by Robin Jarvis
"Au revoir," he told her, taking hold of her hand and kissing it.
Jennet laughed with delight and opened the door.
Nathaniel stared past her at the yard beyond. "Hello there," he called.
The girl turned in time to see Miss Wethers give him an answering wave with her handbag. "Why, hello to you, Mr Crozier," she cried, "are you coming in for tea?"
"No, thank you," he replied, "this young lady has seen to that already. Now I must be getting back to the Gregsons', I have some important work to see to."
"But I thought you were on holiday!" exclaimed the postmistress.
"Alas no," he returned, "would that I were. Now excuse me, ladies." Flashing his beguiling smile, Nathaniel left them and rang the bell of the neighbour's house. The door opened and Mrs Gregson hurriedly let him in.
"Dear me," Miss Wethers tutted, "Joan Gregson doesn't look very well. Did you see how pale she was? The fault of that layabout husband, no doubt. Come on, Jennet, Mr Crozier may have had a cup of tea but I haven't. I'm fair gasping for one."
They went indoors and Jennet put the kettle on the stove. "He's a nice man, isn't he?" she remarked happily.
Miss Wethers took some time before answering, as the cellophane on the packet of tissues refused to open. "Mr Crozier?" she eventually piped up from the hallway. "Yes, he is."
"He told me to call him Nathaniel."
Edith forgot about the tissues and wandered into the kitchen. "Did he?" she asked, a look of concern troubling her face. "Well, perhaps it would be better if you refrained from using his Christian name, Jennet dear."
"Why?"
"Well, it just isn't proper—and you shouldn't have invited him in like that. We hardly know the man."
"But he's so... charming."
Miss Wethers let out a small gasp of surprise. That word had struck a chord in her somewhere.
"What is it?" asked Jennet puzzled.
"I don't know," Edith replied quietly, "I've just remembered something my mother once told me. I haven't thought about it for years, but..."
The girl waited to be enlightened but the postmistress went searching for the tissues, flustered and feeling naked without one tucked in her sleeve to fiddle with. When she came back in the kitchen, Jennet was still waiting.
Edith dabbed her nose in distraction and relented. "A long time ago," she began haltingly, "when my father was alive and before I was born, times were bitterly hard. The only employment was fishing and my father would be at sea for days on end. Well, at one such time my mother was alone in bed and there was a lot of noise coming from the yard below her window. You've seen where I live, it's pretty much the same as here with a yard around which all the other cottages are built."
Miss Wethers stared out of the window as she remembered the story the way her mother had told it to her. "There were two terrible men at that time in Whitby—awful troublemakers whom no captain wanted aboard. You can only guess how they made a living, but what money they did have they drank or gambled away. Unfortunately they lived in the same yard as my parents and every so often, on fine nights, would hold their revels out in the open—this was a particularly fine evening.
"A few other ruffians were also there, drinking heavily and getting soused. All evening my poor mother heard them get drunker and drunker. Imagine how afraid she must have been, a frail woman totally alone with no one to call to should she need help. And then the gambling began. A pack of cards was produced and a table hauled from somebody's kitchen. At the sound of it being dragged across the yard, my mother dared to peek through the curtain and saw them all stupid with drink. She put a chair against the door and crept back into bed, pulling the blankets up under her chin, wishing my father would return.
"The rabble below continued playing cards well into the night and their voices grew heated with vile curses. My mother never got a wink of sleep and then something happened which made her blood run cold.
"On the wall, above the bedhead, a red light began to glow. She was scared witless and couldn't move an inch. Well, this light grew larger until it reached the ceiling and then a man stepped right out of it."
Miss Wethers paused for breath, her eyes wide with some of the fear her mother had felt all those years ago. "He was strikingly handsome, I remember her telling me. Dressed beautifully—all in black, one of those old-fashioned dinner suits with the tails and a large, silk bow tie. Anyway off the bed he steps, tugging at his golden cufflinks.
"My mother could only stare at him and finally she stammers, 'Are you the Devil?' Well, this man he just gives her a little smile and says, 'Don't worry, it's not you I've come for.' Then he turns and walks towards the window where he melts into nothingness again.
"At that point my mother passed out and when she awoke the next morning discovered that a fight had broken out between those two men, one of them had pulled out a knife and stabbed the other to death." Her voice trailed off, lapsing into a soft whisper. "And that's why she always used to warn me about charming gentlemen—because the devil himself is a charming man."
Miss Wethers became silent as she recalled all the barriers the memory of this story had thrown in the way of any men friends she might have had in her life. When she drifted back to the present she found that Jennet was staring at her as though she had gone mad.
"Oh my," muttered Miss Wethers forlornly, "I don't really know what I mean by telling you all this. It was just a story my mother used to tell me that's all, probably wanted to keep me with her after father passed on and then when she was ill... and yet I can picture her even now, relating that tale, her face whiter than the pillows she was propped up on."
Jennet handed her the cup of tea she had poured out for her and Edith took it hurriedly, the crockery rattling in time with her jangled nerves.
"Well, I still think Mr Crozier's charming," Jennet told herself.
5 - A Shock For Miss Wethers
Ben lay before the coal fire, tackling a bowl of wallpaper paste and a pile of torn newspapers. He had already covered one half of a balloon with the grey porridge-like substance and was busily applying more to the other half.
Mr Roper's front room was the perfect cosy spot to spend a rainy afternoon. It was like one of those exhibits in a museum which demonstrates how people used to live. The rose-patterned wallpaper had not been changed for thirty years and neither had the lemon yellow curtains—even the light switches were the out-dated, round type. The old man's furniture also hailed from the time his wife had been alive to choose it and, over the years, the table, chairs and sideboard had steadfastly occupied their rightful places, so much so that they almost seemed part of the fabric of the house.
Jammed between the fading photographs that crowded the mantelpiece was an ugly clock that sombrely ticked the time away and gave rhythm to his days. Mr Roper possessed no television, such an intrusion into his home would have been unthinkable, instead a large wooden radio dominated one alcove and he spent many a pleasant evening listening to the classical music programmes. The overall effect lent the room a warm, brown glow and when the fire crackled in the grate it was a delicious, snug nest that any tourist could peer in at and envy.
Mr Roper lived by himself on the West Cliff. For many years, since the death of his wife, he had become increasingly isolated from other people. Without his Margaret he found the world a bleak, confusing place and the struggle of existence a meaningless chore. When Miss Boston first met him he was in a lamentable state, unshaven and dirty, not caring how he looked or lived. It was she who shook him out of his despondency and snatched him back from the brink just in time.
Now he took pride in himself again and kept the house as Margaret would have wished. He had a lot to thank Miss Boston for and never forgot that fact, supporting her in all her endeavours—however bizarre.
When she had first mentioned that she was going to foster two unknown children, he was the only one in all her circle of friends who gave her encouragement and now he was glad that he had.
&n
bsp; Ben and Mr Roper got on famously and once a week the boy would visit the old man. It was good to escape the female household of Aunt Alice and his sister once in a while. On fine days they would go fishing off one of the piers, but more frequently, when the rain kept them indoors, the old man would entertain Ben by recounting stories of his life and those of his family. All three of Mr Roper's elder brothers had been killed in the Great War and he himself had won a medal in the one that had followed. He kept this in the top drawer of the sideboard and only took it out on Remembrance Day and when Ben wanted to look at it. Although the stories he told about the war fascinated the boy, Mr Roper never went into too much detail. He had survived some ghastly experiences and Ben was wise enough to understand; he never insisted on hearing a tale if he saw that it troubled his old friend. For Mr Roper, many memories were still too terrible to recall, as if the mere utterance of them would awaken the pain and horror once more.
Ben dunked another scrap of paper into the paste and plastered it over the shiny surface of the balloon. He hated the feel of papier-mâché, it made his finger-tips pucker up and look like raisins, and if any splashed on to the backs of his hands or arms and dried, it became painfully glued to the hairs. The only good point about the messy process, as far as he could see, was that afterwards his flaking hands looked like the mummified remains of a grotesque zombie that had risen from a cold grave.
He wiggled his fingers menacingly before his eyes and gave a sepulchral moan—just as Mr Roper returned carrying a glass of lemonade.
"Ah, well done," said the old man setting the glass down by the boy, "you've nearly finished the first layer. I think two good'uns should be sufficient. He only has to last between here and the bonfire, remember." He eased himself into his favourite, battered armchair and watched as Ben slapped another layer all around.
"Did you manage to find any clothes?" the boy asked. "I've got an old jumper with holes in, but all my trousers are too good to burn."
Mr Roper nodded. "Don't you worry," he told him, "there's an old pair of trousers in the wardrobe upstairs. I'll fish them out in a minute—there's a couple of odd gloves in a drawer somewhere too, they'd look right grand on him."
"He's going to be the best Guy Fawkes in Whitby!" said Ben proudly.
"In Yorkshire!" corrected Mr Roper, putting some more coal on the fire. "Did I tell you I got another addition to my collection the other day? Hang on then, I'll just fetch it."
Ben continued spreading the papier-mâché over the balloon as the old man padded into the parlour. Since the death of his wife there had only been one love in his life and that was given wholly over to his beloved collection. Mr Roper collected cruet sets.
His parlour was a virtual shrine to salt and pepper pots of all shapes and sizes; there were china elephants, lighthouses, an entire pack of dogs, three cottages, a couple of penguins that wobbled when touched, an aeroplane, two cows, a glass camel, three people in a boat, a basket of fruit, comical bees set into a hive that contained marmalade, a Spanish flamenco dancer, spaceships, a miniature hatstand with the hats as the pots, a group of cartoon mice popping out of a Swiss cheese and many many more. Somehow he had managed to squeeze them all into his small parlour. They were displayed in glass-fronted cabinets, adorned the window-sills, huddled on shelves, jostled for position on the tops of cupboards and the aeroplane had even been suspended on a wire from the ceiling.
He loved them all and much of his ample spare time was now devoted to scouring the local antique and bric-a-brac shops for anything new to add to them. It was his little haven of joy, where his sole delight was inspecting and dusting them. In a way they were the children he had never had and he treated them with the same amount of care and attention.
"Now then," he chuckled with pride as he gently took hold of his latest charge, "let's show you to a young friend of mine." He hurried back to the front room where Ben held the now heavy balloon between his slippery fingers. "Have you finished lad?" he asked. "Well, what do you think of this little beauty? Quite appropriate, isn't it?"
Upon his tender palm were a pair of china salt-and-pepper-pots, both in the shape of fireworks. They had been delicately made to look like rockets with yellow stars and scarlet lightnings painted on them; there was even a sculpted twist of blue touch-paper that came away to enable the salt and pepper to be poured inside.
Ben stared at them admiringly. "They're beautiful," he said.
Mr Roper nodded, too honest to disagree. "I think they're my favourites at the moment," he sighed, "I've put them pride of place next to the penguins."
"I wish I could have some fireworks," muttered Ben enviously, "real ones I mean. I bet Miss Wethers won't let me have any."
The old man smiled. "She might at that," he said kindly. "Now, I must put these fellows back with the others." He returned to the parlour and called over his shoulder. "As you've finished, you'd best go and give your hands a wash and leave that rascal's head there to dry."
"When will I be able to paint a face on him?" asked Ben. "He will be ready in two days' time won't he?"
In the parlour Mr Roper laughed and came back to the front room. "Aye, he'll be ready. If you come back tomorrow he should be dry enough and you can paint the bounder." He gave a little chuckle then added, "Mind you, we shouldn't really be doing this you know, old Fawkes was a fellow Yorkshireman and a soldier to boot. It's Bob Catesby who should be stuck on the bonfire—were his idea after all."
"But you've got to have a Guy Fawkes," Ben started to protest, "if I can't have any fireworks, at least..." then he saw that the old man was not being serious.
"I'm only pulling your leg," smiled Mr Roper. "Now, where are them old trousers of mine?" He disappeared upstairs for a while and Ben could hear him pulling everything out of the wardrobe. The boy wandered into the kitchen where he washed his hands in the big square sink and thought about the face he would paint on the papier-mâché head.
"Here we are," said Mr Roper brandishing a pair of grey trousers that smelled of mothballs. 'I'll tie some string round the legs and then we can start stuffing them with that newspaper you've got left.
Ben dried his hands and waited while the string was tightly fastened. Then they took great handfuls of paper, scrunched them up, and thrust them down the trouser legs.
"Tell me about the war again," Ben asked.
"You don't want to listen to my boring stories," chortled the old man, "it's time you told me one of your own."
"I don't know any," came the reply, "please."
"You don't know any?" cried Mr Roper in disbelief. "Why don't you go telling me that in the short time you've been in Whitby Alice Boston hasn't been filling your head full of tales. I've never known that lady resist the chance of entertaining someone who's willing to listen. A wealth of stories she's got!"
Ben grinned but as he glanced out of the window he saw that it was growing dark. He groaned inwardly. Miss Wethers had told him to be back before nightfall and he dreaded to think what fuss she would make if he stayed out one minute later than he ought to.
Mr Roper knew what the boy was thinking. "All right lad," he said, "you'd best get going. I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of one of Edith Wethers' mithering lectures." He went into the hall and brought Ben's duffle coat from the peg. The boy was staring thoughtfully at the stuffed trousers and the lumpy papier-mâché head. "Don't you fret now," the old man told him, "Fawkes'll be dry by tomorrow—you come then and put as grim a face on him as possible."
Ben wriggled into his coat, fastening the toggles as he wandered from the cosy front room. "I'll bring that jumper of mine tomorrow as well," he said, "then he'll be totally finished."
Mr Roper opened the door and the chill November afternoon blew in as Ben wandered down the short path. When he reached the gate the old man called to him, "And make sure you remember a story to tell me—you'll not get out of it that easily."
Laughing, the boy waved and set off home.
Mr Roper closed the do
or and returned to the warmth of the fire. Switching on the radio, he sat in the chair once more and picked up a copy of The Dalesman to read. Presently he began to nod and slipped into a peaceful doze as the music of a bygone era swelled about him. To the sound of the big dance bands he held his Margaret in his arms once more and together they glided over the floor of his pepper-pot-scattered dreams.
Ben plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets, it was getting very cold. He quickened his pace, anxious to reach Aunt Alice's cottage in time. Gloom was gathering over Whitby, the narrow ginnel that ran down the side of Mr Roper's house was already filled with shadow. But for the crying of gulls it was eerily quiet. The boy hurried and was glad when he emerged into Bagdale, one of the main routes into the town. Past half-empty guest houses he went, only stopping to look up at the rising hill of Pannet Park where the museum was situated.
He thought about his sister and wondered what she had been doing all day—Jennet had been in a strange mood lately, always wanting to be on her own and refusing to play. When he had confided this to Miss Boston, she told him that Jennet was growing up. Ben did not like to dwell on this alarming fact too much, "growing up" meant that his sister would start having boyfriends, and he was afraid that sooner or later he would lose her. The pair of them had always been together and after the death of their parents it was she who protected and cared for him. Life without Jennet—even if she was a pain sometimes—was unthinkable. Ben pulled a glum face and hoped it would be a long time before he had to 'grow up'.
"CRET!" screeched a voice.
Ben spun round and there, to his dismay, he saw Danny Turner tearing towards him.
"I'm gonna kick you in!" the thug yelled.
Ben fled; after Jennet's attack on Danny yesterday there was no telling what he would do to get revenge. Breathlessly he ran as hard as he could, but knew there was no hope of escape, for Danny was faster than him. He cursed the awkwardness of his duffle coat—it was so heavy that it slowed him down. Soon he would feel rough fingers catch hold of the hood and he would become a punchbag for Danny's fists.
