by Anna Dale
‘Yes, naturally,’ said Dawn’s mother.
‘I can assure you that Dawn will be well looked after,’ continued Emma. ‘As P.S.S.T.’s recruitment officer, I’m personally responsible for the welfare of all our employees. I’ll do my best to keep a very close eye on your daughter.’
‘You’re sure,’ said Beverley accusingly, ‘you’re absolutely POSITIVE that you’ve got the right person? I mean, this contract mentions ESPIONAGE and SLEUTHING.’ She shook the sheet of paper so that it made a curious whup-whup noise. ‘They don’t teach Dawn THOSE kinds of subjects at Rustygate Primary. Well, not as far as I’m aware. I haven’t had time to acquaint myself with the latest version of the National Curriculum. I’m RATHER a busy person, you see.’ Beverley’s face reddened. ‘I don’t want you getting my hopes up … only to dash them cruelly … Oh!’ She hesitated and gave a nervous titter. ‘Dawn’s hopes, I mean … ’
‘You mustn’t worry, said Emma in reassuring tones.. ‘Your daughter fits the job description perfectly, Mrs Buckle.’
‘Woo!’ exclaimed Dawn’s father. He whistled through his teeth and stared, bug-eyed, at his copy of the contract. ‘Bev!’ He looked up briefly at his wife. ‘Cop a load of clause twelve! They’re going to pay our kid a wage.’
‘Don’t get excited, Jeff,’ cautioned his wife. ‘If you read a bit further I think you’ll find that it hardly amounts to a fortune.’
Jefferson’s face sagged when he realised that his wife was right. ‘Is that all?’ he said, pressing his finger against the contract. ‘That’s peanuts, that is. Still,’ he said, shrugging, ‘it’d be enough for a pocket watch and a couple of nice pendulums.’
‘I believe my five minutes are up,’ said Emma, glancing at her watch. She smiled radiantly at Dawn’s parents. ‘May I ask if you’ve reached a decision?’
‘I’m in two minds,’ said Dawn’s mother. ‘I’ll have to think … ’
‘What’s to think about? Got a pen?’ said Dawn’s father, staring expectantly at Emma. In 0.03 seconds, she produced a gold-plated fountain pen and Jefferson rushed towards it, almost losing his balance on the slippery heap of magazines which he had dumped on the carpet. He snatched the fountain pen, pressed his carriage clock into Emma’s hands with the words, ‘Hold this a mo,’ and scribbled on one of the dotted lines at the bottom of the contract.
‘If you’d be kind enough to sign the other copy as well, please,’ said Emma sweetly. Dawn’s father nodded and plucked the second contract from his wife’s grasp.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, signing his name with a flourish.
‘Mrs Buckle?’ prompted Emma delicately.
‘Yeah, how about it, Bev?’ Dawn’s father waggled the pen in front of his wife’s nose. ‘We’ll be a few quid richer … and this nice lady will see that Dawn’s all right.’
‘Well … I don’t know … it’s a bit irregular, Jeff.’ Dawn’s mother seemed flustered. She dragged her fingers through her wavy auburn hair and shot a guilty look at Dawn. ‘But perhaps it would be for the best.’ She turned to Emma with a pained expression on her face. ‘The school holidays always pose a problem. Having your child at home all day can be very … inconvenient when you’re as busy as I am. Work commitments … you know … appraisals, reports, meetings coming out of my ears …’
‘Yes,’ said Emma, nodding fervently. ‘It must be very difficult.’
‘It would be a load off my mind,’ said Beverley, her fingers reaching for the fountain pen, ‘if I didn’t have to worry about Dawn day-in day-out.’ She took the two mauve sheets of paper from her husband and, leaning them against her thigh, added her signature twice.
‘Super,’ murmured Emma.
Dawn watched the proceedings from the sofa. There was a curious buzzing in her ears and she felt light-headed. She stared at the three adults as they passed pieces of paper back and forth. Finally, Emma signed the contracts swiftly on the third dotted line before sliding one sheet of mauve paper into her briefcase and presenting Beverley with the other.
‘We each have a copy of the contract now,’ said Emma.
‘So – it’s all sorted!’ Jefferson nudged his wife and grinned.
‘’Bout time,’ bellowed Dawn’s grandfather from his armchair. ‘I’ll ‘ave the remote control back now, thank you very much.’
A vibration in the floorboards told Dawn that it was midnight. She stopped pacing around her tiny bedroom and lifted an ear-muff (essential headgear for a Buckle who wanted an undisturbed night’s sleep). When the last stifled bong had died away, Dawn continued to walk restlessly from wall to wall in her bare feet. A moment later, she stubbed her toe on a carelessly positioned suitcase and, clutching her injured foot, she sank on to her bed. A spring in the mattress twanged in a consoling sort of way. Dawn patted her patchwork quilt fondly and blinked back tears.
This is going to be the last night that I’ll spend in my own little bedroom for quite some time, thought Dawn sadly. She drew her knees up to her chin and stretched her nightdress over them so that the sleepy owl motif on its front became strangely elongated.
Emma had promised to arrive just after breakfast the next morning, which meant that Dawn would be leaving Windmill View in less than eight hours. She knew that it was important to get some sleep, but her body was obstinately refusing to settle down for the night. Her heart was pounding, her arms and legs would not stay still and a hundred thoughts were zipping around in her brain. Dawn switched off her bedside lamp and everything in front of her eyes was reduced to a shade of grey as moonlight flooded the room. She groped around for Clop – who was a rather grubby, knitted donkey – and held him close. When he made a peculiar crinkling noise, Dawn realised that she was also hugging her packing list.
It had taken her no more than an hour to pack her red suitcase. She had filled it with several pairs of underwear, every single mushroom-coloured knee sock that she owned, a kilt in Black Watch tartan, a corduroy skirt, two short-sleeved blouses, a pair of cotton pyjamas, a cardigan, washing things, a book entitled Pansy the Goat Girl by Jean Hightower and a battered geometry set. Dawn had purposely left a small space in the suitcase, which Clop had already tried out for size.
Dawn sat up, adjusted her ear-muffs and sank back on to her pillow. She tugged her patchwork quilt up to her armpits and stared at the shadowy swirls in the Artex ceiling.
‘What do you think, Clop?’ she said anxiously. ‘Am I doing the right thing?’
Clop seemed to give a positive response and inferred that, perhaps, Dawn would like to lean a little less heavily on his rump.
Dawn blinked sleepily. It’s an adventure, she told herself. I’m going to have an adventure like that girl, Pansy, in the book I’m reading. Only I don’t expect that my adventure will involve goats. Although it might be nice if it did.
Chapter Three
The House in Pimlico
‘Shall I or shan’t I?’ Dawn asked Clop.
She looked him in the eye, which was just a couple of stitches, and gave a knitted ear an affectionate squeeze. Dawn detected a look of weary annoyance on her donkey’s face as she removed him from her suitcase for the seventh time in as many minutes. It’s so difficult being eleven, thought Dawn, and she sighed heavily.
‘I’m on the cusp of womanhood, you know,’ she told Clop. His blank expression seemed to suggest that he did know, actually, but he wasn’t particularly interested. Am I too old to take my favourite toy with me? Dawn asked herself. Something told her that the people at P.S.S.T. would be less than impressed. ‘But I’d like you to come,’ said Dawn. ‘It would be comforting to have a friendly face around.’ It struck Dawn that Clop did not look very friendly at that moment but, nevertheless, she squashed him next to a pair of mushroom-coloured socks and closed the suitcase lid.
A few minutes later there was a knock on her bedroom door.
‘Oh,’ said Dawn, who had just reopened her suitcase and was holding Clop around his middle. She threw him quickly into the case and he collapsed on t
o her sock collection. ‘Er … come in,’ said Dawn shyly.
‘Mornin’, Dawnie,’ said her grandfather, tugging politely on his black beret as he shuffled into the room. He had tucked his pyjama top into a pair of grey flannel trousers.
‘Gramps!’ said Dawn. She felt highly honoured. Her grandfather rarely made a trip upstairs.
‘Came to wish you luck,’ he said, scratching an overgrown eyebrow. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock, Dawnie. Miss Whatsername’ll be here in two ticks.’
‘I know,’ said Dawn. Her stomach gave a terrific lurch.
‘You’ve packed an’ everythin’, I see.’
‘Mmm,’ said Dawn, patting her suitcase. She attempted a brave smile but could not prevent her chin from trembling.
‘Now, now, none o’ that,’ said Ivor kindly. ‘You’ll be just fine.’
Dawn said nothing. She felt dismayed. Her excitement seemed to have fizzled away and, suddenly, she found that she did not want to leave. Kneeling beside her suitcase, she closed its lid and began to fumble with the straps.
‘All right, Dawnie … listen up.’ Her grandfather raised a knobbly finger. ‘There’s a few gems o’ knowledge that I learned off the telly, yes’erday … ’
Dawn listened patiently as her grandfather informed her that the capital of Guam was Hagatna, an ocelot was a type of wildcat, William Shakespeare wrote thirty-eight plays and pteronophobia (spelt with a silent ‘p’) was the fear of being tickled with feathers.
‘Mind you don’t forget none o’ them facts,’ said Dawn’s grandfather sternly. ‘You never know when they might come in useful.’
‘OK, Gramps,’ said Dawn.
Through her open bedroom window Dawn heard the chink of a drain cover and the low purr of an engine as a car pulled up outside. She dashed to the window just as the clocks in the cellar began to strike the hour. The MG Midget’s soft roof had been folded down and Dawn saw Emma Cambridge switch off the ignition and remove her sunglasses before stepping out of the car.
‘Time to go, Dawnie?’ said her grandfather.
Dawn nodded, a lump in her throat preventing her from speaking. She put on her plimsolls, tying them carefully in a double knot, and picked up her small suitcase.
‘You’ll be a’right,’ said her grandfather as they made their way downstairs. ‘Be a nice ‘oliday for you.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘It’ll beat a week in that grotty ol’ guest house in Croydon, anyway.’
Emma was waiting in the hall, politely declining Jefferson’s invitation to inspect his clocks in the cellar. ‘Ah,’ she said when she caught sight of Dawn lingering on the bottom stair. ‘Here you are!’ She smiled warmly. ‘Would you like me to stow your luggage in my car while you say your goodbyes?’
‘Thanks,’ said Dawn as Emma relieved her of her suitcase.
‘Bev-er-LEEE!’ yelled Dawn’s father.
Somewhere in the house a door slammed. Dawn’s mother appeared a few seconds later, dressed in a smart business suit and sipping a mug of coffee. She was just in time to receive a handshake and a word of thanks from Emma before the young woman disappeared through the front door with Dawn’s suitcase.
Three pairs of eyes focused on Dawn. She felt a little uncomfortable.
‘See ya, kid,’ said Dawn’s father.
‘Behave yourself,’ said Dawn’s mother. She pecked her daughter anxiously on the cheek.
‘Wha’s the capital o’ Guam?’ said Dawn’s grandfather.
‘Hagatna,’ replied Dawn.
‘Tha’s my girl!’
***
‘Bye, house,’ said Dawn, looking over her shoulder as the MG sped away from number eight, Windmill View. ‘Bye, dustbin. Bye, lamppost. Bye, tree.’
Emma crossed her hands on the leather steering wheel and took a right turn into an adjoining street.
‘Bye, road,’ said Dawn forlornly as she lost sight of number eight’s chimney pot.
‘You’d need an awfully high-powered telescope to get a view of a windmill around here. Don’t you think so, Dawn?’ said Emma light-heartedly.
‘Yes,’ said Dawn. She was quite fond of her road’s name but she had to admit that it was not very appropriate. Windmills were rather scarce in Hackney.
As they cruised along familiar streets, Dawn found herself pointing out places of interest. She drew Emma’s attention to the loose paving slab which everyone seemed to trip over, the starlings’ nest above the launderette, and the only roof in the whole borough without a television aerial. Instead of ignoring Dawn’s commentary, as most people would have been inclined to do, Emma acted as if she were enthralled, murmuring ‘Wow’ and ‘Really?’ whenever her passenger paused for breath. Dawn was delighted to be listened to for a change, and it made her feel a bit less sad about leaving her home behind.
In a matter of minutes they had driven through Hackney, and Dawn stared in fascination as they passed through streets that she did not recognise. The scenery changed gradually; noisy roadworks, shopping parades and grimy pavements heaped with plastic sacks became grand palatial buildings and leafy parks.
Dawn caught sight of her reflection in a wing mirror, and grinned. Her hair was leaping and wriggling around her face. She had never ridden in a convertible car before and she found the constant blast of air exhilarating. She wondered what other new experiences lay in store for her. Emma had volunteered very little information about P.S.S.T. so far. Curious as to what kind of work she would be expected to do, Dawn decided to ask Emma a few questions.
‘What do the letters in P.S.S.T. mean, again?’
‘Pursuit of Scheming Spies and Traitors,’ answered Emma, pressing a finger on the bridge of her sunglasses and sliding them to the top of her nose.
‘Scheming Spies and Traitors?’ said Dawn apprehensively. They didn’t sound very pleasant. She supposed that pursuing them would involve a certain amount of running. Dawn wasn’t very good at running. On school sports day she was frequently the last child over the finish line.
‘There’s no need to worry, Dawn,’ said Emma, taking a sidelong glance at her charge. ‘You’ll receive plenty of training beforehand … Not that you’ll need many hours of instruction – you’re a natural.’
‘A natural what?’ said Dawn.
Emma’s coral-pink lips formed an amused smile. ‘A natural spy,’ she said.
‘Me? A… a spy?’ Dawn was amazed.
‘You were born to the profession,’ Emma assured her. ‘You possess all the basic skills and attributes.’
‘Do I?’ said Dawn, completely clueless as to what they were.
‘Let me explain,’ said Emma as she guided the car along a wide, tree-lined avenue. ‘You’ve got one of those special faces that are instantly forgettable.’
The remark was spoken in an admiring manner, as if it were a compliment, so that Dawn’s feelings were only slightly hurt.
‘You have a slow, ponderous gait,’ continued Emma, ‘that enables you to wander anywhere you please without being detected; you’ve got what we call a quirky eye … ’
Emma must have noticed Dawn’s swift lunge towards the wing mirror to ascertain which of her eyes was the quirky one. Immediately, she put Dawn’s mind at ease.
‘If someone has a quirky eye it means that they are especially observant. They spot unusual things that other people tend to miss.’ Emma steered the MG smoothly round a corner. ‘Remember when we were driving through Hackney earlier and you told me about the starlings’ nest and the roof without a television aerial?’
‘Yes,’ said Dawn.
‘Both are examples of things which are in plain sight of everyone. The majority of passers-by would overlook them, but an alert individual like you would see them straight away. With the sort of qualities that you’ve got, Dawn, you’ll cruise through your training programme.’
Profoundly shocked by the revelation that she had been selected to become a spy, Dawn slumped against her seat and lost interest in the sights and sounds of London. At the edge of her vision, colours
seem to swell and merge, and the roar of the traffic faded to a mild, innocuous drone.
She hadn’t really given much thought to the career path she would choose when she was older, but of the occupations which Dawn had considered, ‘spy’ was definitely not amongst them. She wondered what a spy actually did. Quite a bit of skiing, snorkelling and driving rather fast, judging by the James Bond films she had seen. It occurred to Dawn that, perhaps, she should have brought her roller skates with her.
‘Nearly there,’ said Emma, drawing to a standstill at a set of traffic lights. Dawn stopped trying to imagine what a spy’s typical day might be like, and watched a gaggle of schoolchildren in boaters and blazers cross the road in front of the car. ‘Your teacher, Mrs Kitchen, was a dear old lady … ’ began Emma.
She’d probably give you a clout if you called her that to her face, Dawn thought.
Emma drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and smiled. ‘When your headmaster asked her if she’d mind giving up her class for the day, she was only too happy to oblige. Said it would be her pleasure.’
I’ll bet she did, thought Dawn.
The traffic lights changed to green and the MG continued its journey. Glancing to her left and right, Dawn noticed that the buildings were becoming even more magnificent. They had marble steps, gold doorknockers and porches that looked like they belonged on stately homes. Despite their impressive grandeur, none of the houses looked half as welcoming as her own pebble-dashed semi in Windmill View.
‘Where are we now?’ asked Dawn.
‘Just about to enter Pimlico,’ said Emma, driving the sports car over a railway bridge.
The houses in Pimlico remained rather splendid, but they were smaller, plainer and far less imposing. They passed a café with a foreign-sounding name, outside of which were dozens of neat, round tables shaded with large red-and-white umbrellas. Dawn would have liked to stop there for a bite to eat. She had spent so long deciding whether or not to put Clop in her suitcase that she had omitted to have any breakfast.
‘Here we are,’ said Emma as she turned the car into a quiet road called Vanbrugh Gardens, and parked beside a row of five terraced houses, each three storeys high and built with dark grey brick. Behind a line of shiny black railings were minuscule front yards, filled with troughs and pots overflowing with colourful blooms: golden honeysuckle vied for space with bright pink fuschia, trailing mauve aubretia and red miniature roses.
