“What’s taking you, Andy? The scones are cooling!”
His Aunt was at his door, her graying yellow apron smeared with the by-products of baking. He spun around, startled.
“Oh, Auntie, I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs.”
“What’s out there so interesting you reckon it’s worth more than a warm scone or two?” She came up beside him and looked out the window. Andrew looked as well. Nothing. No one was there, the street was deserted.
“I saw some tourists looking in the cottage and the old one tried to talk to me.”
“You didn’t speak with him, did you? You know what your mum says. One doesn’t speak to strangers, look what happened to Wally Burdock and Gwen Shafford. They talked to strangers and both of them ended up d-e-a-d, dead.”
Well, Andrew thought, that wasn’t quite true. Wally, who was seventeen and in trouble with local thugs all the time, was beaten with a bat until he had terrible brain damage and his folks let the hospital take him off life-support, then he died. And Gwen was raped by her stepbrother and went crazy. She was in some asylum or hospital somewhere. Still, he knew what his mum meant. She’d stopped to talk with a stranger once and the next thing she knew after three weeks of romance, bingo, bango, no more stranger. Andrew was the result of that fiasco.
“I know. I know. I gave a good frown and came right in.” He sniffed at the air. “I must have smelled them scones anyway, ’cause nothing ever stops me from coming in when you’re baking.”
His Aunt grinned. “Well, then, let’s have one, and I’ll make you a cup of cocoa. It’s getting cold outside.”
Andrew followed her down the narrow stairs to the tiny kitchen. He sat down to wait. Aunt Molly had her set ways of doing things, and there would be no impatient grabbing or rushing her. She busied herself with canisters, spoons, and a pan of milk.
“Tell me what you did today.”
“Maths. We worked on problems. Lucky for me they’re really easy.”
“They are, well then, give me one and see if I can do it. It’s been thirty years since I did any maths, but I’m still pretty smart for an old lady.”
“You’re not old, Auntie. Mum is older than you and she’s still young. She says so all the time.” His mouth watered at the smell of the cocoa stirred in the hot milk. His Aunt set the cup before him, then went to the counter for a scone. He watched as she broke open the dusty cream-colored mass and steam rolled out into the warm kitchen.
“Give me a problem, then, Andy. See if I can do it.” She sat across from him, eager for his usual reaction to her scones.
A bit annoyed at having to speak when he wanted to eat, he licked his lips and stared at his scone. “All right, Auntie. If a train travels at 50 mph, and it took the train four hours and ten minutes to get from London to Newcastle, what is the distance from London to Newcastle?”
“Oh, my, that is a tough one. Let me think …” She scratched her head and wrinkled her mouth in concentration. “Do you know the answer?”
Andrew nodded. “Do you?” He bit into the scone. It was almost too good. He swooned.
“Well, 218 miles give or take few miles. Yes?”
“It’s got a decimal figure in it, but you’re close. That’s really good, Auntie.”
They heard a key in the lock. “That’ll be your mum. We should ask her to solve one of your problems.”
Andrew’s mother came in with her arms full of groceries. “Come help.”
“Mum, my scone’s getting cold.”
His aunt put her hands on his shoulders. “You stay here, Andy, I’ll get them.”
He grinned up at his aunt then took a sip of the cocoa. She always made it a bit too rich, just the way he liked it.
While his mum and aunt put away groceries, Andrew thought about the pretty boy and old man he’d seen. He wondered why the man had spoken to him, why the boy seemed so sad. Why would he want to know if Andrew lived nearby? What could he have wanted?
“There was just an accident at the triangle. I heard in Safeway. Young boy crossing with his Granddad got hit by a lorry.”
Andrew spun around in his chair. “Just now?”
“Just a few minutes ago. Didn’t you hear the siren? I was going to go have a look, but I have frozen puddings in my bags. What, you think you know who it might have been?”
“May I go look? Please? I might know him. I might.”
His mother looked to his aunt and back to him. His aunt was the lenient one, over-feeding and over-loving him, while his mother was bitter and restrictive. His aunt gave his mum a pleading look. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t.
“Finish the scone and cocoa, then you and your Aunt Molly can go take a look while I start supper.”
“Me? You want me to go with him. Bernadette, I look like I’ve been in all day cleaning, which I have. Can’t he go on his own?”
“It’s almost dark.”
“Please, Mum, I just want to take a look. I won’t stay. Really, I promise.”
“You’ll wear a coat?”
“Yeah, yeah, I will. Promise.”
“Go, then, but don’t dawdle.”
Andrew grabbed the unfinished scone and ran upstairs to get a jacket. He knew it was the pretty boy. Just knew. It could be any one of the boys he knew, but there was more of a reason for a stranger to be hit. The triangle confused tourists. They often got caught out in the traffic. He hoped that the boy wasn’t hurt too badly.
He shouted goodbye to his mum and aunt as he raced out the front door. He ran down Green Street to Bridge Street until he reached the triangle. There were two police cars and a casualty van. The crowd was large and traffic backed up Bridge Street as far as he could see in both directions. Frank Delaney rushed over when he saw Andrew at the edge of the crowd.
“Did you see it happen?” Frank shivered in just a football jersey.
“You mean the accident. No, my mum just told me about it. She heard about it in Safeway. Did you see?”
“No, dammit. I was doing my report for Ol’ Noddy Bennett. Who d’you think it was?”
Andrew rose up on his toes as the attendants lifted the stretcher into the van. The body was entirely covered by a sheet. “Dunno. He’s dead. Can’t see his face.” His throat was tight and his eyes burned to cry.
As he surveyed the crowd, Andrew saw the old man with a police officer, his bony hand over his face, hiding his tears, shaking his head. When he took his hand away from his face to get a handkerchief, he turned to look right at Andrew, as if he knew the boy was there. His eyes lingered on him until Andrew felt his stomach clench. Then the old man turned back to the police officer and blew his nose.
“I hate missing all the blood and guts.” Frank complained. “Bet it’s someone from school. Probably that big baby, Tim Broadbank. His mum won’t let him cross the street without holding her hand still. He’s a year ahead of us, you know.”
“Tim? No. Don’t think so. I saw a boy with his Granddad an hour ago up by my house. They were standing at the nailer’s cottage. The Granddad is right over there with the police crying his bloody eyes out. It had to be his grandson.”
“D’you know them?” Frank rubbed his hands together.
Andrew shook his head. “Tourists. They had the look.”
“Just think. You go on a trip with your Granddad and end up going home in a coffin. That’s a sodding awful vacation if I ever heard …”
Andrew couldn’t take his eyes off the old man. Frank went on talking but he didn’t really hear. The old man didn’t look at him again, but Andrew watched for his eyes to wash over him again. He shivered.
“… so they stuck these big pins in his eyes.”
“Pins?” He turned to see Frank going on. “Hey, Frank, I had better get on.
Supper’ll be ready and my mum wasn’t happy to let me come out here as it is.”
“Yeah, well, all right. If I find anything out, I’ll tell you Monday. See you.”
“Right, see you.” He gave the old man one more
lingering glance, then walked away. Just as Andrew turned up Green Street thinking of his supper, the old man searched the crowd.
Andrew’s legs felt leaden as he trudged up his street. He wanted to go to the old man, comfort him. Even as he felt it, he knew it was unreasonable. He didn’t know this stranger about who everything seemed suspiciously odd. As he reached his door, he wondered if he had just spoken to the old man, kept them a few minutes more, the boy might not have been killed.
The next morning, Andrew grabbed up The Belper News from the doorstep. He was certain there would be a report of the accident. Not much qualified as news in town. This was front-page stuff. And there it was.
VISITOR ACCIDENT
by Rosalie Bishop
A man and his ten-year-old ward, traveling through England, stopped in Belper on their way to Matlock Baths. At approximately 5:00 p.m., they were crossing at the triangle near The Mill Park when a lorry, on its way to Derby, hit the boy who was killed on impact. The two visitors were unfamiliar with the traffic patterns in that area and the boy stepped out in front of the lorry. The driver was not at fault in this tragic accident. The boy’s guardian plans to return to his native Turkey within the week. Local families have rallied to give the man a place to stay and meals until his plane departs from Heathrow on Thursday. Anyone interested in giving aid or expressing sympathies can contact Elizabeth Horner at The Methodist Chapel.
Andrew was now more curious than before. Turkey. He’d never much thought about people living there, though he’d heard of it in geography. What he did know was that he loved Turkish Delight. The rosy jelly center with the yummy chocolate all around made him think of the occasional bouts of happiness his mother had, when she bought them a bag of sweets, always with some Turkish Delight for Andrew. Did Turkish Delight originate in Turkey? Was the jelly part Turkish or the chocolate or both? For once, he couldn’t wait for Monday. He’d go straight to the school library after class.
The library was a small room that had once been a supply cabinet and coat room. Books lined every wall and two half-sized bookcases divided the room. Paintings done by the infants covered the wall over the librarian’s desk. Andrew loved the smell of the books and the ancient oiled tables where students could read. The library was empty except for Miss Eklund, a woman the kids called “the Swede.” She was in her fifties, wore her hair clipped short, had funny little hairs on her chin and smelled of men’s aftershave. The Swede was actually a wrestler, and Miss Eklund had a stocky build like a man, hence the moniker. She let the girls get away with murder and slapped the back of boy’s heads if they spoke.
He had a book on Turkey when Frank appeared around the corner. He grabbed at Andrew’s sleeve to see the book. He scanned it then looked over at Miss Eklund who was deep into stamping loan cards.
“Hey, you get in trouble when you got in Friday?”
“Naw. You?”
“Hell, no. Nobody comes home until late at my house. My dad goes straight to the pub from work and my mum … well, she’s with her friends a lot. Nick’s living with his girlfriend in Sheffield now, so it’s just me.”
“Did you see anything after I left?”
Frank took the book on Turkey from Andrew’s hand. “Hey, did you know that the old guy is from Turkey? I was standing there while this lady was asking him about the kid.”
Andrew put the book under his arm. “Yeah? Really? What’d you hear? I read the newspaper but it doesn’t say much.”
“He was staying at the Hollingshead Hotel. The kid wasn’t his grandson, but a friend of the family. He was taking the kid to the baths because he had some kind of illness. Leukemia or something. Hell, the baths don’t do anything and anybody who knows something knows that. It’s just a tourist attraction. A joke, really.”
“Wow. I saw the kid. He looked sad or sick. Weak like. Maybe he was going to die anyway.” Andrew watched Frank’s face grow more animated.
“Or maybe the old guy pushed the kid in front of the lorry to make sure he didn’t suffer. Hey, that would be sinister, like when …”
Miss Eklund drifted over to the boys. “You two want to make conversation, do it outside. This is a library. We don’t converse in the library.”
Frank winked at Andrew and fled. Andrew checked the book out to take home.
Frank wasn’t in school the next day. Andrew wanted to share his discoveries about Turkey with him, not that it was the kind of thing Frank would have wanted to know. Turkey was right near Russia. It had the Black Sea on one side and the Mediterranean on the other. The country had its own language, called Turkish. He hadn’t gone far enough in the book to learn if Turkish Delight came from Turkey, though. He also read that they had bad earthquakes there. Maybe Frank would find all the deaths that came from their earthquakes interesting. That was the kind of thing he found fascinating.
On his way home, he stopped by Frank’s. Mrs. Delaney answered the door.
“Is Frank at home?”
Her face screwed up and she leaned over to put her nose about an inch from Andrews’s. She stunk of brandy. “Well, now, he’s supposed to be with you, Mr. Andrew Crawford, so I should be asking you just that thing. He told me he was going to meet you on the tarmac and you were both going to the church to see about helping that old man.”
“To the church …” Andrew tried to recall which church that might be. “Well, I must’ve got it wrong, Mrs. Delaney. I thought we were meeting here. I’d better get on to the church then, hadn’t I?” He smiled sheepishly.
“You two aren’t cooking something up together, are you?”
“No, Mrs. Delaney. We honestly want to make the man feel better. His kid was about our age and we just thought …”
“How nice. You had better get going, Andrew. It’ll be dark soon.” She shut the door before he could reply.
Why hadn’t Frank told him he was going to the church? And which church? He couldn’t recall. He walked down to the Catholic Church which was closest and looked for someone to help him. A washerwoman told him the old man was staying with a family up by Strutts School. The Methodist Chapel was where they were coordinating aid for the Turkish man. He thanked the woman and started off in the direction of Strutts. It occurred to him that his Aunt Molly would be sick with worry if he didn’t stop home first. But then he risked being told he couldn’t go at all.
It was a long walk down to Strutts. The only way to get there before dark would be to take a bus. He checked for change in his pocket and raced to the bus stop where a bus had just pulled up. It was the number 14 that stopped right across from The Methodist Chapel at the bus station. Just his luck.
Though the bus was crowded, he got a seat by the window behind the driver. He watched the people walking determinedly up and down the streets, the cars moving ever so slowly in the traffic of the A6. Another bus crawled along going in the opposite direction. They were across from each other at one point. Andrew stared into the other bus, scanning the faces. He stopped at the old man, the one he had seen by the cottage. He was sitting with his arm around another boy, smiling his dicey smile, and listening to the boy’s animated chatter. Andrew felt a flurry of butterflies in his belly before he really looked at the boy, knowing anyway that it was Frank Delaney.
Andrew spun in his seat, hands to the windows, and shouted Frank’s name. “Frank, Frank. Oh, no …” The bus driver asked Andrew to quiet down, but Andrew had already gone silent. He kept his eyes on the bus as it ambled on in the other direction. He wasn’t certain, but he thought that for a second the old man looked right at him.
He got off at King Street and walked back up toward home. When he told his mum and auntie what was going on, they would understand why he was late. He hoped so. Nothing else had gone right that day.
“It’s none of your business what that Frank Delaney does with his life, Andy. If he wants to run off with the Queen, he can, but you have your own life to live.”
His mother started on him before dinner and it was now his bedtime. His aun
tie had listened carefully and said, “What a shame.” But when his mum got home, Molly retold Andrew’s story with unusual histrionics. She used expressions like “kidnapped” and “pedophile,” working his mum into a frantic state.
“And if he was kidnapped, all the better then that you keep away from that boy. Frank finds trouble where there isn’t any, isn’t that right Molly?”
Aunt Molly was wringing her hands and nodding. “At least the authorities know who he is and where he’s staying. That old man isn’t going to get far.”
Andrew’s mum made moaning noises in her throat. “Let’s call the police. It can’t hurt. If it’s innocent, then we’ll just feel like fools, but if Frank was kidnapped, they’ll be glad of our call.”
As his mum and auntie got on the telephone, Andrew sneaked out the back door. He had to get over to Frank’s. The bus had been going in the direction of his house. It could all have been innocent. Couldn’t it?
This time, when Mrs. Delaney answered the door, a strange man barked from upstairs to get back to him. She looked disheveled in her bathrobe and her face flushed in the light of the foyer.
“What’s it now? You get it wrong again? Were you supposed to meet up at school then?”
“You mean Frank’s not here?”
She shuddered at his anxious tone. “No, Frank is not here. What is going on, Andrew Crawford?”
Andrew looked down at his feet. “I think he’s gone off with someone. I saw him on the bus with the old man whose ward was killed at the triangle last week. I thought maybe they were coming here.”
Though she looked a bit panicked, Mrs. Delaney held her robe shut at her throat and said, “Frankie does as he pleases. He’s tough enough to take care of himself. I’ll worry if he don’t come home for days. He’s like his brother that way.” The man’s voice came from upstairs again, more insistent this time. Mrs. Delaney lowered her voice to Andrew. “Don’t you worry, Andrew Crawford. Frankie’s all right. Go home.” Then she shut the door on him, again.
He ran home, hoping his mum and auntie were consumed by the police and hadn’t noticed he’d gone, but there they were, in the street, a police van pulled up to the house, two coppers talking to them.
The Mammoth Book of Vampire Stories by Women Page 36
