by Hilary McKay
Ever since their return from Cumbria, Naomi had been wondering about how they would find the next ten pounds. Gone were the days when she could bear to charge Toby and Emma for the work she did in their garden, and she had almost decided to choose the least-valued of her books and dispose of them in the town’s second-hand book shop, when Gavin recalled his past life of freedom and awoke her imagination.
What if she were to find King John’s treasure?
Her sisters, she knew, did not believe in it. Naomi had mentioned the subject again, and Phoebe had repeated her argument that anyone who dropped the crown jewels would certainly pick them up again. Rachel had agreed, and said they obviously had done, since Ruth had seen them in London only a few months before. Ruth had gone so far as to look King John up in the library encyclopaedia and had found no reference to lost jewels, or gold, or flights across the Lincolnshire marshes. On the other hand, Toby and Emma had been completely unmoved by what Emma called ‘book talk’ and had remarked that whoever wrote the encyclopaedia was obviously not a local chap.
‘How do you know?’ Ruth had asked, and Emma had replied that of course he wasn’t, otherwise he would have put in about King John losing his treasure down by the marshes.
Anyway, Naomi decided, it was worth a try, and she asked Gavin, ‘How did you get there?’
‘Where?’
‘Marshes.’
‘On my bike,’ said Gavin.
‘Are you going on Saturday, then? Now Wendy’s dumped you?’
‘I only said I thought I would,’ interrupted Wendy.
‘Too late!’ Ruth, Naomi, Martin and several other people who had pitied Gavin for months, all spoke together.
‘I wish I could,’ said Gavin, (uncomplainingly accepting the majority decision on his love life) ‘but Dad’s sold my bike.’
‘You can borrow Ruth’s,’ offered Naomi immediately, ‘if you’ll show me the way.’
Gavin looked alarmed and said bravely that he didn’t want any more girlfriends yet.
‘No, no, no!’ said Naomi through gritted teeth, ‘I just want to go there, that’s all.’
‘You can’t have got over me yet,’ Wendy reminded Gavin, and Gavin meekly agreed that he hadn’t.
‘Good luck!’ said Ruth the following Saturday. ‘Hope it doesn’t rain; it looks a bit grey! Don’t let Gavin wreck my bike! I don’t know how you got him to agree to go.’
‘I didn’t really,’ admitted Naomi. ‘In the end I just told him he was going and I was coming with him. I think he likes that better than having to make his mind up!’
It seemed Naomi was right. At every crossroads on the bike ride to the marshes, Gavin paused and asked Naomi which way she thought they ought to take, and each time Naomi replied with diminishing patience that she did not know and ordered Gavin to go the way he had always done in the past, and Gavin, following these instructions, finally brought them to their destination. With great relief Naomi abandoned him on a muddy patch of reeds and after impressing on him that he was not to go back without her, departed to look for gold.
The marsh was immense. It stretched out to the left as far as Naomi could see, and curved round to the right for miles. Far out on the horizon a silver line that was the sea marked the outward boundary. Naomi climbed a stile and squinted into the late September afternoon. Nothing Toby or Emma had said indicated the size of the place. She had imagined a large muddy field, and instead it was like finding another country.
‘King John might have dropped that treasure anywhere,’ she said. ‘The fool!’
It was pointless even to get down from the stile. Naomi, hunched down against the cold sea wind, stared out into the greyness and searched for a glimpse of gold and at that moment the sun broke through the clouds.
Immediately the landscape was transformed. The munching brown cattle suddenly gleamed like golden beasts on an old tapestry and the bleached summer grasses acquired a blond rinse. Every puddle and pond and creek, right out to the glimmering horizon, became a sheet of mirrored gold. The crown jewels, stacked in a heap in the middle would have been impossible to pick out, and Naomi knew it. Eventually, stiff and chilled from sitting too long, she clambered down from the stile and went in search of Gavin. There he was, still parked beside his patch of reeds. He waved cheerfully as Naomi approached and pointed to a flock of birds that rose between them.
‘What?’ asked Naomi.
‘Golden plover!’ said Gavin.
Ruth was waiting at the gate when the treasure-hunters arrived home. The first thing she saw was Gavin’s sad clown’s face beaming with satisfaction and her heart gave a sudden bump of hope.
‘Any luck?’ she asked.
‘Brilliant!’ replied Gavin, causing her expectations to rise even higher, only to fall once again at the sight of Naomi. No hint of treasure sparkled in her sister’s eyes. Her bike basket was perfectly empty, and her pockets completely flat.
‘Didn’t you find anything, then?’ Ruth asked, disappointed.
‘Golden plover,’ said Gavin proudly.
‘Golden what?’
‘They’re birds,’ said Naomi, ‘that’s their name.’
‘Oh,’ said Ruth.
Tired and disconsolate, Naomi stumped indoors and up to her bedroom. No treasure at all! Even one small ring, or a single gold coin would have been enough, she reflected. She had not expected to come home completely empty-handed.
‘Well, there’s still Peter, I suppose,’ said Ruth coming in. ‘I said I’d look after him tomorrow morning while they go to Harvest Festival. And we thought of a way of getting money while you were gone, only it’s a bit early in the year. Still, only a few weeks.’
‘What is it?’ asked Naomi suspiciously.
‘Well, you know how people do Trick or Treat . . .’
‘Oh no!’ said Naomi.
‘We could dress Rachel and Phoebe up in those old clothes you used for disguises.’
‘You must be mad!’
‘No one would know who they were, all dressed up!’
‘They’d know who we were, though!’
‘Oh well,’ said Ruth, ‘What about carol singing, then?’
‘It’s not even October yet!’
‘The shops have had Christmas cards in for ages,’ said Ruth earnestly, ‘and anyway, we thought we needn’t do carols straight away, just ordinary hymns, and then get more and more carolly as it gets nearer Christmas . . .’
‘It would be terrible,’ said Naomi bluntly.
Rachel came in and announced that everyone was taking food to the church.
‘Cooking apples and tins of beans and all sorts,’ she said. ‘Me and Phoebe’ve been watching them. What happens to it all after Harvest Festival?’
‘What happens to church collections?’ asked Phoebe, who had followed her. ‘That’s what I want to know!’
‘Look,’ said Naomi, firmly, ‘I’ll get the next ten pounds. Properly, without robbing the church collection or pinching the Harvest Festival stuff . . .’
‘We only wondered about it,’ Rachel interrupted, ‘anyway, the church is locked!’
‘How do you know?’
‘I tried the door. Don’t look at me like that! I only wanted to see all the food!’
‘Oh yes?’ said Naomi sceptically, ‘and no one’s going Trick or Treating or early carol singing either!’
‘We didn’t want to do those things,’ Ruth said. ‘I just thought we ought to. There’s only pocket money and Peter left, and I’m worried about Peter. He’s getting too many good habits!’
That was true. Ruth realized it again the next morning. Peter, who had spent the best part of two years scurrying round on his hands and knees with apparently no intention of ever walking upright, was staggering round the Collingwood kitchen.
‘He’ll soon forget crawling altogether,’ said Mrs Collingwood complacently. ‘He’s getting to be a proper little man! Milk and biscuits for him on the sideboard, Ruth. See you in an hour or so. Kiss Mummy goodbye, Pete
r.’
Peter not only kissed her goodbye, but hugged Mr Collingwood too, and gravely offered his cheek to Martin. He further alarmed Ruth by waving sedately to his departing family from the window, instead of indulging in his usual practice of going purple and screaming.
Perhaps he’s ill, thought Ruth, but not very hopefully, because Peter had never looked better. Or cleaner! It was amazing the difference walking instead of crawling made to his appearance. Gone were the grimy hands and knees and the red, breathless face. Instead he looked pink and white and very nearly human. He was beginning to show a faint resemblance to his brother, who was not called Martin-the-good by his neighbours for nothing. He was even beginning to grow hair! Real, shiny hair had begun to replace the worn, patchy fluff that had adorned his head for so long. It seemed the final blow. Ruth would have been less distressed to discover he was growing horns.
Naomi, who had been alarmed at her sister’s hints about Peter and decided to inspect him for herself, arrived to find Ruth thoughtfully poking his head.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Has he got fleas or something?’
‘Worse,’ said Ruth. ‘Look at him! He’s growing blond curls! And walking on his legs and not screaming or smashing things! He’s been staring out of the window as good as good, waving to cars!’
‘Why’s he so clean?’ asked Naomi, frowning at Peter’s curls. ‘He must have been up for hours.’
‘It’s because he’s stopped crawling. Oh, Naomi, what are we going to do when Peter doesn’t need babysitting any more?’
‘I don’t know. Can he talk yet?’
‘No. Not really, only Good Dog and bits of Italian and French I’ve been teaching him. He can’t say anything that makes sense.’
‘Well,’ said Naomi briskly, ‘that’s not so bad then! First we’ll get him crawling again – we can teach him to play Omelette!’
Omelette was a game played by Ruth and Naomi in their extreme youth. All you needed was a sofa, strong clothes and a loud voice. Ruth had not known what an omelette was when she had invented the game; the word alone had fascinated her. She had crawled round and round the sofa, shouting it at the top of her voice until her palms and knees grew hot, and she was dizzy. It was a game that began in excitement, continued into frenzy, and ended in madness and exhaustion. Naomi had learnt it, Mrs Conroy had banned it, and since then, for years, they had forgotten its existence.
Now they looked thoughtfully at Peter, pulled the Collingwoods’ beautiful green velvet sofa away from the wall, and began to play again. Peter watched them, startled but fascinated and then flung himself on to the floor to join in.
Never had Omelette been played so ferociously. Ruth and Naomi seemed to have lost the skill of crawling at great speed and dropped out after a few minutes, but Peter continued wildly circling, bellowing his chant of ‘OmeletteOmeletteOmelette’ until his knees gave way and he collapsed, sweaty and red-faced on Naomi’s feet.
‘Looks more like himself now,’ said Naomi cheerfully. ‘What next?’
‘Milk and biscuits,’ said Ruth, suddenly remembering and hurrying to fetch them.
Peter, hungry from his exercise, gobbled his biscuits as if he were starving and then got very milky down his front attempting to drink by lapping.
‘Like Josh,’ said Naomi, demonstrating.
‘Good dog,’ said Peter, rubbing his milky hands through his curls to dry them, and fell asleep in the corner of the sofa. Ruth, regarding him with pride, reflected that he would need bathing before lunchtime, but then the Peter she had known and loved in the past had always needed scrubbing several times a day.
‘Oh my Peter!’ exclaimed Mrs Collingwood, on seeing her offspring. ‘What have you done to poor Ruth?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ruth hastily, ‘he’s been perfectly good! He didn’t scream a bit when you left. Naomi came round and we played with him and then he had his milk and biscuits and went to sleep.’
‘Well, it’s sweet of you to spare my feelings,’ said Mrs Collingwood, still staring at Peter. ‘Soap and hot water, I think! Say thank you to Ruth!’
‘Grazie good dog,’ said Peter absently.
‘Practically a whole sentence,’ said Mrs Collingwood, smiling proudly.
‘Worked, didn’t it?’ remarked Naomi complacently when Ruth arrived home. ‘How much? Got the jam jar, Rachel?’
Rachel fished up the jam jar and dropped the two pound coins Ruth gave her into it.
‘If we put in half of everyone’s pocket money this week and next week that’ll make five. We need another five more.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Naomi.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Dear friends Ruth and Naomi and Rachel and Phoebe,
I have been very well, and my family have been well. I hope you are well too. Thank you for the picture you sent with the letter. I was so happy to see you. All my family said, send our greetings to your friends, Joseck.
At school there is a board by the door with all the pictures of our sponsors. I have the best. I have the only children. Everybody says, Joseck has the best.
Mari said, ‘tell them to come and visit. I need more girls to play with me. They can stay in my house.’
Then all the students shouted, ‘No No They can stay in my house.’
I say you were my friends first. So you can stay at my house.
All the students in this school have had an injection. Now we will not have measles.
To be a doctor you must study at university. I should like to do that.
Your friend, Joseck
‘Amazing to think,’ said Ruth, ‘that we have somewhere to stay in Africa!’
‘Lots of places to stay,’ added Rachel.
‘You have to be very brainy to be a doctor,’ said Naomi thoughtfully.
‘Joseck is very brainy.’
‘I know.’
Toby, who had listened with interest to Joseck’s letter said, ‘A doctor, eh, Emma? What about that?’
‘Good lad,’ said Emma, nodding slowly. ‘Good lad. Good girls. All them bright flowers,’ and then fell so deeply asleep that even Phoebe could not shake her awake.
‘Leave her be,’ said Toby gently, ‘she got tired today, sitting out in your garden. Anyway,, she’s said what she wanted to say.’
Rachel and Phoebe went outside to play zoos in the shed. Ruth tiptoed across to the kitchen to make a cup of tea for Toby. Naomi reread the letter.
A doctor! she thought, and Gosh!
The notice in the shop window read: BOOKS BOUGHT AND SOLD. Naomi paused to reread it before pushing open the door and marching in. She carried two large bags of books from the bookshelves of herself and her sisters.
The shop seemed at first to be empty, but at the thump of Naomi’s bags on the floor, a door at the back creaked, and the owner appeared. Naomi was pleased to see that he was thin and bald and looked as nervous as she felt.
‘Books bought and sold,’ she quoted bravely. ‘I’ve brought some books.’
‘To sell?’ asked the owner.
‘It says that you buy books in the window. What sort of books? Old ones?’
‘All sorts. The older the better.’
‘Some of mine are very old,’ said Naomi, relieved. ‘What about children’s books?’
‘Very collectable these days.’
‘Well, mine are mostly children’s ones,’ said Naomi, feeling more and more confident, ‘that me and my sisters have collected.’
‘And now you want to sell them?’
‘That’s why I’ve brought them.’
‘And your sisters want to sell them too?’
Naomi looked uncomfortable, but reflected that if her sisters did not exactly want to sell them, they certainly wanted the money they would bring.
‘We couldn’t all come,’ she said evasively, and began unpacking her bags on to the counter. The first to come out were four Bibles that she had stuffed in at the last minute.
‘They look new,’ she said anxiously,
watching the bookshop owner pick them up, ‘but only because we never read them. They’re old, really. They were christening presents. You can tell by the dates.’
‘Ruth, Naomi, Rachel and Phoebe Conroy,’ read the bookshop owner, studying the dates, ‘and you are?’
‘Naomi. These are really old! That’s why the covers have come off.’
‘Paperbacks.’
‘Yes, and these are old too.’
‘School books.’
‘Not pinched from school,’ Naomi reassured him. ‘They were throwing them out last term. These were Mum’s, so they’re very, very old!’
‘Annuals.’ The bookshop owner brightened up and began examining the dates, ‘Any more?’
‘These are Sunday school prizes that were Grandma’s. They look quite new, but they’re really ancient. Only they’re full of stories with morals so we never bother with them. Someone might, though.’
‘Someone might, certainly,’ agreed the bookshop owner. ‘Anything more?’
Naomi shook her head and looked anxiously at the pile of books on the counter. ‘How much will I get?’
‘How much were you thinking of?’
‘For all of them?’
‘Certainly. The annuals and the Sunday school prizes, anyway. I can dispose of the rest if you like.’
Naomi sighed with relief and said she wanted as much as possible, preferably twenty-five pounds and the bookshop owner shook his head and said he thought not, and offered five.
‘Twenty,’ said Naomi.
‘Sorry, my dear.’
‘Fifteen?’
‘How about ten?’ suggested the bookshop owner, ‘which is as much as you’ll get anywhere.’
‘Ten,’ said Naomi. ‘Oh well, ten’ll do. Can I have it now?’
‘I shall just need your telephone number,’ the bookshop owner grew suddenly brisk. ‘Will your mother be at home? Or your father?’
‘What for?’ asked Naomi, very alarmed to see that he had already pulled a telephone directory from under the counter and was turning up the Cs.
‘Always check with parents before buying off children,’ he murmured, running his finger down the list. ‘First rule of business! Good heavens!’
