The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child

by Robin Jarvis

  Miss Boston stole one final glance at the retreating figures of Ben and Jennet then took the infant's hands in hers.

  "Now be at rest," the child beamed. "Your cares are over."

  With his merry laughter floating on the air, he began to lead Alice Boston into the sea.

  Sister Frances smiled faintly then her eyelids fluttered and she put her hand to her temple as her legs buckled beneath her.

  Upon the cliff top, in the windows of the Abbey, a beautiful radiance gleamed fiercely for a moment, shining far into the clear sky—then was gone.

  The sands appeared dull and chill and dressed in her usual drab robes and black woollen stockings, Sister Frances gawped about her.

  "Lumme!" she gushed. "What am I doing here?"

  Whirling unsteadily around in a doddery circle, the boisterous nun squinted at the shallow waters, where a dark furling shape swished beneath the waves.

  "Sweet Lord!" she whinnied, galumphing into the sea, "I recognise that! Oh, don't let it be so—it's too, too awful!"

  With her clumsy hands, she dredged a sage green tweed cloak from the water and inspected it with a horrified expression on her goggling face.

  "Miss B!" she wittered, scooping through the waves to find her, "Miss B! Where are you?"

  But Miss Boston was gone and in the ancient town of Whitby another bright and peaceful morning was unfolding.

  ***

  Margaret Rodice eased herself into her chair and munched her way through half a packet of bourbons as she lost herself in the pages of her romantic novel. The lipstick prints around the rim of her fine china cup had almost obliterated the top of a shepherdess's head by the time she had sucked the watery tea down to the dregs.

  Reaching the end of a heart-thumping chapter, she lay the book down and gazed out of the window at the leaden skyline of Leeds.

  It had been a trying few weeks and her pride had still not recovered from having to take back that pair of difficult cases, the Laurenson children.

  Oh, she had argued and protested, but the authorities had refused to listen and it was gallingly bitter to realise just how indifferent they were to her views and opinions.

  Those children were the most unpleasant specimens ever to have passed through the doors of her hostel, and the discomfort at having to admit them a second time rankled inside her inflamed breast.

  They had been back with her for almost a fortnight now and she had to admit that the change in one of them was not unappealing. That creepy little boy was no longer frightening her other charges and she hadn't heard him mention her late husband once. He spent most of his time moping about in the flagged garden or mooching sullenly in the recreation room. That was how it should be, a nice quiet child who didn't shout and didn't wet the bed.

  Mrs Rodice's lips twitched, however, when she thought of the boy's sister. Whatever that barmy old woman had taught that girl it certainly didn't include good manners. Jennet Laurenson was the rudest and most insolent creature she had ever known. She watched over that brother of hers like a hawk and even the older thugs were afraid of her.

  "Something must be done," the woman grumbled, nibbling her final biscuit and sucking the crumbs from her palm. "I wonder if that docile Adams woman who came to visit them last weekend would care to take them off my hands? She seemed malleable enough."

  Her plottings were interrupted by the peeping of the telephone, and summoning her friendliest and most official-sounding voice, in case it was someone who mattered, Mrs Rodice snatched up the receiver.

  ***

  The recreation room of the hostel was a poky place, just big enough to squeeze in a ping-pong table, but as one of the bats had gone missing and was never replaced, this facility was perpetually folded and jammed against one wall behind the television.

  Sitting on two of the three reasonably comfy chairs, Jennet and Ben played with a dog-eared and grubby pack of cards and whiled the afternoon away.

  The past three weeks had been a miserable time for them. In the tragic absence of Miss Boston, Sister Frances had stayed at the cottage to care for the children, but this was only a short-term solution as the social services sought for a more permanent answer.

  It was Jennet's fault that she and her brother had ended up back with "The Rodice". In an unguarded moment she had forgotten that the guileless nun had no comprehension of sarcasm and extolled the virtues of this establishment to the full. Unfortunately Sister Frances had believed every word and put a terribly misguided plan into action.

  Jennet was mortified when she discovered that everything had been arranged but by that time it was too late. Bags were packed and they were shunted back under the auspices of Margaret Rodice.

  Neither she nor Ben understood what was happening to them; everything they had grown to love had been taken away and they were back where they had started.

  "Snap," the girl sighed in a dull voice.

  "I'm bored," Ben moaned, flinging the playing cards across the room and stomping over to the window.

  Jennet watched him press his nose against the glass and stare down at the road below. She wondered if he realised that it was exactly a year ago today that they had first set foot in Whitby and saw Aunt Alice's plump, clucking figure.

  Ben slid his face across the window and gazed back at her. "Why did she do it?" he asked, proving that he too was thinking of the indefatigable old lady. "Why did she leave us?"

  "I don't know, Ben," his sister replied, "I really don't know. I was hoping that perhaps today... but no—nothing's going to happen. We've had our share of magic in our lives. You only get the one."

  The boy sniffled and returned his doleful attention to the road outside.

  Idly, his eyes watched a blue car veer from the road and glide up to the hostel gates.

  Gradually, as the couple alighted from the vehicle below, Ben's mouth dropped open and he rubbed his eyes in wonder.

  "Jen," he murmured feverishly, "Jen—the ointment! It's wearing off!"

  Hurriedly, Jennet ran over to him. "Ben!" she cried. "Are you all right? What's the matter, what have you..?"

  Her voice died, for she too looked down at the figures and she clasped her hands over her mouth as she burst into tears.

  "You see them!" Ben shrieked, bouncing up and down on the chairs. "You see them! The Lords of the Deep and Dark can do anything! They can do anything!"

  The children raced to the door and wrenched it open, just as The Rodice was tripping up the stairs in a state of great agitation.

  "This is most irregular!" she exclaimed shrilly. "Most exceedingly irregular! I really don't understand... !"

  Standing aside to let the visitors past, she stared at the ecstatic faces of the children framed in the doorway and shrugged.

  Jennet and Ben gazed through their joyful tears at the man and woman before them, then with a happy yell—they ran into their parents' arms.