The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ