‘You’re Pierre?’ prompted Woe doubtfully after a minute or two of silence.
‘Well, I was Pierre,’ George clarified unhelpfully. ‘Now I am an accountant.’
‘Oh, you must’ve changed your name?’ Whimsy asked, unsure.
‘No,’ said George plainly. ‘Pierre Von Tyne was my stage name many, many years ago.’
‘You’re a thespian?’ inquired Woe, surprised and a little relieved that George didn’t think he was in fact two people at once.
‘Oh, I wanted to be. I didn’t think there were any of those left,’ he said. ‘May I have a look at it?’
Whimsy handed the flyer to him. She noticed for the first time that George’s hands were covered in black ink.
They sat there in silence as George peered at the flyer. He started to hum a small tune to himself as though he were all alone.
Whimsy wasn’t sure what to think. George was . . . unusually carefree for someone who was chained to his own house. Could he help them? And why was he chained to his house? Would it be rude of them to ask? And who sent the postcard? Whimsy knew with certainty, because of Miss Ballentine’s fear of the postman, that she could not have sent the postcard herself.
Woe cleared his throat. He couldn’t ignore the chain in the room any longer. More so, he couldn’t ignore the fact that George could ignore the chain in the room. ‘Mr Ballentine?’ he began slowly.
‘Mmm?’ George replied, his eyes still on the flyer.
‘Why is there a chain attached to your leg?’
Without looking up, George said simply, ‘Policemen. They put it on me and told me I had to write.’
‘Policemen?’ echoed Whimsy.
‘Write?’ Woe repeated, confused.
‘Plays, musicals, whatever they needed,’ George said. He finished looking at the flyer in his hand and handed it back.
‘Why?’ asked Whimsy.
George shrugged his shoulders.
‘When?’ asked Woe worriedly.
George looked up to the ceiling, thinking. ‘Oh, a few years ago.’
A few years ago? Whimsy and Woe almost fell off their chairs. George had been chained to his house for a few years? They must have looked alarmed as George held up his hands, trying to make them understand.
‘It’s all right, it’s all right,’ he reassured them. ‘I made the plays and musicals really terrible. Some of them were even absolute disasters and they had no idea.’ He laughed secretly to himself. ‘Policemen don’t know much about the arts.’
This time Whimsy and Woe couldn’t help but look at each other. What was George talking about? Why would policemen chain him to his home and tell him to write? For a minute Woe had the urge to tell George that his sister wasn’t on holiday. She wasn’t having a wonderful time. He needed to leave his house and help her. But he wasn’t sure George could help her.
‘George, have you ever thought about . . . not being chained to your house?’ Whimsy asked.
‘Oh yes, all the time,’ he said plainly. There was silence once more.
‘Well, Mr Ball . . . Geor . . . Pierre,’ Woe stumbled. ‘Our parents are thespians and they were kidnapped. We’re looking for them.’
‘I think you’ll find the correct term is parent-napped,’ said George seriously. ‘Kidnapped is for children. I hope your parents aren’t children?’
At the rate they were going, Woe wasn’t sure if George Ballentine would be much help to them at all. He ran a hand roughly through his hair.
‘They were . . . parent-napped,’ repeated Whimsy patiently. ‘We need to know if a travelling troupe came to Cleeth Bay?’
George shook his head more times than was necessary. ‘Nope. There hasn’t been a theatrical performance in Cleeth Bay for . . .’ he paused and counted on his fingers.
The siblings waited. And waited.
‘Twenty-five years,’ George finished.
‘Twenty-five years?’ repeated Woe, shocked.
George nodded solemnly. ‘That’s why I put up the flyers. I tried to bring theatre to the pier. But it didn’t work. The pier was theatre-less.’
Whimsy and Woe decided to take a risk and took turns telling George everything that had happened since the day they played hide-and-seek with their parents. When they reached the part about The Purple Puppeteer photograph, George interrupted.
‘The Purple Puppeteer?’ he repeated.
‘You know it?’ asked Woe.
‘Know it? I wrote it,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Woe couldn’t believe it. George Ballentine. The man sitting cheerily in front of them in a red suit, with calculators in vases and a chain on his leg who thought his sister was on holiday wrote The Purple Puppeteer?
‘Our parents were in the production,’ said Whimsy eagerly. ‘Did you ever meet them?’
‘No,’ said George. ‘But I did see that it had good reviews in the newspaper.’ With a smile he pointed to the window in the room. Plastered on top of it was a collection of newspaper pages.
‘Miss Ballentine never mentioned the theatre,’ said Whimsy trying to think back to all the conversations she’d had with her.
‘She wouldn’t. It cost us Beatrice,’ George said looking over at the sole photograph on the wall. It was an old photo of children a bit older than themselves. They had a strong likeness to each other. Siblings, Whimsy thought. The boy was immediately recognisable. He had the same long hair tied back in a ponytail as George did. The eldest, a teenager, with one arm around his shoulder must be Miss Ballentine. But there was also another child, a girl who looked the smallest in the photo. A younger sister.
35
In which they pry into the Purple Puppeteer’s past
‘Beatrice?’ said Whimsy. She stared at the young girl who looked back at her from the photograph. She didn’t know why but Whimsy felt like she needed to know more about her. Maybe this was how George could help them? ‘Can you tell us about her?’ Whimsy asked.
The smiling George grew serious in his chair. ‘Our parents died when we were young,’ he began. ‘Adele was old enough to get a job at the bakery and support us as best she could. I was seventeen and Beatrice was twelve. We lived here, in this house. I wanted to work in the theatre but we had no money. After six years working in an accountant’s office, I had enough saved to try. I had those flyers made up,’ he pointed to the flyer still in Whimsy’s hand. ‘I wanted to bring the theatre to the pier. I posted those everywhere. I told all my friends about it. I rented a spot to do a show, but nobody came. I did it for weeks. Until one day, when it was raining, I looked out during one of my performances to see a young man, my age, watching me. He had a look about him. Not quite friendly but not quite unfriendly either. I was so . . . happy that someone came, I didn’t care who it was. He knew everything about the theatre. Its history, all the famous thespians, the productions. He taught me that disguise is an actor’s best friend.’
Woe looked at Whimsy. Mr Solt said the same thing about disguise at the Idle Slug. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Perhaps George could help them after all.
‘Do you know his name?’ Woe asked eagerly.
‘He said his name was Vincent St Claire, like the character in the much-forgotten horror play Ghosts on Ghoul Street.’
Whimsy and Woe didn’t know the play but nodded anyway.
‘I showed him the new play I was working on. A dark drama called The Purple Puppeteer. Then one day he was gone. And so was Beatrice. Then we found the letters.’ George stopped, and for a moment Whimsy and Woe weren’t sure if he was going to continue.
‘Letters?’ prompted Woe.
‘In Beatrice’s room, plastered all over the walls were letters. Letters from him. Adele was so overcome with anger and grief that it grew inside of her for years until one day she couldn’t take it any longer. And then she went on holiday.’
Whimsy and Woe sat still. They remembered Miss Ballentine’s fear of the postman and they felt for the man sitting before them. He was so overwhelmed with
guilt and sadness. Just like his sister. And Mr Abernathy.
Then Whimsy thought back to something. The letters. ‘George, may we see one of Beatrice’s letters?’
George looked reluctant at first but he stood and motioned for them to follow him. He took them down the hall and up a small flight of stairs. He pulled a key out of his pocket and put it into a door, opening it. Inside the room, the siblings saw the extent of Beatrice’s obsession with the man George knew as Vincent. Letters lined every inch of the walls, the roof and the floor. Where there weren’t letters, there were sketches of a young man’s face, scraps of paper with just the words Vincent St Claire scrawled across them over and over again. They stepped into the room and took a closer look. Woe was transfixed by the sketches of Vincent. His dark eyes, sketched in black, were piercing. Whimsy, however, went straight to the nearest envelope. It was square and the faded stamp in the corner was exactly what she thought it would be — just like the stamp on the postcard that wasn’t from Adele and just like the stamp on the letter Apoline received. From out of his pocket, Woe pulled out the My Lunch With Mermaids poster. The symbol on the envelope matched the symbol on the caravan. It was a hummingbird.
‘Where did you get that?’ asked George pointing to the poster in Woe’s hands. ‘That is one of the terrible musicals they made me write.’
‘You wrote this?’ asked Woe, stunned.
‘A man named, ah, Pepper or, ah . . . Spice came and picked it up,’ said George. ‘He smelt awful. Like cooked cabbages. I hate cooked cabbages.’
‘Mr Solt?’ Whimsy suggested, shuddering at the thought of him.
George nodded and then stopped suddenly and gasped. He looked at his watch. ‘What day is it today?’
Whimsy couldn’t sort through her thoughts fast enough. ‘Hortensia Abernathy. Beatrice Ballentine. Mum and Dad. Could they all be . . .’ she began, her mind ticking over, trying to connect all of the dots.
‘You must go,’ said George quickly. The siblings turned towards him confused. Fear clouded George’s eyes. ‘If today is Tuesday, then Mr Solt will be here to collect the latest musical any minute.’
36
In which Whimsy and Woe are really, really wanted
They ran as fast as they could. Out of the squished house, through the dark lane of Stone Way, around a bend, down some sandstone steps and along a path. With every step and before every corner, Whimsy and Woe felt that they could run right into Mr Solt’s awful arms. At last they reached the beachside. Dropping their suitcases, they stopped near the noticeboard to catch their breath.
‘Any sign of him?’ asked Whimsy, checking her pocket for Eloise. She relaxed when she felt the small ball of fur curl up in her hand.
Woe looked around, searching for the villain in the green suit. People still filled the walkway, talking and eating their impressive ice creams and fire floss.
Whimsy tried to think of where they could possibly go next. If Mr Solt really was in Cleeth Bay they definitely couldn’t stay. But how would they leave? The sun would set soon and it would be too late for a train. They could walk but who knew how far away the next town might be?
We need a map, she thought assessing the stores on the walkway.
Woe turned to tell Whimsy that there was no sign of Mr Solt but not before he caught sight of the noticeboard. Plastered across it were multiple copies of a large poster that most definitely had not been there before. Like a pebble in water, Woe’s stomach dropped. ‘Whimsy,’ he said, alarmed.
His sister turned and followed his gaze to read the new poster. On it were two roughly inked faces, one boy and one girl, who looked just like them except with a few differences. Woe for some reason wore an eye patch over his right eye and Whimsy had a large scar that ran along her entire cheek. Both drawings showed the children angry and snarling. Across the top in big letters were the words MORDAUNTS – REALLY REALLY WANTED. And beneath the drawings it said CHILDREN SO BAD EVEN THIER PARENTS ABANDONED THEM.
‘How . . .’ read Whimsy disbelievingly. She tried not to let the last sentence sting. She touched her cheek where the poster showed she had a scar and wondered if someone on the train told Mr Solt where they were. How else would he know?
‘He’s here somewhere,’ said Woe looking around wildly. Then he spotted the same posters in all the windows of all the shops along the walkway. He wanted to pull them all down and tear them up. Turning to the noticeboard, he took out his frustration on the posters there.
‘We can’t stay in Cleeth Bay,’ said Whimsy softly.
‘What?’ asked Woe, looking worriedly at his sister. ‘We can’t stop now.’
‘All we have is the name of a character from Ghosts on Ghoul Street,’ said Whimsy, frustrated. ‘We aren’t just wanted, we’re really, really wanted, Woe. Who knows how many people on the walkway have seen these?’ she finished by pointing to the poster fluttering in the wind.
Woe refused to let Mr Solt win. There has to be a way, he thought. And then his eyes settled on the boats still moored on the pier nearby.
‘A boat,’ he said, suddenly remembering. ‘A boat!’
‘We could hide in one of them?’ offered Whimsy, not sure why her brother was so happy about the boats. They couldn’t steer one themselves, could they?
‘Jeremiah!’ Woe said to Whimsy grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘Jeremiah can help us.’
Whimsy was certain she didn’t know anybody named Jeremiah. Then she remembered their trip on the number 7 train. The train guard, Harold, was so moved by her story that he told them about a fisherman who sailed the Sea of Teers — Jeremiah. Whimsy couldn’t help but smile happily at her brother. ‘Jeremiah!’
The Mordaunt siblings sprinted down the walkway, dragging their suitcases as best as they could. Weaving in and out and around the crowd, they dodged the arms holding impressive ice creams and fire floss.
‘Hey, aren’t you —’ began a woman in an oversized beach hat as they ran past.
‘Isn’t that —’ said a man in orange-rimmed sunglasses.
‘He doesn’t have an eye patch!’
‘Where’s her scar?’
‘They look very angry.’
‘Their poor parents.’
‘Should they be running like that?’
‘Where are they going?’
‘Someone go tell the man in the green suit.’
The crowd had started to recognise them! Whimsy and Woe quickly ran onto the pier that jutted out from the walkway. Boats lined either side, some of them were large and others small. But there was only one fishing boat and it was docked at the very end.
As they approached it they saw a bald man with a pipe in his mouth untying the mooring.
‘Excuse me, sir. Are you the captain of this ship?’ asked Whimsy looking down to the fisherman they hoped was Jeremiah.
‘Aye,’ said the man not looking up.
‘If you are Jeremiah, then Harold sent us,’ said Woe. He looked behind them. Some people pointed in their direction. After the crowd had turned against them in Boole, Woe was very eager not to experience that again.
The fisherman looked up. ‘Aye, I am. Where do yer need to go?’
‘Anywhere,’ said Whimsy hurriedly. At that moment, anywhere was better than Cleeth Bay.
Jeremiah nodded. ‘All aboard.’
They threw their belongings onto the boat and stepped in after them. Looking back Woe saw that the crowd was most definitely moving closer. A couple of people walked ahead of the rest, striding towards them determinedly.
Jeremiah turned the engine on and slowly they motored away from the pier and the ever-menacing crowd. Some people were now shouting at them but Whimsy and Woe couldn’t hear anything over the sound of the boat’s engine. Jeremiah held up his pipe and waved it at the crowd as if to say, ‘So long and goodbye.’
37
In which Whimsy and Woe traverse the sea
The sun had started to set, casting a bright orange glow over the sea. Whimsy and Woe had stayed on the
front deck of the fishing boat while Jeremiah had busied himself steering in the wheelhouse.
Whimsy and Woe looked out at the sea that surrounded them and each felt a pang of sadness. It was the first time that either of them had ever been on a boat or at sea. But it wasn’t supposed to be. When their mother had gotten the lead role in a revival of The Maritime Mongoose and Her Watery Revenge, she wanted to prepare. She had organised for the whole family to spend two weeks on a yacht at sea. When Whimsy and Woe had asked why, she had replied that it was the only way that she could get her sea legs. Their father had even made his own sailor outfit for their houseboat holiday. But he never got to wear it. And their mother never got to star in the revival of The Maritime Mongoose and Her Watery Revenge. The houseboat holiday with their parents was supposed to be the first time at sea for Whimsy and Woe. But that was before they disappeared.
Whimsy looked behind her at where they had left Cleeth Bay. She was glad she could no longer see the small beachside town. She just hoped that their really, really wanted posters hadn’t reached anywhere else.
Woe sat down next to his sister on one of the crates that lay scattered on the deck. He wondered briefly if their houseboat would have had more comfortable seating.
‘So George Ballentine has been writing musicals for Mr Solt,’ said Whimsy. ‘I didn’t believe him at first when he said policemen had chained him to his house. But it must’ve been Mr Solt.’
Woe nodded. ‘Do you think George’s story about his sister has anything to do with our parents?’ he asked. Since seeing Beatrice’s room, Woe couldn’t shake the image of Vincent’s dark eyes from his mind. He hoped the man didn’t have anything to do with their parents. And he hoped they were okay, wherever they were.
‘Maybe,’ said Whimsy. She bit her lip in thought. Their parents’ disappearance seemed to be becoming a much bigger mystery than they had first thought. There was Hortensia, and now Beatrice. How many people were missing? Her mind was going over all of the horrible possibilities. Had Mr Solt chained up their parents like Mr Ballentine? Did they try to escape? Were they hurt?
Whimsy and Woe Page 11
