The Mystery of the Cupboard

by Lynne Reid Banks

  “What job?”

  “Secretarial. Secretaries were actually called ‘typewriters’ in those days. My darling old gran was among the legion of post-World-War-One type-writers. She went on doing it till my mother and father were able to help her. Then after they died, she went out cleaning to keep me. She was old by then.”

  “Cleaning!” Omri exclaimed. “Do you mean she, like, scrubbed steps?”

  His mother closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know. She might have done. She never talked about it. I hope not. It would have been — such an awful comedown for someone who’d been brought up as she had.” She opened her eyes again and looked at him curiously. “You are a funny one,” she said. “You’ve never shown an interest in family history before.”

  As soon as his mother left, Omri, with new pictures in his head, went back to the Account.

  6

  Pouring the Lead

  I did not commit my crime at once.

  If I had, perhaps I could be forgiven for it, but for two years it remained undone — long enough to have come to my senses, for my better self to take command. But those beautiful sea-green drops dangled in my future, two demons in disguise — beckoning. I knew I would do it.

  At that time Frederick was away at school. Then, as now, that cost money, but I was set heart and soul on his having an education. I had to work harder than ever.

  The First World War was a curse to mankind, but a blessing to me. There was war work to be done, and troops to be entertained, and between the one and the other - I spent my days in a sweatshop sewing uniforms, my nights singing, dancing, and acting on stages up and down the land - I scraped by. Even so, I could not have managed, had it not been for my Gift.

  I learnt the skill of telling fortunes.

  Telling fortunes is, in the main, a game of deceit. For 99 out of 100 in the profession, there is no reading the past or foreseeing the future. They go through an act that is as much make-believe as anything I did on the stage. They give customers what they want: “You will meet a dark stranger… You will have children… You will pass through difficult times to happiness at last…” Falsehood and fakery! And I did my share of that - tea leaves, Tarot cards, crystal ball, all the rest of it.

  But when I tried pouring lead, a common enough method of fortune-telling at that time, I found that through the lead I could raise my craft to the level of true Art.

  Lead-pouring worked like this.

  In an old iron saucepan I heated up small pieces of lead, bought cheap from a scrap-metal man. Lead melts at a low temperature, and when all the lumps had dissolved into a liquid silver mass, I would ask my customer to pour small amounts into a metal bowl of cold water.

  With a hiss and a cloud of steam, the lead would solidify again into a random form in the bottom of the bowl. I would get this out and examine it, and in the shape (which was often very strange, resembling, just as clouds can, all manner of animals and objects) I would perceive Portents of the future. True ones.

  Once a young woman poured the lead, and instead of fusing together, it all scattered into little bits. In this I read a dangerous carelessness in her nature, and I warned her, and we tried again, and this time there was a death’s head. I saw death and nothing else, and though I invented something to please her, I knew as she walked from my dark little basement room up into the sunlit street, that she had no time left. Three days later a neighbour told me she had died in an accident in the factory where she worked.

  Thus, and through many other proofs, I knew that I had the Gift, and must use it carefully. I became well-known in the profession and many people consulted me, and paid me well. I was able to pay Fred’s school fees and put money by, money I later used to buy this old house where Fred had been born.

  I never, never tried to read the fortunes of those few I loved. Maria, who knew that I earned extra money this way, begged me to tell her fortune, but I never would, let alone Matthew’s or Lottie’s, or Frederick’s, or mine.

  But sometimes flashes of insight would come to me, unbidden. I once saw a dark shadow pass over the face of Matthew as he sat in his garden, laughing with Lottie. I fell into a fainting fit, something unheard of for me who (until my recent illness) never had a sick day in my life… Once I saw a diminishing line of Marias going off into the far distance, like the reflection in double mirrors, which might indicate a long life or many descendants.

  When these flashes came, I learnt to ‘switch off’ something in my head, as we switch off electric lights. I did not want to know. When I looked at Lottie (whom, in truth, I loved better than my own child), it was as if I kept my hand on the switch, holding it firmly at the ‘off’ position. I could not have borne to see any bad thing in the future of that child.

  Oh, if I had let myself know! But can we change what we are destined for?

  Enough repining for what is too late to mend, Jessica Charlotte. Tell the tale. The doctor says you haven’t much time… The men have come to mend the thatch, so that, however else I have failed him, I may pass this house on to Frederick in good condition.

  I have thought of my hiding place.

  “Omri! OM-RI!”

  Omri seemed to wake up. The shouting must have been going on for some time. He jumped up, almost dropping the notebook, and rushed to the door linking his room with Gillon’s, which was half pushed open against the blockage of bricks.

  “What, Mum, what’s wrong?”

  “Are you deaf?” she inquired politely, but she was obviously annoyed.

  “No, Mum.”

  “Your supper’s on the table. I’ve been calling and calling. Why have you put those bricks there? I couldn’t get in!”

  “That’s the idea, Mum. Ever heard of privacy?”

  “Don’t be cheeky. Privacy doesn’t apply to mothers.”

  She stalked off. Omri put a marker in the notebook and hid it under his pillow. It was agony to stop reading - he had never in his whole life, not even when reading books about Iroquois Indians, been so caught up in any story.

  “Wow,” he thought, taking deep breaths as if he’d been swimming underwater, “it’s good I’ve had some practice keeping secrets. Wish I could tell someone though!”

  And like an answer to prayer, in the middle of supper, the phone rang.

  “Omri, it’s for you. I think it’s Patrick.”

  Omri jumped up so suddenly his chair went over backwards, and rushed to the phone, which was in the farthest-along living room.

  “Hi, Patrick, is it you?”

  “Yeah, listen, I’ve nagged Mum half to death. She says if you can have me, I can spend half-term with you.”

  “Hey — brill! When do you get yours? Ours starts next week.”

  “Ours too. Bit of luck, eh?”

  “I’ve got so much to tell you!” Omri lowered his voice. “I’ve found something. Something incredible! You won’t believe it till you see it so I won’t tell you now. By the time you come I’ll have fin— I’ll know more.”

  “Is it to do with—?”

  “Yes. Oh, this is fantastic! Don’t let anything go wrong, promise!”

  Back at the table, grinning all over his face, Omri announced Patrick’s visit. His parents said fine, why not, Adiel’s half-term was different from that of the other two so they couldn’t even think of going away. Patrick could keep Omri company.

  “What about me?” asked Gillon. “Can I have a mate to stay too?”

  Omri’s heart sank a bit. Gillon’s mates tended to be rather riotous; their chief recreation was playing very loud pop music and video games. The walls of this new house were thin… But on the other hand, it would be good if Gillon were occupied and not hanging around him and Patrick. So Omri was grateful when his father said, sure, why didn’t Gillon invite one of his old pals.

  It was extremely hard for Omri to settle down to homework or to anything else while the notebook lay under his pillow, calling to him.

  His mother had often talked about the way certain books c
alled you when you were really engrossed in them and had to put them down. Now Omri understood. He seemed to be living in Jessica Charlotte’s world.

  He could see her in the sweatshop sewing uniforms, with Frederick away at school as Adiel was. He could see her (with difficulty - he had never seen a music-hall act) on the stage, singing and doing imitations and making people laugh. He could see her sitting in Maria’s ‘boudoir’ staring longingly into the depths of his great-grandmother’s jewel case of Florentine leather, the one his mother had told him about, the one his magic key had come from. The key that locked the magic cupboard and made plastic toys into real people from the past.

  He was going to learn about this now, how it had come about. First the key, then the cupboard — she would come to the cupboard. This notebook held the whole secret of the magic. It was here in his hands.

  And he was in a hurry. Pressured as he was by the life around him, he was sorely tempted to just flick through the thin pages of the notebook, picking out the bits that concerned him most. Yet he couldn’t.

  It would have been utterly wrong to do that. He felt Jessica Charlotte had written for him and it was necessary to read all her words.

  Anyway, he was interested in her life — more and more. He could see beautiful, tall, graceful Maria in her fine dresses, and handsome Matthew, and Lottie (his own grandmother), and understood why Jessica Charlotte dreaded being shut out from that happy, wealthy world.

  Omri already disliked Frederick. All his mother had been through to bring him up, how could it be that he didn’t love her, that he despised her being on the stage? Where, come to that, was Frederick at the time when Jessica Charlotte was writing the Account — why was she dying here all alone, caring enough about him to get the house ready to leave to him, when he couldn’t even be bothered to come and look after her or visit her!

  “He must have been a right pig,” Omri thought.

  And where did the cupboard come into it? Omri couldn’t wait to read on, but often he had to wait. Just as last year, when he had had Little Bull and the others with him and had had to lead a secret life within his everyday one, now it was the same. Life and school went on and he had to act normally. The time he could spare to be alone and read the notebook was strictly limited.

  All the time he was reading, he was imagining Jessica Charlotte. Maybe she was wicked — was she really going to steal her sister’s earrings? — but he couldn’t help liking her and seeing her side. While he read, it was as if he was Jessie. As if — almost as much as when he had ‘gone back’ to Little Bull’s village, through the magic of the key - he were living in history.

  7

  The Day of the Parade

  Maria always kept the red jewel case locked. She didn’t trust her servants! She hid its little fancy key in a secret drawer in her desk downstairs in the study. She had to press a certain pattern on the inlay, cleverly contrived to spring a catch, and the secret drawer would fly open…

  My difficulty was, although I had often seen this happen, from across the room and with my view blocked by Maria’s back, I did not know exactly where to press. I doubted if anyone knew, even Matthew.

  This was my safeguard. When the earrings were missed, no one would be blamed. Maria would have to assume she had somehow mislaid them herself — she wore them very often and I had seen her toss them down carelessly on her dressing table more than once.

  I planned with care and cunning, over the years, how I would copy the key. While Maria’s back was turned I would impress it into a box I had made, in two halves, each full of wax. This I would take home, and pour plaster into the mould. I would then smear the plaster ‘key’ with oil and make another mould with more plaster, and into this I could pour some of my liquid lead to have an exact copy.

  I carried the little box of wax about with me in my pocket, waiting, waiting my chance. And of course it came. Opportunities for mischief always come.

  There came a great day for England, in November 1918. Armistice Day! The Great War was over. Everyone was rejoicing! And there was to be a parade, through the streets of London.

  The devil that had hold of me made me bold and reckless. I had a picture in my mind, of myself like royalty, wearing my theatrical finery - all feathers and furbelows and my boldest stage dress, bright red satin trimmed with black braid — riding my own horse out there in front of the parade!

  Well, I had no horse, but that didn’t stop me. I hired one. Yes, I did! I rifled my savings and hired the tallest (and gentlest!) horse the West End Livery Stables had on offer. I told the groom to deck him out in all his brasses, and ribbons in red, white, and blue, and polish his bridle and sidesaddle till they gleamed, and bring him to the starting place. This was to be my moment - my day as it was England’s - and I meant to make the most of it!

  And then quite suddenly, I thought what would make it all complete. I thought of Lottie!

  On the crest of my wave, I took a cab to Maria’s. The streets of London were choked with people and traffic — the noise of horns blaring and music and cheering were deafening. But I got through, and crossed the river to Clapham. I beat on her door, and the maid, Millie, let me into the hall. And Matthew came, and Maria. They looked astonished to see me standing there in all my finery.

  “I’m going to ride in the parade!” I gasped out. And then I told them what I wanted. I wanted Lottie to ride with me — up in front of me on the horse, at the head of the parade!

  Maria was horrified. “But it would be dangerous! What if she fell? All those people — she’d be trampled—”

  “She won’t fall,” I said. “I promise you! Maria, let her do it! It’s something she’ll never forget — the end of this terrible war — a day of triumph and joy! Don’t make her watch it all tamely from a pavement - let her be part of it!”

  “But Jessie, she’s not even eight years old! What will people think?”

  I thought I’d lost. But suddenly to my astonishment, Matthew stepped in.

  “Yes!” he said.

  I’ll never forget it! The way he spoke — what a man! Such a ringing tone of audacious decision!

  “Yes, Maria! We’ll allow this. The occasion is unique and we must rise to it! Indeed it is something she will remember all her life. And we will go and watch our little daughter on her Victory Ride.”

  You, reader of the future, mark me. My sister was not defeated yet. She turned to her husband and said, “But in that big crowd, there may be people who will recognize Jessie — people who know.” And she looked sideways at me, her black-sheep sister.

  And Matthew looked at me with fresh eyes, with Maria’s eyes, with the eyes of respectable society, and after a long moment he pronounced sentence on me.

  “It will not matter just for today, what people see or what they think. Because this is the last time your sister and Lottie will be together.”

  It was the doom Maria had warned me of, two years before. The time for separating my darling from me for ever had come.

  I said nothing, but I know I was white to the lips. I stood there in frozen silence and they hurried to fetch Lottie and get her ready. She appeared all in a rush, wearing a fine little riding habit (she was already taking lessons so that she could ride out on Rotten Row in Hyde Park) and clutching a miniature riding crop in her gloved hand, her bowler hat perched on her pretty head, her face flushed with excitement.

  “Is it true, Aunt Jessie? Are you really going to let me ride with you in the parade?”

  I crouched before her.

  “Yes, darling. There is no one in the world I would rather celebrate victory with than you.” But my heart and my pure love for her were muddled with fury because Matthew and Maria had blighted my moment of happiness and triumph by casting over it the shadow of separation for ever.

  It was just after that that my chance came.

  Maria called me upstairs to the boudoir, where she was dressing to go to the parade, to give me last minute warnings about taking care of Lottie. And there was
the key, by itself on the dressing table, and just for a moment I had the room to myself while Maria went into the bedroom, still calling instructions. In a trice I had whisked out the wax box, opened it, pressed the key firmly into it twice — once for each side - and had it back in its place before she returned.

  The cab was waiting for me. Lottie and I got in, leaving her parents to make their way to their viewing point. We drove to the starting place of the parade and found my groom and my horse at the appointed place among all that milling flag-waving crowd. Little Lottie clung to my hand and hopped up and down with excitement, and when she was lifted up before me on the horse, she suddenly turned and threw her arms round my neck.

  “Oh, Aunt Jessie, I love you! I love you so much!” she whispered through all the hubbub.

  My brain made a phonograph record of those words and I play them when I need them. Never once did Frederick say them to me.

  What a ride we had! High up above the crowd with our fine mount clopping along in stately splendour, all the festivities going on around us as far as the eye could see, and carriages rolling before and behind (we didn’t actually lead the parade of course, but Lottie didn’t care).

  Around Parliament Square, up Whitehall, through Trafalgar Square where the crowds were absolutely going wild with joy and cheered us hysterically as we passed, down the Mall past Buckingham Palace, thick with more cheering, flag-waving crowds. My heart was high, I felt so proud - proud of my country and of my little Lottie, riding before me so bravely. For the last time in my life, I was even proud of myself.

  I didn’t see Maria and Matthew in the crowd, but Lottie spotted them near the Palace, and her little dignity broke and she very nearly did fall off the horse, bouncing and waving… But I held her tightly and all was well. We rode on through the throng to Victoria Station where the parade broke up and my groom was waiting to take our good mount back to his stables.