CHAPTER NINE
Pigeon Pie and Sprouts
The temperamental weather turned even nastier, and the skittish wind continued to hammer them from all sides. Thoroughly exhausted and almost beaten back, they struggled against the squall that tried to keep them at bay, but with grim determination, they slowly battled their way towards the black lighthouse that loomed out of the gloom.
✽✽✽
Rachel, Larry and Lorraine huddled in the lighthouse’s snug alcove. The noise from the wind and rain had vanished all at once, and the sudden quiet felt quite unsettling. Larry got to work and pulled the ivy away from the weather-beaten oak door that had probably seen better days.
‘Now, Larry and I will go in first,’ Lorraine told Rachel. ‘Wait here until we’ve made sure that’s it's safe for you to come inside.’
Rachel nodded, and her stomach let out a low desperate growl.
Lorraine reached for the plastic carrier bag that wasn’t there. ‘Oh, bother,’ she said all in a fluster, ‘Now, I’m a silly bee – I’ve gone and left our picnic bag back at the signpost.’
Rachel’s stomach groaned in annoyance.
‘Don’t worry, Lorraine – all is not lost,’ said Larry breathlessly, beads of sweat glistening on his dirty brow as he opened his satchel. He handed Rachel a foil bundle and gave her a merry grin. ‘Right, I think this little lot should just be enough to calm your grumbly tummy once and for all.’
‘Thanks, Larry,’ Rachel beamed.
‘Lydia’s fixed me up with a right royal picnic – and I’m pretty sure she’s put something special in there for you, too,’ he added with a raised eyebrow. ‘I think the cold curdled soup has settled on my stomach, so I could do with a bit of nosh when we’ve finished in here.’
‘OK, Rachel – stay in earshot and don’t go wandering off,’ Lorraine demanded, giving her daughter a lingering look that she understood.
‘Right, that should do it,’ Larry puffed, ripping the last remnants of matted ivy off the door, revealing the doorknob and the faint outline of eleven etched bees that encircled the brass keyhole below it.
He produced a key from his pocket and placed it in the lock, and with a slow grinding turn and a swift hefty shove, both he and Lorraine stepped over the threshold with nervous apprehension.
When the alcove door had slammed shut, Rachel wasted no time in sniffing Larry’s picnic bundle. It smelled so deliciously scrumptious, but as she went to open it, another scent caught her nostril’s attention.
Adamant the gamey smell wasn’t coming from her bundle, she stared up at the morose sky. Snaking between the bevvy of battered buildings, a long veil of white smoke wrapped around the church’s crumbling spire.
For a fleeting moment, she thought about telling her mother they were probably not alone, but her inquisitive nature won out.
It was her chance to find out about the town, and she didn’t want any grownups spoiling her curiosity in exploring the place, so she ignored the growls and groans from her stomach, stashed Larry’s picnic bundle into her backpack and marched towards the tail end of the white smoke.
✽✽✽
Rachel soaked up the atmosphere and the town’s Victorian architecture. Crossing cobblestones streets and footpaths, she followed the trail of white smoke and ignored the scores of pesky pigeons that shadowed her every move, knowing full well she had a banquet of food in her backpack.
Ahead of her and over a small bridge, a flash of colour caught her eye. Even in the lacklustre light, the vivid violet colour stood out against the sullen surroundings of the dreary street.
In dribs and drabs, the dour depressing weather slowly began to lift; however, a smattering of colossal caliginous clouds hung stubbornly in the sky, refusing to bathe the town in sunlight.
The drizzle fizzled out, so Rachel removed her poncho, shook it dry and squeezed it into her bulging backpack.
After turning corner after corner, an annoying squeaking caused her to stop and glance up. The peeling oval sign spun slowly on its single chain. The wind abated, and The Golden Toad pub sign turned no more.
The textbook twin of her father’s favourite drinking establishment stood before her. The pub’s boarded up windows prevented her from seeing the inside the premises and numerous padlocks barred her way through the fortified metal door.
However, to her right, and halfway up the wall, a white notice board drew her undivided attention away from the pub’s impenetrable armour.
The blatant warning wasn’t beating around the bush:
KEEP OUT! I REPEAT, KEEP OUT!
FROM THIS DAY FORTH, THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS CLOSED
MAKE NO MISTAKE, THIS PROPERTY IS CLOSED FOR GOOD
*FOR GOLDEN TOAD CLUB MEMBERS ONLY*
WOULD MEMBERS PLEASE NOTE, WE HAVE TEMPORARILY RELOCATED TO THE NOOK & CRANNY PUBLIC HOUSE
SORRY FOR THE INCONVENIENCE
Rachel felt irritated the drinking establishment wasn’t open for business. The overenthusiastic security on this pub seemed utterly ludicrous. What did they have in there – the crown jewels, she thought exasperatingly.
With a disgruntled sigh, she made her way towards a small humpback bridge, where a multi-coloured wooden sign said:
RAINBOW COTTAGES
TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT
Rachel leant against the violet gate and gaze at the violet cottage with its twin-bricked chimneys, which were little more than stumps, and at the humongous hole in its thatched roof that looked to be moulting up a rug.
Eager for her adventure to begin, she went to open the gate, but she stopped as another trail of white whispy smoke sped across the cottage’s overgrown garden, which was peculiar as there wasn’t any wind. Right down at the far end of the winding road, a blue cottage belted out plenty of pungent white smoke out of its thickset twin-bricked chimneys.
As she marched further along the pavement, the sound of rushing water drowned out most of the pigeons’ relentless cooing.
Rachel approached the blue cottage with all the stealth she could muster. Reaching the cottage’s gate, dense rows of bulrushes smothered either side of the footpath. Keeping herself as inconspicuous as possible, she crouched down and wandered back and forth, doing her utmost to find a route that hadn’t squelched underfoot, as she hadn’t the nerve to march right up to the front door and knock.
With a stroke of luck, she found a path of half-submerged paving slabs that led to the rear of the cottage, so she squelched slowly across them and wondered why the pigeons hadn’t followed her along the path.
Rachel listened, but the incessant noise of fast running water marred her hearing. She gave the cottage the quick once over, however, by the look of it, it hadn’t suffered any damage, and it appeared to be well looked after. Biting her lower lip, she pushed the side gate open, crept up to the window and on tiptoes, she peered inside.
Whoever lived here hadn’t tidied up in years: the room resembled a mad jumble sale. To her right, bundles of clothes littered the place. To her left, bric-a-brac spewed out of crates and onto the floor. Beyond the dishevelled room, two fully clothed mannequins guarded another room that blazed so brightly, shadowy silhouettes danced across the ceiling.
Feeling that little bit braver, she snuck up to the open back door. The heat and gamey stench hit her immediately. Hearing nothing but the crackling of the ferocious fire, she took a deep breath and entered. With her heart pounding nineteen to the dozen, she made her way along the hallway with its musty blue wallpaper that had half peeled off the walls.
Sweating buckets in the unbearable sticky heat, Rachel gave the stiff military-dressed mannequins a furtive glance and entered the kitchen.
At the back, a roaring fire spat and hissed, belching white smoke up the twin chimney breasts. Two charred bells sat aside a mechanical spit that rotated far too close to the raging flames; the rattling chain links sounded like angry rattlesnakes as they turned the skewered pigeons.
Sitting at the centre of the kitchen, a scratched lopsided wooden table resembled a grocer’s stall displaying vegetables she loathed the most: rotting in reed baskets, the overwhelming stench of asparagus, parsnips and sprouts made her want to gag, but her ears suddenly perked up, as she heard an unusual sound drifting closer.
Rachel stood rooted to the spot as strange scuffling sounds echoed down the hallway. The odd-sounding footsteps drew nearer. Blind panic rushed through her veins, and she froze up, but at that moment, the mechanical spit halted with such a loud clang it made her ears ring.
The kitchen reverberated with a shrill tirade of alarm bells.
Rachel heard a gasp behind her. With her back to the hallway, she grabbed the paring knife from the table and spun around so fast she felt her backpack smash into something soft that yelped from surprise.
Panting heavily, she stared wild-eyed into the corner of the kitchen, gripping her knife so hard it hurt the palm of her hand.
Bent over and huddled in a messy pile of discarded pigeon bones, a young boy cowered beneath her. His grimy hands covered his blackened sweat-streaked face. His ill-fitting clothes appeared a size too small here and a size too big there. He wore rough reed sandals; his cracked calluses looked hardened by his homemade footwear. He crawled into an even tighter ball as she took a tentative step towards him.
‘D-don’t h-hurt m-me!’ he stammered.
Rachel knelt down as slowly as she could so as not to frighten him, placed the knife on the floor and slid it towards him. ‘There you are – you have the knife now,’ she told him. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
The boy did nothing at first, but he suddenly lunged for the knife, snatched it up and cradled it like a baby with its first blanket.
Rachel gave him a reassuring smile, sat down, crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knees. Still holding tightly onto the knife, the boy eased himself off the bones and placed his back against the blue-tiled kitchen wall, drew his legs up and hugged them. His muddy-coloured eyes peered at her through his unkempt brown hair.
The boy stared at her for what seemed like ages, but he eventually pocketed the knife, lowered his gaze and sobbed quietly to himself.
Rachel reached into the depths of her pocket and pulled out the only clean handkerchief she had left. ‘Here – why don’t you use this,’ she said, handing him her rumpled violet handkerchief.
He sniffed, raised his head, wiped his nose on his over-sized sleeves and wiped his tears away with her hanky. He offered it back to her, but she just shook her head and said gently, ‘No, you keep it.’
‘It – it r-reminds me of my s-sister,’ he grizzled. ‘Violet loved the colour…’
Rachel waited for him to continue, but he just snuffled and remained silent. He hasn’t had a proper meal in ages, she thought, staring at his emaciated body, so in one swift move, she twisted around and removed her backpack. But her snap movement had startled him, so she beamed back at him and said brightly, ‘You must be getting fed up eating pigeon and sprouts all the time – so how would you like a picnic for a change?’
The boy’s face lit up. He grinned widely at her as she plonked Larry’s picnic bundle down in front of him.
Rachel unfolded the foil on one of the largest parcels. ‘Now, let’s see what Lydia’s has in store for us – ah, ha – what about a ham sandwich?’
‘Y-yes, please,’ the boy said ecstatically, stretching out his bony hands in avid anticipation. His ravenous appetite took hold, and he snatched the foil parcel from her outstretched hands and savoured every bite.
The smorgasbord of food kept getting that little bit smaller, and she wondered if there would be any food left for Larry’s picnic.
Rachel gave him the last foil parcel, but kept two of them back; she saved the largest parcel for Larry, as it smelt of ham, mustard and the pongiest cheese she ever had the misfortune to smell.
A cocktail stick harpooned a pink note into the other parcel that said:
To Rachel:
I think you’ll need to keep your strength up, so I’ve made you your favourite P&J sandwiches. I hope you like my homemade bread and strawberry jam. Make sure Larry doesn’t get into too much trouble and don’t give him any of your sandwiches. We certainly don’t want a repeat of those shenanigans at his fortieth Halloween birthday party.
Love
Lydia
Rachel said nothing as the boy devoured the food. At the end of the meal, he wiped his greasy mouth against his sooty sleeves, let out a loud burp and gave her a broad grin and an even broader smile.
Rachel smiled back at him. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, thinking he looked roughly around the same age as her.
‘George Browning,’ said George, trying not to burp again.
‘Please to meet you, George,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m Rachel by the way – Rachel Cook,’ she added with a grin and shook his cleanest hand.
‘It’s good to speak to someone after all this time,’ he said sullenly.
‘This town looks deserted, George,’ said Rachel. ‘Where is everyone?’
‘Dunno,’ he replied miserably, hugging his knees.
‘Where are your parents?’ Rachel asked him, treading carefully.
‘I – I haven’t seen my family for five winters,’ he griped.
What family leaves their child alone for five years! Rachel thought.
‘It’s been so long, I can’t even remember their faces,’ George added, ‘and I can’t even remember how I got here – it’s all just bits and pieces.’
It was a long shot, but Rachel’s curious and wily nature spurred her on as she asked, ‘George – um – do you know Henry Silverback?’
His face suddenly turned thunderous. ‘Oh, him – oh, yes, I know him,’ he snarled, his mood darkening a thousandfold. ‘Henry and his henchmen have hounded me ever since I found myself here – always shouting over the walls at me to open the gate and let them in. They dug tunnel after tunnel, but they never succeeded in getting inside the town. Last winter, Henry spotted me on one of the waterwheels and threatened to feed me to his dogs unless I obeyed his order and let him inside.
A week later, his brother, Wilfred, arrived with a huge cannon and wheeled it onto the high ridge and began firing cannonballs at the town, but at first, they either shattered or rebounded right back at them.
However, on the fourth day, they got lucky, and a cannonball hit the lighthouse, and its glass mirrors and light exploded. After that, they concentrated their cannonballs on the gate, but it soon fell. With their henchmen behind them, Henry and Wilfred marched triumphantly into town, ransacked most of the buildings and left a few days later.’
‘Are you saying the lighthouse’s light kept them out?’ Rachel asked.
‘Yes, but the light imprisoned me here, and every time I ventured out, I got dizzy, and I nearly passed out on a couple of occasions,’ George told her. ‘Without the light from the lighthouse, I was free to leave, but after miles of walking about, I found nothing but endless forests and hills – and I felt like I was walking around in circles. I haven’t seen anyone else around town, well, not until I saw you skulking around in my kitchen.’
‘Well, you’re not alone now, George,’ Rachel said, sounding positive, trying desperately to lift his spirits. ‘My mother’s at the lighthouse right now. We have a boat – we can take you away from here.’
‘I’ve been a prisoner here for far too long,’ he said mournfully, ‘and I could infect other children with my affliction if I left the island –’
Rachel saw the sheer terror in George’s eyes; his eyes bulged, and he stared at her agog. He leapt to his feet and backed away from her, wiping his hands down his baggy trousers as if they were suddenly contagious.
‘HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO STUPID? I’M – I’M SO SORRY!’
‘George – what’s wrong?’ she demanded.
‘Please forgive me,’ he said and bolted out of the kitchen.
Rachel rushed after him, but he had too much of a head start, and she couldn’t see through, above or beyond the tall bulrushes. She called out his name in every direction, but the never-ending noise of running water drowned out her desperate and heartfelt cries.
What was she to do? Should she head back to the lighthouse and tell her mother about George and his missing family, or wait and see if he came back to the cottage? He could be gone for hours, days or maybe even weeks.
With a heavy heart, she gave up and slunk back into the cottage. In the smoky kitchen, burning embers crackled and spat in the grate as they cremated the pigeons. By the sink, she cast the smelly kitchen bin aside in disgust, as the stench of discarded pigeon pie made her feel quite ill.
With the remaining foil parcels back in her backpack, she licked her parched lips and stared down at the crusty corroded taps. As she tried each tap in turn, they flatly refused to budge. Her thirst chipped away at her patience, so with the din of rushing water pummelling her eardrums, she made a snap decision and shouldered her backpack.
In a right old huff, she marched towards the door beside the fireplace and pushed it wide open with such force, she tripped and cartwheeled down the slippery wooden stairs. Rolling to a stop beside a boggy bank, she lay on her aching back feeling rather stupid. In her haste, she had disregarded the sign on the door that said MIND THE SLIPPERY STEPS!
As she waited for her spinning head to settle, her troubled thoughts turned to George and wondered why he had run off like some scaredy-cat when she was just getting to know him. Was it something she’d said, she wondered, but then, a loud sploshing sound distracted her, and she stared over at the water’s edge and at the plunging wave that had just whisked her food parcels downstream.
Leaping to her feet, she stumbled after her sandwiches as they sailed away. Slimy rocks and aquatic plants hindered her every pounding step, but hunger prevailed, and she blazed a trail towards the tunnel that lay beneath an overgrown graveyard that had gone to seed many moons ago.