Somebody Stop Ivy Pocket

by Caleb Krisp

  Cake detonated all over them. Mostly over their heads. Mrs Roach had a chunk up her nose and in her left ear. Bernadette’s eyes and forehead were smothered in icing and almonds. Philomena had largely vanished behind a mask of red-hot cake.

  And they were all shrieking and hollering as if something dreadful had just happened.

  ‘Have you no sense?’ barked Mother Snagsby, as a generous lump of icing slipped from her gigantic mole. ‘That was not flour you stole from Ezra’s workshop, it was gunpowder!’

  ‘Well, that explains things,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Gunpowder?’ squawked Bernadette.

  ‘My girls could have been killed!’ cried Mrs Roach. ‘I could have been killed!’

  And poor Philomena began rocking back and forth, mumbling something about a bomb strike and urging us all to hurry to the nearest bunker.

  ‘My skin is on fire!’ bawled Mrs Roach. ‘I will be scarred for life!’

  Mrs Dickens and Mother Snagsby were doing their best to clean up the guests with napkins and water. But I knew that something else was required.

  So I bolted from the room. Stormed into the kitchen. Grabbed the necessary items. Then bounded back upstairs.

  ‘Fear not,’ I declared, bursting into the drawing room, ‘I have a most excellent remedy for cake burns.’

  As I approached her, Mrs Roach began to recoil. There wasn’t time to apply the treatment with a brush. Which is why I cracked the egg on her forehead.

  ‘Young lady!’ thundered Mother Snagsby.

  With the egg slithering down her face, Mrs Roach squealed like a pig in a butcher shop. I plucked out most of the shell – being a stupendously considerate sort of girl – and began gently rubbing the yolk around her nose and ear.

  ‘I am dreaming!’ cried Mrs Roach. ‘This must be a hideous dream! It must!’

  ‘It only feels like a dream because the egg is so soothing, dear,’ I said tenderly. ‘This remedy is a balm that will ease the redness and leave no trace of a mark.’

  ‘Get off my mother!’ roared Bernadette, pulling me away.

  ‘Do not fret, girls,’ I said, picking up the four remaining eggs, ‘I have plenty for you as well.’

  This clearly excited Philomena, because she jumped up and began running from the room, followed swiftly by her sister. Fortunately I reached the door before they did, slamming it shut.

  ‘You will thank me for this, girls,’ I announced, in my most calming voice. ‘In certain parts of Japan an egg to the face is a sign of great respect.’

  ‘Put down those eggs this instant!’ ordered Mother Snagsby.

  ‘Ivy, you mustn’t,’ offered Mrs Dickens.

  ‘Quite wrong, Mrs Dickens, for I must.’

  The girls were now running about the room, pulling cake from their hair and crying like lunatics – and desperately searching for a way out. I had little choice but to chase after them, hurtling the eggs from a distance.

  One smashed directly on Bernadette’s right cheek. She screamed and cursed my ancestors. Another hit Philomena square in the face. She wailed with gratitude. Even dropped to her knees.

  ‘Don’t be shy,’ I told them. ‘Rub the remedy in vigorously.’

  ‘Get away from us!’ screeched Bernadette.

  ‘Run, children!’ shouted Mrs Roach, leaping to her feet and making a dash for the door.

  By that point I was on the other side of the drawing room with only one egg left. Bernadette pulled Philomena to her feet and they ran towards their mother, just as she threw the door open.

  ‘That child is a devil!’ Mrs Roach bawled as she bolted down the hallway, a girl clutched in each hand. ‘Snagsbys’ Economic Funerals has buried the last of us, you mark my words!’

  ‘Thank you so much for coming!’ I called after them. ‘I will keep an eye out for my invitation to your next glorious party!’

  The drawing room was in rather a shocking state.

  Mother Snagsby was sitting in an armchair with her head in her hands. Mrs Dickens was looking about the room in wonder. And Mrs Roach and her two daughters charged down the stairs and ran screaming from the house. Which was most undignified.

  Chapter 12

  There was no supper again that night. Mrs Dickens was forbidden from bringing me so much as a breadcrumb. I was in exile. A figure of unutterable shame and disappointment. A daughter so beastly, Mother Snagsby said she could not bear to look at me.

  Besides the glorious explosion, the only bright spot had been the tantalising question of why Ezra had gunpowder in his workshop. And why it was marked Flour. Tragically, it was all very innocent. The gunpowder was a relic from his hunting days. And he kept it in an old flour sack because he hadn’t anywhere else to put it. So no great mystery there.

  My spirits were alarmingly low. Despair had taken hold. Nothing was going as I had planned. And sitting beneath the entire calamity, like a pit of tar in my stomach, was poor Rebecca.

  But how could I be sure that what the stone had shown me was true? Perhaps it was a trick. One of Miss Always’ wicked schemes. A plan to lure me to Prospa to see if I was the Dual – the girl who would finally cure her world of the Shadow (the plague that had killed millions). Then Miss Always would use me to control the kingdom. That is what Miss Frost believed. And even though she had lied to me about Rebecca being dead, I did not doubt her on that matter.

  I scooped the necklace from under my nightgown and stared into the Clock Diamond, willing it to show me another vision. A clue to exactly where Rebecca was being kept. But all it offered was the night sky over London, starless and bleak. There was only one way to reach her.

  But I could not risk lifting the veil. The infernal buzzing and the glaring light from the stone were the problem. Mother Snagsby had nearly caught me last time, and as she already thought I was a horrid sort of girl, I didn’t dare try it again. Not in the house, at any rate.

  Which meant I had to get out. But how? Even though Mother Snagsby had stopped pacing the hall outside an hour ago, the door was locked and the only two keys were with her and Mrs Dickens. And the window had been nailed shut ever since I climbed out of it early one morning in an attempt to reach the kitchen door (I had been on the point of near starvation, not having eaten a morsel since dinner). Sliding down the drainpipe had proved rather difficult. It was raining and I had lost my grip, plummeting towards the hard ground. Fortunately, a passing milk woman had broken my fall.

  But she had made a great fuss as her pails of milk spilled across the cobblestones. Mother Snagsby had come flying out, her nightcap fluttering furiously. She was quick to blame me for the mishap. Felt the need to declare that I wasn’t a blood relative and that she would have no objection should the milk woman wish to clobber me with her wooden yoke.

  The window, therefore, offered no possibility of escape. Finding a way out was a monstrous challenge – even for me. I paced the bedroom until I grew tired. Although I had a great many talents, I hadn’t a clue how to get out of a locked room.

  Defeated, I dropped down on to the bed and let out a bewildered sigh. But it was quickly replaced by a frown. For the blanket at the end of the bed had begun to rise, lifting up as if someone or something was under it. Naturally, I scrambled to the other end of the bed.

  By then the blanket was hovering above the mattress, all aglow. It was clear that something mountainous was concealed beneath it and I quickly surmised that there was only one ball of luminous blubber that could be responsible for such a display. Then the blanket fell in a heap, slipping through her as if she were not there.

  ‘What an interesting day you’ve had, child,’ sang the dead Duchess.

  ‘Mind your own business, you fiendish fatso.’

  The ghost laughed, her nostrils smoking like a furnace. ‘If it is any consolation, never have a mother and her two daughters been more deserving of an exploding cake.’

  I ignored her, pouting magnificently and folding my arms.

  The ghoul moved slowly towards me, leaving a t
rail of starlight in her wake. ‘Didn’t I help you with your mother on my last visit? She was most impressed by your dusting – you know she was.’

  Yes, it was true. But that was before this afternoon’s tea.

  The Duchess of Trinity licked her lips, her black tongue slithering like an eel. ‘Will you help me – will you arrange a discount funeral for my dear cousin Victor?’

  I climbed off the bed. ‘That all depends – what can you tell me about Rebecca?’

  ‘I do have some news that might interest you, but first I must have your promise that you will help me.’

  ‘The last time you asked for my help it was a clever plot to kill Matilda – why should I trust you this time?’

  The Duchess nodded her head. ‘I will be honest, child. You will probably discover that Victor wrote a pamphlet about me, following my death, in which he pointed out my many faults.’

  I was frowning with gusto.

  ‘Now, most girls your age would think that was the perfect motivation for vengeance.’ She thrust her plump and largely transparent finger at my chest. ‘I know you will see that I admired Victor for his unflinching honesty. He cared nothing for my title and treated me as an equal. You understand, do you not?’

  Well, of course I did. ‘Your cousin was the only person who had the courage to tell you what a miserable, miserly, monstrous old bat you really are. And you loved him for it.’

  ‘How wise you are, child.’

  ‘It comes easily, dear. For I have all the natural wisdom of a pot-bellied yogi or, at the very least, a spotted owl.’

  The light inside the ghost bloomed, brightening the dim bedroom. ‘But say nothing about our communication to my cousin when you approach him about the coffin,’ she warned. ‘It might set him against the idea if he knew it came from me.’

  ‘Yes, yes, he won’t suspect a thing,’ I said impatiently. ‘Now tell me about Rebecca. What have you learned? Have you seen her? Where is she being held?’

  ‘Prospa House,’ came the reply. ‘Your friend is in Prospa House.’

  Progress at last! ‘How will I find this place?’

  There was no reply. The Duchess just hovered before me looking rather thoughtful. Perhaps she was thinking. Then she said, ‘You have no business there, child.’

  ‘Rebecca is my friend. There is no more important business, it seems to me.’ My gaze hardened. ‘How do I find Prospa House?’

  ‘You know how,’ purred the Duchess.

  And of course, I did. But I couldn’t do it here in the house.

  A faint smile crossed the ghost’s pallid lips. Without a word she began to close in on herself until the ghoul was nothing more than a ball of light, white smoke lifting from her like a smouldering log. The ball flew swiftly across the room and stopped before the door handle. Then the Duchess’s plump finger emerged from inside the ghostly sphere and darted at the keyhole. And as it moved the finger moulded itself into a key and slipped into the lock. I heard a crisp click.

  Then the Duchess was gone.

  I was already at the door when I heard her ghostly refrain.

  ‘You have no business there, child.’

  I turned the handle and slipped out into the hall.

  London in the wee hours was painfully quiet, the silence occasionally broken by a passing carriage. Or the odd dog barking in the night. The sky was black and final. Not a star to be found. Gas lamps did their best to throw splashes of light about the place.

  My stomach was a tangle. My mind a whirlwind. I had expected that being away from the house would make lifting the veil and reaching Prospa as easy as falling from a log. But it had not. I had stopped several times and employed the techniques set out in Ambrose Crabtree’s manuscript. At first I stared into a streetlamp, which nearly sent me blind. Next I chose to focus on a discarded carriage at the end of a narrow alley. Again, no luck.

  So lost was I in thoughts of Rebecca and reaching her, that I wandered rather far from home. Gone were the neat rows of terraces. In their place were large buildings of dark brick with barred windows and iron grilles. My pace never faltered – I didn’t know where I was headed, but I pushed on, unable or unwilling to stop, as if a beacon was flaring in the distance. I couldn’t see it, yet it felt as if I were following its signal. Rebecca’s haunted face reached into the farthest corners of my mind. And I repeated the words Prospa House again and again.

  Turning left, I walked the length of the footpath. Stopped. Looked up – the sign said Winslow Street. I sighed. The hour was late and it was probably time to head home before my escape was discovered. But I only took a few steps before I stopped again.

  Glancing across the road, my eyes were captured by a cavernous space between a shoe factory and a boarding house. Even in the faint lamplight I could see that the building had been torn down (or had burned). Great piles of bricks lay about like coal stacks. It was a ruin. All that remained was a part of the front wall. A hole where a window used to be. And the front door with the frame around it.

  I crossed the street to take a closer look. The door was set back from the footpath and on the crumbling wall beside it, there was a brass plaque. Tarnished and worn by age. My eyes moved back to the door, standing proud amongst the remnants of the building that had once held it up. I thought of my lost friend. And it was happening before I even knew it.

  A familiar buzzing charged the night air. Under my dress the Clock Diamond awoke, hot against my skin. The buildings on either side began to bend and ripple. Then they melted away, dropping silently. The ground shook until my teeth began to chatter. All the while I watched the door. Even when a great white wall breached the ground and pushed up, lifting towards the heavens.

  The building seemed to stretch, like it had just woken up, spreading out, left and right. It was a beast, tall and wide. Walls flew up and out. Vast windows filled in with glass and wood. Ribbed columns rose along the front. The front door coloured itself a glossy black. A gold knocker, shaped like a half-moon, pushed out with ease. The tarnished plaque began to glow and glisten as if it had just been polished. Then a path of silvery stone blossomed beneath my feet. A hedge grew up on either side, rising to my shoulders, its leaves blood red.

  I walked towards the door. Stopped before it. The plaque read PROSPA HOUSE. My heart lurched. My mouth dried. I was here! I glanced up at the building, trying to take it all in. The windows were cast in darkness, save for one on the third floor where a candle burned. A shadow swept quickly across it. Then the light blew out.

  I reached for the handle, praying the front door would not be locked. But as my hand closed around it, I felt … nothing. My hand was bunched in a fist, having passed straight through the silver knob. Most peculiar! Suddenly, I heard the rumble of voices as two men came around the side of the building. Their heads were shorn and both were dressed in ghastly orange coats and black boots. They had a perfect view of the front door where I was standing like a lump. But they appeared not to see me!

  I recalled Ambrose Crabtree’s rules – did he not mention that when a person crossed between worlds only their soul took the journey? Perhaps this meant I was a kind of spirit, unable to open doors and whatnot. Which would be a great help in sneaking about the place, but could make rescuing Rebecca rather difficult.

  Then the door began to flicker, like a candle in the wind, fading one moment, then whole and solid the next. Between each flicker I would catch a glimpse through the door – but instead of finding a hallway or a room behind it, all I could see were piles of bricks. Fearing that time was against me, I lunged for the handle a second time.

  ‘What’s going on here then?’

  As I spun around, I felt the great swoosh of air as Prospa House fell away behind me. The stone path dissolved into the ground in seconds and the neat red hedge melted like snow. Once again I was on the grim and unremarkable Winslow Street. And a rather portly night constable was coming towards me wearing a look of profound suspicion.

  ‘It’s four in the morning. Wha
t are you doing wandering around Stockwell all by yourself?’

  He was short. Double chin. Eyes set wide apart. Ginger whiskers only added to the catastrophe.

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ I demanded to know.

  To have reached Prospa and have it ripped away was the cruellest of blows.

  The constable seemed slightly startled. ‘Well … it’s my job, that’s what, and you should be at home tucked up in bed. You’d better come with me, missy.’

  ‘It’s a sad state of affairs when a twelve-year-old girl can’t roam the streets in the dead of night without being harassed by a constable,’ I declared with a huff. ‘My instinct is to grab your baton and teach you a thing or two about manners. But as it’s late, I’ll let you off with a firm slap on the wrist and a general warning.’

  I slapped his pasty wrist with great commitment and then, with the constable still looking utterly stupefied, ran like the wind without looking back.

  Chapter 13

  ‘I locked that door, I’m sure of it,’ muttered Mrs Dickens, spooning a generous helping of porridge into my bowl as I sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Your mother was madder than a hungry bear after that cake calamity and she told me to lock your bedroom door and check it again before I turned in for the night.’

  When Mrs Dickens had come to wake me up, she was rather startled to find my bedroom door already unlocked. Once I had crept back into the house, I had no way of locking the door behind me. Naturally, I called to the Duchess of Trinity, requesting that she come back and lock it. But she hadn’t.

  ‘Mrs Dickens, you mustn’t be too hard on yourself,’ I said, adding a pinch of cinnamon to my porridge and shovelling a dainty helping into my mouth. ‘You are as old as the sun and your brain is practically pickled from all of that whisky you drink.’

  ‘I take a wee sip every now and then, nothing more.’ The housekeeper looked suitably crestfallen. ‘My mind’s always been sharp as a tack.’