CHAPTER FOUR

After a short drive we stepped off the bus and into the golden October sunshine. Directly in front of the bus stop was Brimwell Town Hall, a very grand old building that stood three storeys high. It was U-shaped and covered in lots of large windows with white frames. The roof was made up of three peaks, and on the top there was a clock tower, capped with a copper dome on which a grumpy looking weathercock swung around in the breeze. There were tidy gardens laid out at the front like a cosy patchwork quilt and tall maple trees stood either side of the hall, their leaves a blaze of red and orange. A small sign with the words:

“HOME OF THE BRIMWELL PLAYERS:

THRILLS, SPILLS AND FUN

FOR ALL THE FAMILY!”

written on it was dug into the ground.

“Shopping first?” Ingrid asked. “Or cake?”

“CAKE,” came the big, hungry reply from me and Kip.

We made our way past Saint Smithen’s church towards Miss Marigold’s Tea Shop, which was only a short walk. On the high street running through the centre of Brimwell the shopfronts were bursting with Halloween-y goodness. There were loads of carved pumpkins with scary faces, black and orange streamers, and spiders and bats swaying in the breeze, dangling from bits of string. Outside the greengrocers, Veg-N-Stuff, there was even a giant pumpkin that some clever person had carved with a picture of a witch on a broomstick, resting on a bed of sparkling cobwebs. It was obvious that everyone was getting well and truly into the Halloween spirit, and I found myself humming the “Monster Mash” as we crunched our way down the leafy pavements.

Turning down a small cobbled side street we arrived at Miss Marigold’s. The teashop was a small, squat building made of round grey stones, with fat roses growing around the door. Outside, a sign in the shape of a cup and saucer with “Miss Marigold’s Tea Rooms” written on it in swirly writing swung back and forth. When we pushed the door open a small brass bell tinkled like a merry bird and Miss Marigold bustled in from the back to greet us. We were the first people to get there so all eight tables in the front room were empty.

“Hello!” she said, with a wrinkly smile for each of us. “You’re new faces – you must be first years. I’m Miss Marigold.”

“Hello, Miss Marigold,” we chorused.

(Nobody knows how old Miss Marigold is exactly, but she must be at least ninety. She’s like a character in a fairy tale with curly, powdery-white hair and gold-rimmed spectacles on the end of her short nose. She brings the smell of freshly baked bread and flowery soap into the room with her, and always seems to have a ribbon-edged pinny tied around her stout waist.)

“Come over here and sit at my best table.” She bustled us over to a table by the window. “Now, shall I put some tea on?” she asked, and she disappeared before we even had time to nod eagerly.

“What’s this?” Kip asked, after Miss Marigold had left. In his hand was a small flyer.

“Who are the Brimwell Players?” I asked.

“We’re the town’s amateur dramatic group,” said Miss Marigold, returning with a fully loaded tea tray. “We put on all sorts of productions in the town hall. Quite good, we are. We did Frankenstein last year. Gave half the town nightmares for a week.” She put the tray down on the table and made a slightly queasy face. “Still, that could have had more to do with Magda’s Halloween punch. Lethal stuff.” She shook her head and glanced at the dainty gold watch around her wrist. “We’ve got a rehearsal at the town hall in an hour as it happens, so it’s a good thing you came when you did or I would have been closed.” She bustled off again.

Kip gasped at this near disaster, clutching at the tablecloth. “See!” he exclaimed. “That’s why I’m always saying, MAKE SURE YOU GET THE FOOD FIRST. Priorities, people. Imagine if we’d turned up and Miss Marigold’s had been shut.” He closed his eyes and shuddered.

I patted his arm reassuringly and Ingrid poured out three mugs of gently steaming golden tea which seemed to revive him a little. Once the slightly green tinge had left his face, he looked down again at the flyer.

“So, Macbeth?” said Kip. “What’s that about then?”

“Oh Kip,” breathed Ingrid, “it’s wonderful. It’s about this Scottish general who schemes to advance his political career.”

“Oh right,” Kip said, looking disappointed. “That sounds . . . exciting.”

“It’s full of murder!” Ingrid continued. “And witches and ghosts!”

Kip perked up at that.

“Wow! That sounds great!” I said, slurping my sweet tea. “I wonder if we could come and see it? Maybe the school would do a trip?”

We were interrupted then by the gentle squeak-squeak-squeak of the cake trolley being rolled towards us. (Surely there is no better sound in the whole wide world than a fully loaded moving table full of cake being wheeled in your direction.) Kip’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the trolley heaving beneath the weight of all the spectacular cakery. There was cherry cake with thick pink icing, an enormous gooey chocolate cake, vanilla cake covered in lots of tiny violet flowers and sugary rose petals, a triple-layered, heart-shaped Victoria sponge, a multi-coloured rainbow cake with blueberry icing, sticky flapjacks, giant chocolate chip biscuits and fat, sultana-spotted scones with jam and cream.

An awed silence fell over our table as the three of us beheld this wondrous sight.

“Well,” said Miss Marigold with a smile, “what will it be first?”

*

An hour later, and stuffed to bursting, we waddled out of Miss Marigold’s.

“Oooooh!” I exclaimed, rubbing my stomach. “I feel so full, I’ll never eat again!”

“I dunno.” Kip’s voice was thoughtful. “I reckon I could have fitted in another biscuit or two.”

“What, on top of the other five?” Ingrid asked.

Kip burped quietly. “Maybe just another sliver of cake. . .” His eyes went all starry.

Miss Marigold cut Kip’s daydreams short by closing up the shop behind us and leaving for her rehearsal, much to the dismay of several students who had just arrived. (“FOOLS!” gloated Kip.) We called in to Brimwell Books next, and Ingrid and I fell silent, staring up at the walls of beautiful books. We spent ages pulling them down from the shelves, stroking their covers and reading the backs. I bought the latest Dougie Valentine mystery with my pocket money, and had to stop myself from curling up right there on the shop floor and getting stuck in. Kip walked out with a Bumper Book of Practical Jokes, which I eyed nervously.

“Don’t worry, Pops,” Kip grinned evilly. “I’ll leave you and Ingrid alone . . . maybe.” The manic cackle that followed made me think not.

Ingrid was bent double underneath a backpack full of book purchases. She read so fast that she needed a constant supply, and Mr B, who owned Brimwell Books, made a joke that Ingrid would single-handedly keep him in business. (I mean, he thought it was a joke, but to be honest it’s probably more like what you would call “a fact”.)

We wandered further into town, past Rusty Bucket’s Hardware Store and into Sparkling Sadie’s Costumery where a bundle of students were flicking through rails of Halloween costumes, eyeing up different options for the upcoming party. Ingrid and I admired the range of witches’ hats, and I swept a healthy amount of fake blood, spray-in hair dye and face paint into my basket before taking it to the till to pay. I love a good Halloween costume and I was determined that mine would be as scary as possible.

“What do you think?” Kip’s muffled voice asked through the rubber gorilla mask he had pulled on.

“I think it’s a vast improvement!” Annabelle’s voice tinkled from behind us where she and her friends were trying on fairy wings.

Kip lifted the mask and pulled a face at Annabelle. “I like your mask, Annabelle . . . very scary!” he called over his shoulder as we walked to the door, and Annabelle’s face scrunched up like an angry walnut.

“That was quick thinking!” I whispered admiringly.

“I know!” said Kip, looking slightly dazed by his own insult skills.

“We’d better head back to the coach,” Ingrid said with a glance at her watch. “It’s almost two o’clock.”

We started in the direction of the bus stop, joining the stream of other students heading that way.

As we reached the top of the high street there was the sound of raised voices and someone rushed past us, running in the direction we were walking. Something was wrong. Up ahead we could hear people shouting and I wrinkled my nose, sniffing the air like a curious dog.

“Can you smell—” I began.

“Burning!” exclaimed Ingrid.

Kip pointed. “Is that—”

“Smoke!” Ingrid finished, and the three of us began hurrying towards the gathering crowd.

There, next to the bus stop, stood the Brimwell Town Hall.

And it was on fire.