Freja shuffled a little closer to Clementine, half-hiding behind her legs. Her clothes had seemed like a marvellous choice when she dressed at the start of the day. The smock was floppy and comfortable, the bright green tights warm and jolly, and the clogs . . . Well, clogs were marvellous whichever way you looked at them — dry and warm, easily slipped on and off, and able to make loud clomping noises as you walked, just in case you wished to scare away wolves and weasels. As for the titbits from nature, she and Clementine often used twigs, leaves, berries, flowers and feathers to adorn their clothes and hair. They made a light and cheerful addition to the heavy quilted coats and layered woollen garments they needed to wear in the Arctic, and had the added bonus of providing a little camouflage. But now, under the piercing gaze of the babysitter, Freja wondered if she had got it wrong. Failed at something else in the world of People Other Than Clementine.
Mrs Thompson shook her head, sucked some drool through her teeth and moaned to Clementine, ‘You took your time.’ Floundering around on the lounge, she reached into her cardigan pocket for a tissue and drew out a large, tangled clump of yarn. She frowned and her chin quivered. ‘Why, that’s . . . that’s . . .’
‘Wool,’ Freja whispered.
Clementine’s hand flew to her chest.
‘Wool,’ echoed Mrs Thompson. Then, noticing her ravaged cardigan, she gasped. ‘My sleeve!’
A choking sound forced its way from her throat. She heaved her bulk out of the lounge and glared at Freja. Sweeping her knitting bag up into her arms, she stomped out of the house, slamming the front door behind her. The brass knob popped off and rolled around on the floor.
The house fell silent.
Freja bit her wobbling bottom lip.
Clementine flopped onto the lounge and patted the seat beside her. ‘Freja,’ she said. ‘We need to talk.’
CHAPTER 2
An unsettling change of plans
Freja slumped down onto the lounge, expecting a lecture. Instead, Clementine placed a small package on her knee.
‘Oh!’ Freja cried and threw her arms around her mother’s waist. ‘I love boxes tied up with string!’
‘I hope,’ said Clementine, ‘that you will love what’s inside!’
Freja grabbed the end of the string between finger and thumb and pulled the bow out. The lid popped up and inside, in a nest of green tissue paper, lay a tiny grey hare crafted from felt. She nestled it in the palm of her hand, where she admired its stubby-fuzz ears, black-bead eyes and fine, short whiskers.
‘It’s a leveret!’ said Freja. ‘Just like the babies we watched throughout the summer.’
Clementine smiled. ‘A delicious summer,’ she said. ‘Those babies grew so quickly, became brave and independent long before we were expecting it . . . long before their mother was expecting it.’ Her voice caught. ‘But they were strong and healthy when they left the nest. They were well and truly ready to take on the world. Excited even. Because new beginnings are a wonderful thing. An adventure!’
Freja stroked the hare with one finger and waited. Something big was about to happen. She could hear it in Clementine’s voice. Feel it in the air, like static electricity.
She placed the hare carefully back into its nest of tissue paper and retied the string. Cupping the box in her hands, she sat as still as a granite rock, staring straight ahead at a small rip in the wallpaper. She waited and waited.
‘I’m afraid we can no longer go to Siberia in the spring,’ said Clementine.
‘Oh,’ sighed Freja, fiddling with the string bow. ‘That’s disappointing.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Clementine.
‘We’ll still go somewhere with bears, won’t we?’ asked Freja. ‘I really want to see bears again. Even a little bear would do.’
Clementine wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and drew her close. ‘Unfortunately, we won’t be embarking on any new field trips this year.’
Freja’s eyes grew wide. She clutched Clementine’s arm with both hands. ‘We’re not staying here, are we? Not in stinky old London?’
‘No, my love. I’m going to Switzerland.’
‘Switzerland?’ Freja was horrified. ‘I know there are mountains and glaciers and snow, but it’s nowhere near the Arctic Circle.’ She shook her head, then blew a corkscrew curl out of her face with a disgusted blast of air. ‘Switzerland,’ she scoffed. ‘If I said that, Clementine, you’d say, “Why, Freja! Have you lost your inner atlas?”’
Clementine laughed at Freja’s perfect mimicry, but the mirth didn’t quite reach her eyes. There was no wrinkling of crow’s feet, no sparkling of iris. No real joy.
Clementine shifted uneasily beneath Freja’s gaze. ‘I have not lost my inner atlas,’ she explained. ‘I am going to Switzerland alone, and you, my dear child, will be going on a special journey to Hampshire.’
‘Special?’ Freja released her mother’s arm. ‘Not with Mrs Thompson? Oh, Clementine, how could you? After all we’ve been through together. I am doomed to be bossed about by a walrus with fluffy blue slippers and a frown like a —’
‘I am sick,’ her mother whispered.
The little gift box tumbled to the floor.
Freja stared at the spot where it landed, but she did not move to pick it up.
‘I am sick,’ repeated Clementine.
The three little words hung in the air like an Arctic chill.
‘Chicken pox?’ asked Freja, knowing the answer already. One’s face and hands did not grow slowly thinner and paler from a bout of chicken pox.
Clementine shook her head.
‘A cold? An ingrown toenail?’
Her mother’s head shook again, a little slower this time.
‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Freja. ‘I’ll look after you. I can make soup and cocoa, and I’m very good with money. I’ll be brave. I’ll go to the shops all on my own and buy food and medicine and warm pyjamas. You can even have my hot-water bottle with the fluffy polar-bear cover.’
‘You can’t stay with me,’ said Clementine. ‘I’m going to a special clinic in the Swiss Alps and they don’t allow children. But thank you. It makes me very proud that you would be willing to do all that for me.’
‘I’d do anything for you, Mummy Darling Heart,’ whispered Freja, using the endearment that she saved for special occasions.
‘Then do this,’ said Clementine. ‘Go to Hampshire. Don’t be sad, but have a wonderful adventure so you can write exciting, happy letters that will cheer me up. And then, when I am better and come to collect you, you can be my guide around every hill, brook and forest, tell me all about the wildlife and show me how bold and clever you have grown in my absence.’
Bother! Trapped by her own words!
The bottom of their world had just fallen out and splattered all over her feet, and she longed to cry, to throw herself into Clementine’s arms, sobbing. But a promise is a promise and Freja had just declared that she would do anything for her Mummy Darling Heart.
She inhaled deeply, the breath wobbling as it went down into her lungs. She bit her bottom lip and rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. Then, stalling for time, she slipped to the floor and retrieved the little gift box.
‘The leverets!’ cried Clementine. ‘I almost forgot. That’s why I gave you the felt hare. To remind you of the mother hare allowing her babies to venture into the big, wide world. All alone. Even though it seemed too early. Even though she was a little nervous.’
‘I was there for them,’ said Freja. ‘My lap was a nest when they were weary.’
‘A safe haven,’ agreed Clementine. ‘Like Hampshire will be for you.’
‘But why Hampshire?’ asked Freja. ‘There aren’t even any bears.’
‘Hampshire has something better than bears.’ Clementine gave a knowing smile. ‘Hampshire has Tobias Appleby.’
CHAPTER 3
Who is Tobias Appleby?
‘Who is Tobias Appleby?’ asked Freja.
It was, of course, the
most important thing to know at this moment.
‘Tobias Appleby is . . .’ Clementine looked up to the ceiling. ‘Tobias is . . .’ She scratched her head as though struggling to find the right words. ‘Tobias is a very important person. A dear friend.’
Freja frowned. ‘But I’ve never heard of him before.’
‘He’s very trustworthy,’ said Clementine.
‘Trustworthy?’ echoed Freja. It was a rather cold description. School principals were trustworthy, but she didn’t want to spend a holiday with one.
‘He is thirty-two years old and very tall.’
Clementine, it seemed, was determined to tell only the things that did not matter. Freja pictured a tall school principal blowing out thirty-two white candles on a very plain-looking cake. The cake was not iced. It didn’t even have cinnamon sugar on top. Clementine’s words gave her nothing to hang her thoughts on and only cold places to store her feelings.
‘Please tell me more,’ Freja begged.
‘Oh, my darling.’ Clementine ruffled her daughter’s curls. ‘You know that we should always decide for ourselves — watch, listen, learn. Like we do with the animals we study. I don’t want you to look at Tobias Appleby through my eyes when you first meet him. I want you to use your own eyes, your own heart. My hope is that you will make him your friend for the reasons you choose.’
‘Why Tobias? Why not someone else?’ But as soon as Freja said it, she knew why.
There was no-one else.
It had always been just Freja and Clementine. In London or abroad. In a crowded room or out on the vast, icy expanse of the Arctic.
And until now, that had been enough. Better than enough. It had been perfect.
But sometimes, it turned out, you needed more.
‘He’s our only choice, isn’t he?’ whispered Freja.
Clementine blinked. She looked extremely pale and tired. ‘The only choice,’ she agreed, ‘but the same choice I would make if I had a million exceptional people to choose from. A billion even.’
‘But why?’ Freja nagged.
‘Because he’s special.’
Clementine jumped to her feet. She climbed up onto her desk and retrieved something that had been hidden at the top of the bookcase, stashed behind journals and cobwebs. She returned to the lounge bearing what looked like a miniature treasure chest, no bigger than a box of tea leaves. Using her sleeve to wipe off the dust, she handed the chest to Freja. ‘Take this.’
Up close, the treasure chest was rather disappointing. The metal bracings were battered and rusty, the timber was dull and scratched, and one end was charred black, as though it had been toasted over an open fire. Perhaps it was a ruse, to make one think that nothing of value could be hidden inside when, truly, the contents were spectacular — jewels, rare coins, a treasure map.
Freja’s picture of Tobias Appleby quickly changed from school principal into swashbuckling, seafaring pirate. A green-and-red parrot sat on his shoulder, nibbling at his gold earring. His wooden leg made a delightful knocking sound as he strode across the deck of his ship towards the cannon. It was a pleasing transformation and Freja’s spirits lifted.
She tried to open the lid, but it was locked. ‘Where’s the key?’
Clementine shrugged. ‘Ask Tobias. I got the treasure chest. He got the key.’
‘So I can open it when I get to Tobias’ house?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so!’ Clementine seemed shocked at the idea. ‘I am simply making you joint guardian of Tobias’ and my secrets in my stead. Just until I’m well again.’
‘What secrets?’ cried Freja. ‘Clementine! That doesn’t make sense!’
‘I know, my love.’ Clementine patted her daughter’s hand. ‘But one day, it will.’
‘One day? Which day?’ pleaded Freja.
‘The day that Tobias decides is right.’
‘That’s just silly!’ Freja slapped the arm of the lounge so hard that her hand hurt. ‘Why should Tobias Appleby decide?’ She took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Who exactly is Tobias Appleby?’
Gently, calmly, Clementine took the treasure chest from Freja’s lap. ‘I’m going upstairs now to pack. This will go in your suitcase.’
‘But who is Tobias Appleby?’
Clementine looked back as she headed up the stairs, her face strange and dreamy as she said in hushed, low tones, ‘Tobias is . . .’
Freja could not be sure, but as her mother disappeared from sight, it sounded as though she whispered one last word:
‘Family.’
CHAPTER 4
A surprising arrival
Freja sat at the breakfast table the next morning, a bowl of baked beans turning cold at her elbow. Her tummy was a churning whirlpool of worry. In just one hour, Tobias Appleby would be arriving to fetch her away. Not only would she be separated from Clementine for the first time in her life, but she would also be left all alone with the mysterious Tobias Appleby. She had best be prepared.
Freja chewed thoughtfully on the tip of her pencil. She muttered a few experimental lines in her head, then wrote on a cardboard tag: ‘Freja Peachtree, to be delivered to Myrtle Cottage, Elderberry Lane, Little Coddling, Hampshire.’
She held up the tag, read it out loud three times, then frowned. Names and addresses were important, certainly, and if she was travelling alone by bus or train, it would save her from having to talk to strangers; she could simply hold out the tag and keep her eyes averted. But Tobias would already know both her name and his own address.
She waved the tag thoughtfully in the air and smiled. Hmmm. Tobias may know my name, but he doesn’t know what I look like! I could tie my nametag to someone else and he would never know the difference.
She wondered if she might be able to duck out to one of the local parks and convince an adventurous girl to take her place on the journey south. An adventurous boy might even do the trick . . . if dressed properly.
‘No,’ she said, slapping the tag down onto the table. ‘Clementine might not notice the wrong child leaving, but she would soon notice that I was still here. Besides, I’ve promised to be brave and go to Hampshire.’
She stared out the window for a moment, then wrote on a second tag: ‘ATTENTION! Extremely shy child.’ But as soon as the words were completed, she realised that they were all wrong. ‘Attention!’ was a silly word to use. It demanded the exact opposite of what she was hoping to achieve. What she truly wanted was to be left alone, to escape attention. She sighed and pushed the tag away.
Freja shovelled a spoonful of cold baked beans into her mouth. It felt like she was chewing limpets plucked straight from their shells. She swallowed, shuddered and chomped her teeth three times in disgust.
‘Chomp!’ she yelled. ‘That’s it! That’s sure to keep Tobias Appleby at bay!’ Pressing down hard with her pencil, she wrote on a third tag in dark uppercase letters. Satisfied, she rolled her pencil across the table, pushed back her chair and ran to the coat rack in the hallway. There, she tied the tag to the second toggle on her duffel coat.
‘THIS CHILD BITES!’
Tobias Appleby was three hours late. Freja and Clementine paced back and forth across the living room. They drank two pots of tea and ate their way through an entire packet of chocolate biscuits. Actually, Clementine ate half a chocolate biscuit, Freja ate the rest. They played two games of chess and one game of Chinese chequers. Clementine had just ducked into the kitchen to brew a third pot of tea when a strange sputtering noise caught Freja’s attention. It grew louder and louder and was punctuated with random explosions that sounded like firecrackers being let off to scare old ladies as they crossed the road.
Freja pulled on her duffel coat and ran out the door. A green vintage motorcycle with a sidecar chugged past, black smoke billowing from its exhaust. Without warning, it swerved, lurched up the gutter onto the footpath, crashed through a white picket fence and came to a halt in the flowerbed at the front of Mrs Thompson’s terrace house.
Freja clapped her hand to
her mouth. Her eyes boggled as a ceramic fairy’s head rolled across the footpath and toppled into the gutter. She felt an overwhelming urge to laugh.
A tall, thin man wearing an old-fashioned motoring cap and goggles stumbled off the bike. He muttered to his grey-haired passenger in the sidecar, ‘Hmmm. Spot of bother. Must have tuned out for a moment. Didn’t see that jolly curve in the road.’
Freja glanced back along the street. It was as straight as an arrow. She crept down the steps and moved a little closer.
The motorcyclist swiped off his goggles and cap to reveal emerald-green eyes and a mop of curly brown hair that was in great need of a trim. He stared at the broken fence and the squashed violets and tugged nervously at his ears. Freja wondered at the wisdom of this. The ears stuck out a little further than was necessary and although the tugging was probably not the cause of it, it certainly couldn’t help.
Mumbling and sighing, he shrugged off his brown leather riding jacket to reveal a wrinkled sage-green shirt, a misshapen brown vest (inside out), a dark green cardigan worn through at the elbows and a pair of khaki flannel trousers that sagged and bagged like the skin on an elephant’s bottom. The fringed ends of his long beige scarf were covered in thistledown and burrs. He might have been a bird-watcher gone wrong with all those browns and greens and frayed edges . . . or a madman who’d been shut up in a zoo for several years and just escaped via the tiger’s den. He looks rather lovely, thought Freja. Not so very different from Clementine and me when we’re camping out in the wild.
Grabbing the handlebars, the man heaved the motorcycle backward out of the garden and turned it around. The passenger was now in full sight. It was not somebody’s grandpa, as Freja had first thought, but a shaggy grey dog — an Irish wolfhound of prodigious proportions. The hound stared at Freja, yawned, then licked his long pink tongue luxuriously across his nose.
Freja giggled.
The Girl, the Dog, and the Writer in Rome Page 2
