DESPITE MIRANDA’S HOPES, the three weeks of Steve’s incarceration felt more like three months. Beth got better and even more demanding than usual, and though Miranda’s show of spirit had confounded her aunt for a little while, Aunt Vi soon began to slip into her old ways. If Miranda tried to defy her, a sly clack round the head would be handed out when she least expected it, making her feel dizzy, and though she persisted in saying she would not work unless she got at least a share of the food on offer this tactic was only partially successful. Sometimes her share seemed to consist of gravy, half a potato and some cabbage, though Beth, when warned that her cousin would not wait upon her unless she was decently fed, saw that Miranda got bread and cheese or a conny-onny sandwich in return for reading anything Beth wanted to hear.
She did manage to see Steve from time to time; once she sneaked into his yard when she had seen him making his way to the privy and the two of them exchanged news. Steve, much to his surprise, found that his mother would not allow his stepfather to so much as enter the little room he shared with Kenny, since the older man had never had the measles. She also bought her son special food, and this was probably as well since Steve got them very badly, and was feverish for a whole week. To be sure, once that week had passed he made rapid progress and was soon eating hearty meals, playing quiet games with Kenny and occasionally sneaking downstairs to meet Miranda in the cobbled yard at the back of the house, but he was careful to keep these activities undemanding since he had no wish to make himself even more sickly.
When Miranda and Steve met, as they began to do regularly, in the little cobbled courtyard of Number Two, he was eager for any news of Jamaica Close and their various neighbours. Miranda had taken advantage of his absence to spend a good deal of time each day with the Madison Players, who were always good for a bit of gossip, but Steve had never been to the theatre and Miranda soon realised that he was not much interested in her mother’s friends.
‘When you’re better – well, when all the spots have gone – I’ll take you with me when I go down after the matinée performance and introduce you to everyone,’ Miranda told him. ‘You’ll like them, honest to God you will, Steve. And then you can hear what they’ve been doing to try and find my mother; you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
But though Steve agreed that this would be a grand idea, Miranda had the uneasy feeling that he was not much interested either in the theatre or in the disappearance of her mother and she supposed, ruefully, that she could scarcely blame him. A whole year was a long time in anyone’s book and even the Madison Players no longer talked as though Arabella would turn up with some believable explanation of where she had been during the past year. Even the sleepwalking incident had been long ago. Several times since then Miranda had woken to find herself halfway down the stairs, tiptoeing barefoot across the cobbled yard or actually in the roadway, but she had never again gone out of sight of Jamaica Close. She had mentioned these episodes to no one but Harry, the policeman who had found her on her very first sleepwalk, and though interested he had not thought it particularly important. ‘I’ve talked about it to me mates, and they say that most folk grow out of it; I reckon you’re doing that right now.’
It was unfortunate that as Beth’s health improved her temper worsened and she became demanding, fractious and quite spiteful. She had always told tales but now she twisted her remarks to put her cousin in an even worse light, until Miranda was forced to bargain with her. She would refuse to read to Beth or help her with a jigsaw or play draughts unless her cousin would agree to her playing out for at least an hour each day. Beth was well enough to play out herself had she wanted to do so, but on this point at least the cousins were totally different. Miranda thought she would die cooped up in the house, Beth thought she would die if she were forced to breathe fresh air, so arguments were frequent and tempers frayed and grew shorter than ever.
The day came at last, however, when the nurse from Brougham Terrace pronounced Steve free from infection and the next morning the two met outside the front door of Number Six, to gloat over their newly won freedom. ‘Mam’s give me a few coppers so we won’t have to skip a lecky; we can ride like Christians and go all the way out to Seaforth Sands, like we did before I caught the perishin’ plague,’ Steve said. ‘Gawd, I hope I never get the measles again, I’m tellin’ you. I scratched, of course – who wouldn’t – and when Mam saw me at it, what did she do but trot down to the chemist shop on Great Homer and buy a bottle of pink yuck what the pharmacist telled her was good for spots . . .’
Miranda giggled. ‘Calamine lotion,’ she supplied. ‘It’s awful, isn’t it? When I was six and lived in the Avenue I got chickenpox and my mother dabbed the stuff all over me. It was all right while it was wet – quite cooling, in fact – but when it dried it was awful. Aunt Vi sent me to the chemist to buy a bottle for Beth but I told her how it would be, so we emptied it down the sink and put a tiddy bit of plate powder in the bottle with water and shook it up. Then Beth pretended we’d used it and said it wasn’t any good, and when Aunt Vi got a plug of cotton wool and tried to dab it on the spots Beth grabbed the bottle and threw it out of the window. Good thing it was open, because she threw it pretty damn hard, I’m telling you.’
Steve laughed. His skin seemed oddly pale after being shut up indoors for three weeks but otherwise, Miranda considered, he was beginning to look like himself once more. But she vetoed his suggestion that they should go to Seaforth Sands. ‘No, I don’t want to do that,’ she said firmly. ‘Before you were taken ill you promised you’d show me the place where you hide your gelt, so I could add mine to it. And you sort of hinted that I’d be surprised when I saw the other side of that great wall at the end of Jamaica Close. I’ve waited three weeks and never nagged you, but I’m going to nag you now. I want to see the other side of that wall and I want to know where you hide your gelt and where I shall hide mine in future. Why, Steve, if you were to be run over tomorrow I wouldn’t be able to inherit your wealth, because I don’t know where you keep it.’
Steve laughed. ‘I don’t mean to get run over tomorrow, nor the next day neither,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But I know what you mean and I reckon you’re right. We’ll save Seaforth Sands for another day, and as soon as you’ve had your breakfast we’ll set off for the other side of the wall.’
They agreed to meet outside Number Two in half an hour, and Miranda trotted down the jigger, crossed the courtyard of Number Six and entered the kitchen, where she found Aunt Vi eating porridge whilst Beth sat on a low stool, clutching a fork upon whose prongs was spiked a round of bread. She looked up as Miranda entered the room, and frowned. ‘I don’t fancy porridge, norreven with brown sugar or golden syrup,’ she said crossly. ‘I’m havin’ toast wi’ raspberry jam. What’ll you have?’
Miranda knew that this was a rhetorical question. The raspberry jam, her cousin’s favourite, was most certainly not on offer so far as she herself was concerned. Not that she minded; porridge with just a sprinkling of brown sugar was her favourite breakfast, and if she helped herself to a full dish it would not matter if she did not come in for the midday meal.
However, when she examined the saucepan there were only about two spoonfuls of porridge left in it, so her hopes of a good filling breakfast were dashed. She put it into her dish, however, then cut herself a round of bread, keeping one hand on it so that no one should filch it whilst she ate her porridge.
A rich smell of burning caused Beth to give a squeak of dismay and throw the cindered slice down on the table, then reach for the slice of bread beneath her cousin’s palm. ‘Gimme!’ she commanded. ‘You can have the burned bit.’
‘Beth Smythe, you are the most selfish . . .’
Aunt Vi’s hand clipped Miranda so hard across the ear that she nearly fell off her chair, making Beth give a muffled snort of laughter. ‘Serve you right,’ she said tauntingly. ‘What’s to stop you cutting yourself another slice, if you don’t like a bit of burn?’ But Aunt Vi was already scuttling pantry wards with the remains of the loaf clutched in her hot and greedy hands, so Miranda jammed the piece of bread into her skirt pocket, ignored her aunt’s shout that she was to bleedin’ well wash up before she took one step out of the door, and crossed the kitchen.
‘No time; I’m meeting a friend,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘See you later, Beth.’ Miranda was sure her aunt would think nothing of pursuing her down the Close, so she decided that loitering outside Number Two was not a good idea and turned right into the main road. Because the summer holidays were now in full swing there were a great many children about, one or two of whom Miranda knew. She stopped and spoke to Jane and Elizabeth Meredith, twins who were in her class at school, and they told her that they had just returned from a wonderful week down on the coast; at Rhyl, in fact. ‘Oh, girls, how lucky you are!’ Miranda breathed. ‘My mother was always promising to take me down to the coast, but somehow she never got round to it.’
She had heard much of the delights of seaside resorts in summer and remembered her mother’s description of golden sands, gentle blue seas and the enthusiastic audiences who had attended the shows on the pier. One day, Arabella had assured her daughter, they would go to Rhyl, or Llandudno, or even further afield, but at present she was content to stay with the theatre over the summer, helping with scenery painting, costume repair and other such tasks which were best done when the theatre was empty.
Lizzie was a sweet-tempered girl, but it was her sharp-tongued twin who responded. ‘Your mam, your mam!’ Jane said contemptuously. ‘That were when you were in that posh private school, I suppose? I bet they never knew your mam was on the stage, ’cos that’s common that is . . . bein’ on the stage, I mean. If she took you to the seaside at all you’d have had your face blacked up and a black curly wig on your horrible head, so’s you could earn a few pennies in the black and white minstrel show . . .’
Miranda was interrupted just as she was contemplating handing out a punch on the nose. Someone caught her arm and a voice spoke warningly in her ear. ‘Hello-ello-ello? Hangin’ round waitin’ for me, was you? Gorrany grub? That bleedin’ aunt o’ yours might hand over a bit of cake or a chunk of bread and cheese. Still, I’ve got some of each so we shan’t starve.’
It was Steve, of course, and as he spoke he had been drawing her away from the twins, giving her arm a warning pinch as he did so. Miranda, who had taken a deep breath, preparing to shout abuse at Jane even as she threw the punch, subsided, though she shook Steve’s hand off her arm as they moved away. ‘It’s all right; it’s just that when somebody says something nasty about my mother, I lose my temper,’ she said ruefully. She turned to her friend. ‘Are we going to see the other side of the wall, Steve? It’s not fair to keep talking about some mystery or other and then making excuses not to go round there.’
They had been walking quite briskly along the pavement, but at this Steve stopped short. ‘Look, I told you I’ve not said a word to anyone else, about either where I stash me gelt or what goes on on t’other side of that there wall. I’m still not sure if I’m doin’ the right thing . . .’ He heaved a sigh. ‘But a promise is a promise, so we turn right here and keep goin’ for a bit. Despite what you might think, it’s a long way round to reach the other side of that wall and it’s no use you askin’ me a lot of silly questions ’cos I shan’t answer ’em. Chatter away all you like, tell me stories about your mam, but don’t ask me no questions about where we’re goin’ or what we’ll do when we get there, gorrit?’
‘Yes, all right, if that’s the way you want it,’ Miranda said rather sulkily. ‘But I think you’re being awful silly; how can a wall which is so ordinary on the back be mysterious and different on the front? That’s what I want to know.’
As Steve had said, it was a long walk to reach the other side of the wall, but when they did so it was just as mysterious and extraordinary as Steve had hinted. The wall which truncated Jamaica Close hid what appeared to be a huge, crumbling mansion of a house; it was only visible over the top of another large wall, and the roof was half missing, telling Miranda that it was now a ruin, though it must have been magnificent years ago. She could see the tops of trees and the staring glassless eyes of windows, but could see no way in. She turned and stared at Steve. ‘Are you sure that Jamaica Close is on the other side of that crumbling great house?’ she asked uneasily. How did one tell from the only sort of view they could get that Jamaica Close was really so near? For all she knew Steve might have led her for miles, through dozens of tiny streets – well, he had done so – before stopping in front of the only building of sufficient height to own that wall. Miranda looked at the neighbouring buildings, but none of them were houses. There were small and large factories with busy yards full of bicycles in racks, the occasional car, and men strolling to and fro, smoking cigarettes or eating food from greaseproof wrappers, for by now, Miranda guessed, it must be dinner time. Clearly, the reason that no one was interested in the old walled house was because people came here to work and not to live; this was not a family neighbourhood. Whereas in Jamaica Close there were always children playing, mothers shouting to their offspring to run messages or go indoors for a meal, here, Miranda guessed, when the siren sounded for the end of the shift, workers were merely intent upon getting back to their homes and had little or no interest in their surroundings.
She said as much to Steve, who grunted assent. ‘The strange thing is that when I’m in Jamaica Close I hardly hear any noise from over here, apart from the hooter which marks the end of the shift; I suppose it’s because the wall’s so high. And then, of course, grown-ups’ voices don’t carry in the way ours do. But now that you know what’s on this side of the wall, you’ll maybe notice sounds which you wouldn’t have noticed before.’
Miranda agreed to this, though with reservations. But then Steve gave her a friendly poke in the ribs. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me . . .’ he pointed to the slated roof of the mansion so far above their heads, ‘you don’t believe that Jamaica Close is a stone’s throw away. Tell you what, how about if we prove it? No use doing anything now, in broad daylight, but tonight when we’re back in the Close and there’s no one about I’ll get something real brightly coloured and shy it as high as I can, right over the wall and the house as well, if I’m lucky. Then tomorrow we’ll come round again, and the proof will be there.’
Miranda sniffed, but gave Steve a reluctant grin. ‘All right, all right, I’m sure you’ve worked it all out and Jamaica Close is just over the wall. And now, how the devil do we get to the house?’
‘I suppose you think it’s impossible, don’t you?’ he asked mockingly. ‘Like most people, you see what you expect to see, not what is really there. Walk very slowly around this bleedin’ great wall and mebbe you’ll see a way in and mebbe you won’t. I aren’t goin’ to help you, ’cos this is a sort of test. Go on, start lookin’.’
Forewarned, Miranda began to walk very slowly along the wall. She kept her eyes on the ground, half expecting to find that some animal had dug a tunnel beneath it, but saw nothing. Then she began to examine the brickwork and in a remarkably short space of time, or so her gratified pal assured her, she had found the way in. Perhaps a dozen feet from where she had started looking a mass of ivy hid the uneven brickwork, and had it not been for the sudden tension of the figure beside her Miranda might have passed it by without a second glance, assuming that, in the way of ivy, it had rooted and clung to every crevice in the great wall. But the slight stiffening of Steve’s body was enough to make Miranda not only look, but also to put a hand to the gleaming ivy. She prepared to tug, then realised that the ivy was rooted on the far side of the wall and what she beheld was simply a curtain, which, as soon as she moved it away, revealed a tiny scratched, scarred door.
‘Well done you!’ Steve said in a low voice. ‘Better make sure no one’s watching . . .’ He glanced quickly round, then reached down and pulled open the door. To Miranda’s surprise it opened easily, without a squeak or a protesting creak, and though she turned towards Steve to remark on it, he pushed her through and shut the door behind the pair of them before turning to her and blowing out his cheeks in a parody of relief. ‘Phew!’ he said. ‘Now I’ll show you where I hide my gelt.’ He turned towards the house, but Miranda put a detaining hand on his arm.
‘Hold on a minute!’ she whispered. ‘This is a perishin’ garden. Oh, I don’t deny it’s been let run wild, but it really is a garden, Steve. I didn’t know there were gardens anywhere near Jamaica Close. Why, there’s fully grown trees – flowers an’ all. Someone could live here. I wonder who owns it? Oh, look, roses, really beautiful ones! Gosh, don’t they smell sweet? And there’s masses of blackberries, only they’re still red berries now – and look at the rhubarb! The stems are as thick as my wrist; I bet they’d be really tough if you tried to put ’em in a pie.’
Steve followed her glance. ‘Is that rhubarb?’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘I’ve never seen them big leaves on top of it when it’s for sale in St John’s market. But there’s gooseberries, two or three different sorts, and I reckon there were strawberries once, only they’ve all gone tiny. But the blackcurrant bushes, though the fruit is getting thinner, are still just about alive.’
Miranda drew in a deep ecstatic breath and expelled it in a low whistle. ‘Oh, Steve, this place is just about perfect! We could come here every day and bring it back to what it was years ago. We could root out the weeds, harvest the fruit – I’ve already seen two apple trees, a Victoria plum and a greengage – and then we could sell the fruit and buy seed with the money. The first thing we ought to do is get rid of the weeds and dig over all the beds. I remember my mum saying you should always plant potatoes in ground that’s new to cultivation, and before the crash came she was a farmer’s daughter and knew what she was talking about. Oh, Steve, do let’s.’
She looked at her pal and saw that he was laughing. ‘Honest to God, Miranda, you’re mad as meself,’ he said approvingly. ‘I had the same thought when I first found me way in, but it ain’t possible, of course. Someone must own both the house and the garden, and I’ll take a bet that if we started to interfere somebody would fetch the scuffers.’ He pointed to the wall. ‘See that loose brick? It’s the one with the splash of white paint on it, which I put there so’s to identify it. Pull it out.’
Miranda did as she was told and found that the brick had been hollowed out and contained an interesting number of coins and one beautiful, if dirty, ten shilling note. Hastily, she plunged a hand into her skirt pocket and produced almost a shilling in pennies and ha’pennies, which she slid into the hollow of the brick. She watched as Steve replaced it in the wall, then jerked her thumb towards it. ‘Isn’t it time we took a look at the house itself? You were kidding when you said someone would get the scuffers if we dug the beds over, weren’t you?’ she asked hopefully. ‘No one’s been here for years – ten, or twenty, or even more! The garden’s a wonderful tangle, but we shan’t be able to play in it until we’ve cut the weeds and brambles down. Goodness, Steve, there’s a bed of nettles up agin that old door that’s almost as tall as I am, and though the brambles are covered in berries, they’re covered in prickles as well. We can’t do much out here until we’ve armed ourselves with a scythe, a couple of spades and some garden shears. As it is, we’ll have to be right careful, because the path’s disappeared and if we aren’t really clever we’ll arrive at the house just about covered in stings and scratches. You’d better go first, because my legs are bare and you’ve got kecks. Look, that’s where the path was once; it goes straight to the door, and . . .’
Steve gave a snort. ‘If you think I’m goin’ to walk, bold as brass, up to that door you’re bleedin’ well wrong,’ he said roundly. ‘I’ve not told you, because I didn’t imagine you’d be daft enough to risk goin’ into a tottering old house, but since you are I’ll tell you why I won’t go with you. It’s haunted, that’s why!’
Miranda stared at him, scarcely able to believe her ears. This was one of the rough Mickleborough boys, and everyone knew boys feared nothing, so why should he pretend that the house was haunted, unless he was simply saying it to frighten her? Well, he wouldn’t succeed. She pulled a face at him, then tried to push him along the almost obliterated path. ‘Don’t be so stupid. If you’d said it might fall down and crush the pair of us to a jelly then I would have believed you, but haunted? Ha, ha, ha! You’ll tell me next that it’s the ghost of your great-uncle who lived in the house when he was a boy and got trapped in an old oak chest, like the woman in the story.’
She looked at Steve, waiting for him to begin to laugh, and to say that he was only kidding, but he did nothing of the sort. ‘If you go in there, you go alone,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve only ever been in once, and that was enough for me. Honest to God, Miranda, I never believed in ghosts until I discovered this place. I liked it so much that I fought my way through the nettles and brambles and went in through that door, the one you can see there. I crossed the kitchen – I think it was the kitchen – and went into the next room. It were pretty dark because the windows have been boarded up, though of course the wall goes all the way round the whole building so there ain’t a lot of light anyhow. There’s furniture in there; I reckon it were a dining room once, but no sooner had I took a look round than I heard someone singing. At first I thought it were coming from outside, but then I realised it were in the next room along. I’m tellin’ you, Miranda, for two pins I would have cut and run . . .’ he grinned unhappily, ‘but I didn’t have a pin on me, so I fumbled my way along a short corridor, which smelled horrible, until I found the doorknob of the next room, and . . . oh, Miranda, even remembering makes me go cold all over . . . and before I could turn the handle I felt it turn in my fingers. I swear to God I hadn’t moved it, so I knew there was someone on the other side of the door. I can tell you I snatched my hand back as though the doorknob were red hot, but the door swung open and after a moment I peered inside. The singing had stopped, but I couldn’t see no one; the room was empty and dark. Then . . . someone started to laugh. It was a horrible laugh, the sort madmen give, you know? I took one last look round the room – it was empty all right – and then I ran like a rabbit and didn’t stop until I had me hand on the outside door. Then I collapsed on to the grass and telled myself that I’d imagined the whole thing. Only I’m not the imaginative kind.’ He straightened his shoulders and grinned perkily at Miranda. ‘So if you go into the house, you go alone,’ he repeated firmly. ‘And now let’s have the bread and cheese me mam gave me. I wish I’d thought to bring a bottle of cold tea – even telling you about the ghost has dried me mouth.’
Miranda stared at him; he was the most down to earth person she could imagine, which meant that if he said he had heard mysterious laughter coming from an empty room then she simply had to believe him. He had said he thought the house was haunted, but Miranda thought this most unlikely. She knew sound travels in peculiar ways and decided it was quite possible that a tramp had moved into the old house, but did not want anyone to know the place was occupied. Being a child of the theatre she knew very well that it was possible for someone to ‘throw their voice’, so that the sound appeared to come from somewhere quite different. Therefore, she patted Steve’s arm in a motherly fashion and sat him down beside her on a low wall. ‘I know what I’m going to tell you sounds odd, but we have had variety acts in the theatre from time to time. All sorts of different ones – conjurers, tight rope walkers and mystery acts – and one of the latter is a chap called Cheeky Charlie, who can throw his voice. It’s really odd; he can stand stage left, smiling at the audience, but his voice will come from stage right, and because he’s also what they call a ventriloquist you won’t see his lips move, not even a little bit.’
Steve snorted. ‘Do you expect me to believe that a feller with a gift like that is wasting his time frightenin’ kids so’s they don’t investigate a tumble-down old house?’ he enquired, his voice vibrant with disbelief. ‘Pull the other one, Miranda Lovage, it’s got bells on! Tell you what, if you go in, and can find a logical reason for that awful laughter, then I’ll give you a bag of Mrs Kettle’s gobstoppers and not even ask for a suck.’
Miranda giggled. It was a good offer, and one she should have seized immediately, yet to her own surprise she did not do so. Instead, she got up and, skirting the worst of the nettles and brambles, made her way towards the house. Even as she did so, she found herself hoping that something would occur to save her from having to put her theory to the test. She looked back hopefully at Steve. ‘If you come with me you’ll be able to see that it’s all moonshine and there’s no ghoulies or ghosties or long-leggedy beasties waiting to jump out and shout boo,’ she said. ‘If you won’t come in, how can I prove that I’ve even crossed the threshold?’
Steve chuckled. ‘I’ll see you go in, and I can guarantee that if you get into the room I told you about you’ll come out of there like a rocket, and that’ll be proof enough for me.’
That was scarcely reassuring, but Miranda took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and began to push her way through the waist-high leaves, having to stop every now and again to detach the clinging brambles as she approached the old house. As she got closer, two things occurred to her. One was that the door which she took to lead into the kitchen was sturdy and strong-looking; the other was that it looked quite modern, not at all in poor repair like the rest of the house. Insensibly, Miranda found this cheering. Indeed, she found herself hoping that the door would be firmly locked against her, which would be a cast iron excuse for going no further. When she reached it, however, her secret and unworthy hopes were proved false. The door swung open easily beneath her touch, with no eldritch shriek of old and unused hinges. Indeed it swung wide, letting in light which penetrated the room for several feet.
Behind her, Miranda heard a peculiarly nasty chuckle which made her blood run cold, until she realised that it was only Steve trying to frighten her. Then she walked steadily into the room, which was indeed the kitchen. It was, as Steve had said, very dark inside, because every window was covered by shutters, firmly closed.
She crossed the kitchen on silent feet, beginning to be aware of a rather unpleasant sensation. She felt that she was being watched, though there was no one in the room beside herself – she could tell that even in the semi-darkness – but she wasn’t afraid, only annoyed with Steve, who had refused to back her up and search through the building with her. She glanced back at the open door and through it she saw Steve sitting on one of the low walls eating an apple, staring through the aperture at her. Miranda gave a little wave and was disproportionately glad when Steve waved back. She wished she had an apple, and for a moment contemplated returning to the garden and insisting that Steve share his ill-gotten gains, but then, with a resigned sigh, she decided to get her exploration over. She left the kitchen, mouse quiet, and entered the passageway of which her pal had spoken. Because there was no light at all, not even a crack from a badly shuttered window, the corridor was pitchy black, and though Miranda told herself over and over that she did not believe in ghosts, she still felt a frisson of something very close to fear when she stretched out her hand and laid it on the doorknob of the room which Steve had said was haunted. She moved her fingers very carefully, half believing that the door knob would be wrenched out of her hand by sepulchral fingers, but greatly to her relief it was only she who gently twisted the knob, opened the door silently and peered inside.
Blackness met her eyes, total blackness without one speck of daylight. Miranda took one faltering step into the room and even as she did so she thought she heard a low chuckle begin. It was, as Steve had said, an inhuman noise; it sounded as though it came from hell itself and all Miranda’s courage and determination fled. She shot out of the door backwards, clouting her elbow so hard on the unseen door jamb that she emitted a startled shriek, and as she ran at top speed along the corridor, crossed the dimly lit kitchen at a gallop and burst into the warm and sunny garden she was only too willing to admit that there was something very odd indeed hidden away in the crumbling mansion.
Steve was laughing. ‘Told you so,’ he said mockingly. ‘Did you hear that awful laugh? I’ve been sitting out here telling myself it was some sort of trick, like what you told me about the man who could throw his voice. Well, I dare say it is, but it’s put me off and I bet it’s put you off too.’
He had remained sitting on the low wall and Miranda sat down beside him. She was still breathless, both from her fast run up the garden, heedless of nettles and brambles, and her fear over what had befallen her in the house, but she was beginning to calm down and to examine what had happened with a critical eye. ‘What is really odd is that I still like the house, and the garden too. The garden’s beautiful, somewhere I wouldn’t mind spending a great deal of time. And I think, if we came back here with an electric torch each and threw open all the shutters in the house, and got to work cleaning it, then it would be a grand place to play. We could have it for our own, because no one else seems to want it. In fact we could kit it out – the kitchen at any rate – and stay here overnight, if we had a mind.’
Steve stared at her, and she read awe in his glance. ‘You’re a girl and a half, you are!’ he exclaimed. ‘Ain’t you afraid of nothin’, Miranda Lovage? I wouldn’t stay in that bleedin’ evil mansion, norrif they paid me a hundred quid a night. And as for likin’ it – you must be mad! Don’t tell me you wasn’t scared, because I shan’t believe you.’
Miranda snorted. ‘I was frightened all right, when I heard that laugh,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ll tell you something really weird, Steve. I know it sounds daft – quite mad, really – but when I was in the kitchen I kept having the oddest feeling that the house had something to do with my mother and her disappearance. The police stopped being interested ever so soon after she went, and though some of her friends, especially the Madison Players, tried their best to contact her, even their interest faded away after a few months. But I still believe somebody stole my mother away and if I hunt really hard I’ll find her.’ She looked hopefully at her companion. ‘Will you help me, Steve? You’ve never met my mother, but she’s ever so beautiful and the nicest person in the world. If we find her, she’ll take me away from my aunt and reward you somehow, though I don’t know how. What do you say to that, eh?’
Steve was sitting, elbows on knees, hands supporting his chin, but now he stood up, nodding slowly. ‘I’d like to get you away from your perishin’ aunt. That woman has some nerve, to knock you about when you aren’t even her own child,’ he said, and Miranda had to turn her head away to hide the smile. She thought it funny that Steve believed mums and dads had a perfect right to scalp you alive, but other relatives should keep their distance; still, no point in raising the matter now. Instead she got up and headed for the door in the garden wall.
‘Let’s be getting home so we can earn some money. Torches are expensive, but candles are pretty cheap. Suppose we come over here tomorrow with a few candle ends and explore the house that way? If we wait until we’ve saved enough for electric torches, we’ll still be waiting come Christmas.’
‘Shurrup,’ Steve said briskly. ‘I agree with you that the garden’s prime, but I won’t go into the house again, not if you were to pay me a hundred smackeroos. Not by torchlight, nor candlelight, not even by bleedin’ searchlight. Hear me?’
‘Where have you been, Miranda Lovage?’ Beth’s voice was shrill with annoyance. ‘You’re supposed to be a friend of mine, as well as me cousin, but you bobby off without me whenever you’ve a mind, leavin’ me to do Mam’s messages while you play with that nasty, dirty Mickleborough kid from Number Two.’ She glared spitefully at the younger girl. ‘Mam were goin’ to take the pair of us to New Brighton tomorrow because she’s got a load of starched tablecloths for one of the big hotels on the front, and she said if we’d carry half a dozen each then once they were delivered – and paid for, o’course – she’d let us play on the sand and paddle and have tea and doughnuts before we come home again. But when I tell her how you’ve been off wi’ that scruffy Steve Mickleborough, that’ll be you out.’
Once, Miranda would have jumped at the thought of such a delightful day out, but now she shook her head in pretended sorrow. ‘Sorry Beth, I’ve got other plans,’ she said briefly, and then, seeing the spiteful look deepen on her cousin’s face, she broke into hurried speech. ‘I’d come with you and give you a hand if I could, honest to God I would, but it just isn’t on. I promised Mrs Mickleborough that I’d tidy round after they left, and then lock up. I told you, they’re having a whole week at the seaside to make up for them all having the measles. They’re renting two rooms down by the funfair; all she wants to do now is cook enough grub for the first three or four days of the holiday. I’m going to help her, I promised, and she’s going to give me a sixpence if I agree to check the house every few days to make sure all’s well.’
‘You’re a liar,’ Beth said at once. ‘Mrs Mickleborough’s quite capable of doin’ her own cookin’; she won’t want you hangin’ about. And if you told her you were needed to help with the tablecloths she’d probably say to leave the cleanin’ till they’re due back.’ Her tone abruptly descended from demanding to coaxing. ‘Aw, come on, Miranda, be a sport. You’ll enjoy New Brighton, you know you will, and it’ll be no fun for me if I have to go with Mam alone, ’cos she hates the seaside. If you’ve got any pennies we might have a go on the funfair – I’m rare fond of the swing boats – so why not be a pal and come with us?’
The two cousins were sitting on the steps outside Number Six, in Beth’s case simply watching the other girls as they jumped in and out of the rope, chanting ‘Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper’ as they played. Miranda, on the other hand, was waiting her turn to join in the skipping, so only had half her attention upon her cousin. She understood why Beth was so keen to have her company and was tempted to agree to go along, for though she and Steve had been saving up every penny they could they still had not got enough money to buy really strong torches. Miranda had finally persuaded Steve to relent, but though each had acquired a pocketful of candle ends and a box of Swan Vestas, they had only essayed one attempt to look round the house by candlelight and they both remembered, with a jolt of sickening horror, how the moment they had opened the door the invisible laugher had reached out an invisible hand and snuffed their candles, to the accompaniment of mad giggling.
Naturally enough, their retreat had been fast and terrified; Steve almost trampling Miranda underfoot as they had both fought to escape back into the garden, whilst the mad giggle behind them had gradually faded into silence. Later, without telling anyone why he was interested, Steve had made some casual enquiries about the place and learned that a man who had made himself a huge fortune by dealing in slaves had lived here. That man had profited by the misery and degradation of the people whose lives he had ruined. And now, Miranda had thought dramatically when Steve told her the story, his restless soul was not allowed to enter heaven, but was tied for ever to the place where he had lived in uncaring luxury for so long.
‘Miranda? What is it you and that feller get up to?’ Beth whined. ‘You never used to go off without me. Sometimes you used to hang around the Close, sometimes you went wanderin’ off up towards the centre where the big shops are, sometimes I believe you even went home to the Avenue, though there’s strangers livin’ in your house now. Oh, and you went to the theatre of course, hoping they’d tell you somethin’ about your mam, only they never did, ’cos they don’t know nothin’. But after we’d all had the measles, you changed. You and that Steve went off just about every day, I dunno where. And now, when the Mickleboroughs are off to the seaside for a whole week, you might at least do things wi’ me until they get back.’
Miranda sighed, and was about to agree to go to the seaside with Beth – it was better than hanging around the Close, after all – when something suddenly occurred to her. Steve was nice all right, probably the only real friend she had, but after that one ill-fated expedition he had refused point-blank to explore the slave trader’s mansion again. Miranda herself had learned a good deal about the house lately. She had gone to what the school children called the museum of slavery and seen for herself the leg irons and manacles, the instruments of punishment, and talked to old folk who still remembered hearing how the slaves had been lined up in one of the city squares and auctioned to the highest bidder in those far off days. Miranda’s soft heart had wept for the misery the slaves had suffered. Husbands, wives and children had been torn apart and Miranda, robbed of her own mother, thought she knew how they must have felt, the depths of their suffering.
One old man had told her many stories of how brutal and sadistic were the men who ran the sugar cane plantations on the island of Jamaica, where many of the slaves were destined to go. She had heard stories of dead or dying slaves being thrown overboard from the clipper ships, so many that sharks would follow in the ships’ wake, eager for the ‘food’ thrown out by such uncaring hands.
Though the stories had horrified her, Miranda had been tempted to pass them on to Steve, but in the end had decided against it. She guessed he would show a ghoulish interest in them, but she also guessed that it would probably make him even less keen to enter the house. And now, with the summer holidays looming to a close and even the sheltered trees in the walled garden beginning to take on the tints of autumn, their free time would soon become severely restricted. Opportunities to visit their playground would be limited to weekends, and once the really bad weather set in she imagined that Steve’s enthusiasm, always somewhat lukewarm even for the garden, would probably disappear altogether.
Before her conversation with old Mr Harvey, Miranda had told herself that since she most certainly did not believe in ghosts it was some trick of sound, perhaps from an underground stream, or even an echo, which had frightened her so. But now, with her new knowledge of the terrible past of the old house, she shared a good deal of Steve’s apprehension, along with a growing feeling that, if there were a ghost, the ghost of some poor tormented slave who had suffered at the hands of the mansion’s owner, it might recognise in her a kindred spirit.
For although it was perhaps unfair to compare living with her aunt to slavery, she was undoubtedly bullied and derided. Aunt Vi treated her like dirt, took pleasure in piling work on her weary shoulders, and the only emotion she showed her was dislike; never a hint of gratitude. Mr Harvey had called her ‘Cinderella’, though only in jest, but to Miranda the nickname was no joke; it was too close to the truth. Furthermore, she too had known the pain of loss when her dearly beloved mother had been torn from her arms. It occurred to her now that if she went into the house alone, and there really was a ghost living there, then she would be able to identify with the poor creature, which was more than Steve could do.
‘Miranda!’ Beth’s whining voice jerked Miranda abruptly back into the present. In her mind’s eye she had been seeing the tall white clipper ships and their miserable cargo as they sailed ever further from the country of their birth, and now here she was back in Jamaica Close with the girls playing jump the rope on the dirty paving stones and her cousin jerking at her arm. ‘Miranda, will you answer me! If that horrible boy is off to the seaside then why can’t you come to New Brighton with Mam and me?’
‘I’ve told you . . . I promised to help . . .’
But Beth cut ruthlessly across her sentence. ‘I don’t care what you promised, and nor will me mam,’ she said angrily. ‘We can’t manage all them bloody tablecloths without someone to give us a hand, so you can just make up your mind to it that you’re coming to New Brighton with us; savvy?’
Miranda reflected with an inward smile that Beth was just like her mother. She never considered the feelings of others but simply went straight for whatever she wanted, either bullying or whining, depending which she thought would be more successful. Today, however, Miranda told herself, she was doomed to disappointment. She turned to her cousin, giving her a falsely sweet smile. ‘Sorry, Beth, you and your mum are on a loser. Unless you intend to drag me to the ferry in chains, you’re going to have to carry those tablecloths yourselves.’ She got briskly to her feet, dusting down her skirt, but moving judiciously out of her cousin’s reach before she did so. ‘I can’t even promise to help as far as the ferry because I shall be too busy. See you later, queen!’
‘One, two, three spells out! You goin’ to jump in, Miranda?’
Elsie Fletcher, one of the older girls, grinned encouragingly at Miranda and indicated that they would slow the rope if she wanted to jump in. Miranda ran forward and saw Elsie and the other girls grin as Beth began to sob. ‘You’re supposed to be me pal . . .’ she was wailing, but when no one took the slightest notice she got heavily to her feet and went slowly through the front door of Number Six, still calling Miranda every bad name she could think of.
‘That there cousin of yours is a right nasty piece of work,’ Elsie said as the rope began to revolve smoothly once more. ‘Dunno how you stand her meself.’
‘She can be all right at times, and anyway she’s not nearly as horrible as my aunt,’ Miranda confessed ruefully. ‘They want me to go with them to help carry a load of starched tablecloths back to one of the big hotels in New Brighton . . .’ she grinned at Elsie, ‘but I’ve other fish to fry, and won’t my aunt be mad when Beth tells on me!’
Elsie returned her grin. ‘I might have guessed she were a tale-clat as well,’ she said. ‘Still, a day in New Brighton ain’t to be sneezed at. You might even get an ice cream cornet out of the old witch; mebbe even a dinner, or at least a paddle in the briny.’
Miranda snorted. ‘If she bought me an ice cream she’d charge me for it, and the same goes for a dinner,’ she said gloomily. ‘Aunt Vi doesn’t give anything away for nothing. But I’ve got business of my own to attend to, so I’ll bypass New Brighton, just this once.’
Elsie nodded understandingly. ‘Don’t blame you; I only met your mam a couple of times, but Gawd above knows how she managed to have such a ’orrible sister as Vi,’ she said. ‘If I were you I’d sag off, find meself somewhere else to live . . . ever thought of it?’
‘Heaps of times,’ Miranda admitted. She and Elsie, being in different classes, had never had much to do with each other in the past but now Miranda realised she had an ally in the older girl. ‘But I’m always hoping my mother will turn up again; she’d never leave me on purpose, honest to God she wouldn’t.’
The other girl grinned. ‘Course she wouldn’t,’ she said firmly. ‘Well, kid, if you ever need help in gettin’ away from that aunt of yours, just let me know. I’d be tickled pink to put a spoke in her wheel, especially if it helped you. And one of these days your mam will return; I’m as sure of it as I am that you’ll escape from the witch. Did you know we called her that – the witch, I mean?’
Miranda shook her head. Not only had she found a friend, but she was now aware of how much her aunt was disliked. She thought the nickname suited Vi admirably and could not wait to tell Steve. She must go round to Number Two straight away, and help her pal’s mother – who so generously fed her on bread and cheese when Aunt Vi let her go hungry – to get ready for their longed-for holiday.