The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ