‘Dominic! Dominic! Are you up yet?’ It was Mum's usual early morning call. ‘It's gone seven o'clock, you know! Your breakfast's on the table. Come on, hurry up, slowcoach, or you'll be late.’
‘I'm just getting up!’ he shouted, sliding further beneath the warm covers and still staring at the cracks on the ceiling. They looked like hundreds of crisscrossing paths on a lunar surface. He wondered if the food would really be as good as Miss Pruitt had described. Miss Brewster, the warden of the youth hostel where they would be staying, their teacher had told them, was famous for her fabulous food. And then there was the village shop, handy for sweets and crisps, and Robin Hoods Bay with all that candyfloss, sticky pink seaside rock, ice cream and slabs of thick, chewy toffee. Dominic pulled the blankets round him and smiled at the thought of the week in Thundercliff Bay.
‘Dominic! I shan't tell you again, young man. Will you get up! You'll be late.’ His mother's voice was louder and sharper now.
He yawned widely, sat up, stretched expansively and clambered from his bed, shivering. Yes, he thought to himself, this week is going to be great! Then, he caught sight of the bedside clock.
‘Crikey!’ he cried. ‘I shall be late!’ He rushed for the bathroom with the most dreadful thoughts spinning through his head. He would arrive at school to see the coach pulling off in a cloud of exhaust fumes and Nathan Thomas and Darren Wilmott smiling smugly and waving slowly from the back window. Mr Merriman would be there at the gate to greet him, stern-faced like an undertaker and with another of his famous expressions: ‘You'll be late for your funeral, you will!’
It took Dominic fifteen minutes to go to the toilet, have a shower, wash and comb his hair, clean his teeth and get dressed. He was so relieved that he had packed his case the previous evening.
Downstairs, breakfast was on the table.
‘What time is Michael's dad collecting you?’ asked his mum.
‘Eight o'clock,’ replied Dominic, spraying half-eaten cornflakes everywhere.
‘It's nearly that now. You'll have to get your skates on, young man. And how many times do I have to tell you not to talk with your mouth full?’ his mother told him.
‘Well, how am I supposed to answer your question,’ he spluttered, ‘with my mouth closed? Pretty impossible, I should say, Mother dear, unless of course I happen to be a world-famous ventriloquist or I have some special psychic powers which –’
‘That'll do, clever clogs,’ said his mum. ‘You've always got an answer for everything, haven't you? Now, be quick, Michael's father will be here in a minute.’
As soon as she had uttered the words, there was a toot, toot, toot outside the front door. ‘You see,’ said his mother, shaking her head. ‘That's him now.’
‘Crikey!’ exclaimed Dominic for the second time that morning. ‘He's dead on time and I haven't said goodbye to Gran yet. Tell Mr Chan I will be out in a second, will you, Mum?’ Before she could answer, he was out of the door and scrabbling up the stairs.
Gran's room was shadowy and smelt of lavender polish and mothballs. Through the thick, flowery curtains, splinters of winter sunshine pierced the darkness. Dominic could make out the square, iron-framed bed, deep cushiony armchair and Gran's old sideboard covered in photographs, china dishes, delicate, pale, porcelain figures of ladies with parasols, and little glass containers.
‘Are you awake, Gran?’
‘It'd take a corpse to sleep through all the racket this morning,’ she said with good humour, sitting up and clicking on the bedside light. ‘Now, have you got everything?’
‘Everything,’ replied Dominic. ‘Including a year's supply of clean underpants.’
‘Well, behave yourself and have a nice time and be careful near the sea and all those cliffs.’
‘I will.’
‘And stay well away from seagulls,’ she chuckled. ‘You remember last time we were at the seaside?’
‘Will I ever forget,’ said Dominic.
‘And look after my case.’
‘I will.’
‘And be sure to send me a postcard.’
Dominic gave his gran a big kiss and rushed from the room. ‘Bye, Gran!’ he shouted as he disappeared.
Mr Chan was talking to Dominic's mum on the pavement when Dominic scuttled out of the door, case in hand, coat over his arm and rucksack strapped on his back. Michael was in the back of the car, beaming widely and bouncing up and down, looking as excited as Dominic felt. Mr Chan packed the small, battered, brown case and old khaki rucksack in the boot.
‘Got everything, Dom?’ he asked.
‘Sure have, Mr Chan,’ replied Dominic. He reached out and gave his mum a hug. ‘Bye, Mum.’
‘Bye, love,’ she said.
‘Let's get you both to the school,’ said Michael's dad. ‘Bye, Maureen.’
Dominic clambered into the back of the car, waved to his mum and to his gran, who was looking out from behind the curtain at her window, and soon they were speeding though the town traffic towards St Jude's.
Dominic was blissfully unaware that his walking boots were still behind the back door, where he had left them the night before.
Three
Grisly Beginnings
Children, surrounded by cases and rucksacks, were waiting in small knots in the playground when Dominic and Michael arrived at St Jude's Primary School. On seeing their friend, Sean Murphy, standing outside the school entrance, the two boys rushed to meet him.
‘I was getting worried,’ Sean said. ‘I thought you might have overslept. Have you got everything?’
‘You sound just like my mum,’ replied Dominic, ‘and if anyone else asks me if I have got everything, I shall explode.’
‘Well, I realized I'd forgotten something on the way here,’ Sean told them. ‘I remembered as soon as we were at the end of our street that I didn't put in a torch, and my dad wouldn't go back.’
‘I've brought two,’ said Dominic, sounding very pleased with himself. ‘You can borrow one of mine, Smurph. My gran got me a new one, really powerful, and I've got a pocket torch as well. You can borrow that.’
‘Thanks, Dom.’
‘This is going to be great,’ said Michael. ‘I can't wait until we get to the seaside.’
‘Me too,’ said Dominic. ‘Where's Miss Pruitt?’ he asked suddenly, looking around him.
‘She's in school with that teacher from Cransworth Juniors,’ explained Sean, screwing up his face as if sucking a lemon, ‘and he looks really, really horrible; I mean seriously grim and ghastly, like someone who's just been dug up after years and years underground. He's lanky and creepy – horror-film material!’
‘My cousin's at Cransworth Juniors,’ Michael told them. ‘She says that Mr Risley-Newsome is really, really strict and nobody likes him.’
‘He's probably OK,’ said Dominic, more to reassure himself than his two friends. ‘As Mr Merriman would no doubt say, “You should never judge a book by its cover. Looks aren't everything.” Underneath “Old Grisly-Gruesome” is –’ He stopped mid-sentence, for the person in question had made an appearance.
Mr Risley-Newsome emerged from the school followed by a weary-looking Miss Pruitt. She was dressed in a bright-pink padded anorak, electric-blue slacks, red gloves and matching scarf and orange boots, in stark contrast to the lanky figure beside her.
Her companion was a tall stick of a man with grizzled grey hair, a nibbled moustache, skin the colour of dripping and small penetrating eyes like chips of shiny green glass. He wore the sort of outfit one would expect an Antarctic explorer or a seasoned mountain climber to wear: a thick, dark-green, hooded anorak, fur-trimmed, and with numerous pockets and pouches; matching green-corduroy breeches; long grey socks and heavy, thick, rubber-soled boots, neatly laced up and newly polished. Round his neck dangled a square of plastic to hold his maps, a compass on a cord and a silver whistle. He was prodding a clipboard with a gloved finger and nodding vigorously to Miss Pruitt, who looked tired out and harassed already.
Do
minic took a deep breath. ‘I do not like the look of him,’ he whispered, slowly and deliberately. ‘I do not like the look of him at all.’
‘I told you,’ said Sean in a self-satisfied tone of voice, his hand cupped round his mouth as if the person in question might hear him.
‘I don't like the look of him either,’ agreed Michael. ‘He's like the son of Dracula. I'm not turning my back on him: he might bite my neck.’
‘I know,’ said Sean Murphy. ‘Ghastly and grisly, isn't he?’
‘He's like something out of The Curse of the Mummy's Tomb,’ said Dominic under his breath. ‘Nobody has skin that colour and those glittery eyes, they give me the creeps!’
Mr Risley-Newsome peered over in the children's direction and glowered.
‘Do you think he heard us?’ asked Sean.
Dominic smiled back at the teacher and waved. The teacher scowled and turned to face Miss Pruitt. ‘The coach should be here by now,’ he said in a low growl of a voice. ‘I do wish people would be prompt.’
‘It's not quite eight thirty, by my watch,’ replied Miss Pruitt.
‘It is by mine,’ Mr Risley-Newsome told her, consulting the huge timepiece on his wrist. ‘And my watch is never wrong.’
Miss Pruitt looked heavenwards but refrained from responding. She could see that the trip to Thundercliff Bay would be something of an ordeal.
When the coach pulled up outside the school gates, Mr Risley-Newsome gave three sharps blasts on his silver whistle and walked into the centre of the school yard. All the pupils from Cransworth Junior School made their way towards him like automata and formed a neat half-circle round him. The children from St Jude's and the bus driver, a round, jolly-faced individual, ambled in the teachers' direction.
‘Look lively!’ snapped Mr Risley-Newsome. ‘We haven't got all day!’ When all the children were assembled, he cleared his throat noisily and addressed them. ‘My name is Mr Risley-Newsome. The children from Cransworth Junior School obviously know me and the children from St Jude's soon will. For the benefit of the children in my class, this is Miss Pruitt.’ He gestured in the direction of the multicoloured apparition next to him. ‘And this is our coach driver, Mr Barnett.’
‘Hi kids!’ cried the coach driver, holding up a large, fat hand as if stopping traffic. ‘Just call me Stan. I don't want any of this “mister” malarkey.’
‘Now, before we embark on our journey to Thundercliff Bay,’ continued Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘there are one or two ground rules about your behaviour on the coach, of which you all need to be aware. I have led school parties on coaches and trains, boats and planes, up mountains, down valleys, across moors and down dales, and therefore I know the procedures like the hairs on the back of my hand.’ The children stared at his hairy hands intently. The word ‘werewolf’ came into Dominic's head.
‘Follow my instructions and we will all have a pleasant, peaceful and trouble-free journey. Do not follow my instructions and I will come down on you like a ton of bricks. I hope I make myself perfectly clear.’ Everyone, including Miss Pruitt and the bus driver, stared mutely.
‘These are my do's and don'ts. One: keep the coach clean at all times. Crisp packets, sweet wrappers, cans and bottles and all other forms of rubbish will be deposited in this plastic bin liner and not on the floor or stuffed behind the seats.’ Like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, he plucked a large plastic bag from the rucksack strapped to his back.
‘Two: if you feel sick – use the bucket.’ He indicated a large, pale-green, plastic bucket which a large girl with ginger hair was holding like a handbag.
‘Three: on the coach there will be no shouting, jumping up and down, moving about, singing, loud conversations or music of any kind.
‘Four: there will be one stop on the way and no other unscheduled interruptions to the journey. Therefore, make sure you all have been to the toilet before you get on the coach. Are there any questions?’
When Dominic spoke up, Miss Pruitt looked as if she had been given a piece of dreadful news. Her mouth dropped open in shock, her shoulders sagged and her face took on a tragic expression.
‘Can we get on the coach now, sir?’ Dominic asked innocently.
‘Excuse me?’ snapped the teacher, bristling.
‘I said can we get on the coach now, sir?’ Dominic repeated.
‘You can get on the coach,’ replied Mr Risley-Newsome, smiling widely like a vampire about to sink its teeth into a victim. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘You have the ability to get on the coach, the legs to carry you up the steps of the coach, but whether you may get on the coach is another matter altogether.’
‘Pardon, sir?’
‘You clearly are unaware, young man, of the difference between the verbs “can” and “may”. Let me enlighten you. The word “can” is an auxiliary verb expressing an ability or knowledge of how to do something. The word “may” is another auxiliary verb expressing the possibility or the permission to do something. Is that clear?’
About as clear as mud, thought Dominic. ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ he replied sweetly.
‘So you can indeed get on the bus but whether you may is another matter altogether.’
‘So, can we get on the bus, then, sir?’ asked Dominic.
‘Did you hear a word of what I have I just said, you silly boy –’ began Mr Risley-Newsome.
Miss Pruitt, who was finding this prolonged discussion quite tedious and tiresome, and wanting to get on her way, interrupted. ‘We will all get on the coach in a minute, Dominic,’ she said. ‘Just have a little patience.’
Mr Risley-Newsome jumped as if someone had pricked him with a pin. ‘Dominic!’ he exclaimed and his face twisted into a leer. ‘Dominic Dowson?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied the boy, smiling widely. ‘That's me.’
‘So you are Dominic Dowson, are you?’ said Mr Risley-Newsome. ‘Making your presence felt before we have even got on the coach? I have been warned about you, Dominic Dowson. I have it on good authority that you are a nuisance of the first order, a number one mischief maker, a storyteller, a “ne'er-do-well”.’
He always does it, thought Michael, shaking his head. He always manages to get into some sort of bother, does Dominic. Why does it always have to be him, of all people, who is the first one to open his mouth? Now ‘Old Grisly-Gruesome’ was in a bad mood. Why couldn't his friend, just for once, be quiet and not draw attention to himself? But that wouldn't be Dominic, would it, he thought, and I suppose that's why I like him.
Mr Risley-Newsome was still rambling on. ‘Well, let me tell you this, Dominic Dowson: I have my eye on you.’ He stooped and stared into the boy's eyes with those sharp green, glittery chips of glass gleaming in the sunlight. ‘I shall be watching you like a hungry hawk. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Dominic cheerfully. ‘So, can we get on the bus now, sir?’
‘You may get on the bus when I say you may,’ thundered Mr Risley-Newsome, ‘and not before. And when you do eventually get on the bus –’
‘Which I hope won't be much longer,’ said the driver in an exasperated voice, ‘because I was hoping to miss the rush-hour traffic and arrive at Thundercliff Bay before the sun sets.’
‘As I was saying,’ continued the teacher, ignoring the interruption, ‘when you do eventually get on the bus, you will sit at the front where I can see you.’
Dominic's heart sank, but he was not going to give Mr Risley-Newsome the satisfaction of seeing how disappointed he was. He'd gone and put his foot in it again, hadn't he? He'd opened his big mouth. He had really wanted to sit on the back seat with Michael and Sean.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he replied, pretending to be pleased. ‘There's more to see at the front and much more leg room.’
Mr Risley-Newsome gave him a crushing glare. ‘And you will be in charge of the litter bag and the sick bucket. Now,’ he continued, addressing the assembled pupils, ‘stack your cases and rucksacks tidily on the pavement near the coach and line up in an orderly
fashion.’
The children, whispering and sniggering, dispersed quickly.
‘And quietly!’ boomed Mr Risley-Newsome after them.
‘Well,’ observed the coach driver gloomily as he walked across the playground with Dominic and his friends, ‘you're in for a fun-packed few days with that teacher of yours, and that's for sure!’
‘He's not my teacher,’ explained Dominic. ‘Miss Pruitt's my teacher and I shall never complain about her again.’
‘He's our teacher,’ said a glum-looking boy with thick glasses, red hair and a sprinkling of freckles on his pale face, ‘and he's a nightmare.’
‘He never smiles, he never laughs, he never speaks quietly and he's always right,’ said another Cransworth pupil, a tall black girl, with coloured braids in her hair. ‘He shouts and spits and orders you about. Everybody's frightened of him – even the parents.’
‘This trip's going to be a right barrel of laughs,’ moaned Michael Chan.
‘Best advice I can give,’ said the red-haired boy, ‘is say nothing, ask nothing and keep out of his way. Isn't that right, Velma?’
The girl nodded and sighed.
As they passed Nathan Thomas and Darren Wilmott, Dominic heard their sniggers.
‘In charge of the rubbish bag and the sick bucket,’ came a mocking, chortling voice from behind them. ‘He couldn't have picked a better person. Dustbin Dowson, refuse collector and garbage man.’
‘Yeah, Dustbin Dowson,’ came Darren's familiar echo.
‘Only jealous,’ said Dominic, throwing back his head and assuming a swagger, ‘because I've been made a monitor and am sitting at the front.’
Nathan Thomas persisted. ‘Where did you get your gear from, Dowson? A charity shop?’
For the second time that morning Dominic did not wish to give his tormentor the satisfaction of seeing him upset by the remarks. His gran had always told him that when people make fun of you, take the wind out of their sails by not rising to the comments but to smile and shrug it off. It never fails to work. If you show them you are upset, then they persist. So, Dominic glanced behind him and looked at the two boys as he might at a tramp sitting on the street corner – a face full of distant pity. ‘You are a very sad person, Nathan,’ he said pleasantly. ‘A very sad person.’
Dominic's Discovery Page 3
