Corby Flood

by Paul Stewart

  Corby frowned. In fact, she’d seen him about to throw it overboard in a fit of temper on the first day of the voyage. She’d practically had to beg him not to – and had then had to listen to him moaning on about how he was a lieutenant and not a skivvy, and why couldn’t Arthur clean out the purser’s office?

  ‘Takes me back to the old days,’ said Captain Belvedere, ‘when the S.S. Euphonia really was the Empress of the Seas

  ‘Here we go,’ muttered Letchworth – Crisp under his breath.

  ‘She had a swimming pool, a beauty salon and a massage room. There was a ballroom, a theatre; quoits and curling decks … A veritable floating palace she was,’ he said, twitching his moustache and looking round the table mournfully. ‘A palace fit for royalty. Why, I remember dining on roast pheasant stuffed with Orcadian truffles, followed by champagne and macadaccio nut ice cream, with King Adolphus and Queen Rita at this very table. What a night that was! Let me see, there was the renowned portraitist Rachel Dubois, the famous pot – holer and musical dramatist Edward T Trellis, Dame Ottoline Ffarde …’

  Just then, there was a hissing sound from above,

  followed by a groaning sound from below, and the tables – Crane & Sons Automatic Self – Serving Tables – began to shake. Then, one after the other, the silver covers in the middle of each table shot up towards the ceiling to reveal three circular trays, laden with bowls, rising up from below.

  Captain Belvedere reached forward and took a steaming bowl. He sniffed at it sadly. ‘Tomato soup,’ he said gloomily. ‘Whatever would Queen Rita say?’

  3. Deck Croquet

  es here, the one with the green head and the creaking feet. The water he gives me is stale, but I am too thirsty to care.

  Oh, how I miss the little girl who used to come, and the cool, dark places in the palace gardens that only I knew.

  Now he is giving me the sweet white petals. One … two … three … They are delicious, and for a moment I can forget that I’m trapped inside this hollow tree.

  ‘Really, dear?’ said Mrs Flood distractedly. ‘How interesting.’

  But Corby knew that she hadn’t found what she’d been saying interesting at all. In fact she was beginning to doubt whether her mother had registered a single word she’d told her about the sad song that she had heard the day before. Ever since Corby had come and sat in the deckchair next to her, Mrs Flood had been rummaging through her large battered handbag.

  ‘So what do think it could have been?’ Corby persisted.

  ‘Been?’ her mother repeated vaguely.

  ‘Yes, the noise,’ said Corby. ‘The song—’

  ‘Oh, not just now, darling,’ said Mrs Flood, flicking her hair back over her ears and rummaging all the more feverishly. ‘Where is it?’ she said irritably.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Corby.

  ‘That school prospectus,’ came the reply.

  Corby sighed.

  The school prospectus … That shiny blue booklet which told parents like Corby’s what a wonderful, well – equipped and well – run place Harbour Heights School was. It was the reason Mr and Mrs Flood were so keen to send her and her brothers there.

  Corby had never been to school before. In Dandoon, all the Flood children had been taught at home by personal tutors. Now, after their father’s great disappointment, all that was going to change.

  ‘I’m sure I put it in my bag this morning,’ Corby’s mother was saying. ‘I distinctly remember laying it down, opening my bag and— Oh, bother!’

  All at once, Mrs Flood had had enough. She cranked the mechanical deckchair forward and tipped up the bag. The contents spilled out across the deck all around her tortoiseshell sunglasses with gold wing – tips, a silver compact, several tubes of lipstick, a clutch of keys, a book of matches, an assortment of crumpled handkerchiefs … as well as the bizarre selection of buttons, coins, tickets, safety pins and fluff that lies at the bottom of every bag. A hundred items or more there must have been, but the school prospectus was not one of them.

  ‘You put the school prospectus down?’ said Corby.

  ‘Yes,’ her mother said. ‘I put it down and opened my bag and—’ Just then, the quiet of the late afternoon was shattered by the sound of loud voices and pounding feet. ‘Defilade to the offside, Cedric!’ Mrs Flood and Corby looked up, just in time to see a red and blue striped wooden ball go spinning past them, with Cedric, Hubert, Ernest and Toby – all laughing uproariously – hurtling after it, their mallets raised.

  Cedric reached the ball first, and hit it firmly. With a loud clack! it bounced off the metal stanchion in front of him and spun up into the air.

  ‘Spike on!’ he roared. ‘Fire in the hold!’

  ‘Watch the birdie!’ shouted Hubert and Ernest together, as the ball reached its highest point in the air and then sped back down to the deck.

  Toby barged past his older brothers, arms outstretched. ‘Dunroamin’!’ Corby’s youngest older brother bellowed as his fingers closed around the ball. He turned to his brothers. ‘Second wicket to me, I think you’ll find,’ he said.

  ‘Certainly is,’ said Cedric.

  ‘Well played, sir!’ said Hubert.

  ‘Brilliant catch,’ said Ernest. ‘As crisp as a Gibbons shirt!’

  And the three older boys clustered round their youngest brother, slapping him enthusiastically on the back.

  ‘Congratulations, Toby!’ said Corby, jumping to her feet and clapping louder than any of them.

  ‘Oh, hello, sis,’ said Toby, grinning back at her. ‘I didn’t see you there. Fancy joining in? You could be the outside flank – sweeper.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Corby, who could never quite get the hang of her brothers’ games. ‘I was just …’

  But her words were lost in the sudden burst of cheering and jeering as Hubert snatched the ball from Toby’s grip and threw it up in the air.

  ‘Mr Jolly’s gone to market!’ he bellowed, and thwacked the ball as hard as he could with his mallet.

  ‘What a dream of a backhand!’ shouted Ernest as he belted after the ball, Cedric and Toby in hot pursuit.

  As the riotous game reached the end of the deck, the boys skidded round the corner and disappeared, and the sound of their excited voices faded. Mrs Flood turned to Corby, her eyes twinkling with pride and happiness.

  ‘My little boys,’ she sighed.

  Corby smiled back. At fifteen, fourteen, thirteen and twelve, Cedric, Hubert, Ernest and Toby were hardly ‘little boys’ any more, and to Corby herself, of course, they’d always seemed big. But to Mrs Flood they would always be her ‘little boys’.

  Just then, the young lieutenant, Jon – Jolyon Letchworth – Crisp, appeared from the opposite direction.

  ‘Dear, dear,’ he said, standing above them, his hands on his hips as he surveyed the contents of the empty bag lying in a pile all around them. ‘I know that deck sports can be a bit boisterous, but the way your sons play—’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ said Mrs Flood, standing up and flapping her hands. ‘That wasn’t them. It was me. I was looking for—’ She stopped and took a sharp intake of breath. ‘The school prospectus,’ she said to Corby. ‘I quite forgot—’

  ‘But, Mother—’ said Corby, shaking her head.

  ‘It went right out of my head in all the excitement,’ Mrs Flood was saying. ‘I had it this morning. I distinctly remember coming out, putting it down on the deckchair, opening my bag and—’

  ‘Mother, it’s right there,’ said Corby. ‘You’ve been sitting on it the whole time.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Of course I haven’t. I’d have—’ She paused. ‘I was?’

  Corby nodded. ‘Here it is. Harbour Heights School,’ she said. ‘A little creased around the corners.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ said Mrs Flood, smiling warmly. Oh, Corby, darling, you’re such a treasure. I really don’t know what I should do without you.’ She winked. ‘Now, if you could just help me with all this mess he
re,’ she said.

  Corby was about to help her mother, but Jon – Jolyon beat her to it.

  ‘Let me, Mrs Flood,’ he said. ‘It’s the least I can do for suggesting that it might have been your sons who caused the mess in the first place. Such charming boys, all of them. A credit to you, if I might be so bold.’ He began gathering up the items and returning them to the bag. ‘As indeed are all your children.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Flood. ‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

  ‘Harbour Heights School – an excellent institution from what I hear, Mrs Flood,’ said Jon – Jolyon smoothly, eyeing the prospectus in Mrs Flood’s hands. ‘Though for children as charming and talented as your own, my dear Mrs Flood,’ he continued, ‘surely personal tutors would be the obvious choice?’

  ‘I’m afraid, Lieutenant—’ said Mrs Flood.

  ‘Please, call me Jon – Jolyon,’ said Jon – Jolyon with a smile.

  ‘I’m afraid, Jon – Jolyon,’ Mrs Flood continued, ‘after my husband’s … er … disappointment, I’m afraid personal tutors would be far too expensive.’

  ‘Oh, I understand, Mrs Flood,’ said Jon – Jolyon, suddenly serious. ‘As for myself, I don’t intend to remain a humble lieutenant for much longer. I have great plans, Mrs Flood

  Corby had heard enough. ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said, and set off along the deck.

  As she came to the metal stairway that led to the upper deck, she heard Jon – Jolyon’s voice: ‘One day I’m going to be a captain, and not of an old rust – bucket like the Euphonia, but of a real ocean liner

  The upper deck, Corby was pleased to see, was empty. No noisy brothers. No whispering Hattenswillers. No odd man from Cabin 21 – nor any of those sinister men in their smart suits and bottle – green bowler hats.

  Corby couldn’t help shivering whenever she thought about them. They seemed, on the surface, to be very polite, raising their hats and bowing their heads to everyone they met. But it had been very different that first day on board, when Corby had accidentally bumped into the tall one in the yellow checked suit. He had tripped over one of the automatic parasols on the deck, which had sent him sprawling, followed by his four companions, like a set of deck skittles. Corby hadn’t meant to, but they looked so funny that she couldn’t help laughing. The tall gentleman had leaped to his feet, his face contorted with rage.

  ‘Nobody laughs at the Brotherhood of Clowns!’ he’d hissed.

  Corby had been so shocked that she’d stopped laughing instantly, and it was only after they had slunk away that she noticed the small gold – edged card lying on the deck. She’d picked it up and turned it over.

  MR TIMES – ROMAN, M.A.A.C.M., it read. MASTER OF THE ANCIENT ART OF COMEDIC MIME.

  Corby had slipped the card into her copy of Hoffendinck’s Guide. That had been three weeks ago.

  Leaning against the safety rail on the starboard side of the ship, Corby rested her chin on her folded arms and watched the turbulent line of froth trailing away from the back of the boat. To her right, the sun was sinking down to the horizon. To her left, far in the distance, she thought she could see a stretch of land glinting in the golden light. It looked intriguing.

  She opened Hoffendinck’s Guide …

  HOFFENDINCK’s GUIDE

  and be sure to look out for the dancing turtles that come ashore during thunderstorms.

  THE COAST OF DALCRETIA

  One of most remote and mountainous coastlines in the world, the Dalcretian coast boasts many stunning natural harbours and delightful little towns. Long favoured by small pleasure – boats and yachts, recently larger vessels have stopped to sample the delights of Dalcretia.

  The thick pine forests and mountain peaks are home to the formidable Dalcretian shepherds, who tend their flocks in lonely isolation for years at a time, before coming to the coast for the extraordinary Dalcretian holiday festival known as ‘The Longest Afternoon’.

  Each Dalcretian coastal town boasts of its own ‘Longest Afternoon’ as the best of its kind, and often spends years preparing for one.

  SIGHTS TO LOOK OUT FOR:

  Doral’s Mountain Goats – can be spotted leaping from the highest crags. Look out also for the dwarf tree – climbing goats and the extremely shy cave – dwelling goats.

  Dalcretian shepherds – with their distinctive black cloaks and impressive moustaches, the Dalcretian shepherds are renowned for their extraordinary strength, stamina and lack of conversation.

  Corby let the pencil go. It dangled from the string around her neck.

  There was the beautiful coast of Dalcretia, with all its interesting sights – which she would never see, Corby thought miserably. All she had to look forward to was rotten old Harbour Heights School.

  She closed Hoffendinck’s Guide with a heavy sigh.

  4. The Brotherhood of Clowns

  ve been trapped in this tree for so long I’m beginning to forget …

  The palace gardens, the little girl who comes when the cymbal sounds, and the dappled sunlight in the quiet corners … Everything.

  Corby wasn’t sure what made her do it. Perhaps it was the creaking footsteps coming up the metal stairway, or the sound of whispering voices, or the flash of bottle – green she’d glimpsed for a split second. Whatever it was, she had known instantly that she didn’t want to be discovered here, alone, on the upper deck – especially by the Brotherhood of Clowns.

  Desperately, she looked around. Where could she hide?

  Under that deckchair? Too obvious. Behind the chipped white funnel? They’d spot her straight away. What about … ? Yes! That was it, the lifeboat. Of course!

  Corby clambered over the side of the lifeboat that swung, suspended, just above her, and pulled the tarpaulin cover over her head just in time. The sound of creaking shoe leather came closer, and the whispers grew louder.

  ‘Nope, you must be mistaken, Bembo, me old mate. Ain’t nobody up ‘ere and that’s a fact,’ said a gruff voice.

  Corby shivered.

  ‘But Franklin – Gothic,’ came a soft, slightly wheezy voice, ‘there was definitely someone here, standing at the railings …’

  ‘Eez not ‘ere now, no way,’ came a third voice, high – pitched and impatient.

  ‘That is correct, Palatino. We are indeed alone. Now gather round. You too, Garamond. Stop daydreaming and pay attention!’

  Corby recognized the sinister voice of Mr Times – Roman.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ came a fat, chewy voice that obviously belonged to Mr Garamond. It’s just that I can ‘ear it singing – ‘ere in me’ ead – the saddest song … And it’s beginning to get to me!’ Corby gasped. So the clowns knew all about the saddest song!

  Oh, stop your whining,’ said Franklin – Gothic nastily. ‘After all, we’ve done the’ ard part, ain’t we, boss? Just got to keep it nice and quiet until

  In the lifeboat above, Corby’s heart was beating so hard she was amazed that the Brotherhood of Clowns couldn’t hear it. They seemed to be clustered at the railings just beneath.

  ‘Quiet, the lot of you,’ hissed Times – Roman menacingly. ‘For your information, Franklin – Gothic, the “‘ard part”, as you put it, certainly isn’t over. And as for you, Garamond, pull yourself together. Saddest song indeed! It’s all in your mind. Remember, we’re the Brotherhood of Clowns. What are we?’

  The Brotherhood of Clowns!’ chorused the other voices.

  ‘And we fear nothing,’ Times – Roman went on, ‘except …’

  ‘A slow handclap and a well – aimed custard pie!’ replied the others in unison.

  That’s right!’ said Times – Roman. ‘So don’t you forget it! If we pull this little job off for the headmistress, we’ll be rich, brothers! Rich, do you hear me?’

  ‘We hear you, brother,’ said the others.

  ‘No more ringmasters and acrobats looking down their noses at us. No more warming up the audience for the knife – throwers and plate – jugglers. No, if we succeed, then we’ll own
the circus. We’ll call the shots – and we’ll see who’s laughing then!’

  The brotherhood broke into sinister sniggers.

  ‘All we have to do is keep our eyes and ears open, and if we spot anyone snooping

  ‘Or sniffing around,’ added Garamond.

  ‘Or sneaking about,’ said Bembo.

  ‘Or skulking in ze corners,’ added Palatino.

  ‘Or eavesdropping!’ hissed Franklin – Gothic.

  ‘Then we all know what’ll happen to them, don’t we, brothers?’

  Corby couldn’t see, but she was sure that the sound she could hear was the sound of four bottle – green bowler hats nodding. Her blood ran cold.

  ‘That’s right,’ whispered Times – Roman. ‘An accident. A very nasty accident.’

  5. The Unfortunate Cabin Incident

  lone. All alone, here in this hollow tree. The forest floor still sways, and the sun doesn’t shine …

  ‘So I had a word with that nice young lieutenant,’ Mrs Flood was saying a little distractedly as she fiddled with her hair in front of the mirror. ‘And he had a word with the peculiar gentlemen – what did you say they called themselves, dear?’

  The Brotherhood of Clowns,’ said Corby, aghast. ‘But, Mother! I told you not to say anything!’

  It was the worst possible thing that could have happened. She’d crept out of the lifeboat as soon as the Brotherhood of Clowns had gone, her heart thumping, and rushed back to the safety of her parents’ cabin. She hadn’t wanted to say anything, but her mother had taken one look at her ashen face and trembling hands and insisted that she tell her the whole story.

  ‘But now they’ll know that I was eavesdropping!’ Corby protested. Oh, I shouldn’t worry about that, dear,’ said her mother sweetly, ‘because as those funny gentlemen explained to Jon – Jolyon, what you overheard was simply a rehearsal. Some new routine they’re working on. They had quite a laugh about it apparently. So you see, no harm done,’ her mother went on, turning to face her. She pulled her hair up and twisted it round. ‘Up?’ she said. Or down?’ She let the hair tumble down over her shoulders.