waving his in the air.

‘Shush! They’re probably made of silver and very old – behave.’

Aunt Alice entered, undoing the top button of her blouse. ‘There,’ she puffed. ‘I like to climb the hundred and ninety-nine steps, whatever the weather. Blows the sleepy cobwebs away, it does.’ She bent down and opened the door of an old-fashioned refrigerator. ‘Now,’ she mumbled, ‘will it be kippers today or scrambled eggs? Kippers it is!’

Ben liked the smoky smell of the kipper but the taste was too strong for him – he preferred fish fingers, and said as much. Aunt Alice roared that he would get no fish fingers from her as long as he stayed in Whitby. He could eat fresh fish or none at all.

Twenty minutes later, she was dabbing the corners of her mouth with a hanky and praising the art of a Mr Bill Fortune. ‘Well now, children,’ she addressed them as she pushed the plate away, ‘what do you intend to do today?’

They shrugged and looked at her blankly. ‘Explore?’ suggested Jennet. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Why should I mind, child? I hope you enjoy yourselves. I shall want to know what you have discovered when you return.’

‘Oh,’ said Jennet disappointedly, ‘aren’t you coming too?’

Aunt Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly not, I have far too much to do. You can look after yourselves – you won’t get lost in a small town like this.’ She rose and scraped the kipper bones into the pedal bin, then washed her plate with Ben’s breakfast things. ‘Now I think you ought to brush your teeth, don’t you?’

Jennet was the first one down from the bathroom and she took her coat from the peg in the hall. ‘When should we come back, Aunt Alice?’

‘Oh, whenever you like, dear. I have to go out myself.’

‘But how shall we get in if you’re not here?’

Aunt Alice came into the hall, dangling a key to the front door between her fingers. ‘A spare,’ she said.

Jennet thanked the old woman. It had been a long time since anybody had trusted her like this and she appreciated it.

‘Just come back when you get hungry,’ beamed Aunt Alice. ‘I should be here by lunchtime.’

Ben struggled into his coat while Jennet wiped the toothpaste from his mouth, then all three left the house. The weather looked promising. Aunt Alice waved goodbye to them and set off purposefully towards the West Cliff.

It was still early and Jennet and Ben wandered through the narrow streets, gazing into shop windows which were filled with pieces of Whitby jet. It had been fashioned into all sorts of jewellery – rings, pendants, bracelets and tie-pins. Jennet looked longingly at a pair of jet earrings and stroked the glass dreamily. Ben tutted in disgust and walked away, muttering about the dullness of shops.

Then he spied a joke shop. He pressed his face against its windows and uttered little yelps of delight. It had everything, from black-face soap to horrific rubbery masks. There were sugar cubes that turned to worms when placed in tea and ghastly sets of false teeth. He wondered what he could afford – maybe Aunt Alice would buy him something. He drooled over the possibilities until his sister came to look for him.

Eventually the children came to the harbour and watched some late fishing boats return. A fresh, salty tang was in the air and they ran across the bridge to see the fish auction. It was being held in a large covered area on the West Cliff. Wooden crates filled with silvery fish were stacked into high piles, whilst an official in a white coat gabbled away, faster than they believed possible.

Jennet wrinkled her nose at the strong fishy smell. Ben peered into one of the crates and tried, unsuccessfully, to outstare the dead fish, until a gruff man in a black coat shooed them away.

They walked along the Pier Road, but as it was only half past eight they could not go into the lifeboat museum. Instead, they chased each other along the sandy beach. The morning wore on, shops opened and the holiday-makers strolled out of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts.

Jennet ran up to the green door and searched in her pockets for the key. Outside Aunt Alice’s cottage was an old barrel which overflowed with geraniums and above the door itself hung a curiously shaped stone with a hole worn into it.

‘Mornin’,’ said a voice suddenly. Jennet dropped the key in surprise.

Leaning against one of the other doors in the yard was a thick-set, dark-haired, surly-looking woman. A cigarette was balancing on her bottom lip, and when she spoke it stayed in place as though it were glued on. Her face showed disdain as she looked Jennet up and down. She folded her bare, fleshy arms and said, ‘You one of them what’s come to stay wi’ her?’

Jennet nodded, mesmerised at the acrobatic skill of the cigarette.

‘Given you a key as well, ‘as she? Me an’ my Norman know what she gets up to, her an’ them friends of hers. Oh, she thinks she’s so clever, bossing everyone about.’ The woman blew through the curling blue cigarette smoke. ‘Anyway, you make sure you keep your hands to yourself, you hear me? I know your sort, lass – don’t you come thievin’ round here. She might be daft as a brush, but I’m not.’

Jennet was so taken aback by the woman’s outburst that before she could think of anything to say the dreadful creature had gone back into her house and slammed the door. Jennet stuck her tongue out and turned the key in the lock.

Inside there was no sign of Aunt Alice. Jennet took off her coat, wondering whether she was in the parlour, having a nap. She knocked but there was no answer, so she turned the brass handle and peeped in.

The parlour was papered a rich burgundy and lined with shelves full of dusty volumes. A large round table dominated the centre of the room and in the corner, a tall grandfather clock monotonously ticked the time away.

Jennet went into the kitchen and decided to make a cup of tea to await the old lady’s return. Just as the kettle began to whistle, there came a furtive knock on the front door.

‘You took your time, Ben,’ she began. ‘What happened to –’

But when the door opened she saw that the new arrival was not her brother after all. Another old lady blinked in surprise at her.

‘Oh dear,’ said the stranger. ‘I suppose you must be Janet.’

‘Jennet,’ the girl corrected.

‘Of course. I’m Miss Droon – a friend of Alice’s. Is she in?’

‘No, but she should be back soon.’

‘Shall I come in, then, and wait? Thank you.’ And she barged through to the kitchen, where the kettle was whistling for all it was worth and steaming up the windows.

Miss Droon was an odd-looking woman. Her hair was dark grey and very wiry, like a pan scrub. She wore thick black-rimmed spectacles and a chunky blue sweater which was covered in short, white hairs. As she passed by, Jennet noticed a strong whiff of cats. This was rather appropriate, because Miss Droon had whiskers; they stuck out above her top lip and bristled along her chin. It was quite a struggle to keep from staring.

Miss Droon made a pot of tea and helped herself to the Gypsy Creams. She planted her bottom on a stool and tapped the table distractedly; evidently there was something on her mind.

‘I’m sure Aunt Alice won’t be long,’ said Jennet, noticing the hairs that had fallen to the floor from Miss Droon’s sweater.

‘I hope you’re right, girl,’ she returned, ‘for Eurydice’s sake.’ She looked out of the window desperately.

‘Eurydice?’

‘Yes. She’s wandered off again and she could go into labour any minute.’ Miss Droon wrung her hands together anxiously.

Jennet had visions of some woman roaming round Whitby, ready to give birth. ‘Maybe she’s gone to the hospital,’ she suggested hopefully.

Miss Droon looked at her as if she were mad and opened her mouth. But at that moment, the front door opened and in came Aunt Alice with Ben. They had met in Church Street and Ben was giving her a detailed account of the morning’s activities. ‘Then we saw a statue of that Captain Cook and two huge whale bones made into an arch and I found a fossil thing on the beach – see?’

‘That’s an ammonite, Benjamin; there are lots of them round here.’

Miss Boston removed her hat before the mirror in the hall. ‘Sounds like you two have been busy,’ she said. ‘You and Jennet must be ravenous. Oh,’ and she paused in the kitchen doorway, ‘hello, Tilly. What can I do for you? I’ve just been over to Pru’s, looking for that wretched book she cannot find – said she’d seen you yesterday. Everything well?’

‘It’s Eurydice!’ Miss Droon burst out.

‘Again!’ whistled Aunt Alice. ‘How many this time?’

‘No, she’s gone off and they’re due any minute.’

‘How tiresome,’ tutted Miss Boston, winking at Jennet. ‘And you would like me to find her for you, is that it?’

‘Please, Alice – I’ve brought Binky along.’ Miss Droon pulled a well-chewed woollen mouse from her pocket. ‘I just can’t bear to think of her coping alone.’

‘She probably wanted to get away from your ham-fisted interference, Tilly dear. Do help yourself to biscuits, by the way.’

Miss Droon guiltily licked the crumbs from her moustache. ‘Oh, Alice,’ she pleaded, ‘there may be very little time.’

Miss Boston sighed and filled a jug with cold water. ‘Very well. Come into the parlour, Tilly – and don’t forget Binky. Oh, Jennet, could you and Benjamin stay here for a while and be very quiet?’ The children nodded, greatly puzzled. ‘Excellent. Now, in you go, Matilda.’

Ben looked at Jennet. ‘Who’s that, then?’ he wanted to know.

‘A friend of Aunt Alice’s, I think,’ she replied.

‘What have they gone in there for?’

Jennet brushed hairs off the stool lately occupied by Miss Droon and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think she’s a bit loopy.’

‘What did Aunt Alice want with the water, Jen? There’s no plants in the parlour.’

‘Maybe she’s going to pour it over Miss Droon’s head,’ she answered sarcastically. ‘How do you expect me to know?’

The sound of voices filtered through the parlour door, so the children kept quiet and listened.

‘Do shut up, Tilly,’ boomed Aunt Alice. ‘I need to concentrate.’

‘What can they be doing?’ breathed Jennet.

After a short while the door was opened and Miss Droon bustled out. Aunt Alice called after her, pulling back the curtains, ‘It’s either the old barn again or that empty house on Hawsker Lane – sorry, Abbey Lane. Yes, I’m certain she’ll be there.’

‘I must go to her! Poor little Eurydice,’ cried Miss Droon, fumbling with the front door latch.

Aunt Alice emerged from the parlour and remarked wryly, ‘I’d hardly call her “little” in her condition.’ But Miss Droon had fled from the house.

‘Oh, confound the woman,’ said Miss Boston. ‘It’s no good. I shall have to go with her. Do you children want to come? It isn’t far, but perhaps you need your lunches right away?’

Ben began to say that he did but Jennet elbowed him into silence and said of course they would go.

‘Good,’ said Aunt Alice, putting her hat back on. Jennet watched her and Ben leave the house whilst she put her coat on again. Then, on a sudden impulse, she ran into the parlour.

A sweet, heavy scent laced the air; on the table was the jug of water and an empty black lacquered bowl. Jennet went up to it and ran her fingers around the rim. It was wet.

‘So, Aunt Alice filled the bowl with water, drew the curtains, then poured the water back into the jug,’ she said slowly to herself. ‘But why? And what is that sickly smell?’ Jennet was mystified; how could all these things, not forgetting Binky, lead to Aunt Alice’s conclusion that Eurydice was in some empty house?

She left the parlour and ran outside, closing the front door behind her. Ben and Miss Boston were in Church Street before she caught up with them.

‘The Blakelocks used to live in the house but they moved out two years ago and went to live in Wakefield, I believe,’ Aunt Alice was telling Ben. ‘The house has been empty since then. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to buy it now, too run-down and probably overrun with fieldmice. Perfect for Eurydice, though.’

‘Why’s that?’ asked Jennet.

‘Oh, didn’t she tell you? Eurydice’s a cat.’

Jennet laughed. ‘No wonder she gave me an odd look when I mentioned the hospital.’

‘Yes,’ continued Aunt Alice, ‘Tilly already has twelve of the perishing things, most of them Eurydice’s offspring. Too popular with the local toms she is – Eurydice, not Tilly. But will she get her seen to? Not on your life. There’s hardly a stick of furniture in her house that hasn’t been used either as a claw sharpener or – well, a convenience. The place positively reeks.’

The empty house they were heading for was just off the lane that ran behind the abbey, so up the hundred and ninety-nine steps they had to go. Halfway up they encountered a breathless Miss Droon. She was finding the climb rather too strenuous.

‘Oh my,’ she wheezed, ‘I hope you’re right, Alice – I don’t want to have staggered up these ruddy steps for nothing.’

Finally they reached the summit and walked through the graveyard to get on to Abbey Lane. The stately ruin of the abbey towered up on their right as they followed the small road which circled round it.

‘There it is,’ said Miss Boston, pointing to a long, two-storied building. It was an ugly house with mean little windows, quite secluded. Jennet shuddered at the thought of living there; at night it would be pitch dark for there were no street lamps. It was a dismal, lonely place.

‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Aunt Alice. ‘Look at that sign. Somebody’s actually bought it.’

The ‘For Sale’ notice which had stood outside the house for two years now bore a garish red stripe proclaiming ‘SOLD’, for all the world to see.

‘They haven’t moved in yet, though,’ Miss Droon observed. ‘Let’s slip in and get Eurydice.’

Miss Boston opened the garden gate, which creaked and groaned in protest. ‘Dear me,’ said the old lady, ‘what a state this is in.’

Ben was the last through the gate, and studied a grimy nameplate nailed on to the wood as he went through. ‘The Hawes,’ he read aloud.

The garden round the house was wild: grass and weeds had choked the flower beds and only the taller roses had survived. The house itself was shabby and dark, with several of the downstairs windows boarded up.

‘Such neglect,’ commented Miss Boston sadly. ‘And look at the path, completely overgrown. We shall have to wade through – mind the nettles, children.’

Miss Droon tottered behind, calling out, ‘Eurydice, Eurydice – come on darling, there’s a love, now. Oh, no, maybe she’s had them already. What shall I do?’

Jennet looked back at the overgrown path thoughtfully. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she began, ‘if no one’s been here for ages – how come someone’s bought the house? I mean they can’t have been to see it, can they?’

‘Good heavens, child,’ said Miss Boston, ‘you are sharp today. How curious; I wonder who can be moving in?’

‘Might be council, Alice,’ suggested Miss Droon. ‘Perhaps they’re going to knock it down and rebuild.’

‘I shall go round to Olive and Parks the estate agent this afternoon and solve this mystery,’ Miss Boston decided. ‘I’ll see if they’re going to rebuild or not.’

Ben’s voice called to them from around the back. He had found the kitchen door and the wood was rotten. There was a large hole at the bottom.

‘Eurydice,’ cried Miss Droon, going down on her knees and calling through the gap. ‘Puss, puss.’

‘It’s no use calling,’ Aunt Alice told her, ‘she won’t come. I certainly wouldn’t. The poor thing doesn’t want to have you fussing about and being a nuisance. You always annoy her when she’s expecting, Tilly.’

‘But I can’t leave her here,’ wailed the crouching Miss Droon.

‘Shall I go in?’ asked Ben. ‘I could easily squeeze through there if we made the hole a bit bigger.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Miss Boston sternly, ‘that’s breaking and entering.’

‘Oh, let him go in, Alice. You never liked Renie Blakelock anyway.’

‘That’s hardly the point, Matilda. The property no longer belongs to her.’

Miss Droon clicked her tongue in annoyance. ‘But as it’s going to be knocked down anyway, I can’t see what’s the harm.’

‘We don’t know that for certain. That was just your idea.’

Miss Droon countered with her master stroke. She looked squarely at Aunt Alice through those thick glasses and said, ‘What about that umbrella Renie borrowed and never returned to you – your mother’s, wasn’t it?’

Miss Boston relented at once. ‘On the other hand,’ she said stiffly, ‘it is an emergency and if Benjamin really doesn’t mind . . .’

Ben pulled away more of the crumbling door and wriggled through. A dingy, yellow-brown light filtered through the filthy kitchen windows. The room was bare and the noise of his movements echoed around as he searched for the troublesome cat. He looked in the low cupboards and out of curiosity inspected the drawers also, but they only contained a broken fish slice and quantities of brown paper bags. Eurydice was not in the sink either.

In the hall, the exposed floorboards moved as he walked on them; they had warped and no longer fitted properly. He put his head round the door of the front room, but only a collection of empty tea-chests stood morosely in the middle of the gloom.

The whole house smelt damp and musty. Ben shivered. What a horrid, dank place it was – he found it hard to believe that someone had actually lived there. The entire house reminded him of a large dungeon and that made him think of other things, Whitby’s most frightening visitor for one.

‘Eurydice, Eurydice,’ he called out feebly as he stood at the bottom of the stairs. Then he heard a noise. ‘You would have to be up there, wouldn’t you.’ He gritted his teeth and hoped it was the cat who had made the noise and not some vampire opening the lid of its coffin. He tried to control his rising panic, but it was some minutes before he was able to put his foot on the first step.

The stairs still possessed their carpet – too worn to be worth removing, it was damp and spotted with black mould. Ben took hold of the banister and crept very slowly up the steps.

It was dark on the first floor, for there was no landing window and all the bedroom doors were shut. There were five doors; he opened the nearest. Only a bathroom. The next led into an empty pink bedroom. As he went, Ben left the doors open behind him to illuminate the landing; in the growing light he noticed a square opening in the ceiling.

‘Must be the attic,’ he whispered to himself. He did not like the look of that deep black hole. It made him uneasy as he passed beneath it. ‘I hope you’re not up there, you daft moggy,’ he mumbled as he quickly opened the next door. Another bedroom, blue wallpaper this time. Then a toilet, and finally a room done out in lime stripes. This was full of cardboard boxes and old yellowing newspapers which the mice had chewed.

Ben tiptoed over to the boxes. There was a sudden movement and he stepped back in alarm. A furry white head popped up.

‘Eurydice!’ sighed Ben, relieved. The cat miaowed crossly, staring at him with one green eye and one blue. ‘Come on, puss,’ he said soothingly. Eurydice let him stroke her and Ben slipped his hand down to her tummy. At least she hadn’t had the kittens yet. Then he frowned, something was wrong. As he tickled the cat’s stomach, she rolled over and he discovered that she only had three legs. What a peculiar animal.

He picked up the box she was in and Eurydice glared at him. ‘It’s all right, puss,’ he said, carrying her out of the room. Only then did Ben begin to wonder; who had shut that door in the first place?

On the landing, Eurydice grew agitated and her ears pressed flat against her skull. She began to hiss and spit, but not at Ben. The boy turned cold. As he passed under the dark loft opening, all the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and rose. He felt sure something was up there, watching him from the shadows – the same something that could close bedroom doors.

He made for the stairs quickly but as he ran down them two at a time, he chanced to turn back and was horrified to see a small dark figure drop silently to the landing and begin creeping after him.

Ben bolted for the kitchen and thrust the box through the gap, scrabbling frantically after it.

‘Look at your clothes,’ sighed Aunt Alice; ‘all dusty and cobwebby.’

‘Eurydice, you naughty girl,’ scolded Miss Droon, ‘don’t do that again. I shall lock you in my room from now on.’

In the sunlight Ben’s fear seemed irrational; he must have imagined the whole thing. Either that or the figure was one of his ‘visitors’, although he had never felt frightened in their presence before. He decided not to mention it to anyone.

‘What was it like in there?’ Jennet asked him.

‘Smelly and damp,’ he replied, shaking the dust out of his hair.

‘Must have been cold too,’ she added. ‘You’re covered in goosepimples.’

Miss Boston put her arm round him and said, ‘This young man has earned his dinner – come on. Tilly, do stop messing with that wretched cat and make sure you do keep an eye on it until the kittens are born.’

‘Eurydice has only got three legs,’ Ben told his sister.

‘Really?’ asked Jennet, staring at the two ears which bobbed up and down above the box.

‘She lost one when she was a kitten herself,’ crooned Miss Droon dotingly. ‘A window sash broke and the frame crushed her leg beyond repair. The vet had to amputate to save her, poor darling. Now I can’t take her anywhere near the vet’s – simply goes berserk. Don’t you, Eurydice darling?’

‘And that’s why she’s always expecting,’ said Miss Boston, ‘and of course why she’s so popular with the toms.’

‘Because she has three legs?’ asked Jennet. ‘I don’t see the connection.’

Aunt Alice laughed wickedly. ‘Well, she can’t run as fast as the other lady cats.’

The children roared and Miss Droon looked away.

III

THE LADIES’ CIRCLE

Ben turned the ammonite over in his fingers and stared intently at it. It was the same size as a fifty-pence piece and charcoal in colour. Miss Boston had told him that it was incredibly old, older than the human race, in fact. Ben held it tightly. It felt safe to touch something so ancient – there was very little permanence in his turbulent life and this small, time-polished fossil was like a magic talisman, a sign that perhaps things would be different from now on.

It was late and the three of them were sitting in the parlour. The curtains were drawn and Aunt Alice had lit a fire as the night had grown chill. Now the children lounged on the wide sofa and sipped hot chocolate.

Jennet looked across at the old lady, whose face glowed in the flickering firelight.

‘Shall I tell you the legend of the ammonites and St Hilda?’ Aunt Alice asked them.

Ben pushed himself further into the cushions and nodded.

The old lady gazed into the fire and began. ‘In the olden times, when Caedmon was alive, the Abbess of Whitby was the niece of a great northern king. They were dark, severe days and most of the people were still pagan, worshipping cruel gods on the moors and at the river mouth.’

Her quiet voice lulled Jennet’s senses and she began to drift far away. The old lady’s words conjured up vivid pictures and she shivered, imagining the horrible things that must have happened in those savage times.

‘Well,’ continued Aunt Alice, after she had drained her mug, ‘it is said that the cliff-top where the abbey now stands was alive with snakes. They were such a nuisance that the Lady Hilda took up a whip or staff and drove them all into the sea where, by her prayers, they were turned to stone. However, the three largest serpents had escaped her anger, and they rose out of the grass to strike her. Furiously, she hit out first and cut their heads clean off, while their bodies sailed through the air and were embedded in the wall of a house at the bottom of the hundred and ninety-nine steps. They are still there to this day, if you care to look.’

Ben groaned – yet another soppy story. He liked the bit about the snakes, though. He examined his fossil once again and hissed softly to it.

Jennet stirred a little but still gazed at the flames through narrowed eyes. ‘Is any of that true?’ she asked. ‘I mean was Hilda really the niece of a king?’

‘Oh yes,’ Aunt Alice assured her earnestly. ‘Edwin of Northumbria was her uncle, though some say father. She was a princess, in any case. Word got around that one of royal blood was coming to Whitby and gossip confused the true facts – rather like Chinese whispers, I imagine. Eventually half the population believed Hilda was a great sorceress, but we actually know very little about the real woman. The story of the snakes is obviously allegorical, the serpents representing the pagan religion which Hilda overcame. Still, it is a quaint tale.

‘Now I think it is time for you both to go to bed. You’ve had a busy day and so have I, what with troublesome cats and barmy old Tilly.’

Jennet dragged Ben from the cushion cave he had made for himself and his pet snake. Hissing like a puncture, the boy ran up the stairs. His sister followed behind him and turned to Aunt Alice, who was carrying the three empty mugs into the kitchen. ‘Did you go to the estate agent’s?’ she called down sleepily.

‘Indeed I did,’ answered the old lady, raising her voice above the sound of the running tap as she rinsed the cocoa dregs away. ‘The house is not going to be knocked down. A woman has bought it. They weren’t going to tell me but I know the mother of the young man behind the desk. He told me a Mrs Cooper had purchased the place. Has ideas of turning it into an antiques shop – ridiculous notion. We have far too many of those already and the house is too far off the beaten track to make it worthwhile.’

Miss Boston emerged from the kitchen and smiled up at Jennet. ‘Well, goodnight, dear,’ she said.

The next day was Saturday and the beginning of the folk week. Early in the morning the two children raced round the West Cliff, looking at the odd assortment of people who were turning up. They spent an interesting half hour watching cars and vans squeeze through the town while they tried to guess what sort of people were inside.

There were morris dancers, a whole gaggle of bagpipes, long-haired hippies with guitars and peace stickers, a fleet of flutes and penny whistles, a group of mummers dressed in the most outlandish costumes Ben had ever seen, and even two belly-dancers.

Whitby was heaving with people. Jennet laughed as she realised how true Aunt Alice’s words had been – there were a lot of bearded men and they all seemed to have the same sort of clothes on. It was like some kind of uniform: a good thick jumper with a clean white shirt underneath, then brown corduroy trousers and, for the really serious, the ultimate accessory was a pewter tankard, attached to the belt.

A jolly, fat lady with cheeks like two beetroots clambered, with difficulty, out of a beaten-up old Mini. Then she leant in once more and hauled out an accordion as big as a coffee table. She beamed at the children as she passed by. Ben stared after her eagerly. This really was the most extraordinary place he had ever been – something always seemed to be happening.

The morning shadows dwindled and lunchtime drew near. Ben’s stomach growled and he reluctantly agreed with his sister to head back home. The town was seething, its streets thick with enthusiasts, musicians, tourists, and the poor locals trying to do their Saturday shopping. It took an incredibly long time to reach the bridge and crossing that was another Herculean task.

Jennet sighed with relief as the narrow streets of the East Cliff closed round her, but even here the crowds were phenomenal. She gripped Ben’s hand tightly in case he was washed away on the tourist tide and launched herself into the flow.

It was while she was passing the small post office in Church Street that a thought came to her, and she dragged her brother inside. It was jam-packed with people but if she didn’t do this now she would probably forget.

‘What are we doing here?’ Ben demanded. ‘I want my dinner.’

‘I’m going to send Aunt Connie a postcard,’ Jennet replied, gently pushing through the bodies till she came to the rack.

‘Can’t I go home now? I’m starved.’

Jennet ignored him and studied the collection of cards. It was a picture of the abbey that she eventually chose and she squirmed with it through to the counter. Strangely enough, nobody else seemed to be buying anything. Jennet put her postcard down and looked through the glass at the postmistress.

‘Can I have this and a first class stamp, please?’ she asked.

The woman was about fifty. Her greying hair resembled a dilapidated haystack and the sides of her mouth twitched nervously. Jennet eyed her neat, beige cardigan. There was a crumpled tissue poking out from one sleeve, in case of emergencies. There was no wedding ring on the woman’s finger and Jennet guessed that here was one of the town’s spinsters, and smiled unconsciously.

The postmistress blinked in confusion, not sure why the girl had smiled at her. Up went her ringless hands, fluttering before her like frightened birds.

‘A stamp,’ the woman repeated in a flustered voice as she searched under the counter. ‘Dear me, no – television licence stamps.’ She twiddled with the chain around her neck, attached to which were her glasses. ‘Oh fly!’ she muttered. ‘I had them a minute ago.’

Jennet smiled again. The woman was a terrible ditherer; how had she ever got the job?

‘Ah,’ came a grateful sigh, ‘there you are, you terrible thing.’ She pulled a large book of stamps towards her and put on her glasses before wading through it.

‘There you are, dear,’ the woman breathed wearily. ‘That’s forty-five pence, please.’

Jennet counted out her change and while the woman waited, the tissue flashed out and dabbed at her nose, then was just as speedily consigned to the sleeve once more.

Jennet took her stamp and postcard, thanked her and looked round for Ben. He was not there. Then from the street came a terrible commotion; a car horn was blowing harshly and voices were raised in anger. Jennet put her hand to her mouth and ran outside, thinking the worst.

A large old Bentley was attempting to plough down Church Street and the driver was being none too gentle. Jennet found Ben on the pavement, laughing at the surprised and angry looks of the people who were thrust aside. A girl in a bright orange and purple dress that had little mirrors sewn around the hem shouted equally colourful abuse at the occupants of the car and shook her tambourine at them furiously.

Once Jennet had got over the relief of finding her brother in one piece she shook him roughly and angrily told him, ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again! Do you understand?’

But Ben was not really listening. He was still staring at the car, which had pulled up outside the post office. The driver was a bluff Yorkshire man in grubby gardening clothes, but on his head he wore a chauffeur’s cap. He got out and walked to one of the rear doors.

‘’Ere we are, madam,’ he said gruffly as he opened it. Both Ben and Jennet peered inside to see who his passenger might be.

A large, flabby lady in a silk print dress and a fur stole stepped heavily on to the pavement. Her hair was a pale peach colour and there seemed to be an inch-thick layer of make-up covering her face. Her lips were smeared a sickly orange to match her rinse, but it just made her look ill. She wore a necklace of pearls and her podgy hands were bejewelled with rings.

Jennet thought she looked like a fat pantomime fairy. Ben began to giggle as the apparition waddled gracelessly towards the post office and brushed past them. Her perfume was incredibly pungent – he could almost taste it.

The woman peered down her nose at the children and gave a peculiar excuse for a smile. Ben scowled. This was one of those phoney acknowledgements, the sort the Rodice used to dole out. Jennet nodded at her and shuddered as she wobbled into the post office; there had been lipstick all over her teeth.

‘Come on,’ she said to her brother, ‘let’s go and have lunch.’

They found Miss Boston already in the kitchen making ham sandwiches for them and, as they sat down to eat, they told her what they had done that morning. The old lady listened attentively, clucking now and then in wonder or approval. She laughed as they described the morris dancers and sucked in her cheeks at the disgraceful behaviour of the Bentley.

‘That Banbury-Scott woman really is too much!’ she snorted. ‘Thinks she owns the town, she does.’

‘You know that fat lady with all the kak on her face, then?’ asked Ben, forgetting his manners.

Aunt Alice spluttered at this description, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows to disassociate herself from it. ‘Yes, I know her,’ she said. ‘She just happens to be one of the wealthiest women in the town. Married well, you see – married twice, actually, but both her husbands are dead now. Mrs Banbury-Scott is a very important person; her home is one of the largest and probably the oldest around here.’ Miss Boston sighed wistfully and took another bite of her sandwich.

‘She’s very fat,’ Ben said again.

Jennet kicked him under the table but Aunt Alice nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, she is a bit of a pig,’ she admitted. ‘Far too greedy, I’m afraid.’

Ben chuckled with surprise and appreciation – he had not expected her to agree with him.

‘I didn’t like her,’ said Jennet flatly.

‘Not many do,’ confided Aunt Alice, ‘but because she’s rich they put up with her. Very useful to have her on the board of this and that if she makes a contribution to the funds now and again. Of course she’s got terribly above herself – putting on airs and graces. She might be able to fool some of them round here with her fancy ways but I remember what she was like before she got married. Plain Dora Blatchet she was then, father lived in the yard opposite – simple fisherman.’ She leaned back and stared into space for a moment. ‘Oh, but she was a lovely creature then – prettiest little thing in Whitby. Another cruel trick of age.’

Ben licked the crumbs off the plate and looked round for something else. Miss Boston gave him an apple but he looked at it woefully; he had been hoping for some chocolate biscuits.

‘She can’t have any real friends, then,’ said Jennet thoughtfully. ‘How awful to be liked just because you have money.’

‘Oh, but she does have friends, dear,’ Aunt Alice quickly put in. ‘There’s Edith Wethers, the postmistress, Mrs Joyster, Tilly Droon and . . .’ here she paused, then added guiltily, ‘. . . and there’s me. In fact Mrs Banbury-Scott will be coming here tomorrow evening. Our ladies’ circle meets once a month.’

She cleared the plates away while Jennet puzzled over her words. The way Aunt Alice had mentioned the ladies’ circle was strange, as if she was embarrassed and did not want to talk about it.

‘Is it a party?’ Ben asked with interest.

Miss Boston gave a nervous laugh and shook her head quickly. ‘Oh no, Benjamin,’ she said. ‘Just a collection of dreary old women like me – extremely dull, I’m afraid.’

Jennet looked across at her brother. It was obvious they were not wanted at this meeting and she wondered what they were supposed to do during it.

By a strange coincidence, Aunt Alice was thinking exactly the same thing. The old lady stuck out her chins and chewed the problem over in her mind. It would never do for the children to find out what happened at these meetings and discover her little secret, she told herself. Jennet watched her and suspicion began to form in the back of her mind, but for the moment she said nothing.

The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to the various little pockets of folk music that sprang up wherever a clear space could be found. Ben enjoyed this immensely and joined in the clapping and cheering. There was so much to see that the time passed very quickly and the children were exhausted by the time they eventually clambered into their beds.

Another loud chorus of screeching gulls startled Jennet out of her sleep the next morning. She glanced at her watch: it was half past six. With an exasperated groan she turned on her side and lifted the edge of her bedroom curtain.

The day was wet and windy, with gulls riding the gusts and circling overhead. Jennet’s room looked out on to the yard but nothing stirred there. She fumbled with the catch and opened the window.

At once the drizzly Sunday morning crowded into her bedroom. The clamour of the sea birds rang in her ears and the warm wind blew salt and rain into her face. From somewhere, the delicious and enviable smell of frying bacon tantalised her senses. Quickly pulling her clothes on, Jennet stumbled downstairs to make her breakfast.

In the kitchen she found that Miss Boston was already up and about. She had evidently just returned from her morning walk, as her white hair resembled the collection of sheep’s wool and twigs on the hall table.

‘Hello, dear,’ she said, looking up from the kipper on the plate before her. ‘Sleep well?’

Jennet nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She slotted a piece of bread into the toaster and decided it was time to ask what had been preying on her mind. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she began casually.

The old lady pulled a fishbone from her lips and glanced up. ‘Hmmm?’

‘When will your friends be coming today?’

Aunt Alice coughed and hastily covered her mouth. ‘Gracious!’ she exclaimed in a fluster. ‘I must have swallowed a bone by mistake – tiresome thing!’ She took a drink of coffee, wondering all the while what the girl would ask next. ‘They usually arrive after tea, Jennet dear,’ she answered eventually. ‘Why?’

‘I just wanted to know if you wanted Ben and me around,’ Jennet replied as the toast popped up. ‘We could stay upstairs, if you like.’

Miss Boston took hold of Jennet’s hands, which by this time were holding the butter knife and the toast. ‘Oh, do you think you could, dear?’ she said gleefully puckering up her wrinkled face. ‘That really would be such a help. Some of the circle are not very fond of children and we do need to concentrate, you see.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Jennet said. ‘I’ll take Ben on a long walk this afternoon to tire him out. You won’t hear a peep from him all night.’

‘Oh, you are considerate, thank you again.’ But Miss Boston’s face as she bent her head over her plate once more seemed far from happy.

The girl turned back to the toast and grinned. She had guessed correctly: the ladies in the circle were secret gamblers.

Nothing titillates old ladies more than gambling for money, be it Bingo or Bridge. Jennet decided that Aunt Alice was being so furtive because she was too embarrassed to admit it. She crunched through her breakfast and stared out of the window. I wonder what they play? she thought to herself. It must be cards, she decided. Gin Rummy or Whist, perhaps, or maybe even Poker. The thought of all those old women sat around a table playing Poker like cowboys in a wild west saloon greatly amused her. She imagined Mrs Banbury-Scott in a ten gallon hat and nearly spat out the toast with her laughter.

Aunt Alice frowned to herself. Could Jennet have found out somehow? Perhaps it was not too late to cancel tonight’s meeting. She took another gulp of coffee and fixed her eyes on the remains of the kipper as though it were to blame in some way. I must make this the very last meeting of the circle, she insisted to herself. It will get too dangerous if the children become involved – especially for Benjamin.

Ben was sleeping soundly with his ammonite clasped firmly in his hand. He had been dreaming of snakes and dragons all night – he was the valiant hero who slew them. The dream was just coming to a ridiculous conclusion, as his usually did, with a grand parade of headless serpents wriggling behind him on brightly coloured leads whilst he fed cat munchies to the heads bouncing round his ankles.

‘Ben, Ben,’ shouted one of the heads, ‘wake up, you lazy lump!’

He rolled over and pulled his bedclothes higher.

Jennet was in no mood for this today. ‘Wake up, thickhead!’ She dragged the blankets off him and he flapped about like a headless serpent himself. Then he glared at his sister and brought his bottom teeth over his lip to show annoyance.

‘You and me are going for a long walk today,’ she told him sharply. ‘So come downstairs and help me make a packed lunch.’

‘Where we going?’ he asked, wishing he could stay in bed all day. But she had already left the room.

The drizzling weather was soon blown inland and by midmorning the sky was blue. Aunt Alice waved the children off, but her heart was troubled and she watched them leave with a guilty look on her face.

It was late when they returned, making their way through the town. The children crossed the bridge to the East Cliff and wearily tramped up Church Street.

‘My dears!’Aunt Alice sighed with relief as they opened the front door. ‘You’ve been gone an age, I was beginning to worry.’ The old lady stared at their tired faces and tutted. ‘My goodness, you are a dozy pair, and look at the state of you both. I’ll turn the immersion on so there’ll be plenty of hot water.’

Some time later Ben lounged in his bed. He had been fed, had bathed himself and was now reading a brand-new comic which Miss Boston had bought for him. It was a warm night so he had only put on his pyjama bottoms. The sheets were crisp and clean, smelling of the linen cupboard, and he felt new all over as he wormed into them, tired and contented. From the bathroom he could hear Jennet stepping out of the bath and downstairs Aunt Alice was setting out her best china cups on a tray. She was humming to herself and the sound drifted up to his room.

Ben’s window did not overlook the yard so he missed the arrival of the old lady’s guests. A sharp knock on the front door vibrated through the cottage and startled him. He sat up and listened to see if he could hear who it was as Miss Boston let the newcomer in. A brisk, abrupt voice dragooned up the stairs – that must be Mrs Joyster, he thought to himself. Just then his own door opened and Jennet, wrapped in a towel with another turbaned around her wet hair, looked in.

‘Was that the army woman?’ he asked her.

Jennet glanced behind her and shrugged. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Now, have you got everything you want? You’re not to go downstairs tonight, do you understand?’

Ben nodded but Jennet recognised the look in his eyes and waved a warning finger towards him. ‘If you so much as sit on the top step there’ll be trouble, OK?’

Ben threw himself on his back and raised the comic over his head sulkily. Jennet closed the door and went to her own room. She heard some more guests arrive, and recognised Miss Wether’s voice and that of Miss Droon.

The postmistress was sneezing and asked for a glass of water. ‘I just can’t sit next to Tilly tonight,’ came the muffled twitterings. ‘All that cat fur brings on my – achoo!’

Jennet smiled to herself; the tissue would have its work cut out tonight. She dried her hair and began thinking about the card sharps downstairs. This time she wondered what the stakes were – just how much did the old dears play for? Perhaps it was only ten or twenty pence. What if it was more than that – a pound or two? Maybe the gambling fever was so strong that a whole week’s pension was frittered away in one night. A new idea came to her as she tugged at a tangled clump of hair with her brush. What if Aunt Alice was in league with the others to swindle Mrs Banbury-Scott out of all her money? Jennet smiled at her own fanciful imaginings and just hoped the cards would favour Aunt Alice tonight. It was probably nothing worse than a game of Happy Families, she concluded, putting the hair-brush down.

The light faded outside Ben’s window and the shadows deepened in his room. The boy fell into a light, uneasy sleep which was invaded by unpleasant dreams. In them he was walking down a long, narrow corridor which seemed familiar, but he couldn’t think where he had seen it before. His feet were heavy in the dream and though his legs were moving he never got anywhere. Beads of sweat pricked Ben’s forehead as he turned over and his breaths came in short gasps.

He knew there was something behind him but he could not turn his head round to look. He could feel its presence dogging his every footstep, its eyes burning into his back; he sensed the tension in the air as it prepared to spring. A howl boomed inside his head, a weird, unearthly sound that slashed the watchful night. With a hideous growl, the unseen beast bore down on him.

The boy whimpered in his sleep, trapped in a nightmare which was rapidly approaching its gruesome end. His face was screwed up in fear. ‘Go away,’ he mumbled tearfully, ‘make it go away!’

But the horror continued. The creature was snapping at his heels and with a shriek he called out, ‘Mum! Mum!’

Ben found himself sitting up in bed, drenched with sweat. The room was dark, yet he could make out the figure sitting beside him quite clearly.

‘Mum,’ he whispered.

The figure smiled at him, as any mother might do to comfort her child in the night. Ben put his arms out to embrace her but she rose and backed away. It was then that he remembered she was dead.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wondered how he could have mistaken this vision for something real. A thread of silver light ran around her outline, flickering like sunlight over water. His mother opened her mouth, but Ben could not hear the words she was speaking. He averted his eyes quickly when he saw the pattern on the wallpaper through the darkness where the roof of her mouth should have been. He knew there was nothing to fear but it unnerved him and he found himself wishing she would leave. Watching his own mother mouthing dumbly like an actress in some crackly silent film was horrible.

The boy hid his eyes and waited for her to disappear – his visitors usually left if he ignored them. But when he looked up she was still there. She had moved to the end of the bed and was kneeling down with her face turned sadly towards him. She had stopped trying to talk, as if she realised that it was upsetting him. Instead, she shook her head at her son with that gentle smile on her lips which he remembered so well. That was better; Ben smiled back at her. She then inclined her head towards the door, beckoning Ben with her hands.

Puzzled, the boy clambered out of bed and shivered; his sweat had become cold and he was chilled. Stepping up to the door, he looked up at the shade of his mother and asked her with the expression in his eyes what she wanted.

The figure pointed at the door knob. Trembling, Ben reached out a hand, slowly opened the door and peered out.

He was totally unprepared for what was on the other side and gasped in disbelief.

There, crammed on the small landing, was a multitude of ‘visitors’. They were sitting on the banisters and crowded down the stairs. Ben could only shake his head and stare; he had never seen this many together before. The ghosts of over a hundred people were there. There were young faces and old, some wearing old-fashioned costumes and others dressed in clothes more familiar to him. But they all seemed to be waiting for something. A long line of them trailed down into the hall and gathered outside the closed parlour door.

Although Ben did not understand why he saw his ‘visitors’, they sometimes seemed as real and ordinary as the rest of the world – the Rodice’s husband had been one of these. But he could tell these forms were phantoms. Some of them were transparent as glass, whilst others were just indistinct shapes made of grey mist.

As he opened the bedroom door a little wider to get a clearer view, they suddenly became aware of him and all their faces turned in his direction. For a moment Ben felt afraid and he pulled himself back into the bedroom. But his qualms disappeared as the light which flickered around the apparitions welled up and illuminated the stairwell from top to bottom with a beautiful radiance.

The blaze lit his face and he glanced up to find his mother. She was no longer at his side and it was some moments before he caught sight of her again in the hall below, motioning for him to follow.

Ben stepped on to the landing and instantly regretted it. Every soul rushed towards him. They gathered thickly round, pressing in on all sides, their eyes imploring him to help them. They wrung their hands piteously before his face, their expressions desperate with the need to communicate with the living. He never actually felt them touch him, but it was suffocating all the same and he hated it. It was like being surrounded by beggars and knowing you had nothing to give them. The pleading faces were images of sorrow and regret that burnt into him, and a claustrophobic panic began to bubble up inside. He had never experienced anything like this and it frightened him; what were these spirits doing here and what did they want? It was as if they had been dragged here against their will and were beseeching him to release them.

‘I can’t hear you,’ he wailed helplessly. ‘Stop it, stop it!’ The boy closed his eyes tight shut and struggled along the landing. He had to escape from this clamouring madness and he groped for the door to Jennet’s room. The throng of spirits parted before him like scythed corn.

There it was, the doorknob. He fumbled for a moment, opened his eyes and flung himself inside.

‘What’s up?’ asked his sister in mild surprise. She was reading one of Aunt Alice’s books in bed and had obviously not heard a thing. But once she saw how pale and frightened her brother was, she hastily put the book down and held out her arms to him.

‘Oh, Jen!’ he howled, throwing himself at her. ‘They won’t leave me alone, Jen, I can’t hear what they’re trying to say. Tell them to go away, will you? I’ve never seen so many of them before.’ He sobbed into the large T-shirt she used as a nightie and the rest of what he said was unintelligible.

Jennet stroked his hair and tried to soothe him. It was a long time since Ben had had one of his turns and she wondered that he should have one now – he seemed to be so happy here.

‘Are you . . . are you seeing things again, Ben?’ she ventured.

He nodded into her shoulder. ‘Mum’s here, too,’ he cried. ‘There’s so many, Jen.’

Jennet pushed him away from her and looked steadily into his eyes. For a moment all her old suspicions about his visions had flooded back, but no, he was really scared. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him calmly, ‘I’ll take a look outside and make sure there’s no one there.’

She got up and crossed to the door but Ben sprang past her and slammed himself against it violently. ‘Don’t go out!’ he begged. ‘You’ll let them in!’

Jennet was beginning to get worried; he had never been this terrified before. She wondered if she ought to go and ask Aunt Alice’s advice. Would she mind the interruption? This certainly seemed urgent enough.

‘Don’t worry, Ben,’ she said, pulling him from the door. ‘I won’t let anyone in, I promise.’

The boy backed towards the bed as she turned the knob and opened the door. She could see nothing out there – but he could. On the landing the crowd of souls raised their arms and surged forward. Ben screamed and collapsed on the bed.

Jennet was horrified. She raced down the stairs, calling for Aunt Alice at the top of her voice. Up to the parlour door she ran and, without knocking, thrust it open and charged inside.

A red light fell on her. For a moment the girl was confused by it, but as she looked around to find its infernal source, the truth of the situation she had stumbled into was revealed.

Seated at the round parlour table was the ladies’ circle: Miss Wethers, Mrs Joyster, Miss Droon, Mrs Banbury-Scott and Aunt Alice. They were all holding hands and looked extremely startled by Jennet’s entrance. She had interrupted a seance.

For a second Jennet could only stare back at them. Miss Wethers made an uncomfortable squeaking noise and pulled her hands away from the table to reach for a tissue.

Aunt Alice sucked her cheeks in guiltily. ‘Oh dear,’ she began, but did not know what else to say.

Jennet was speechless. She watched as Mrs Joyster tutted at her inconvenient arrival and left the table to switch on the main light. Then she leaned over the small lamp which had been fitted with a red bulb and clicked it off. ‘We’ll get no more tonight,’ she huffed disagreeably, and fixed the girl with a withering glare.

Anger quickly replaced the surprise which Jennet had at first felt. All this time Aunt Alice had deceived her! She felt cheated and used – the old woman wasn’t interested in her at all, she just wanted Ben because of his gift. Her resentment welled up until she could contain it no longer.

‘I hate you!’ she stormed. ‘You’re nothing but a load of old witches!’

She slammed the door shut and stomped upstairs to pack her things and Ben’s. They weren’t going to stay in this house any longer; she didn’t care where they went just so long as they got away.

‘Who was that?’ asked the fat Mrs Banbury-Scott, as she reached over to a plate of scones and crammed one into her gaping mouth,

‘That young lady has completely ruined the sitting,’ repeated Mrs Joyster, snorting in disgust.

Another scone disappeared into the Banbury-Scott cavern. ‘Most disagreeable child. Mmmmm . . . didn’t I see her outside the post office yesterday?’ She paused to give her tongue an airing as it came across a most peculiar taste. ‘What did you put in your jam, Tilly darling – catnip?’

Miss Wethers stared at the closed door unhappily. ‘Oh my,’ the mouse whined. ‘She didn’t seem very happy.’

Aunt Alice wiped her moist eyes. ‘No, she didn’t, did she?’ And the old lady covered her face in shame.

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