Dawn Undercover

by Anna Dale

  Just as she was about to climb the stairs to her bedroom, Dawn heard a muffled chinking noise. She took a few paces backwards and rested her tray on a little oval table beneath some coat-hooks in the hallway. Then she opened a door to her left and padded down a flight of stone steps, pausing when she reached halfway.

  The cellar was a vast, cool room with naked brick walls and several threadbare carpets covering its concrete floor – and it was filled to capacity with clocks. Everywhere that Dawn’s gaze fell, there were shelves full of mantel clocks, walls covered with cuckoo clocks, tabletops loaded with carriage clocks, rows of stately grandfather clocks and display cases bulging with pocket watches. Dawn’s father, Jefferson Buckle, was seated at a workbench tapping at a metal disc with a small hammer. It was this chinking sound that she had heard from the hall.

  ‘I’m home, Dad!’ called Dawn, but he did not seem to hear her. She supposed that her voice must have been drowned out by the clamorous ticking of his enormous clock collection. She hurried down the final few steps and made her way across the cellar floor, passing a kitchen dresser with its open drawers stuffed with assorted clock parts. She kept her distance from a wall of cuckoo clocks because their doors were likely to burst open at any moment, it being almost five o’clock.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Dawn, stopping beside his workbench. ‘I didn’t think you’d be home yet. I thought you were checking out antique shops today.’

  ‘What?’ said Jefferson. He looked up at the wrong moment and bashed his thumb with the hammer by mistake. ‘Ow. Dang it. Oh, it’s you, Dawn. Did you want something?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’m quite busy,’ said her father, running his grimy hands through his ash-blond hair until it was slick and greasy-looking. ‘Sorry, what was it you wanted?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dawn. ‘Is that a new one?’ She pointed to a little carriage clock on his workbench.

  ‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’ Dawn’s father lifted up the clock and stroked its rosewood case lovingly. ‘What a stunner, eh? Picked her up from a funny little junk shop over in Bow. Only cost me fifty quid. She’s got a twin chain fusée movement. Haven’t got her to work yet – but I’ll soon find out what makes her tick.’ He laughed heartily at his own joke. Dawn laughed too – even though she had heard the joke umpteen times before.

  A tortoiseshell clock on a nearby table began to make an ominous whirring sound. Dawn placed her hands over her ears. The clocks were about to strike the hour.

  Through her slightly splayed fingers, Dawn heard a new noise. It was a heavy crash and it came from upstairs. After a moment’s hesitation, she said, ‘See you later, Dad,’ and lolloped up the cellar steps as fast as she could manage. As she reached the top step, she heard a loud boom as the first grandfather clock began to strike.

  Before the other clocks could follow suit, Dawn’s mother, Beverley, yanked Dawn into the hallway with one hand and slammed the door of the cellar with the other.

  ‘THAT infernal hullabaloo is the LAST thing I want to hear when I walk in the front door, especially after the HELLISH day at work that I’VE just had.’ She let out a strangled yell, before smiling apologetically at Dawn. ‘Nice day at school, dear?’

  Dawn opened her mouth to reply but her mother did not give her time to answer. ‘NEVER grow up, Dawn. Do you hear me? Going to school is paradise – PARADISE – compared with the awful DRUDGERY of paid employment.’ Beverley sighed and stared at herself critically in the hall mirror. ‘I look a disaster,’ she said, repositioning a long auburn curl. ‘I spent a fortune on this perm and my hair is just as shaggy and lifeless as it was before.’ Dawn’s mother blinked back tears. ‘And my face! It looks like a deflated balloon. At this rate, I’ll need a facelift before I’m forty.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Dawn. ‘That’s rubbish, that is. A good night’s sleep would get rid of those bags under your eyes, and with a bit of make-up, you’d look just as glamorous as those newsreaders on the telly.’

  ‘Oh, darling, how sweet of you!’

  ‘I’m only saying what’s true –’

  ‘You’ve made Mummy a lovely tea. I suppose I can sneak a few bites while I catch up with some paperwork. How thoughtful. Thank you, darling.’

  Dawn stood, aghast, as her mother balanced the tray of scrambled eggs and chocolate blancmange on one hand and disappeared into her study.

  ‘Oh,’ said Dawn. ‘Er … you’re welcome.’

  Dawn used her patchwork quilt as a tablecloth. She draped it over an old tea chest which contained her modest collection of toys, and set her tray on top of it. Then she pulled up a big furry cushion and seized a knife and fork. The omelette she had made had a perfect golden underside and was crammed with potato wedges, diced peppers and a finely chopped onion. It tasted delicious and had only taken twenty minutes to make.

  ‘Yum. Much nicer than scrambled eggs,’ said Dawn with her mouth full.

  Once she had finished her meal (there was only a scraping of blancmange left so she had opened a tin of rice pudding instead), Dawn unlaced her plimsolls and sat on her small, creaky bed. Usually after school, she read a book or studied for a spelling test or dreamed about having a long, elegant name like Cassandra or Jocasta or Persephone – but on this particular day, she did none of these things. Instead, she wondered who had stared at her that morning while she was crossing the road, and more importantly, why.

  Dawn was accustomed to being ignored by strangers. People she knew barely spoke to her and even her own parents did not pay her much attention. Her grandfather was the person with whom she had the closest relationship. They had had a long, involved conversation once (during a power cut) and had developed quite a bond. However, in recent weeks, owing to his new obsession with quiz programmes, Dawn’s grandfather tended to speak to her only when he wanted to impart a bizarre nugget of knowledge.

  Dawn clasped her knees and stared at the forget-me-not motifs on her faded wallpaper. She was deep in thought. For perhaps the first time in her life, she had attracted the interest of a perfect stranger, and she found this amazing event most intriguing. It was almost as wondrous as her portent.

  Something seemed to click into place in Dawn’s brain and she breathed in sharply. Could the two incidents possibly be connected?

  The gentle growl of a car engine reached Dawn’s ears through an open window in her bedroom. She slid off the bed, idly pulled up her mushroom-coloured knee socks, leaned against the windowsill and looked out on to the street.

  Dawn gave the loudest gasp of her entire life. There was a dark green sports car parked outside. Two seconds later, the doorbell rang.

  ‘I knew it!’ said Dawn. ‘My portent was right. Something’s about to happen!’

  Chapter Two

  Something With a Capital ‘S’

  Sitting on the top stair, with her head resting against the balusters, Dawn listened. She heard mumbling voices and footsteps in the hallway. Doors opened and closed. Bursting with curiosity, Dawn stood up and trod softly down the stairs in her socks. When she reached the hallway, the door to the living room gave a click and conveniently swung open a fraction. Dawn managed to distinguish the odd word or two from the room beyond.

  ‘Turn the volume down? Are you mad?’ That was Gramps.

  ‘I don’t care WHO you say you are. I’m up to my EYELASHES in paperwork.’ Mum’s voice undoubtedly.

  ‘It’s a twin chain fusée movement. Hang on a minute, I’ll fetch it.’ That was Dad, thought Dawn.

  A moment later, Jefferson Buckle emerged from the living room, a broad smile on his face. He brushed past Dawn’s shoulder without a word, crossed the hall and vanished down the cellar steps. Dawn felt a shiver of excitement when a strangely familiar female voice drifted into the hallway.

  ‘Perhaps we might ask your daughter what she thinks.’

  ‘What? Oh … very well,’ said Dawn’s mother in disgruntled tones. She appeared in the doorway, took a deep breath and cupped one hand around her mouth.
‘DAWN!’ she shouted in the direction of the stairs. ‘COME HERE A MINUTE!’

  ‘I am here, Mum,’ said Dawn from a couple of paces away.

  ‘DAWN… GET YOUR SKATES ON!’

  Dawn stretched out one arm and tugged gently on her mother’s sleeve. ‘I’m right here,’ she said placidly.

  The sight of a ten-foot cockroach would not have caused Beverley to jump any higher in the air. At the same time, she let out an ear-splitting shriek.

  ‘Must you always skulk about?’ she hissed, when she had recovered her composure.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dawn.

  Beverley grabbed her daughter’s elbow. ‘We’ve got a visitor,’ she said, ‘and she wants to speak to you.’ Dawn noticed that her mother looked rather bewildered.

  With the curtains pulled back, the living room looked like the perfect place for a dust-mite convention: the carpet was speckled with biscuit crumbs and a towering heap of TV listings magazines took up two seat cushions on the sofa.

  Ivor Buckle was slumped in his armchair with a grumpy expression on his face. He was desperately trying to read the lips of the quiz-master on the television. Dawn’s mother must have wrested the remote control from his grasp and hit the mute button. Its lower half could be seen protruding from underneath her arm.

  ‘Here she is,’ said Beverley, steering Dawn towards a young woman standing by the fireplace. Dawn blinked. Although she had changed her appearance markedly, the woman was instantly recognisable.

  ‘Hello, Miss Cambridge,’ said Dawn.

  ‘Call me Emma,’ said Dawn’s supply teacher, smiling kindly. ‘So nice to see you again, Dawn.’ Her handshake was firm and business like. Dressed in a stylish linen trouser suit and black, open-necked shirt instead of the buttercup-yellow shift dress she had worn earlier in the day, Emma looked less like a teacher and more like a highly paid lawyer. Her girlish ponytail had been replaced with a tightly braided French plait, and her new, officious look was enhanced by the smart, tan briefcase which she carried in one hand.

  ‘Is that your sports car parked outside?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘It is,’ said Emma, her blue eyes glinting.

  Aha, thought Dawn. That settles it. So, Miss Cambridge – I mean, Emma – was the one who stared at me while I was crossing the road. But if she found me so interesting, why did she ignore me when she taught my class? And what is she doing here now?

  Dawn was puzzled. She had not behaved badly at school, nor had she shown any signs of being super-intelligent. What other reasons could a teacher have for visiting one of her pupils at home? Her mouth sagged open in wonderment.

  ‘Don’t gape, Dawn,’ said her mother irritably. ‘Now, pay attention. Miss Cambridge wishes to ask you a few questions –’

  ‘Me?’ said Dawn eagerly.

  ‘Don’t interrupt,’ snapped Beverley. ‘Apparently, she’s been looking for someone with your … er … natural talent. Miss Cambridge works for S.H.H. –’

  ‘I didn’t say anything,’ protested Dawn.

  ‘No. I mean she’s from S.H.H.,’ said Dawn’s mother.

  ‘S.H.H. is an organisation, Dawn,’ said Emma patiently. ‘S.H.H. stands for Strictly Hush-Hush.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dawn.

  ‘Here’s my little beauty.’ Dawn’s father bounded into the room. He held his newly purchased carriage clock in the crook of his arm. ‘What do you think then, eh, Miss Oxford?’ He thrust it under Emma’s nose. ‘Just look at that gilded dial!’

  ‘It’s Miss Cambridge, Jeff,’ hissed Dawn’s mother, ‘and she’s not interested in your stupid clock.’

  ‘It’s exquisite,’ said Emma with a glowing smile, ‘and it reminds me, Mr Buckle, that I really shouldn’t take up much more of your family’s precious time – but if I could just have a few words with Dawn … ’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ said Jefferson happily. He began to clear the sofa of magazines. ‘Sit here, Miss … er … er … ’.

  Emma sat down, patted the seat next to her and raised her eyebrows at Dawn.

  ‘Five minutes,’ said Beverley sternly as Dawn settled herself on the sofa. ‘I’ve got an awful lot of work to get through this evening.’

  ‘Well, Dawn, I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about,’ said Emma, resting her briefcase on the floor.

  Dawn nodded. She was smiling so much that her jaw was beginning to ache. Never before had she felt so excited. Somebody actually wanted to talk to her – and the conversation might possibly last for a whole five minutes.

  ‘Strictly Hush-Hush is just what it sounds like,’ continued Emma pleasantly. ‘It’s a secret intelligence organisation. I belong to a department called P.S.S.T., which stands for Pursuit of Scheming Spies and Traitors –’

  ‘You’ve got four minutes left,’ said Dawn’s mother from the middle of the room, where she stood stiffly with her arms folded and her lips pressed together.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Buckle,’ said Emma politely. Her startlingly blue eyes refocused on Dawn. ‘I’m a recruitment officer. I’m in charge of finding people who would be willing to work for our organisation.’

  ‘I thought you were a supply teacher,’ said Dawn, feeling quite confused.

  ‘Ah,’ said Emma, biting her lip. ‘No, I’m not. I may have given that impression. Your headmaster allowed me to borrow one of his classes for the day – only after I’d shown him my P.S.S.T. identity card, of course. I’ve been scouring the schools in every London borough for the past two weeks.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dawn.

  ‘Just following instructions,’ said Emma. ‘The Head of P.S.S.T. asked me to find a very special type of child to help him solve a particular puzzle – and, well, I think I’ve found her.’

  Crikey, thought Dawn. I think she means me.

  ‘What do you say, Dawn?’ said Emma softly. ‘Would you like to join the team at P.S.S.T.? It would only be for a few weeks, and the summer holidays begin in a matter of days, don’t they?’

  ‘This Friday,’ said Dawn.

  ‘So you wouldn’t miss much school … ’

  Dawn listened numbly. It was a very glamorous thing to be taken out of school before the end of the summer term. Permission seemed to be granted by Dawn’s head-teacher, Mr Rolls, only if the pupil was going on holiday to somewhere that was difficult to spell – like Reykjavic or Albuquerque. The Buckle family always spent their holidays in Croydon. Emma’s offer could be the only chance Dawn would ever get to finish the school year a few days early.

  ‘I have to tell you, Dawn,’ said Emma gravely. ‘This job that my boss would like you to do … it’s not without a certain element of risk.’

  Dawn’s heart began to thump very fast.

  ‘Of course,’ said Emma, ‘I have the utmost confidence that you’ll be able to cope with … with any obstacles that might arise.’ She gazed admiringly at Dawn. ‘I can honestly say that I’ve never come across anyone with so much potential. Your talent is quite staggering, Dawn. You have a very special gift.’

  ‘Er … er … two minutes and twenty seconds,’ said Dawn’s mother, whose face had turned quite pale.

  ‘Finest set of bun feet I’ve ever seen,’ murmured Dawn’s father, perching next to his daughter on the armrest of the sofa. He seemed to be mesmerised by the carriage clock in the palm of his hand.

  POTENTIAL. TALENT. VERY SPECIAL GIFT. Dawn blinked rapidly. Emma’s words resounded in her ears louder than a cellarful of clocks. I didn’t know that I’d got any of those things, thought Dawn. Nobody’s ever mentioned them before.

  ‘What do you say, Dawn? Would you like to join the team at P.S.S.T.?’

  ‘Um … ’ Dawn paused. She was not used to making momentous decisions. And this one’s a biggie, all right, Dawn told herself. She would never have imagined that a few ladybirds could have predicted such a thrilling opportunity. A few hours ago she had dared to hope that she might win a second housepoint. Now, here she was, on the verge of joining a secret intelligence organisation.

  Dawn was
so excited she could barely breathe; she was frightened, too – but it was a delicious type of fear that made her tingle all over.

  ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘My answer’s yes!’

  ‘That’s splendid,’ said Emma warmly. She lifted her briefcase on to her knees and delved inside it, producing a sheet of thick mauve paper with ‘P.S.S.T.’ printed in gold between two heraldic unicorns. Beneath the initials were several paragraphs typed in black ink. There were three dotted lines on the bottom of the page.

  Emma handed the sheet to Beverley who said, ‘Less than one minute,’ in an uncertain voice. Slipping an identical sheet from the briefcase, Emma reached past Dawn and gave it to Jefferson to read.

  ‘We’ve drawn up a special contract,’ said Emma briskly. ‘We’d love to accept Dawn into our organisation but, of course, we wouldn’t dream of taking her without your permission.’

  Holding the sheet of mauve paper at arm’s length, and frowning at it as if it were an annoying insert that had fallen from one of the magazines, Dawn’s mother scanned the contract. As her eyes darted down the page, her expression relaxed.

  ‘Hmm,’ she said when she had finished reading. A smile sneaked across her face and was quickly suppressed. ‘So Dawn would be out from under my feet … I mean she’d be taken care of for the whole of the summer holidays?’

  ‘P.S.S.T. may not require Dawn’s services for the entire duration –’ began Emma.

  ‘Oh.’ Dawn’s mother seemed disappointed.

  ‘But I’m afraid it’s a possibility.’ Emma rose to her feet and touched Beverley’s shoulder tenderly. ‘I understand how you’re feeling. Naturally, you’re concerned about being parted from your child for such a long time … ’