The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

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       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 СКАЧАТЬ