The street bell swayed. ‘The departure caverns are located on the other side of the main arrivals chamber,’ it said in a stiff voice. ‘Third tunnel on the left.’
Ivy let go of the clanger. ‘This way home,’ she told Seb.
Together they plodded across the chamber. The last time Ivy had been there it had been throbbing with noise and activity, but now it was strangely empty. Abandoned trunks and suitcases lined the walls and the stalactites loomed overhead, casting spiky fingers of shadow across the floor.
In the distance Ivy spied a figure with a large bag emerging from one of the tunnels.
Seb nudged her shoulder. ‘Is that who I think it is?’
She squinted into the distance. The traveller had a head of long pale hair that appeared to glow in the yellow light. ‘Granma Sylvie . . . ?’
Ivy dashed towards her, but Seb, as always, got there first.
‘Granma!’ he called, his arms wide as he reached her side. Ivy laughed as Granma Sylvie’s face turned crimson.
‘Nice to see you too,’ she said, her voice muffled by Seb’s embrace. She pushed him away and straightened up. ‘You look older,’ she told him. ‘And stronger. I heard you managed to keep up your drum practice while you were away . . .’
Seb shrugged, smiling. ‘Needs must, Granma.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Ivy asked, her arms round Granma Sylvie. ‘Mum said you wouldn’t be discharged from hospital till tomorrow.’
Her granma smiled mischievously. ‘The doctors let me out early. Your parents have invited me up to London for a few days to rest. I think they want to look after me, poor things. Of course, I only accepted so that I could spend some time with you two. You’re meant to be at the shops right now, according to them.’
Ivy’s mouth opened and closed as she stepped back. They’d had to tell a little white lie in order to return to Lundinor.
‘Don’t worry – I covered for you,’ Granma Sylvie reassured them. ‘But dinner will be on the table in thirty minutes, so we’d better get out of here.’
Ivy wondered how Granma Sylvie felt about being back in Lundinor after all this time. The events of the past few days . . . it wasn’t the kind of thing you could get over quickly. It was going to take a long time. There were still lots of questions, and not all of them would be answered.
‘How are you?’ Ivy asked. ‘I mean, really.’
Granma Sylvie ran a hand through Ivy’s thick curls. ‘All the better for seeing you,’ she admitted. ‘I just can’t believe who was behind all this.’
Ivy shivered. Cartimore . . . She wondered what her granma thought about him being imprisoned in a ghoul hole.
‘I know he’s my brother,’ Granma Sylvie said, ‘but it doesn’t feel like it. I have no memories of us growing up together and we certainly don’t share the same values now.’
‘What’s that thing people say about the black sheep of the family?’ Seb asked. ‘There’s always one?’
‘In the case of my family, it appears there was more than one. Still, Cartimore’s gone now; he can’t hurt any of us again.’ Granma Sylvie smiled. ‘And anyway, I’ve gained more than I’ve lost. Ethel never gave up on me all these years; our friendship is a gift I’m going to treasure.’
Ivy held Granma Sylvie’s hand as they set off. ‘Does any of it seem familiar yet?’ she asked. She’d been dying to discuss it all – to tell her granma about all the amazing things she’d seen, and see if Granma Sylvie remembered any of them.
Granma Sylvie’s eyes grew misty as she looked at the Great Gates in the distance. ‘It’s strange, but all I really remember is the smell of this place: like leather and boot polish and hot chestnuts. It smells like . . . home.’ Her voice cracked as she finished. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Punch. He gave me these . . .’
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a long glove. It was made of old yellowed silk, with an elasticated frilled cuff. ‘When I put them on, it’s like wearing a uniform. I can feel that they’re special, only I can’t remember the job I’m meant to do with them.’ She sighed. ‘It might be a long time before my memory recovers, if it ever does.’
‘Well then,’ Seb said cheerily, patting her on the shoulder, ‘you’ll just have to learn about everything with us.’
Ivy squeezed Granma Sylvie’s hand. ‘That’s right. We’ll do it together.’
As they made their way back to the departures chamber, Ivy’s thoughts turned to home, to London. ‘Do you think Mum and Dad are going to be all right?’ she asked. ‘Do you think they’ll get over it?’
‘Get over the flu, you mean?’ Seb reminded her. After the underguards had wiped their parents’ memories with uncommon whistles, false memories had been implanted of contracting a virus and being bedridden for the whole of New Year. Ivy would have to be careful not to slip up and reveal the truth.
‘I think they’ll be OK,’ Granma Sylvie said. ‘Let’s just keep an eye on them.’
‘OK?’ Seb retorted. ‘Dad looks better than ever after those buttons Violet used on him! Have you seen his hair? And Mum looks about ten years younger as well – she thinks it’s that face cream I got her for Christmas.’
Ivy couldn’t help laughing.
‘So did you really meet Mr Punch, then?’ Seb asked her.
‘Oh yes. I’ll explain it all when we’re home.’
‘Ivy,’ he said, looking at her new gloves. ‘We are gonna come back here, right? Valian said it opens again in the spring.’
Ivy shrugged. ‘I think we have to. Someone’s got to stop Selena.’
Seb nodded gravely. ‘Yeah.’ His mouth twitched into a smile. ‘But also, I was thinking earlier about all the cool stuff we might’ve missed this time round. Like, I know my uncommon drumsticks are awesome, but there must be something better than that. And then it came to me . . .’
‘What did?’ Granma Sylvie asked.
‘Cars, you guys! I can’t believe I’ve only just thought of it now! Uncommoners must drive amazing cars. I wonder if they trade spare parts – uncommon tyres and stuff.’
Ivy shook her head. ‘Is that what you’ve been thinking about? Driving an uncommon car?’
‘What’s wrong with that? I’ll be able to take lessons in a couple of years. Anyway, what’ve you been thinking about?’
Ivy laughed. She and Seb had faced death; they’d fought monsters and talking wolves, discovered a whole new branch of their family and used everyday objects to bend the laws of science. ‘I’ve been thinking how everything feels different now,’ she admitted. ‘We’re not muckers any more; we’re uncommoners. Haven’t you thought about how our lives will change?’
‘I dunno about that,’ Seb replied. ‘But one thing’s for sure: I’m never going to look at a toilet brush in the same way again.’
Acknowledgements
My gratitude goes to Sarah Davies and the teams at the Greenhouse Literary Agency and Rights People, for all the hard work they’ve done and continue to do on my behalf.
I’d like to send lots of love to everyone I worked with closely at Foyles Bookshop on Charing Cross Road: Neil, Cleaver, Kate, BXL, Mac, Rupert and Sean – you made that place feel like home and were a constant source of inspiration. Sam and Jo – this book wouldn’t have happened had I not had the incredible fortune to work with both of you for so long. Thanks for teaching me how to be a good children’s bookseller; I know it’s helped me to become a better children’s writer. Thanks also to all the publishing sales representatives who were full of encouragement: Andy Penguin, Foy, the gorgeous Heidi, lovely Lucy Cornwell, Tobes, Glen, Birchy and my bestie, Peter Fry. I miss you all.
A very special thank you to Ginny Garramone who valiantly read several early drafts, and to Gemma Cooper and Robin Stevens for showing real kindness and making me feel like part of the family. Jim Dean, thanks for the twitter advice – sorry I’m such a social-media failure. Dawn Kurtagich, I apologize now for shaking my fists at the sky during our skype calls; you’ve been a ray of sunshine
after some pretty bad storms.
Maintaining my sanity throughout the process is due, in part, to the brilliant and beautiful Sarah Bryars, who has coached me out of many a panic, and the truly lovely George Hanratty – a conversation with you can work wonders. Thank you both for being there.
Sarwat ‘the guru’ Chadda, you are a complete legend. I wouldn’t have written a decent draft without your guidance, or found Greenhouse. I owe you one . . . thousand.
Tamara Macfarlane, thank you for taking me under your wing and inviting me into your wonderland at Tales On Moon Lane. Kath, Leah, Julia and especially Tereze, you’ve been so patient and I am utterly grateful.
Thank you to everyone in the Blue Bar book group who has supported me, in particular Frann Preston-Gannon, Lesley Preston and Robert Croma for reading an early draft, and Roy Butlin, who pretended to hate it. It’s funny how only a few words from you gave me the confidence to write a lot more.
To my agent Polly Nolan, it has been an utter privilege getting to know you and working with you. You are the most graceful tough cookie I’ve ever met and I still can’t believe someone as talented as you has decided to be my champion. If you were an uncommon object you’d be a grade ten, no question.
To my long serving friends: Natalia, you not only gave me the inspiration for Ivy’s incredible hair, but also the most loving support throughout the whole process. Nichol, this all started with that copy of Eragon – who knows what I’d have ended up doing without it. Thank you for pointing me in the right direction, and for being there every step of the way.
Tara. What can I say? It’s so comforting to have a best friend who’s a writer too. Your belief in me has been unflinching and you were the first person who answered that phone call. Thanks for being there during the meltdowns and always managing to make me feel better.
Finally, I wouldn’t have written a story about a girl who has to save her family, if I didn’t have an incredible one of my own: Mum and Beth – I hope you know that. You’re my lucky stars.
About the Author
Londoner Jennifer Bell began working in children’s books as a specialist bookseller at Foyles – one of the world’s most famous bookshops – in Charing Cross Road. There she looked after the shop’s five not-so-deadly piranha fish as well as recommending children’s books to celebrities, royalty and even astronauts. After having the privilege of listening to children talk about their favourite books for many years, she started writing one of her own. Jennifer came up for the idea of The Crooked Sixpence while packing for a holiday and wishing she could just disappear inside her suitcase and be there already. The world of Lundinor is inspired by sayings from traditional English nursery rhymes as well as the stories Jennifer grew up with about the Cockney markets her grandparents used to visit.
RHCP DIGITAL
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First published 2016
This ebook published 2016
Text copyright © Jennifer Bell, 2016
Cover art © Karl James Mountford, 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978–1–448–19499–5
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
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The Crooked Sixpence Page 24
