by M. L. Welsh
You are in my thoughts, and I hope that from time to time you think of me also.
With love and regards from your friend,
Alice
Verity smiled warmly. Dear Alice. How she missed her.
‘You needn’t think it’ll be easier at school because of a few clothes,’ said Grandmother, appearing silently at her bedroom door. ‘It’s you they don’t like.’
Striding angrily to the window, she swept past with a force that literally knocked Verity off her feet, then smirked as she picked herself up from the floor. ‘Do watch where you’re going, child,’ she said. ‘You might cause a mishap with such clumsiness.’
* * *
Mrs Gallant sat at the dining table, polishing the silver cutlery set reserved for visitors and special occasions. Each knife, fork and spoon was carefully wiped and buffed, before being slotted back in its allotted niche within the canteen. She sighed. She had forgotten how uncomfortable it was being pregnant. And how inelegant.
Meanwhile her husband was of scant comfort. She frowned irritably. Since the moment they announced the news he’d been really quite useless. As her mother-in-law was constantly reminding her, she needed as much help around the house as she could get. Surely he could see that? She could only assume that his latest manuscript must be particularly consuming.
Mrs Gallant wondered how much longer their unexpected guest would be staying? Somehow the topic never came up in conversation, and it was impossible to get any constructive information from her husband.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the old lady appeared silently in the room. Mrs Gallant quelled her natural impulse to jump.
‘I find your condition very often unsettles the nerves, dear,’ commented her mother-in-law. Taking a knife and the polishing rag out of her hands, she began to rub industriously.
Mrs Gallant stifled a feeling of irritation. She found tasks like this quite soothing.
‘There will be no opportunity for such things when the baby arrives,’ commented her guest. ‘Such an exciting time for you.’
‘Oh … er, yes …’
‘I too cannot wait,’ said the old lady thoughtfully, lost in her task for a moment. ‘Truly, I cannot wait. Such a shame Verity cannot bring herself to share in your pleasure,’ she continued lightly, herself once more. ‘I suppose it is not in her nature.’
Mrs Gallant blinked, a little taken aback. ‘Verity has always been very reserved,’ she explained. ‘I’m sure she’ll be more enthusiastic when the baby is here.’
‘I’m sure,’ agreed Grandmother soothingly.
Meanwhile Jasper Cutgrass could not afford to make even one stumbling or ungainly move. He turned off Wellow’s rope walk and made his way carefully through the puddle-filled yard of Lapp and Muster, taking care not to disturb the contents of the custom-made square bag on his shoulder.
In front of him rose a row of immense wooden boat sheds lining the water’s edge. Approaching one, he pushed open a small cut-out door. Jasper stepped over the ledge and into a cathedral-like space filled with light and wood-dust. He stood there for a few seconds, breathing in the heady scent of hemp, spruce and pitch: the raw materials of boatbuilding.
Spread out on benches lay various sections of mast, some hundreds of feet long, waiting to be split or glued. Jasper walked past a huge pile of rope coils and a line of labelled sacks, then down one of the long narrow gangways between the workbenches. He asked first one man, then another. Eventually he was pointed in the direction of the sail-making loft above.
A solid man with salt and pepper hair was spreading out a large piece of cloth for cutting. His honest, intelligent face frowned with the effort of concentration.
‘Dan Twogood?’ asked Jasper. ‘Mr Daniel Twogood?’
The man didn’t look up but he stopped what he was doing. ‘Revenue man,’ he said.
It wasn’t the most welcoming introduction Jasper had ever heard (although it was by no means the worst either), but as a succinct statement of fact it couldn’t be faulted.
‘Mr Twogood,’ said Jasper, ‘I’m here to ask you about a device I believe was originally invented by your family.’
Daniel Twogood looked at the custom-made canvas bag hanging from Jasper’s shoulder. He noted his unseasonably brown skin. ‘Lots of things bin invented by the Twogoods,’ he said roughly.
‘Indeed,’ said Jasper. ‘I see from documentation in the library that many useful modern instruments can in fact be attributed to the Twogoods’ ingenuity – but few were quite as brilliant or clever as this.’
He opened the bag and lifted out a glass globe within which two separate liquids floated, like water and oil. It sat in a custom-made gimble. Like a maritime compass, the gimble held the ball so it was constantly upright, constantly unshaken.
Mr Twogood stiffened. ‘Where did you get it?’ he asked eventually.
‘We excavated it from a casket on the Atlantic sea bed,’ said Jasper.
Mr Twogood’s face darkened. ‘We?’
‘My former colleague and I,’ Jasper elaborated.
‘You found it by accident?’
‘No. I deducted that its existence – although improbable – was certainly possible. Then we tracked down its various likely locations. Luckily we were right first time.’
‘Lucky indeed,’ said Mr Twogood bitterly. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘strikes me that two men clever enough to find it don’t need my help. So unless you’ve a warrant to enforce your questions, I suggest you leave.’
‘I know how to control it,’ said Jasper quickly as he turned away.
Mr Twogood swung slowly back. ‘No one knows how to control it,’ he said darkly.
‘It works on the principle of centrifugal force.’ Jasper sensed he had a very small window of opportunity here. ‘The fire and ice are held in the two immiscible liquids, which stay perfectly balanced, so that it is in fact spinning relative to its outer surface.
‘The human body acts as a counterweight,’ he continued, ‘so by holding the ball at arm’s length you lessen the effect. But the faster you move it, the more violent the meteorological disturbance. That’s how my colleague died, I assume …’
Mr Twogood nodded. Former colleague, of course. ‘Shake it, did he?’ he asked.
‘I imagine so,’ said Jasper.
‘Find much of him afterwards?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘And it was worth it, was it? Losing a life to gain the knowledge?’
Jasper bit his lip and said nothing.
‘I expect you felt mighty pleased with yourself when you worked it all out,’ Dan Twogood commented. ‘Holding it gives you quite a feeling of power, I’m told.’
Jasper couldn’t help it. ‘I was pretty excited, yes,’ he said. ‘The first person in decades to hold a Storm Bringer, when everyone thought they were just a myth. It was exhilarating.’
‘So why are you telling me this?’
‘Your family made the original. It must be the prototype,’ said Jasper enthusiastically. ‘Together we could make more.’
Mr Twogood banged a hard wooden block down on the workbench in fury. ‘Make more?’ he shouted.
Jasper misunderstood him. ‘My inquiries indicate you are at least as capable as your father, Mr Twogood. I have every faith you would be able to replicate the craftwork. There are so many applications it could be put to,’ he added animatedly. ‘All kinds of purposes.’
‘You interfering pillock,’ cursed Mr Twogood furiously. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve brought on us?’
Jasper took a step backwards.
‘I expect it all seemed absolutely fascinatin’ when you was sat in your library reading up on it,’ growled Dan Twogood. ‘But now you’ve got it there in your bag, how long do you think you’ll keep it safe?’
‘I’m a Preventative Man,’ said Jasper primly. ‘I have the law on my side.’
‘Oh, the law … Good for you.’ Mr Twogood walked up to Jasper and stared him straight in the eye.
‘There are those in Wellow – never mind the rest of the world – who would use that thing to get whatever they want, no matter how many they kill as a consequence,’ said Mr Twogood carefully. ‘I hope you can live with that.’
Chapter Twelve
Verity couldn’t wait to go to school and wear her new clothes. The shoes sparkled in her mind for the rest of the weekend. On Monday morning she felt like a princess as she walked through the park in her velvet-trimmed coat. The cream scarf and gloves were so soft she kept furtively stroking them against her cheek and smiling.
‘Been on a shopping trip at last?’ asked one girl at the school gates.
‘Not bad,’ said another approvingly. ‘For a beginner.’
Verity skipped up to Henry, whom she’d spotted trudging in through the western gate. He looked a bit bed-shaped.
‘Morning,’ she trilled.
‘You’re perky,’ he grumbled.
Verity beamed sunnily. ‘I have a feeling it’s going to be a good week.’
‘Hmph,’ said Henry blearily. ‘Well, new clothes will do that for you.’
* * *
At first break their form teacher bore down purposefully on Verity and Henry.
‘Gallant,’ Mrs Attrill started. ‘Just the person.’
Verity looked at her warily.
‘Got a new pupil here: Martha Platt. Needs looking after.’
Verity and Henry craned round her. A small girl with precisely bobbed hair, a round freckled face and even rounder gold-rimmed glasses peered owlishly at them.
‘Never easy starting a new school mid-term,’ said Mrs Attrill loudly, as if this would somehow make her charge feel better.
It was pretty clear from the look on Henry’s face that he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of chaperoning this new pupil. The owlish girl blinked.
Verity knew all too well what it felt like to not fit in. ‘Of course we’ll look after her,’ she said to the teacher.
Henry’s face leaped into a new arrangement intended to convey extreme alarm and disapproval. He might as well have shrieked, What are you doing? at the top of his voice while flapping his arms wildly.
Verity ignored him. ‘I’m Verity,’ she said to the new girl. ‘And this is Henry.’
Half an hour later Verity was already regretting her decision. She was regretting it bitterly. The new girl was now sitting between her and Henry, talking loudly and at speed. Her arms were folded and she was leaning back, looking as if this was the last place on earth she wanted to be. Occasionally she tucked a sleek lock of hair behind her right ear.
Already they knew that Martha had moved to Wellow against her wishes … that her parents were doctors … that the Platts were ‘terrifically intelligent’ … that they took Martha with them wherever they were studying, often as a research assistant … that she had quickly formed a very low opinion of Wellow and its amenities … and that great things were expected of her academically. On this topic she was currently holding forth.
‘All our family read at Cambridge – wouldn’t dream of going to Oxford. I’ll read physics or chemistry. The arts are so plebeian these days.’
Verity scowled silently, unable to get a word in edgeways. How could someone look so sweet and then be so insufferable? ‘She’s full of herself,’ she said to Henry as they scurried across the park, having dodged Martha at last bell. ‘Why does she need anyone to keep an eye on her?’
‘She’s just talking like that to try and buoy herself up,’ he replied, not quite sure why he was defending her.
‘She’s so disapproving too,’ Verity added. ‘Nothing’s right for her here.’
‘Mm,’ said Henry. ‘Another person to look down on us.’ He smiled ruefully.
Verity looked at him. ‘I didn’t realize there’d be people outside Wellow who wouldn’t like us.’
Henry smiled at her optimism.
‘Well, that’s quite good then, isn’t it?’ she replied.
He pulled a face. ‘Yeah, it’s great.’
Verity elaborated: ‘I mean, if people are always going to think we don’t fit in, then we shouldn’t worry about it, should we?’
Henry was staring at her with a barely suppressed grin. ‘It wasn’t weighing heavily on my mind,’ he said. ‘So Miranda Blake thinks I’m a commoner … and a few of the girls at school don’t like some of your clothes. Who cares?’ He shrugged. ‘I’d be more worried if they did like us.’
Verity giggled. Henry was right. The only opinions that mattered were those of the people she cared about. Above them, the brooding winter sky swirled as the clouds were pushed and shoved by the wind, so dark they looked as if they were scowling down on the happy little girl and her friend.
Christmas was approaching rapidly now. At Priory Bay all the pupils exchanged cards like sweets and discussed plans excitedly. Henry was particularly animated because it looked like his long-term campaign to inherit a bike belonging to an older brother might at last come to fruition. Meanwhile Verity was dreading time off school because it inevitably meant more at home.
They resigned themselves to being stuck with Martha Platt during lessons but developed a sophisticated system of signals and excuses to ensure they rarely saw her during breaks or lunch times. And that they never, ever got stuck with her at close of day.
Occasionally Verity caught a glimpse of Martha standing on her own in the distance, looking lonely. But then she reminded herself of the pompous bore lurking underneath.
Finally the last day of term arrived, and with it the Priory Bay Christmas Spectacular. This event was always held in partnership with Whale Chine, in what was billed as a seasonal display of goodwill but was in fact a biennial exercise in outdoing the other school’s efforts.
This year it was Priory Bay’s turn to host, and the entire school thrummed with excitement at the prospect of showing those Whale Chiners how to throw a party. There would be stalls – with tombolas and mince pies and gingerbread and hot spiced drinks – and a Father Christmas, and carols and an end-of-year revue … it was all anyone could talk about.
Verity followed uncomfortably in her new red silk dress as Grandmother swept into the main hall, not appearing to notice the small children who were wrong-footed by her suddenly and imperiously flinging open the entrance doors.
Beside her, Poppy gasped. Every wall was covered in wreaths of holly. Mistletoe hung from the chandelier. In the crook of the grand staircase stood a gigantic tree, adorned with candles, golden glass baubles and garlands of tinsel. Lights shone prettily from every available window space or niche.
‘It’s just beautiful,’ she breathed happily, grabbing Verity’s arm. ‘Isn’t it?’
Verity nodded quietly. She watched as her mother carefully negotiated the room, mindful of her bump. Father had elected to stay at home in his study. What would it be like next year when the baby was here? Would Grandmother still be with them? Was this their new family now? To be honest, the festivity of the revue made her feel all the more sad that she was dreading Christmas at home so much.
‘Is it not good enough for you?’ demanded Grandmother snidely, poking her in the ribs.
Verity bit her tongue, unwilling to make a scene in public and spoil Poppy’s day out.
‘Oh, Grandmother, you are silly,’ giggled her sister as she beamed in greeting at friend after friend.
Verity stifled a momentary flash of irritation. Why did Poppy and her mother never notice the spite in the old lady’s comments?
‘My holiday homework,’ Poppy exclaimed, tapping her head in remembrance. ‘I should collect it now, before I forget again.’
‘Verity will go for you,’ said Grandmother, giving Verity an unseen shove that made her stumble. She frowned, and the old lady glared in response. ‘Have you something better to do?’ she asked sharply.
‘Could you, Verity?’ asked Mother. ‘It would be such a help.’
‘She’ll only waste time talking to the little
fat boy otherwise,’ Verity heard Grandmother saying as she walked off. ‘Such a shame she can’t find any proper friends.’
The room was filled with excited babble, children darting confidently from group to group, comfortable in their surroundings. There was Henry, queuing for raffle tickets.
‘Where’s your family?’ he asked, sucking a humbug.
‘By the tombola,’ said Verity. ‘Grandmother sent me on an errand for Poppy.’
Henry pulled a face in sympathy.
‘No, it’s better this way,’ she pointed out. ‘The less time I spend in her company, the better.’
‘Just what everyone looks for in a house guest. No sign of her leaving then?’ he asked.
‘None at all. And I wouldn’t dare ask. She’s really quite frightening. Sometimes she moves so fast it’s as if she can be in two places at once.’ Verity caught Henry looking at her with misgiving. ‘But of course I realize she’s just an ordinary old lady and nothing peculiar is going on,’ she added sarcastically.
‘Poppy’s got one of the lead parts, hasn’t she?’ said Henry, changing the subject.
Verity nodded. ‘She’s been looking forward to the revue for months – which reminds me’ – she recalled the task at hand – ‘I should go and collect her books.’
She slipped into the quiet of Poppy’s form room, pleased to have escaped the throng for a second. She made her way over to her sister’s desk and retrieved the forgotten homework, lingering to have an inquisitive flick through … Verity froze in mid page-turn. She had just heard the unmistakable sound of someone sniffing underneath the desk. She peered around to see who was there. Crouched on the floor was Martha Platt, her face puffy and red, a few telltale tears running down her cheeks.
Verity felt awful. ‘Martha …’ she said softly.
The bookish girl clambered out of her hiding place and sniffed again, her hair noticeably less perfect than usual.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Verity kindly.
‘I thought I’d come because it was a party,’ said Martha unhappily, ‘and it would be fun’ – her voice broke a little – ‘but it’s still lonely when nobody wants to talk to you.’
