TWO MORNINGS LATER, having made up her mind to take advantage of Steve’s absence to visit the old house, Miranda slid out of bed as soon as the first grey light of dawn could be glimpsed between the thin bedroom curtains. She had had an uncomfortable night, with Aunt Vi taking up three quarters of the bed and Beth occupying the remaining quarter, so that Miranda was forced to cling on to the edge of the mattress and hope she would not be pushed out by either of the other two occupants. She had managed to sleep for the first few hours, too exhausted to remain awake, for her aunt, furious over her refusal to accompany them to New Brighton, had brought back a large quantity of dirty linen which, despite the heat of the day, she had taken straight to the wash house. After tea, she had refused to allow Miranda to leave the kitchen; had actually locked the door so that escape was impossible. Then she had built the fire up, stood a row of irons in the hearth and made her niece iron every single one of the huge white tablecloths. Miranda’s arms, shoulders and back had ached agonisingly by the time she tackled the last one, and though she had done her best and worked as hard as she possibly could she had somehow managed to scorch the hem, causing Aunt Vi to slap her head resoundingly and say that, had it not been so late, she would have sent her niece back to the wash house to scrub away at the scorch mark and then made her iron the tablecloth again, wet though it would have been.
But the discomfort of her position had woken her long before the others were stirring, so she was able to slip out of bed without either of them appearing to notice that she had gone. She dressed quickly, not wanting to wash since the splashing might awaken one of them, and made her way down to the kitchen. There, the gingham curtains were still drawn across and the banked down fire showed red gleams where it was beginning to come to life. Miranda looked round the room; she could make herself some breakfast, but it would be best if she did not start to cook; just the smell of porridge might bring her relatives sleepily down the stairs. If so, they might start nagging again, or say she should stay at home to do the chores, or run messages; whichever it was, escape might become impossible, so Miranda cut a chunk off the loaf and spread it thinly with margarine, then generously with jam. She peeped into the pantry and saw a bottle of her cousin’s favourite raspberry cordial standing on the slate slab beneath the window to keep cool. It was three quarters full. Miranda picked up an empty bottle, poured some cordial into it, went to the sink and added a judicious amount of water, capped the bottle and was about to investigate the contents of the large cake tin when she heard a slight noise from upstairs. It was probably only her cousin, or her aunt, turning over in their sleep, but Miranda was taking no chances. She glided across the kitchen and slipped out into the freshness of the morning. Closing the door behind her with infinite caution, she padded across the yard and let herself out into the jigger; then she headed for the old house.
It was the first time Miranda had ever been out alone this early; on the only other occasion when she had abandoned her bed at such an early hour she had been meeting Steve, but now she was on her own and able to appreciate the coolness and quietness of the streets. To be sure there were one or two people about, mostly making their way down to the docks, and she saw several cats, going about their mysterious business without so much as a glance in her direction. She saw a dog as well; a miserable skinny stray with sores on its back and a look in its eyes which caused Miranda to stop her onward rush. She knew that look too well, knew that her own eyes often reflected the desperation she could see in the mild gaze of the little brown and white cur. She held out a hand to it and it came slowly, clearly more used to kicks than caresses, but when she produced her jam sandwich and broke off a generous piece, hunger obviously overcame fear and it slunk closer, taking the food from her fingers with such careful gentleness that she could have wept. Instead, however, she squatted down on the pavement and fed the little creature a good half of the sandwich before tucking the food back into the pocket of her skirt. ‘Tell you what, dog,’ she said to it as she straightened up once more, ‘if you’re still around when I’m headin’ for home later today – if the ghost hasn’t killed me, that is – then I’ll try to make do with a few apples, so you can have the rest of my bread and jam.’
It sounded like a generous offer but Miranda knew, guiltily, that she was unlikely to have to make it good. Stray dogs don’t hang around in one vicinity, they are for ever moving on, and she was sure this dog would be no exception. However, she was rather touched to realise, after half a mile, that the dog was still following her. She told herself firmly that it was not she the dog followed but the bread and jam, yet in her heart she did not believe it. The dog had recognised a fellow sufferer and wanted her company even more than he wanted food.
But he’ll never stand the pace, Miranda told herself. I’ve simply got to hurry because I must be in the garden before the shift change, and I don’t know when that is. Come to that I don’t know if the factory works twenty-four hours because Steve and I only ever come here during the day, and then of course we avoid the times when we hear the hooter and know there will be folk about. I think Steve said he thought the chaps on the factory floor worked from 8 a.m. to 4 p.m., but for the office workers it’s 9 to 6. Oh gosh, I wonder what the time is now? I really am an idiot; it’s all very well coming early but I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of the wall when there are crowds about. Someone would be bound to spot me and start asking questions, questions which I wouldn’t want to answer, even if I could.
She told herself that there was no point in lingering, however, and she and the dog continued to twist and turn through the many little streets which separated them from the mansion. Presently her doubts were resolved when the breeze brought them the sound of a clock striking six times. Miranda smiled to herself, then glanced back at the little dog, trudging wearily along behind her, with what looked like a foot of pink tongue dangling from between its small jaws. Miranda slowed, then stopped, and addressed her companion. ‘Am I going too fast for you, feller? Tell you what, when we reach the garden I’ll get you a drink of water; I can see you could do with one.’
The dog glanced up at her, seeming to smile, definitely indicating that a drink of water would be extremely welcome, Miranda thought. And the dog wasn’t the only one; as the heat of the day increased she grew thirstier herself and began to think longingly of the apples and greengages which still hung from the trees in the garden. She wondered if the dog’s thirst could be slaked by fruit, but doubted it. Time, however, would tell, and if the little dog took to fruit then she would have no need to go into the kitchen in order to find him a drink.
Judging by the chimes of the clock she had heard, Miranda thought she must have left Jamaica Close well before six and it was still early – only around seven o’clock – when she and the dog slid quietly along the rosy brick wall and approached the garden door. No one was about, and Miranda paused to listen. She was relieved to realise that there was no sound at all coming from the big ugly factory next door, which during the daytime buzzed with every sort of noise: talk, laughter, the clattering and clash of machinery and many other sounds. It was pretty plain that whatever the factory made – Steve had told her he thought it was munitions, though why such things should be manufactured when the country was at peace she had no idea – they did not work twenty-four hours, which meant that if they were careful their presence need never be discovered. However, habit made Miranda open the garden door as softly as possible and take a quick look round the walled garden, which she thought should more accurately be called the wilderness, before closing the door behind her. When she glanced back she saw the little dog standing uneasily in the aperture, wearing the expression of one who has too often been rudely rejected to take acceptance for granted.
Miranda patted her knee. ‘Come along in, little feller,’ she said encouragingly. ‘This here is our place – yours and mine, and Steve’s too of course – so don’t you hesitate, just come straight in.’
The dog did hesitate but then he trotted through the doorway and moved as close as he could to Miranda without actually touching. She could see he was shivering and put a protective hand on the top of his smooth brown and white speckled head. ‘I told you it was all right for both of us to come in, and so it is,’ she whispered. ‘And now we’re going to get you that drink of water. I wonder if there’s a well anywhere in the garden which we’ve not noticed? If so, we could get the water from there.’
But even as she said the words she knew she was kidding herself, knew she was still none too keen on entering the house itself. That was why she had nagged Steve so relentlessly, begging him to accompany her. She, Miranda Lovage, was frightened of sounds which she did not understand. How ashamed her mother would be if she knew that her daughter was hesitating before giving a poor little dog a drink, just because of a noise which, after all, she had only heard once – she did not count the time she and Steve thought they had heard giggling in the kitchen because they had bolted out so quickly that it had probably been their imagination. She produced her bottle of raspberry cordial and took a quick swallow, and watched with guilty dismay as the little dog’s eyes followed the movement of bottle to mouth with obvious wistfulness. Thinking back, Miranda realised that it had been at least a month and possibly more since it had rained. Puddles had dried up, gutters had run dry; a stray dog would have a long walk before finding even the tiniest puddle.
Miranda had come here determined to investigate the house. One pocket in her skirt contained half the jam sandwich and the raspberry cordial. The other was full of candle ends and a box of matches. Yet having arrived at her destination, she found she was still reluctant to actually walk into the house. If only it wasn’t so dark! There were shutters at most of the windows, and the ones without shutters had been boarded up.
Miranda stood for a moment with her hand on the knob of the kitchen door. She wondered what Steve was doing, imagined him wading through the shallows with the hot sun on his back, then plunging into deeper water, whilst Kenny jumped up and down at the water’s edge, shouting to his brother to give him a piggy back so that he too might get wet all over.
How Miranda envied them! How she wished that she too was on a beautiful sunny beach with the sea creaming against her bare feet and the whole happy day in front of her. But it was no use wishing; she had promised the dog a drink and a drink he would jolly well have even though it did mean entering the old house and fumbling her way across to the low stone sink. She had never been anywhere near it, had only glimpsed it as she had crossed the kitchen, heading for the corridor which led to the rest of the house, but now, she told herself firmly, she was going to stop acting like a superstitious idiot and get the dog some water. Resolutely she turned the knob and pushed the door open wide, letting in the dappled sunlight, making the place seem almost ordinary. Standing in the doorway, still hesitating before actually entering the room, she glanced cautiously around her. She saw the huge Welsh dresser which she had glimpsed on her first visit and a long trestle table; also the low stone sink with a pump handle over it. There was another door to her right which she imagined must once have opened on to the pantry, and a door to her left which she knew led to the passageway, and now that her eyes were growing a little more accustomed to the gloom she could make out piles of pans, dishes, and other such paraphernalia spread out upon the shelves which ran from one end of the room to the other. Good! She would fill a bowl or dish with water for the dog and then, if her courage held, use one of her candle ends to investigate the rest of the house.
She was halfway across to the sink, her hand extended to the pump handle, when once more she began to suspect that she was being watched. Uneasily, she glanced around her, then down at the dog, and she knew that had he shown any sign of wanting to bolt she would have been close behind him. But the little animal’s attention was fixed on the pump and the enamelled bowl she held. Sighing, she seized the pump handle and began to ply it, and immediately two things happened: a trickle of water emerged from the big brass tap and something scurried across the sink, making for Miranda.
She gave a shriek so loud that she frightened herself. The dog backed away, whining, and then ran forward, put his front paws on the side of the sink and began to lap at the narrow stream of water emerging from the tap, whilst Miranda, clutching the bodice of her dress against her thumping heart, backed away from the enormous spider which had been driven into activity by the action of the pump.
‘Oh, oh, oh! You hateful horrible creepy-crawly!’ she shrieked, unable to stop herself. ‘Don’t you come near me or I’ll stamp on you and squash you flat.’ She turned reproachfully to the little dog. ‘Why don’t you defend me?’ She peered into the sink but could see no movement and, keeping well back, held the enamelled bowl beneath the trickle of water until it contained a reasonable amount. She looked all round her, but it was much too dark to see where the spider had disappeared, so she placed the dish on the floor with extreme caution, clutching her ragged skirts close to her knees as though she feared that the dreaded enemy would presently creep out of cover and climb up her bare legs. She stood very still, trying to convince herself that the spider was probably long gone, having spotted the open door and galloped into the sunlight. She wanted to pick up the bowl of water and carry it outside, but the little dog was still drinking and it seemed a mean thing to do, to interrupt him when he had had so many disappointments already in his short life. And anyway, Miranda was growing used to the kitchen. To be sure, she had felt she was being watched, but she now concluded that it must have been the spider and wondered why it had never occurred to her to open the shutters. There was light coming through the back door – sunlight, what was more – but if anything it tended to make the rest of the room seem even darker in comparison, whereas if she were to open all the shutters . . .
She had actually stretched out a hand to the nearest pair when she realised that by opening up she might be letting in more than sunlight. Safely hidden away in the slats there might be whole colonies of spiders similar to the one which had apparently been living in the sink. Miranda decided that opening the shutters would have to wait until Steve returned from the seaside. Boys, she knew, were not afraid of creepy-crawlies. No, she would not touch the shutters, but as soon as the dog had finished drinking she would light one of her candle ends, protect it as far as she could with a hand around it, and investigate at least a part of the house. She had never seen the stairs, but today for the first time she’d noticed that the window of one of the attic rooms gaped black and open, neither shuttered nor boarded up. If she could find that room she might be able to see why it had not been blacked out like most of the other windows.
The dog finished lapping and glanced up at her, apparently to give her an encouraging grin; he actually wagged his disgraceful little tail, which had formerly been clipped so firmly between his back legs that Miranda had thought it had been docked, before giving one last sniff at the enamelled basin. Miranda took a deep breath and set off across the kitchen, and just as she entered the shaft of sunlight coming through the back door she discovered where the spider had gone. It was crouching in that very shaft of sunlight, its hateful legs forming a sort of cage around what looked like a sizeable moth. Poor Miranda gave an even louder shriek than the one which had heralded the spider’s first appearance, and even as the echoes of her scream died away a soft voice spoke, seeming to do so almost in her ear. ‘I no like spiders either,’ the voice said sympathetically. ‘I shriek like the factory hooter if I see one near my bed.’
Miranda nearly fainted and her heart, which had speeded up with the spider’s reappearance, doubled its pace. She looked wildly round but could see no one, though she noticed that the door leading into the corridor, which had been firmly closed, now swung open.
There was no doubt that, had she been able to do so, Miranda would have cut and run, but fear nailed her to the spot. Once more her gaze raked the room, including the open doorway into the corridor, but she could see nothing, only darkness. ‘Where are you?’ she quavered. ‘I – I hear your voice but I can’t see you.’
The chuckle which greeted this remark no longer seemed threatening, but merely amused. ‘I here, in the doorway,’ the voice said. ‘Can’t you see me? Where your eyes gone?’ The voice suddenly changed from mere curiosity to fear. ‘I done nothin’ wrong. Why you come here, take my water and eat my apples and plums?’
‘I didn’t know they were yours – the apples and plums, I mean – and if they are I’m very sorry,’ Miranda said, trying hard to keep her voice steady.
There was a short silence, then the voice said: ‘Why you come here secretly, instead of knocking on door like Christian?’
‘Because we didn’t know anybody lived here,’ Miranda said, speaking each word separately and with great care. ‘For that matter, why are you hiding? I can hear your voice plain as plain but I can see neither hide nor hair of you.’ She hesitated, then decided to put the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Are you a – a ghost?’
This time the pause was very much longer and the voice, when it spoke again, sounded extremely puzzled. ‘Ghost? Why you think I ghost?’
Miranda shrugged helplessly. ‘If you’re invisible, and I think you are, then you must be a ghost.’
This time the pause was shorter. ‘Can ghost own house? I told you this my house; you not believe me?’ Miranda was growing accustomed to the voice now. Sometimes it sounded puzzled, sometimes unsure, but at other times impatience with her foolishness seemed uppermost. She shifted her position slightly, almost certain now that the speaker was standing in the corridor, but when she drew her candle out of her pocket and fumbled for the matches, the voice spoke sternly. ‘This is old house and catch fire quick. Didn’t your mammy tell you not to play wi’ matches? Go away now and take candles with you; I’m best in dark. But come back another day and we talk more . . .’
Miranda thought she heard a soft sort of shuffling sound and then she became convinced that she was alone once more, save for the little dog. The ghost had gone without leaving any clue as to his or her identity. Indeed, did a ghost have an identity? Miranda was not sure; the only thing she was sure of was that the woman – thinking back she was positive that it had been a woman’s voice – meant no one any harm. Perhaps she was a ghost, or perhaps she was just a very shy person who now owned the place. Miranda was about to return to the garden when her attention was drawn to the little dog. It was staring at the doorway which led to the rest of the house and wagging its poor little scrap of a tail, its shabby ears pricked and its tongue lolling out once more.
The Mickleborough family arrived home quite late on the Saturday, but as soon as day dawned on Sunday Steve was down in the kitchen helping his mother to prepare breakfast, since he was all on fire to get round to Number Six and see what Miranda had been doing in his absence. He had been surprised by how much he had missed her. She wasn’t particularly pretty, or particularly clever, but she was grand company, and, despite her miserable home circumstances, game for anything.
Of course, he and his brothers had had a glorious time at the seaside. Little Kenny had watched with envy as the older boys splashed in and out of the sea and became totally at ease in the water. Then there were the wonderful fish and chip suppers, and perhaps best of all the new understanding between himself and his stepfather. Steve was not sure exactly why he and Albert Mickleborough had begun not merely to tolerate but to like one another. He thought it might be the fact that he had begun to call his stepfather ‘Dad’, whereas previously he had simply avoided calling him anything at all. And then he had greeted the news that his mother was expecting another baby with real enthusiasm; Steve liked small children and had no objection at all to looking after Kenny, whereas his other brothers, particularly Joe, had no interest in their mother’s second family. When Albert expressed his hope that the baby would be a girl this time, Steve entered into the discussion with zest, suggesting names, and promising to take the new baby off his mother’s hands whenever she and her husband fancied a night out.
All this had made the holiday one of the happiest Steve had ever known, and though normally he would have regretted it when they packed up and made for home, this time, though he knew he would miss the freedom the holiday had given him, his eagerness to tell Miranda all about it was a real compensation for the loss of the seaside he had so enjoyed.
‘Wake up, Steve! Aren’t you the one for dreaming. Got any plans for today? You’ve been such a good lad, lookin’ after young Kenny so’s your dad and I could have time to ourselves, that it’s only fair to let you have time off to go around with your pals. If so, I’ll pack you up a carry-out, enough for you and that poor little scrawny scrap of a girl what’s livin’ at Number Six.’
‘Oh, Mam, that’d be grand,’ her son said with real gratitude. ‘But I’ll help meself if it’s all the same to you. Jam sandwiches, and your oatcakes and cheese, will be fine. I bet she’s had a miserable time while we were away so I’ll call for her and mebbe we can take a tram out into the country. Simonswood is her favourite place; we were dammin’ a stream there to make ourselves a pool deep enough to swim in. She wants me to learn her how. I’d take her up to the Scaldy, but that’s a place for fellers really, not girls.’
His mother smiled, and Steve reflected that she was still a pretty woman even though she was old; Steve considered anyone past forty to be over the hill. But now he returned her smile gratefully as he began to lay the table. ‘I’ll go and get Kenny up if you like, and give him his breakfast,’ he volunteered, but Moira Mickleborough shook her head.
‘It’s all right, lad. You deserve some time to yourself. And while I’m about it, I’d just like you to know that though I’ve said nothing, that don’t mean I’ve not appreciated the way you’ve behaved towards my Albert. Life will be easier for all of us, particularly now that Joe’s followed your lead and started calling him Dad too. I’m real grateful to you, ’cos sometimes I’ve felt like a bone between two dogs, and that ain’t a comfortable way to feel.’
Steve chuckled. ‘I know what you mean; I’ve felt the same meself now and then. I won’t wait for breakfast. I’ll cut myself a carry-out now, with enough spare for Miranda.’
Ten minutes later Steve left the house with the food in his old school satchel and a bottle of water sticking out of the top. He approached Number Six rather cautiously, and was glad he had done so when the front door shot open and fat Vi Smythe appeared on the top step, with Beth hovering close behind her. She was in the middle of shouting for Miranda to come in at once and give a hand with the chores when she spotted Steve, and immediately switched her attention to him. ‘You’re that blamed iggorant Mickleborough boy, what used to keep company with me niece,’ she boomed. ‘Aye, you’re a nasty piece of work as I remember. So where’s Miranda got herself to this time? Not that you’ll know, ’cos we’ve scarce seen either of you for the past week. But now you’re back from wherever your mam’s fancy feller took you, you might as well be useful. Tell me niece she’s to come back here immediate, no messin’, else I’ll see she gets the thumpin’ she deserves.’
Steve did not even answer, though he smiled to himself. If Miranda had not been around Jamaica Close, then he could hazard a pretty good guess where she had been. Not that he intended to give her Aunt Vi any clue. He simply shrugged his shoulders and strolled past Number Six as though he had not even heard the fat woman’s shout. However, he paused outside Number Eight when he heard his name hissed in a low voice. Turning his head he saw Jackie Jones gesturing to him. ‘I dunno if it’s any help, but I seen Miranda goin’ off around six o’clock, or even earlier, most mornin’s,’ the boy said. ‘I’m helpin’ Evans the Milk to deliver – he pays me a bob an hour – and Miranda goes off real quiet, slippin’ out of the front door and closin’ it softly behind her. She gives me and Evans a wave, then puts her finger to her lips so we knows as she means we’ve not seen her, like. Any clues?’
Steve grinned. Jackie was only a kid, but like everyone else in the Close he hated Aunt Vi and pitied Miranda. ‘Thanks, Jackie; I guess I know where she’s gone,’ he said, and set off towards the main road, reaching it just as a nearby clock struck eight. Steve sighed. It would have been more fun had he and Miranda met at six o’clock so that he could have told her all about his wonderful week at the seaside. He felt a trifle peeved, since he had impressed upon Miranda the fact that the family would be returning to Liverpool on Saturday, and had hoped she might have called for him if she wanted to go to the garden. Still, he supposed it was asking too much to expect her to linger anywhere near Number Six and risk being nabbed, either by her aunt or even by Beth, who was not only a year older than her cousin, but taller and a good deal stronger as well.
‘Boo!’
Steve jumped quite six inches in the air and turned wrathfully to give whoever had scared him a thump, only to find Miranda, grinning from ear to ear and looking so happy that he nearly gave her a hug. However, he did not do so, merely punching her shoulder lightly and saying: ‘Well, well, well! So you did wait for me. It was nice of you to hang about when you might have been grabbed by your ’orrible aunt; and there was me thinkin’ you’d forgot all about me!’
Miranda’s whole face was lit up by an enormous happy smile and Steve saw that she, too, had a shabby satchel on her shoulder, which he guessed must contain food. As he fell into step beside her, he pointed to it. ‘Don’t say you nicked some grub off of that fat old cow! But won’t she take it out on you tonight, when you go home?’
Miranda giggled. ‘Who says I do go home?’ she asked mockingly. ‘Well, sometimes I do, but I make sure it’s so late that my aunt’s abed, and I leave so early that her snores are still lifting the roof tiles. At first I was afraid she’d twig that food left the house at the same time as I did, but since I only ever take bread and jam and a tiddy bit of lemon water or raspberry cordial, I suppose she thinks it’s cheaper than having to feed me a hot meal each evening. And of course there’s fruit in the garden; the raspberry canes are awfully overgrown but I pick a good cupful each day, and aren’t they the most delicious thing you ever tasted? And there’s strawberries, too, and apples, and plums . . . oh, all sorts.’
‘Yes,’ Steve said, ‘but bread and jam and raspberries won’t keep you goin’ for ever. You ought to have hot meals now and then, you know.’
‘I do; once or twice I’ve stayed in and told my aunt I’d do her messages, help with the chores and so on, but only in return for a good meal.’ She chuckled suddenly. ‘You should have seen her face! She was that furious I was quite frightened to go back into the house; but to be fair to Beth, she backed me up. Why, she even helped me with the cooking, though she mainly fetched and carried; didn’t want to get flour and fat on her nice clean hands! I’m getting to know her better, and she’s all right, underneath. In fact if she ignored her mum we might even be pals. Anyway, working around the house helped the week to pass quicker, which was a good thing, ’cos I don’t mind telling you, Steve, that time didn’t half drag while you were away.’
‘That’s nice,’ Steve said absently. ‘But I guessed you’d been goin’ to the garden each day . . . well, you must have been, ’cos where else would you get raspberries?’ He hesitated, then asked the question uppermost in his mind. ‘Have you been in the house while I was away? Have you – have you seen the ghost?’
‘No-oo, but I’ve heard it,’ Miranda said cautiously. ‘In fact I wonder if there are secret passages in the house because I don’t believe it is a ghost; well, ghosts don’t eat, do they? The day before yesterday I put a slice of bread and cheese on the draining board in the kitchen, and yesterday when I went back the bread and cheese was gone. There wasn’t so much as a crumb left, so if the ghost didn’t take it, who did?’
‘Rats,’ Steve said succinctly. ‘Or mice, I suppose.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a most peculiar-looking little dog following us.’ He chuckled. ‘Half dog, half rabbit, half rat, at a guess. Shall I shoo it away?’
Miranda stopped short, broke off a piece of whatever it was in her satchel and held it out. The extraordinary little dog came timidly forward, glancing cautiously at Steve as it did so, then reared up on its hind legs and took the proffered titbit so gently that Steve thought it must have been trained to do so. Miranda turned to her pal. ‘This here little dog is mine; I call him Timmy. He’s bright as a button and knowing as a human. I don’t know where he goes at nights, he must have found himself a quiet spot somewhere, but the minute I reach the main road he comes trotting out and joins me. He stays with me all day, wherever I go, but when we get back to Jamaica Close he disappears.’ She glared defiantly at Steve. ‘I know he’s an odd-looking dog but I’m rare fond of him and he’s rare fond of me. And he’s extraordinarily polite; he waited to be invited before he would come into the garden. Why, if he hadn’t been with me I don’t believe I’d ever have gone into the kitchen and got to know the Voice . . .’
‘The Voice?’ Steve interrupted. ‘Do you mean the giggler?’
Miranda sighed. ‘I’ll begin at the beginning and go right up to this morning, when I popped out and said boo,’ she told him. ‘Timmy attached himself to me the day after you went away, pretty well as soon as I left Jamaica Close, but I’m afraid I walked rather fast and because he’s a stray and had been living on any scraps he could pick up he got terribly tired and terribly hot. His tongue hung out a yard and when I had a swig from my bottle of raspberry cordial I could see how thirsty he was. As you know, there’s no pond or water tap in the garden, but there’s a pump over the sink in the kitchen . . .’
She told her story well, even imitating the strange accent in which she had been addressed, and telling Steve she was sure the voice was a woman’s, which made it hard for Steve to believe that she had imagined the whole thing. His own Uncle George, who was in the merchant navy, had once visited Jamaica, and when he came home had often imitated the accent of the Jamaicans he had met on his trip. Hearing that same accent on his pal’s lips added authenticity to her story, and when she finished Steve whistled softly beneath his breath. ‘You aren’t half brave,’ he said admiringly. ‘You wouldn’t have seen me getting into conversation with a perishin’ ghost. I say, Miranda, has it occurred to you that there must be some connection between the Voice and the house itself? Why else should a Jamaican be living in Jamaica House?’
Miranda stared at him, her eyes rounding. ‘How do you know it’s called Jamaica House?’ she whispered. ‘I suppose you aren’t a ghost yourself, come back to haunt the old place and me?’
Steve laughed. ‘I see’d a picture in an old book – that were the name carved over the main entrance door, before they built the wall which divides the house from Jamaica Close. I didn’t take much notice at the time because I didn’t know about the slaves then, but now it all fits, wouldn’t you say?’
Miranda nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. Tell you what, we’ll ask the Voice. Sometimes questions make her either angry or sad, and when that happens she just goes away and won’t come back, no matter how often you say how sorry you are. But I don’t see why she should mind talking about the name of the house.’ By now they were approaching the little door in the wall and as they went through it, with Timmy close behind them, Miranda said enticingly: ‘But now you’re here, Steve, you can hear her for yourself. In fact we might be able to trick her into showing herself with two of us. If I engage her in conversation and you sort of go behind where you think she is . . .’
Steve gave a strong shudder. He would do a lot for Miranda, but he did not mean to become part of a ghost hunt. He told himself it was not cowardly to be afraid of ghosts. If she had been a flesh and blood woman, as Miranda had seemed to imply, then that was one thing, but a ghost was different. He knew from his reading of such authors as Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens and even Oscar Wilde that ghosts could do unexpectedly horrible things. Walking through walls, clanking chains and whisking a human being through time and space were but three of their accomplishments, and Steve had no wish to find himself mixed up in such goings-on. But Miranda was looking at him hopefully, so he decided to disillusion her at once. ‘I won’t go ghost hunting with you, or anyone else for that matter,’ he said doggedly. ‘I said I’d never go into that perishin’ house again, and I meant every word. I’ve brung a bottle of water to drink and if you and that horrible little dog wants anything out of the kitchen you can get it yourselves; so there!’
Miranda moaned. ‘Oh, please, please, please, Steve, help me to find out whether the Voice is a real person or a ghost,’ she said urgently. ‘I’m not afraid of going into the house any more because Timmy always runs ahead of me now, with his tail wagging. I’m sure she’s a real person, and I’m sure it’s she who ate the bread and cheese. If only you’ll give it a try . . .’
‘Just you shut up and listen to me for a moment,’ Steve said crossly. ‘Suppose it was a real person who took the bread and cheese? If that’s so, then how has she been living for the past goodness knows how many weeks on just one piece of bread and cheese? I don’t believe she’s ever picked any fruit in the garden since we’ve been coming here – or at least not enough to notice. So go on, tell me. How is she keeping alive?’
Miranda stared at him for a moment while a pink flush crept up her cheeks, then she stamped her foot, took the satchel off her shoulder and slung it down on the grass. Steve noticed that the garden looked a good deal tidier than it had done when he had first entered it, many weeks ago. He asked Miranda if it was her doing, which made her smile. ‘Are you saying we’re like Mary and Dickon in The Secret Garden? If so, you’re wrong. Oh, I’ve done a bit of tidying, rooting out the weeds and clearing a path through the nettles so that I can reach the door without being stung to bits.’ She looked around her thoughtfully. ‘Do you know, I’ve not noticed, but you’re absolutely right. Someone has been tidying up the garden. Well, I’m sure it’s not someone from outside, so it must be the Voice. And if you’ve ever heard of a ghost who did gardening on the side, it’s more than I have. Doesn’t that convince you that the Voice is real?’
Steve shrugged, then grinned. ‘You’ve got a point,’ he admitted. ‘And I’ll come into the kitchen with you – maybe even further. But if someone starts giggling or walking through walls, or interfering with me in any way whatsoever, I’m off. Is that understood? Oh, and the dog has to go first, because dogs can sense things and if there was a ghost I reckon he’d bolt out of the kitchen howling like a banshee with his tail between his legs.’
Miranda beamed at him. ‘And then, when we’ve both heard the Voice, we’ll come out into the garden again and have our carry-out whilst you tell me all about your holiday,’ she said. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you. If you go into the big trees right up against the wall there’s a swing. It’s quite safe, I’ve tried it, and because it’s beneath the shade of the trees you get a lovely cool breeze when you swing.’
Steve stared at her, then followed the direction of her pointing finger. It wasn’t a proper swing, just a length of very thick rope with a couple of knots around a somewhat dilapidated piece of plank. But it was a swing all right, and Steve was pretty sure that it had not been there on his previous visits. He opened his mouth to say as much, then shut it again and caught hold of Miranda’s hand. ‘Come on then,’ he said cheerfully, pulling her up the path towards the door. He would not have admitted it to Miranda for the world, but the sight of the swing, such a very mundane object, had reassured him as to the nature of the Voice. A ghost would not – could not – erect a swing, but a real person would only do so in order to encourage young people such as himself and Miranda to continue visiting the garden. What was more, Miranda had said it was not she who had attacked the weeds, and in his experience she was a truthful girl and unlikely to tell an unnecessary fib.
She was smiling at him, clearly delighted by his change of heart. ‘I’m so glad you’re going to come into the house with me; I’m sure you won’t regret it,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about today; today I think we shall find out why the Voice hides away in the old building and disappears whenever I ask a question which she doesn’t want to answer.’
By this time they had reached the door and Miranda pushed it open, whereupon Timmy the dog trotted fearlessly into the darkened kitchen, then looked over his shoulder as if to ask why they were so slow. The three of them walked into the middle of the room and waited for a moment. It was pretty clear that Miranda, and Timmy the dog, expected something to happen, but nothing did, so Miranda crossed the floor and pulled open the door which led to the pitch black hallway, which was the only way to reach all the other rooms in the house. Despite himself, Steve felt a pang which, if not of fear, was definitely of discomfort. Miranda, however, seemed completely at ease. She put her head back and called softly. ‘Coo-ee, where are you, Voice?’ There was a soft chuckle and despite himself Steve felt the short hairs on the back of his neck bristle like a dog’s hackles, but then, as his eyes began to get used to the dark, he thought he saw a slight movement.
‘So you have come to visit the lady of the house; I real pleased to welcome you,’ the Voice said, and Steve clung even tighter to Miranda’s small delicate hand. ‘But let us introduce us. I know dog is Timmy, and my friend is Miranda, but who you, boy?’
‘I’m Steve Mickleborough,’ Steve said awkwardly, and to his complete astonishment he suddenly saw hovering in front of him what looked like a half-moon of white in the darkness. It was so startling, so unexpected, that he gave a squawk of fright and jumped backwards, but Miranda, who had also gasped, suddenly broke into delighted laughter.
‘You aren’t a ghost, nor just a voice, you’re a Cheshire Cat grin,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Open the shutters so we can see each other properly; you’ve had your fun, Voice, but it’s time you came clean.’
The grin disappeared, if it was a grin, and for a moment Steve thought that the Voice had left the room, possibly annoyed by the fact that she was no longer a mystery to her two guests. But then one of the shutters creaked back a couple of inches and in the sunlight which poured through the gap Steve saw that the mystery woman was black as coal, and dressed entirely in black as well. Liverpool being a port, Steve was well used to the sight of black seamen roaming the streets. They were friendly and much addicted to the markets, where they spent lavishly on all sorts of strange objects. But by and large these visitors were men, whereas the person smiling uncertainly at them in the shaft of sunlight was most definitely a woman. She was tiny, even smaller than Miranda, and very skinny, which Steve thought not surprising considering that she must have been existing on any scraps she could find, plus a bit of fruit from the garden. Her face was wrinkled, her nose hooked, but her eyes twinkled at them and Steve was sure she was enjoying their surprise, and was even more sure of it when she grinned again. Her thin black hair was pulled into a tight little bun at the nape of her neck but Steve could not guess her age, though he thought she must be very old, fifty or sixty at least.
As soon as the light had entered the room, Miranda had bounded forward and seized the woman’s hands in both of hers. ‘So that’s why we couldn’t see you, and thought you were just a voice; we never thought you might be black,’ she said. ‘Do let’s go into the garden to talk, though, because the house is awfully musty and I’m afraid if we start to open the shutters . . .’
‘No,’ the woman said quickly, shutting the one she had opened and plunging them into darkness once more. ‘People come lookin’; mebbe he come again . . . at night-times I bolt doors and shutters. He not know I here, but if he did . . .’
She stopped speaking, looking anxiously from one face to the other, and Miranda spoke quickly, keen to calm any fears which the older woman might feel. ‘It’s all right, Voice, we won’t touch the shutters. But who are you afraid of? No one comes here, do they? Well, not in daylight anyhow. So let’s go outside, shall we? Oh, by the way, you know our names, but what’s yours?’
As she spoke Miranda had been leading the way out of the dining room, through the kitchen and into the bright sunlight, to the place where she and Steve usually ate any food they had managed to bring with them. It was a long stone seat, set in a curved alcove in the great brick wall, and was a delightful spot. One could sit in the full sun on the right-hand side of the seat, or take advantage of the shade cast by an ancient cherry tree on the left-hand side. The three of them sat down and Miranda and Steve looked hopefully at their companion. ‘Go on, what’s your name?’ Miranda repeated eagerly. ‘It’s not a secret, is it?’
The woman shook her head, flashing them a small, rather embarrassed smile. ‘I Melissa. My family call me Missie, but men on ship call me Ebony.’ She pulled a face. ‘They meant to insult, but why should I care? In my own head I call them ruder names. Cap’n Hogg, I called Pig . . .’ she chuckled, ‘but you can call me Missie, as my children did.’
Miranda turned to Steve. ‘Get out the grub and we’ll divide it three ways; I’m sure there’s plenty. And while we’re eating, Missie can tell us her story.’
‘And we’ll tell her ours,’ Steve said rather reproachfully. He was older than Miranda and had been the one to introduce her to Jamaica House, so he thought it should be he who took the lead, and decided to start with the question which fascinated him most of all. He produced the pile of jam sandwiches, oatcakes and cheese from his satchel and handed them round. Then he addressed Missie directly for the first time.
‘If you don’t mind me askin’, what have you been livin’ on all this while? You’ve been here ages to my knowledge, so what have you had to eat? Oh, I know there’s fruit in the garden, but that hadn’t even begun to ripen when I first found the place, and you were here then. I went into the kitchen and heard you giggling . . .’
Their new friend laughed. ‘I saw you run like rabbit,’ she said cheerfully. ‘At first I scared you was Cap’n Pig, but when I saw you were stranger, I pleased and gave little laugh.’ She repeated the giggle which had so frightened Steve the first time he had heard it. ‘When you ran off, I thought I do it again if bad men come.’
Steve nodded wisely. ‘Yes, I quite see that your giggle would put most people off exploring any further. But you still haven’t said how you’ve been keeping body and soul together.’ He saw her puzzled look, and rephrased the question. ‘What’ve you been eatin’? Where did your food come from? You can’t have existed on fresh air, nor on the odds and ends the factories chuck out.’
Missie glanced uneasily from one to the other, and Miranda gave Steve a scowl, before saying: ‘You needn’t tell us if you don’t want to, Missie, only it seems so strange . . .’
‘In summer, big factory leave window open just tiny bit. When it really dark and no one about, I get in to room where food is. I never take much, just a little.’
‘What about winter? Or when someone notices and closes the window?’ Steve asked. ‘What do you do then?’
‘I used to go down to docks and take from ships, or from boxes waiting collection,’ their new friend said promptly. ‘But better tell you my story from start.’ She smiled at them both. ‘I been here for many months, have seen seasons come and go, yet you first to come here in all that time.’
She looked enquiringly at them, but Steve shook his head. ‘Go on,’ he said firmly. ‘Right from the very beginning, so that we truly understand.’
Melissa finished off the oatcake she had been eating, drew a deep breath and began. ‘I come from small island in West Indies and for many years I work as nursemaid or nanny to children of man who own more than half of island. I happy then, I love job, but plantation owners send sons to England to get good education when they old enough. I lucky because Mr and Mrs Grimshaw, my employers, had large family and I look after them as they arrived, from birth until they went to school in England. When last child no longer need me, I was given cottage on shore and pension.’ She sighed reminiscently, and Steve saw that her liquid eyes were dark with tears. ‘But I miss my children, so I decide to help at village school. Each day I walk to work . . .’
Missie proceeded to tell them how she had been walking along the shore on her way to the village when she noticed a ship anchored out in the bay, and a small boat being rowed ashore. The men on it had hailed her, asking for directions to the island’s only port. Suspecting nothing, she had waited until they came ashore before beginning to explain how they must proceed. She had scarcely begun her explanation, however, when she felt a stunning blow on the back of her head which plunged her into darkness. When she recovered consciousness, the ship was at sea once more, and one of the men, the crew called him Cripple Jack because he had a wooden leg, told her that their cook had been washed overboard in a tropical storm and Captain Hogg had kidnapped her to do the work the drowned man had performed.
Missie had tried to escape and had only desisted when the captain had threatened to put her in leg irons; had he done so she would not have dared to jump overboard, knowing that she would sink like a stone. So she had promised obedience if only he would take her back to her home island when he returned to the West Indies. He promised, of course, but she very soon realised that he was not a man of his word and would do no such thing. There were still places where human beings could be bought and sold, and she knew herself to be a very good cook, and an efficient maid of all work. There were people who would be happy to have her services without having to pay her a wage. She realised she must escape as soon as an opportunity offered itself.
When the Pride of the Sea berthed in Liverpool, every member of the crew wanted to go ashore, for Liverpool was famous amongst seamen for its many markets and consequently many bargains. It fell to Cripple Jack to be left on board to keep an eye on Missie, and make sure she did not escape. But by this time Missie was familiar with the whole ship, for she had cleaned and scrubbed every inch of it, so when the ship was deserted, save for Cripple Jack and herself, she went to the captain’s cabin and unlocked the cupboard where he kept his supply of rum. She filled a large glass almost to the brim with the spirit and took it out on deck, telling Cripple Jack that the captain had left the bottle out on his table and this was her private treat to herself.
He had immediately taken the glass from her hand and put it to his lips. She pretended to try to get it back, which made him drink all the faster. The gangway had been drawn up, but this was no bar to Missie. She waited until Cripple Jack’s snores were deafening, then climbed nimbly over the ship’s rail and with the aid of a loose rope lowered herself on to the quay, and simply disappeared amongst the crowds of people thronging the dockside.
Drunk with the success of her scheme, for freedom is a giddying experience after weeks of torment and imprisonment aboard a not very large merchant ship, she had trotted along, heading away from the docks. She meant to hide up somewhere until the Pride of the Sea had left the port, then return to the docks and stow away on any ship which was heading for the Indies. She had no money on her, of course, not so much as a penny piece, so she could not buy a passage, which was a great nuisance, since stowing away depended on her ability to find some nook or cranny where she would not be discovered. But that was for later; at present all that mattered was that she not be taken back aboard the Pride of the Sea.
She was some way from the docks and was wishing she had had the forethought to provide herself with some food, apart from the handful of ship’s biscuits she had put into the pocket of her shabby black dress earlier in the day, when she heard a shout from behind her and, glancing back, saw the first mate pushing his way through the crowds towards her.
With her heart beating overtime she still retained enough presence of mind to knock over a box of fish awaiting collection, and saw the mate slip, try to regain his balance and then go down with an almighty crash, uttering swear words at which even the most broad-minded of seamen would raise startled eyebrows. Terrified, she had set off at her fastest pace and very soon had left the docks – and the mate – far behind, though by now panic had her in its grip. She was running from she knew not what; she simply knew that she would keep on running until her breath gave out.
It was then that she had spotted an old house with an overgrown basement and dived into the tangle of weeds and rubbish. She heard the pursuit go past but stayed in her hiding place, watching, as darkness fell and the moon came up. She saw many things, including drunken members of the crew, some accompanied by women, heading back towards the docks. Captain Hogg and his first mate had come last, but by then all thought of leaving her hidden nook had been forgotten in her anxiety not to be recaptured. Even her thirst had not been sufficient to drive her out of cover.
When eventually morning came and the danger seemed less, Missie had come out of her nook and continued to head away from the docks. She had rounded a corner and found herself amongst factories instead of houses. Missie could see nowhere to hide, but she had been pretty sure there was no need; by now the men would all be back on ship, and the Pride would be heading for the open sea.
Indeed, she had been beginning to relax when she had heard someone shout behind her. Her heart had redoubled its frantic beating and she had hurled herself at a huge ivy-covered wall, finding the door quite by accident and shooting through it. Then she had collapsed upon the waist-high grass, wriggling deep into cover and staring at the door as though it might presently open to reveal the entire crew of the Pride of the Sea, come to drag her back into captivity. Nothing had happened, however, and she eventually realised that the shout she had heard had had nothing to do with her. As the days passed she had grown more confident, though she only left her sanctuary after dark, and never lingered outside the great wall for longer than necessity dictated.
The soft, sing-song voice ceased, and Miranda and Steve stared at the old woman with considerable admiration, which Steve was the first to admit. ‘Gosh, that’s the most exciting story I’ve ever heard and you’re brave as a perishin’ tiger,’ he told her. ‘But why do you go outside the garden, Missie? Especially if you still consider it dangerous to do so.’
Missie grinned, a flash of very white teeth in her dark face. ‘I need food,’ she said simply. ‘I only go out in dark. First I make sure Cap’n Pig’s ship not there, because he bear a grudge and I worth money as slave. I also look for ship to take me home.’
‘And you’ve not found one?’ Miranda asked incredulously. ‘Not in all the time you’ve spent in England?’
Steve was watching Missie’s face; it was difficult to read her expression but he thought a look which could almost be guilt crossed her face. ‘I have no money for passage; if I stow away I at mercy of captain. I too afraid.’ She smiled, first at Miranda and then at Steve. ‘That why I so happy when you came, and came again. I begin to tidy garden . . . once, you gave me bread and cheese. I want help yet dare not ask until I sure you good people and my friends.’
Steve and Miranda exchanged a doubtful look. Neither had any idea of how much a passage from Liverpool to the West Indies would cost but both thought it would be a great deal. However, if they could find a ship bound for the West Indies and explain to her captain how Missie had been kidnapped, then surely a man of principle would take the old woman back home? Steve said as much and Missie nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes, but I need someone to speak for me. The Pride of the Sea cannot be only bad ship. If I tell wrong person, they could offer me passage then sell me at another port. I dare not, oh, I dare not!’
Steve and Miranda both nodded; in Missie’s position, having suffered once from such treatment, they too would have hesitated to take any sort of risk. But Missie was gazing at them, her eyes bright with hope as she continued her story. It seemed that despite her desire to leave England she no longer visited the docks, realising that she might easily end up worse off if she asked for help from a smiling scoundrel. She pointed out, however, that her new friends might, with safety, haunt the docks during daylight hours and ask openly which captain, on a ship heading for the West Indies, was to be trusted to honour any promise he might make.
When Miranda suggested that Missie might write to her former employers, asking for their help, she pulled a doubtful face, explaining that she had been absent for so long that everyone would assume she had been taken by a shark, and would suspect a letter from a woman they had mourned for dead was a forgery by a confidence trickster wanting money.
‘I see. Then of course we’ll help,’ Miranda said warmly. ‘Though if you have to buy a passage, I don’t know how we are to find the money. You see, ever since my mother disappeared more than a year ago, I’ve had to live with my aunt, who’s not only poor but mean as well, and Steve here has a great many brothers and his parents need every penny to feed and clothe their kids.’
Missie’s face, which had been full of hope, fell, but Miranda leaned forward and squeezed her hand. ‘It’s all right. I’ve a friend who’s a policeman; he might be able to tell us . . .’
Missie gave a small shriek and reminded Miranda that she was here illegally, with no papers, no passport, nothing to prove her story true.
‘Yes, of course,’ Miranda said slowly. ‘Then you have no choice but to stow away. If we can find a crew member who’s willing to help you . . .’
‘Someone like that would need paying, though,’ Steve put in firmly. ‘But I think you’re right, Miranda. Missie’s best bet is to leave as quietly – and illegally – as she arrived.’ He turned to the little old woman, whose face promptly lit up with hope once more. ‘Don’t you know anyone from your home island who might be willing to give a fellow countrywoman a helping hand? Someone visiting England? What about those kids, the ones you said were sent to school in England once they were old enough to leave their family; would they help if they knew you were in trouble?’
‘But if they’re only kids . . .’ Miranda began, only to be immediately interrupted.
‘If they are at a boarding school in England, they must be at least as old as us, probably even older,’ Steve said. He turned to Miranda. ‘Have you an address for them?’
Missie’s face, which had lit up with hope once more, fell. ‘No, no address,’ she said sadly. ‘Master Julian and Master Gerald stay with uncle during holidays.’
Steve frowned. ‘The autumn term starts in a few days, probably a week or two later for boarding schools. But we can scarcely search the whole of England for two boys when we have no idea of their address.’
Miranda leaned forward and stared hard at Missie’s tired, lined little face. ‘Think hard, Missie,’ she urged. ‘Haven’t they ever mentioned a town or a city, or a street even? The Grimshaws must have mentioned something about it.’
Missie shook her head slowly. ‘No, only that it’s the Browncoat School . . .’ She looked startled as Miranda and Steve gave a yell of triumph, and Miranda jumped up and grabbed Missie by both hands, pulling her off the stone seat and whirling her round and round until they both collapsed back on to the bench once more.
‘Missie, that’s all we need to know,’ Miranda said breathlessly. ‘The Browncoat School is famous, and it’s no more than ten miles from Liverpool, which is probably why the Grimshaws chose to send their sons to it. Gosh, it looks as though we’re on the right track at last. But will Julian and Gerald have enough money to buy you a passage home? Do they have some way of contacting their parents?’
Missie’s face was one enormous beam, and at Miranda’s question she nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, yes; they can send what they call a cable. I’m certain all would be well. They are very good boys and will believe my story.’
Steve stood up. ‘Right, then I think we should have a plan of action,’ he said briskly. The best thing is to wait until we’re sure term has started at Browncoats. Then we can go up to Crosby, which is only a bus ride away. You’ll have to come with us, Missie, because otherwise we won’t be able to recognise Julian or Gerald, and might start telling your story to the wrong people, which would never do. I think we should go up to the school a week on Saturday.’ He scowled at Missie, who was vigorously shaking her head once more. ‘Now don’t say you’re afraid that the crew of the Pride of the Sea might be lurking around the Browncoat school, because that’s downright silly. They can scarcely kidnap you when you’re with us and miles from the docks!’
But at the mere suggestion of leaving Jamaica House during daylight, Missie, who had been so brave, broke into floods of tears and begged them not to try to take her away from the only place she knew. Miranda and Steve begged, pleaded and argued, to no avail. Finally, Steve said, bitterly, that if she was determined not to go with them then she had better give an exact description of both boys, and also write an explanatory note which they could show Julian and Gerald if their own word was doubted.
Missie looked from one face to the other, then spoke hesitantly. ‘There is a way that is used on my island to show what cannot otherwise be seen,’ she said slowly. ‘It is frowned upon by the Grimshaws and many others, but . . . are you willing to try? It – it is a sort of magic . . .’
‘I’ll try; I believe in magic,’ Miranda said eagerly. ‘What do I have to do, Missie?’
Missie smiled at her, but shook her head, ‘Eldest first, is rule,’ she said. ‘Close eyes, Steve, and think of nothing; make your mind blank or think of blue sky, and little white clouds . . . then I show you Master Julian.’
As she spoke she placed both hands on Steve’s temples and began to mutter, and presently, to the boy’s astonishment, he saw a face. It was less a boy’s face than that of a young man, with thick, light brown hair bleached by the sun, a high-bridged nose and light blue eyes. Startled, Steve gave an involuntary jump. Missie’s hands fell from his head and he opened his eyes to see her staring at him anxiously. ‘What you see?’ Missie asked.
‘I saw someone who looked a lot older than me, with very thick light brown hair and a scar just above his left eyebrow; I’d recognise him again because I suppose you might say he was very handsome,’ Steve said. He stared hard at the small woman, who was now smiling triumphantly. ‘How the devil did you do that, Missie? Did I really see Julian, or was it just my imagination working overtime?’
‘It was Julian; he wearing his light blue shirt,’ Missie said. ‘Did you see shirt?’
‘The one I saw was white and open at the neck . . .’ Steve began, and Missie gave a crow of triumph.
‘That’s right, that’s right; just testing;’ she said, grinning broadly. She looked consideringly at Miranda. ‘You see Master Gerald? Perhaps it best.’
Miranda began to say that she was longing to try, but Steve shook his head warningly. ‘It made me feel sort of fuzzy for a few minutes,’ he warned. ‘Still, as Missie says, we ought to be able to recognise both boys. Close your eyes then, goofy; I won’t tell you to make your mind a blank, because it always is.’
Miranda, who had closed her eyes, shot them open indignantly, then closed them again and sank back on the seat. Missie’s small fingers touched her lightly on each temple and Steve watched with some interest, and listened too as the old woman began to mutter and to move her fingers gently in a circular motion on both sides of his pal’s head. He was startled when Miranda suddenly shot upright, gave a scream and grabbed Missie by both wrists. ‘I saw – I saw – I saw . . .’ She had gone very pale, and her eyes kept tilting up in her head, so that only the whites showed. Then she sank back on the bench and covered her face with her hands.
Steve rounded on Missie. ‘What have you done to her?’ he shouted. ‘What did she see that frightened her so? What have you done, you old witch?’
‘I done nothing, ’cept think of Master Gerald and pass picture I see to Miranda,’ Missie said. She looked as frightened, Steve realised, as he felt himself. ‘I didn’t do voodoo, just made picture.’
But even as she spoke, Miranda had taken her hands away from her face and was sitting upright on the bench and giving them both a watery smile. ‘What’s the matter? Did I startle you when I shrieked?’ she asked. ‘I’m so sorry, but it was such a surprise! I saw a boy with dark eyes and curly hair. Was that Master Gerald? Only he wasn’t really a boy, I should think he was fifteen or sixteen.’
Missie nodded slowly. ‘What colour be his shirt?’ she asked, and just for a moment she sounded quite different.
‘It was blue and white check.’ As she spoke she got to her feet, swayed a little and then smiled reassuringly at Missie. ‘I’m all right, don’t worry, but I’d love to know how you work that particular sort of magic. Come to think of it, you could use it to show us the captain and crew of the Pride of the Sea so we’d know them if we met.’
Missie looked horrified. ‘No, no; it might give them power over you. It strong magic. I only know a little of what my grandmother teach me, because when my mother found out she made Grandma promise to tell no more. But you know boys now, and will recognise them again.’
After they had left Missie, having helped her with the composition of a short note explaining the situation to the Grimshaws, Steve looked curiously at his companion. ‘You needn’t think you fooled me into thinking that the only thing you saw was that Gerald chap,’ he said. ‘You saw something that scared the life out of you, just for a moment. Come on, you can tell me.’
‘Well, you know I’ve said quite often that I’m finding it difficult to remember my mother’s face, and have to keep looking at her wedding photograph?’ Miranda said at last. ‘First of all I saw Gerald, plain as plain. It was odd, wasn’t it? It wasn’t so much like looking at a picture as looking at a real person. Behind his shoulder I could see a hill, and the branches of the trees were moving . . . really odd; quite spooky in fact.’
‘What’s that got to do with your mother’s photograph?’ Steve said crossly. ‘I take it you saw her . . . only how is that possible? Missie’s never seen her, has she?’
‘No, that’s what makes it so very odd,’ Miranda confessed. ‘One moment I was looking at Gerald and the next there was my mother with a black shawl thing covering her head, and her face was white and her eyes were closed. Then, just as I was going to scream, she opened her eyes and smiled and her lips moved, and though I couldn’t hear what she said I’m sure it was my name. And then I woke up.’
‘Gosh, no wonder you looked sick,’ Steve said prosaically. ‘But it must have been your imagination . . . or maybe your mother was what you really wanted to see and perhaps Missie knew it, and kind of helped the picture to come into your mind.’
‘I expect you’re right, but it was bloody terrifying and I don’t want it to happen again,’ Miranda said firmly. She glanced behind her, then tutted. ‘Look at me, expecting to see Timmy, when I know very well he stayed with Missie. They really seemed to like each other, didn’t they?’
‘Well, once we’re in school he’d be at a loose end, so it’s best that he stays at Jamaica House,’ Steve said. ‘I say, I don’t know why but I feel most awfully tired. Let’s blow tuppence on a tram ride home. We deserve it after the day we’ve had.’
They were in luck; the very next tram which came along took them all the way to Jamaica Close, where they went their separate ways, having agreed to meet early next morning. Miranda entered Number Six expecting her usual reception, but found the house deserted, and the fire out. Sighing, she went to the pantry to get herself some bread and jam, and found a note propped against the meat safe. Gone to Seaforth Sands to visit Great-aunt Nell. Bread in the pantry, water in the tap.
Miranda pulled a face. Trust them to go off to visit her favourite great-aunt without a word to her. She guessed that Aunt Vi and Beth had planned to do this deliberately and decided that she wouldn’t bother with the bread and jam, but would go straight to bed. She had told Missie and Steve that she believed in magic, but she had not really meant it, and the sight of her mother’s face, so pale and strange, had upset her deeply. Now all she wanted was her bed, and she felt pretty sure that it was Missie’s so-called magic which had worn her out.
Without even bothering to take a slice off the loaf she made her way upstairs. In the shared bedroom she glanced with distaste at the rumpled sheets, and at the clothing slung carelessly down on the dirty linoleum. She knew they would expect her to hang up clean clothes and carry dirty ones down to soak in the sink until she had time to wash them properly, but she did neither of these things. She made the bed as respectable as she could, undressed and put on her nightgown, then rolled into bed and was asleep within seconds.
Immediately, she dreamed.
She was on a beach of wonderful golden sand. Tiny blue waves, white-fringed, hissed softly at her feet, and when she glanced behind her there were great palm trees which she recognised from pictures she had seen in books. It was beautiful, but lonely. She walked into the sea until it covered her knees; it was warm as milk, and when she looked through the clear depths she could see beautiful shells and tiny fish. She would have liked to go deeper, for since this was a dream she should be able to swim, an activity which she had never tried in real life, but something stopped her. She was on this beach for a purpose, she felt suddenly sure, and that purpose did not include testing her ability to swim. Reluctantly, she returned to shore and saw two people strolling along the hard wet sand, heading in her direction. She glanced curiously at them, and when they were within a few yards was suddenly sure that the woman was her mother. Impulsively she began to run, shouting: ‘Mum! Arabella! It’s me, Miranda!’
As she got closer she realised she was being completely ignored, and when Arabella’s eyes met hers their expression was that of a total stranger. Pain stabbed Miranda like a knife even as her mother became as insubstantial as mist and disappeared.
Miranda found herself sitting up in bed, her cheeks wet with tears, just as the bedroom door burst open, and Aunt Vi and Beth entered the room. They took no notice of Miranda, but began to undress, talking excitedly about the day they had enjoyed, the trip on the overhead railway, the dinner they had bought themselves at the café near the Sands and the wonderful tea provided by Great-aunt Nell.
At this point Vi seemed to notice her niece for the first time. ‘The old gal axed after you, seemed downright upset when I told her you’d bobbied off with some young feller rather than visit her,’ Aunt Vi boomed. ‘Still ’n’ all, you can take yourself off to the Sands whenever you’ve a mind, if you can find up the money for the train fare. Except, as I telled her, you’d probably rather spend your time with a dirty thievin’ young feller than with a borin’ old lady.’
Miranda, still scarcely awake and still fighting tears, muttered something and hunched a shoulder. A couple of weeks previously Aunt Vi had decided that, because Beth was growing so rapidly, three in a bed was no longer possible. She had bought – second-hand of course – an ancient camp bed, provided it with sheets and blankets and told Beth that it was her new sleeping place. Beth, however, had objected vociferously, saying that her feet stuck out at the end, the covers were insufficient and she was darned if she was going to even try to sleep in such discomfort. Nothing loth, Miranda had willingly swapped with her and in fact much preferred the small creaky bed, with its inadequate bedding and rusty framework, to the big feather bed where Aunt Vi took up most of the room and Beth the rest.
So Miranda cuddled down once more and tried to wonder why, in the dream, her mother had not seemed to recognise her. When Arabella had first disappeared Miranda had dreamed of her practically every night and always in these dreams her mother’s loving smile had warmed and comforted her. Sometimes they had hugged, sometimes exchanged stories of what had happened to them since they had last met, but always there had been warmth and affection flowing like a stream of happiness between the two of them. And the background to those dreams had been familiar, real; no golden sand or tropical skies. So why had this dream been so different? It was not only that her mother had looked straight through her, it was the unreality of the scene in which the dream had taken place. Looking back she realised that there had been something odd about both the shore and the sea itself. Screwing up her eyes she tried to recreate the scene. At first it was difficult but then, all of a sudden, it came to her. The palm trees looked like cut-outs, the little waves like puffs of cotton wool, and the shells she had seen through the water were, she suddenly realised, the ones on her mother’s theatrical make-up box. Despite herself, Miranda gave a relieved little smile. She did not understand why she should dream what amounted to a stage set, but it must mean that her mother, appearing not to recognise her, was as false as the setting.
Satisfied that the dream had come merely because Steve, Missie and herself had been discussing tropical islands, she turned her face into the pillow, and by the time her aunt and her cousin had stopped gloating over their day out she was fast asleep.
She did not dream.