by Safari,B. C
‘Miz Charlotte, zis has been the hottest autumn we’ve had in many years,’ chuckled Luchia. ‘We have not seen rain for ze past two weeks…ze forecast shows zat we are not due rain until next Thursday.’
Charlotte twiddled her brows dubiously. ‘I just have a feeling it’s going to rain,’ she muttered, ‘I’m never wrong.’
‘If you wish,’ said Luchia, tossing Charlotte a polka-dotted brolly.
‘I’ll bet ten pounds,’ challenged Junior, ‘it won’t rain a drop today.’
‘Deal,’ muttered Charlotte.
The walk to St. Andrew’s school took less than ten minutes. From the rising population of youngsters (dressed in tartan blazers) all converging into a narrow black gate, Charlotte could just about tell when they had arrived. The overhead banner read St. Andrew’s school for boys and girls. The Roterbee twins had forgotten what a normal school felt like. Ridgewood High was the city’s most renowned private school, reserved for the kin of London’s crème de la crème. St Andrews, however, was a non-exclusive school and it catered to pupils all ages below eighteen. Squeezing through a crowd of hyperactive eleven year olds each morning was not going to be an easy job. With the help of numerous sign boards and arrowheads, Luchia directed the twins to the reception foyer. Here, they were warmly greeted by the deputy head teacher, who was quick to congratulate Junior on his valiant saving of little Maddie Brown. Roberta Quabble was her name, on days when the headmaster was absent she would assume his duties. Meeting and greeting new students was one of these duties. Quabble would explain the school’s health and safety regulations and shortly discuss subjects, before referring new students to their head of year. Today, she conducted these duties in perfect timing. By 8.30, Junior and Charlotte had been educated on all they needed to know about St. Andrew’s college. Afterwards, Mrs. Quabble instructed one of the students on reception duty to escort Charlotte and Allan Junior to the form class 13.4. When they arrived at the classroom, the Roterbee’s were greeted by a group of impassive 17 year olds, who sat, dull and immobile, behind their desks. Junior could tell that half the class were texting away underneath the tattered desks; he could also tell that the female teacher at the front of the class did not have the slightest clue.
‘Allan and Charlotte Roterbee, I’ve been expecting you,’ cawed the mousy woman at the front of the class, ‘come on in, and don’t be shy.’
‘I’m Mrs. Lee,’ she said, in a feathery voice that matched her pixie features. ‘Let’s give a warm welcome to the newest members of our form.’
Mrs. Lee began to clap and the class followed languorously.
‘Before you take your seats, introduce yourselves, tell us something about yourselves.’
‘Err, I’m Charlotte,’ Charlotte began, ‘but you can call me Charley, I prefer Charley and I guess I like...’
The word ‘chemistry’ appeared in Charlotte’s head, but she was certain it’d be social suicide if she professed her love for chemistry on the first day.
‘I like swimming,’ she mumbled.
The class was as indifferent as a group of people could be, so as soon as Charlotte felt herself getting red, she grabbed the first free seat at the front of the classroom.
‘And you, Mr. Roterbee?’
‘I’m Allan Junior,’ mumbled Junior, ‘and I-’
‘You’re the boy from the paper this morning!’ exclaimed Lena Gwen, from the back of the classroom.
‘Um yeah,’ gulped Junior, cursing the Shorebridge telegraph underneath his breath. The young girl’s verbal outpour had now captured the attention of the entire class.
‘What do you know…we have a hero in our midst,’ cooed Mrs. Lee.
Unfortunately for Junior, the last available seat was beside the girl who had, so callously, revealed his heroic episode to the class.
‘I’m Lena Gwen,’ she beamed, patting the seat beside her. ‘Now tell me again about how you bolted into the train tracks, not a care in the world but saving that little girl,’ Lena demanded.
Overwhelmed by the slightly loony Lena, Junior began to recount a forged version of the story (which did not involve freezing time). An eager group of pupils at the back of the class listened in amazement and Lena, especially, cooed and awed as Junior narrated the events of his first day in Shorebridge. Meanwhile, Charlotte made acquaintances with a group of three identically-dressed girls at the front of the class. The leader of the clique, Beau Bennet, commented on how pretty she thought Charlotte’s hair was. Beau’s minions, Delilah and Grace, robotically imitated their leader, paying Charlotte generous complements.
‘You’re so pretty,’ fawned Grace, ‘you look so exotic.’
‘Have you got anything in you?’ asked Delilah, then answering her own question replied, ‘my grandma on my mother’s side was Egyptian and my father is German…I’m basically a mix of everything.’
Charlotte was astounded at the silliness of these girls and wondered if they were actually as daft as they appeared. ‘My dad is…well he was of Italian decent,’ she replied.
‘Cool,’ nodded Beau, ‘that must be why your skin is so soft and tan.’
Flattery rarely fooled Charlotte, it didn’t take long for her to note the frequency with which Beau glanced to the back of the class. And, it didn’t take a genius to decipher that Beau was far more interested in the handsome young man at the back of the class, than the time on the clock above his head. Charlotte gave Beau the benefit of the doubt, but it wasn’t until second period, in English, that the assertive blonde girl came clean with her agenda.
‘Hey Charlotte, I was wondering if your brother is seeing anyone...anyone like a girlfriend?’
‘Nope he’s single, Beau.’
Beau seemed pleased with Charlotte’s response; in less than no time a mischievous crescent-shaped smile worked across her face.
‘Charley, we are friends, right?’ said the rosy-cheeked blonde, ‘and friends do help each other out.’
‘Sure,’ Charlotte replied, her voice laced with heavy sarcasm.
‘It’s only fitting that your brother, being who he is, date the most popular girl in school.’
Playing along, Charlotte gagged, ‘and who would that be?’
‘Me!’ cried Beau, batting her spindly lashes.
If the word ‘conceited’ ever materialised, Charlotte was certain that it would look something like Beau Bennett. Her glossy blonde hair and rosy cheeks were a generous shell, beneath which lay something far less appealing. For the first two periods of the day, all Beau Bennett had been able to chatter over was Mona William’s hideous new hair style and, of course, Berty Prescott’s untrendy school shoes. Enough was enough.
‘My-brother-won’t-date-you. Ever.’ Charlotte mouthed the words generously, accentuating every vowel, loud enough for surrounding students to hear.
‘What do you mean?’ Beau squeaked, her cheeks reddening to an unsightly shade.
‘For the record, my brother doesn’t date highly conceited plastics,’ shot Charlotte.
Beau Bennet’s eyes widened in their sockets; no one ever dared speak to her in such a manner. Her jaw had dropped a good few centimetres before Delilah smacked her hand over Beau’s mouth, reminding her to close it. In this time, Charlotte Roterbee had already gotten up, turned on her heels, and marched to a seat at the other side of the room. She could not stand to be in the presence of those girls another moment. The crime she had just committed was somewhere in the top five worst felonies of high school. And the punishment? Social suicide. Oddly, Charlotte could not give a care. Cliques, squads and groups…it was all irrelevant to her now. If it meant having to endure another hour in the company of those whom she had aptly nicknamed ‘plastics’, Charlotte would rather be cliqueless.
News of Charlotte’s tough words against Beau Bennet spread through the school faster than it took to send one text message, as she could barely walk through the corridor without someone either scowling or smiling at her. Some people we
re divided on whether Charlotte Roterbee should’ve insulted Beau Bennett so directly, but for the larger part, people were grateful that the bully had finally met her match. When lunchtime arrived and Junior was nowhere to be seen, Charlotte hoped that one of her new found supporters would invite her to sit next to them, but everyone was too busy chattering in their cliques. Charlotte scanned the noisy dining hall in one slow twist of her neck. She located an empty bench pew and started towards it quickly. Determined to grab her seat, Charlotte took little notice of the tall brown skinned girl, who was also tracking the seat. Heads-butting, they collided in the air, which sent the food flying in every direction from both dinner trays. The two girls rubbed their aching heads.
‘I’m so sorry,’ mumbled Charlotte.
‘No, I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen you coming,’ said the girl.
They stared at the assortment of food that was now one hideous mound over the floor, and both started laughing in sync.
‘I’m so bleedin’ clumsy,’ the young woman chuckled. She and Charlotte began scraping the remains of their lunch from the floor. ‘Why haven’t I seen you before?’
‘That’s because I’m new,’ replied Charlotte, ‘my name’s Charley.’
‘Aha …so you’re the new girl who put Beau Bennet in her place.’
Charlotte rolled her eyes, silently answering the rhetorical question.
‘It’s good to meet you. I’m Sasha Fling.’
Charlotte studied Sasha’s face, and instantly deduced that she was very beautiful. Sasha’s caramel coloured skin and sharp hazel eyes gave her a delicate golden glow. She had full lips and eyebrows, defined cheeks and tight, black tresses of hair.
‘Wow, news really travels fast around here, doesn’t it?’ said Charlotte quietly, still absorbing Sasha’s striking features.
‘Oh, you shouldn’t worry about that. Tomorrow they’d have found something more flavoursome to gossip about.’
Charlotte chuckled, ‘I hope so.’
Sasha had a genuine amiability which Charlotte rarely sensed from anyone, especially not on first meeting. Talking was seamless with Sasha, not nearly as superficial as it had been with Delilah, Grace and Beau. When lunch came to a close, Charlotte and Sasha were pleased to discover that they both had a History lesson with Mr. McGlean for last period. They arranged to walk to class together. Charlotte managed to dodge Beau Bennet and her minions at afternoon form time. She found a seat beside Junior, who had been oddly vacant all day.
‘Where have you been?’ said Charlotte, ‘I’m pretty sure we have the same lessons…more or less.’
‘I explained to Mrs Quabble that I don’t have to do lessons. My A-level grades from Ridgewood are already guaranteed,’ scowled Junior.
‘That’s totally unfair!’ exclaimed Charlotte, ‘lessons are compulsory, whether you’ve got your grades or not!’
‘Well, that’s what I’ve just found out,’ huffed Junior, ‘apparently, I’ve got a one-hour detention after school for bunking.’
‘Now that’s fair,’ sneered Charlotte, ‘I guess your charming hero effect is wearing off.’
‘And what about you?’ shot Junior, ‘I heard you dissed the most popular girl in school to her face.’
‘You shouldn’t pay so much attention to gossip,’ snapped Charlotte, ‘and for the record…I did.’
‘Badass,’ smirked Junior.
Charlotte smiled to herself, secretly proud. When form was dismissed, Charlotte hurried to meet her new acquaintance who, whilst they were walking to class, informed her that Mr. McGlean’s History lesson might just be the most tedious class she would ever have to endure. Sasha was right. McGlean was a tough stutterer; it took him nearly five minutes to get through a single sentence, so it seemed that the lesson would never end. When the dusty classroom clock struck 3.10, marking the end of the school day, most students charged to the door without any sympathy for the old man who was struggling to shout, ‘Claa-a-a-sss dissss-missed!’
Junior, however, trudged lazily behind all the other excited school kids. He envied them now, they were free as birds, whilst he had nothing to look forward to but a one-hour detention with Mrs. Lee.
‘Not a good start, hero-boy,’ said Mrs Lee, raising her brows as Junior handed her the pink detention slip, ‘truanting on your first day ... tut tut.’
‘I wasn’t truanting,’ muttered Junior, before remembering that he’d probably not have enough energy to explain why he didn’t need to go to lessons. That, would involve discussing his father’s death. ‘Fine, I was truanting,’ he agreed on second thoughts.
‘Well this is the best day for your detention,’ grinned Mrs Lee, placing a dishevelled mesh of documents on Junior’s desk, ‘I’ve been looking for someone to help me sort through these newspaper cuttings.’
For goodness sakes. Junior had planned to sleep through the entire length of detention - a plan which, after examining the size of the pile before him, was certainly not a possibility.
‘We’re holding a ‘history of Shorebridge’ event at the school,’ said Mrs Lee, ‘I need you to sort through these papers. Separate the general newspaper cuttings from everything that has anything to do with St. Andrew’s, could you?’
‘Well, I technically don’t have a choice,’ hissed Junior.
Mrs. Lee shot him a menacing glare and after that Junior did not speak aloud again. Sorting through the pile of scraps was a tedious job which no-one with a short attention span, like Junior, should ever endeavour. Very soon, cuttings with headlines that read ‘SHOREBRIDGE TOWN HALL RESTORED’ and ‘WOMAN OPENS LIBRARY IN SHORBRIDGE’ became one big jumble in Junior’s head. Every now and then, Mrs. Lee would hover over Junior’s shoulders, ensuring that he was completing the task correctly. The frustrated young man would mumble a curse word under his breath each time she came. He was almost halfway through the pile when the face of a man, whom he knew too well, appeared to him again. ‘HOUSE FIRE KILLS COUPLE AT THE WILLOW LODGE’. Junior was certain he had seen his father’s face in the newspaper cutting. Of course, this would’ve been impossible, as the man in the article was named Arthur Mannox, and his wife, named Annie. The Mannox’s had died in fire at the Willow Lodge. In many ways, the resemblance between Arthur Mannox and Allan Roterbee was remarkable. Mannox could’ve easily been mistaken for Mr. Allan Roterbee, and at the very least, a doppelganger version. He did not look a day younger or older than Allan Roterbee had been on the eve of his death, which tempted Junior to search for the publication date of the article ‘4th November 1947’. Junior sat stiff in his seat, stunned. His flabbergasted expression enticed Mrs. Lee to pry into what had caused him such shock.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ coughed Junior, folding the flimsy paper into his blazer, ‘I just remembered…I forgot to turn the iron off when I left the lodge this morning.’
‘Silly boy,’ chortled Mrs. Lee.
The article detailed the death of Arthur and Annie Mannox. It would’ve been impossible for Allan Roterbee, who was born in 69, to have been alive in 1947. Junior would’ve been happy to conclude that Arthur Mannox was any old man who happened to live in Shorebridge many years ago. However, the fact that Arthur and his wife died in a fire at the Willow Lodge could not have been mere coincidence. What was the connection between Allan Roterbee and Arthur Mannox? Mannox was old enough to be Allan Roterbee’s father, and their resemblance was truly astonishing. However, Allan always told the twins that his father was an Italian man who died fighting in the war…certainly not from a house fire. As far as Junior knew, his father had no reason to lie about such a matter. Every new question could only be answered with another new question. Soon, Junior amassed a confusing trail of queries. Was Allan Roterbee tied with Shorebridge in more ways than through Dr. Willow? Who exactly was this other man, Arthur Mannox? Why would his father never mention Arthur Mannox if they were, in fact, related?
‘You look pale Mr. Roterbee!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lee, ‘like you’ve seen a ghost!’
Glancing at Junior’s unusually chalky cheeks, she cried, ‘that’ll be enough for today, you’re free to go!’
Junior nodded vacantly and started towards the door. His thoughts were running rampant again. The most likely explanation was that there was no link between Allan Roterbee and Arthur Mannox. However, Junior could not shake off the inkling that there was some deeper connection between the two men. For weeks he had questioned why Allan, in the event of death, would send his children to a secluded town in the North of England. Was there something that Allan wanted them to learn? A secret that Mr. Roterbee wished to finally uncover? Junior reflected on the long weeks his father often spent away from home. What exactly was Allan Roterbee doing? Somehow, the uncanny resemblance between Arthur Mannox and Allan Roterbee was too suspicious to disregard as measly chance. He would find a link between the two men if it meant pulling it from thin air. The walk back to the cottage was one of Junior’s strangest walks. He was wholly convinced that there was something more about his father’s history, on which he had been poorly informed. He questioned whether anything Allan had ever told him was the truth.
‘Listen to yourself, you sound loony,’ Junior spoke aloud. Hearing the sound of his own voice made Junior suddenly aware of his surroundings; he was dripping wet. Like Charlotte had predicted earlier that morning, it was raining.
Chapter six
‘One Bold Disappearance’
The next days had a similar pattern to the first. The Roterbee twins would be awoken by a sounding alarm at precisely 7 am, get dressed and have breakfast, all before departing the Willow Lodge at 8. Luchia escorted them to school for the first few days but was forced to stop (after Charlotte explained how uncool it was for a 17-year-old to be walked to college). Nevertheless, Luchia watched over the Roterbee’s each day, as they powered over the tapered bridge. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s predictions about the weather, and seemingly everything else, had become spookily accurate. In just the past three days alone, Junior had staked, and lost, thirty pounds to Charlotte; now, he had given up making bets altogether. Sasha was also astonished by Charlotte’s precise forecasts after she’d predicted their history homework two days in advance. Apparently, Sasha’s Haitian grandmother would’ve called Charlotte’s ability ‘the gift of foresight’…either that or she was a psychic. Charlotte naturally found it odd that Junior and Sasha were surprised by her guesses, as to her, they appeared perfectly sound and logical. Meanwhile, Junior struggled through troubled, long days and sleepless nights concerning his absurd discovery. He considered sharing the secret with his sister but found himself more discouraged the more he dwelled on it. Charlotte would think that he was paranoid; she would brand his theory an illusionary link. He couldn’t let that happen. If only he could find evidence stronger than a remarkable resemblance to prove that Allan Roterbee was somehow linked to Arthur Mannox. Then, and only then, would Charlotte be forced to believe him. Until that time, the newspaper cutting would be tucked away at the bottom of Junior’s blazer pocket. He contemplated asking Dr. Willow about the paper, but on the few occasions on which Dr. Willow was at the lodge, he was brash and impatient towards everyone, Luchia especially. The Roterbee’s each observed the impolite manner with which Dr. Willow often ordered Luchia around. Before they arrived, she would’ve been stuck with the insolent doctor, day in day out, for years. One of these days, Junior was going to stand up to Dr. Willow and demand he treat Luchia with an ounce of respect. This objective became even more important than getting the doctor to explain the newspaper cutting.
