by Rhys Jones
“Uh, just want to compare my English essay with Ellie and Ruff,” Oz explained, with his mouth half full of cereal.
“Schoolwork? Be still my beating heart.” She made a great show of collapsing into a chair. Ruff and Ellie giggled. Oz just shook his head sadly.
Making his way up the turnpike stone staircase, Oz avoided the curved iron handrail and let his fingers trace the uneven plasterwork of the walls. Beneath his feet, the steps were worn down by centuries of use so that they dipped in the middle. This was what he so loved about Penwurt; all of it was old, but parts of it were much, much older than others. The spiral stairs continued past the second floor and opened out into the library itself. As they entered, Oz caught his breath.
It was a cold, clear morning and rays of November sunshine slanted through the glass turret at the top of the library’s vaulted ceiling, turning the oak panelling into molten gold. Wheels of strange symbols were carved into two of the walls. In one corner stood a four-foot-high globe atlas in a walnut stand with an antique world map in faded colours. Oz especially liked the inked sailing ship in the Pacific, which seemed to glide majestically under its own power whenever he spun the orb from west to east.
As always, the room smelled of leather and wood and old books, and Oz drank it in. This was where Oz’s dad had been happiest, where Oz still felt closest to him. The slanting rays of morning light revealed a million dancing dust motes. Oz always thought they looked just like tiny nuggets of knowledge that ebbed and flowed in and out of the books and walls, microscopic secrets that could be breathed in and absorbed. While he and Ellie searched for information, Ruff seemed more interested in the wooden panelling.
“These are so buzzard amazing,” he said.
“So you keep telling us,” Ellie said, reaching up for a battered-looking anthology of The Seabourne Chronicle.
“Look at all these symbols.” Ruff let his fingers trace the carvings that covered two panelled walls. “Think it’s a code?”
“I think you’re spending too much time on Labyrinth Quest on the Xbox,” Oz muttered.
Ruff looked up from his examination of the panelling. “Hey, I’m only on level four. There’re six more to complete.” He turned back to inspect the panels, muttering distractedly. “Think there’s any hidden treasure in this old place, Oz? And if we found any, would you split it with us? Maybe I wouldn’t have to help my dad paint freezing chalets if we found a hidden lost masterpiece or a medieval chalice or something. You know, I bet there are secret passages behind these walls.”
“Well, I wish you’d hurry up and find them so you could get lost in one. We’re supposed to be doing research here,” Ellie said irritably.
“There’s no need to get your pants in a tangle.”
Ellie looked up. “So why aren’t you helping?”
“I am. Look, I found A Short History of Seabourne’s Ancient Houses after five minutes.” Ruff picked up a mouldylooking, leather-bound book from the desk.
Oz ignored their bickering and busied himself by thumbing through a battered photograph album of the orphanage, full of faded prints of strangely dressed children and stern-looking women in long crinoline dresses. Some of the photos had fallen out of their mountings and others had become so old they’d snapped in half. But some were intact and Oz found one from 1892 that had names printed in the legend at the bottom. He recognised one of the names underneath a happy, gap-toothed boy sitting cross-legged on the floor, smiling out from a group photo of thirty children. He had his arm around the neck of the startled boy next to him and Oz wasn’t quite sure if this was through affection or if it was a malicious headlock. The name in copperplate read “Daniel Morsman.”
“That’s just one book, Ruff,” Oz said absently as he concentrated on trying to decipher some of the other faded names.
“Yeah, but it’s got all the stuff about Bunthorpe in it. Listen.” He thumbed it open to a marked page and read:
On that Saturday evening, a rehearsal of bell ringing was taking place in the barn at Bunthorpe owned by one Redmayne, a horse trader. ‘Twas said that during a ferocious gust of wind, the doors to the barn flew open and there was a great clap of thunder, tho the sky remained clear and the weather warm. One bell ringer, a shopkeeper of sound mind, witnessed the sudden appearance of an obsidian pebble on the floor of the barn bathed in a glow of bright light. All eight bell ringers then did swear to seeing an apparition appear glowing and a’shimmering. Some swore to hearing music of a strange melody and others to words from the mouth of the apparition that had become the shape of a girl. Naturally, the bell ringers all took fright and fled. Later that night at around midnight, a fierce fire consumed the building. A farmhand returning from a tavern persuaded Redmayne that ne’er-do-wells were seen setting the barn alight, but no one yet has been brought to account.
“You sound like a Cornish farmer,” Oz said, laughing at Ruff’s accent.
“It’s the language,” Ruff explained, grinning. “Sort of makes you speak like that if you read it out loud.”
“Let’s have a look,” Ellie said with an irritated shake of her head. She put down the old Bible she’d found before reaching for Ruff’s book and squinting at the page. “That passage is from something called the Weekly Journal and the date is 1761.”
“What do you think an obsidian pebble is?” Ruff asked.
“Dunno,” Oz said.
Ruff shrugged “Still, at least we know the Bunthorpe ghost was a girl, now.”
“But there’s no clue about who she was,” Ellie murmured after reading on for a couple of minutes.
“And Caleb said that after the fire, some squire bloke buys the land and builds this house on it,” Oz said, his eyes narrowing. “What we really need to find out about now is whether this squire saw the ghost, or if anyone else later on did, when it was an orphanage.”
“What time is it?” Ellie asked, suddenly turning to Ruff.
“Almost ten,” Ruff said.
“What time’s your dad picking us up, eleven?”
Ruff nodded. “Kick-off’s at half past.”
Ellie made a face. “We really ought to get warmed up. We’re playing the Skullers today and I don’t want to be stiff getting out on that field.”
The Skullers, Oz knew, were at top of the table in Ellie and Ruff’s league and he could sense Ellie’s nervousness at the thought of the coming game. Ruff, on the other hand, seemed none too bothered.
“So let’s go over to the park,” Oz said.
“But what about the ghost?” Ruff asked
“Didn’t think we’d honestly crack that in half an hour, did you?” Oz said. “No, we need to get organised. Make a plan. Research it properly.”
“Cool,” Ellie said, nodding.
“Buzzard,” Ruff said, grinning.
Oz grinned, too. Though Ellie and Ruff weren’t exactly holding hands and singing “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story, the success of their Halloween night and the mystery of the footsteps had at least allowed them to put their differences aside for a while.
Ellie was making for the stairs, but then turned back and retraced her steps. “Do you think your mum would mind if I borrowed some of these books?” she asked, holding up the mouldy specimen in which Ruff had found the Bunthorpe report.
“Oh, yeah, she reads that every night in bed,” Oz said with a straight face.
Luckily, Ellie held back from throwing it because it was heavy and would have undoubtedly hurt a lot if it had connected with his head.
In the park, they put down their backpacks as goals and, while Ellie and Ruff alternated between defence and attack, Oz played in goal. The ground was soft and Oz revelled in diving onto the grass whenever one of the other two sent a shot his way. After one particularly spectacular save, an out of breath Ellie stood in front of him and put both hands on her hips.
“Why don’t you come and play with us, Oz?”
“Yeah,” Ruff added, “you’re way better than our pants goalie.”
Oz threw the ball back out to them and shook his head. “Can’t. Have to finish my homework. Besides, Mum wants me to go shopping.”
“What about next Sunday?” Ruff persisted.
“Busy. The Fanshaws are having a party.”
“The week after, then?”
“No thanks,” Oz said resolutely.
“But why? You’re an amazing goalie.”
“Just don’t fancy it. Besides, those colours don’t suit me.”
“O-oz,” protested Ellie.
But they’d been here before. Many times, in fact. Oz had his reasons, but they weren’t for sharing, even with his two best mates. Luckily for him, a white van pulled up in the car park at that moment.
“Here’s your dad,” Oz announced to Ruff, glad of the chance to deflect the conversation.
The other two grabbed their stuff and headed for the van.
“So, what are you doing the rest of the day, since you’re too busy to play with us?” Ellie asked, still, sounding miffed by Oz’s rejection of their offer.
“Maths, English essay, shopping. Buzzard, as someone might say.”
“English doesn’t have to be in until Wednesday,” Ruff said. “I haven’t even started it yet.”
“Some of us managed to get it all done despite being in Centre Parks with a million cousins wanting to play Scrabble or go swimming or biking every single minute of the day,” Ellie said, turning haughtily away with her nose in the air.
“Yeah, well, not everyone’s perfect,” Ruff said.
“So I’ve noticed.” Ellie gave him a hundred-watt smile and ducked just in time to avoid the thrown football. They clambered into the van and Oz watched them leave.
“Best of luck,” he shouted after them. “And watch out for the Skullers’ dirty tricks.”
“We will,” Ruff yelled back, “don’t you worry.”
“See you tomorrow, Oz,” yelled Ellie.
Oz walked back through the quiet streets with that word “tomorrow” ringing in his ears. Tomorrow meant school. Yes, he’d see Ellie and Ruff all day, but Seabourne County was pretty big and full of all kinds of people, not all of whom Oz enjoyed the company of. And then, of course, there was homework. Oz groaned inwardly. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
He exited the park and crossed a few roads and then turned a corner into Magnus Street. Fifteen yards along the pavement he passed a parked people carrier with all its windows rolled down. The four occupants, a man, a woman and two small children, had their heads poking out of the windows and were staring up at the houses, nostrils flaring.
“Say, excuse me?” said the driver as Oz walked by. “Do you live around here?”
Oz turned. “Yes, I do.”
The driver wore a baseball cap and a golf shirt stretched across a chest that was very broad, but not as broad as the belly beneath it. Written on the cap was the word “Broncos.”
“This is a mighty fine street, with its architecture and gardens and all. And old, I guess?”
Oz nodded. “Some of the houses are sixteenth century.”
“Sixteenth century?” He turned to the woman in the passenger seat. “You hear that, Darlene? Sixteenth century. Holy moly.”
Oz wasn’t surprised to see them there. After all, Magnus Street was on the visitor’s map under “Historic Seabourne; a grand street where years ago the Great and the Good built large impressive houses so that everyone would know how important they were.”
The man in the baseball cap regarded Oz. “Guess it’s seen better days, but what is it we can smell?”
“Smell?” Oz said, suppressing a smile.
“Yeah. We’ve driven all over Scotland and the North of England—”
“And Wales, Daddy,” said a small voice from the back. “Remember, all those funny names?”
“Wales, too, but we’ve never come across anything like this.” The man frowned and shook his head. “We’ve been up and down this street half a dozen times and we still can’t figure it out. Fact is, it doesn’t really smell of anything I can put my finger on. But it’s so darned zingy, makes you just want to suck it all in and then do it over again.”
“What might happen.” Oz nodded and smiled. “That’s what you can smell. Whole street’s full of it.”
He turned to walk away and left them staring after him. There was no point continuing the conversation because he’d already given them the only answer he knew. There were nicer, more colourful and brighter streets by the dozen in Seabourne, of that there was no doubt. And to the casual observer the houses on both sides did look a little run down and in need of a lick of paint.
Yet there was something about Magnus Street—some hard to define quality that no one could quite explain. It was as if the atmosphere was thick with the suggestion of things yet to be and the tantalising promise that they were just around the corner. Oz was forever seeing gawping tourists ambling about, getting frozen noses on freezing February days and drenched in December downpours. But if you really pinned them down as to why they lingered, all you ever got was a faraway look in their eyes and a shake of the head and perhaps a mumbled, “…didn’t want to miss anything.”
Oz started whistling as he crossed the road—not because he liked the tune particularly—it was just that turning into Magnus Street tended to make you do things like that. He strolled past number 21, which was a posh architect’s office, admiring the bright blue walls and gleaming silver nameplates as he went. He lingered a bit at number 11, which was a bed and breakfast called “Sleep Easy,” because it had a friendly dog that sometimes licked his fingers through the gate.
He usually returned to the even side of the street just before number 3, but today he continued past it so that he could inspect their decorations. Wispy spider’s webs had been sprayed all over the front gate and on the path to the front door. Half a dozen pumpkins of various sizes sat, plump and orange, between some luridly coloured pottery toads on the porch. Above them, a joke bat with ridiculously long fangs dangled from the roof, while two large stuffed ravens stood guard on the steps over a slumped skeleton, its head resting on a gravestone with R.I.P. written shakily upon it. Oz smiled. The Fanshaw twins who lived at number 3 certainly knew how to put on a show.
Oz crossed the street, pulled open the gate and was on the point of pushing it shut when he hesitated and walked back out to look at the gatepost. He knelt and pulled aside a wisteria branch that had grown to almost cover the post completely. Beneath was an old plaque, once shiny but now green and weathered. Oz ran his fingers over the faded sign and allowed himself a smile as he read—“Colonel Thompson’s Home for Destitute Children.” He wondered if any orphans had ever heard footsteps at midnight in the creaky old rooms.
* * *
After lunch, Oz went shopping with his mother for school shoes and jeans. He had tried desperately to explain that there was nothing at all wrong with his current shoes, but when his mother went to fetch them and put three fingers through the gap between the sole and the upper, he shut up. And anyway, he really did need some new jeans.
He didn’t mind shopping, as long as it was for no longer than about an hour. After that, something started to happen to his brain. He found himself just saying “yes” to whatever the sales assistant suggested so as to get out of the shop as quickly as he could, and usually ended up hating whatever it was he’d bought as soon as he got home. How some people could actually enjoy the process, he had no idea.
“Just like your father,” was all Mrs. Chambers ever said when Oz drifted into bored and miserable mode.
As it was, they’d got jeans within twenty minutes and the shoes had taken only another half hour, so Oz was about at his limit by the time they got to the supermarket. Still, there he could at least mess about by riding the shopping trolley and browsing the latest DVDs. But it wasn’t their usual supermarket and, because it was near the middle of the town, the shop had decided to stop anyone from taking a trolley off the premises by installing special wheels that loc
ked as soon as they crossed a magical yellow line painted on the floor. So, grumpy and laden with shopping bags, Oz trudged after his mother towards the multi-storey car park. All he wanted to do was go home and have some tea, but Mrs. Chambers wasn’t quite finished yet.
“Hang on just a sec, Oz,” she said as they passed another row of shops.
Oz groaned. The grocery bags were cutting into his fingers like cheese wires.
“What do you think of this one?” Mrs. Chambers asked.
Grudgingly, Oz walked over to the shop window. To his surprise, all he could see were small photographs of houses. He followed his mother’s pointing finger.
“Very nice,” Oz said. “If you like that sort of thing.”
“Exactly. Imagine just having to look after three rooms downstairs and three up,” Mrs. Chambers said with what Oz suddenly twigged was an alarming degree of longing. He glanced up at the name above the window.
Gerber and Callow, Estate Agents.
“You’re not serious, are you?”
“Why not?” Mrs. Chambers said, eyes bright with excitement.
“But…Penwurt’s our house and it’s brilliant. It’s—”
“Huge and expensive to run,” interrupted Mrs. Chambers. “It needs a new roof, the council tax is enough to turn your hair white, and it needs decorating so badly, it’s only at Halloween that it looks half-presentable.”
“Yeah, but…I mean, it was given to Dad.”
Oz saw his mother’s shoulder’s slump. “I know, Oz,” she said awkwardly. “It’s just that—”
She was cut off by a man’s theatrically cheerful voice behind them.
“And what do we have here? Is it a pair of Chamber pots I see?”
Oz and Mrs. Chambers turned as one. The voice belonged to a dapper-looking man with what looked like a stiff crow on his head, but which Oz knew was his carefully coiffured hair. Lorenzo Heeps’ eyebrows were as dark as the crow hair, but his moustache and beard were grey-flecked. He wore these in what his mother had described to Oz as French beard. Oz wondered if he was trying to look a bit like Johnny Depp. If he was, then he needed to buy a new mirror. Mr. Heeps was also wearing a suit and tie under a fawn trench coat.
