CHAPTER TWO
Warty Wednesday
An unwelcoming Spanish plume had spread swiftly across the country. The population of Upper Inkcome sweltered in the hot and humid air.
Rachel’s ceiling fan creaked but mostly squeaked, almost giving up the ghost as it struggled to keep going. Her bedroom windows were wide open, but the muggy stagnant air kept her dozing in and out of slumber until she heard whistling and the town hall clock chiming four times.
On hearing the clinking of bottles, she buried her sweaty head into her damp pillows as Gussy Grimshaw, her unseen milkman, went about his cheery business of delivering bottles of fresh milk from door to door, whistling merrily away to himself without a care in the world. Rachel waited impatiently for his electric milk float to squeal out of the road.
With her teeth still on edge, she winced in pain and fumbled for the light switch. Almost awake, she stared down at her left hand: an outcrop of unsightly warts had sprouted across her palm. At that moment, a cool, sweet-smelling breeze blew steadily in through the window, and her warty pain lessened, and she slowly drifted off into a deep, restful sleep…
✽✽✽
Later that morning, her mother took her to see their family doctor. Doctor Butterworth’s blotchy bespectacled face inspected every square inch of her left hand. He reached for a pen and tapped the well-chewed plastic cap against his yellow-stained teeth. He ummed and aahed as he stared up at the peeling ceiling, but he eventually grabbed a bit of paper and wrote an unintelligible runny scrawl on its crinkled surface.
With the saliva-stained prescription in her hand, Rachel trotted after her mother as she headed purposely towards the hustle and bustle of the Carrefour farmers’ market – popping into the chemists along the way.
Their first port of call should have been Bumble’s Beehive stall, but Mrs Cutler saw the pair of them through her shop window. Irene Cutler, a jeweller by trade, tapped against the glass and beckoned them into her shop. In celebration of her impending wedding anniversary, Lorraine had asked Irene to reset her ornate wedding ring with an even bigger and more ostentatious diamond.
In a weary voice, Irene said, for some reason, she had risen at four o’clock that morning and decided to finish the ring. Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she placed the plush velvet case into Lorraine’s willing palm and gave her a tired but warm smile.
(Rachel chuckled inwardly and wondered if her father would notice that his joint bank account had taken an unexpected turn for the worse.)
As Lorraine chatted to Irene about her tenth wedding anniversary, Rachel perused the countless aisles of jewellery and thought about the marquee that had arrived that morning – waking her up at five o’clock. As she had left the house, the humongous white tent rose like twin steeples, towering above their landscaped garden for the entire town to see. To all appearances, it looked like the circus was in town, but she cast that silly thought aside, knowing full well that she couldn’t recall the circus ever coming to Upper Inkcome.
With the wedding ring back in its velvet case, Lorraine asked Rachel if she would keep it safe (and with a mischievous look in her eye, she told her, ‘I very much doubt anyone’s going to think there’s anything worth stealing in your raggedy backpack.’)
With a small fortune on her back, she traipsed after her mother.
✽✽✽
Rachel hadn’t seen so many shoppers in the farmers’ market before. Only the annual carnival drew this many people into town. Now, surely, Ms Harlequin, the town’s reigning busybody and long-term spinster, would have told her mother of any important events that were going on in Upper Inkcome. Ms Vivian Harlequin seemed to know other peoples’ business even before they did.
Hot on her mother’s heels, she weaved her way through the throng of shoppers who were milling about like ants.
The queue outside Bumble’s Beehive stall dribbled along at a snail’s pace. On a bright, sunny day such as this, the glistening yellow facade of Bumble’s Beehive stall shone like a beacon. Atop its reinforced roof, a huge sign advertised the most popular wares available to purchase and directly above it, a couple of mechanical bees crawled tirelessly back and forth – buzzing as they went about their business.
Rachel glanced behind her. The backend of Bumble’s queue snaked its way around The Chilly Cornet ice cream van. With the sun breaking out from the clouds, Fabio Faramundo wasted no time in capitalising on his good fortune. His customers cursed under their breath and dug deep into their pockets, as he had just put his ice cream prices up. In fact, Fabio’s customers always paid over the top for his ice cream, and his homemade Cornish wafer creams were the talk of the town. The competition was fierce, and the stalls fought tooth and nail for every customer, luring the unwary and the gullible into their greedy clutches.
However, one such stall faced closure due to lacklustre sales, but Bill and Bella Bumble had turned their business around by handing out free candyflosses. The intoxicating sweet honey candyfloss brought many a customer back to their stall.
Rachel eyed the numerous jars of dripping honeycomb longingly. (Bumble’s homemade honey always took centre stage on the Cook’s bustling breakfast table.) Her mother shuffled closer to the stall and let out a disheartening groan. Rachel grinned as Ms Harlequin’s keen eyes had her mother in her sights. Vivian barged through the crowd and took Lorraine’s arm, drawing her close as she unleashed her latest gossip.
Rachel’s eyes wandered. Everyone around her seemed to have places to go and people to see – well, all apart from the man and boy who were leaning against Growler’s hot dog van, chewing on their invisible grub.
Not quite believing the spectacle in front of her, she narrowed her eyes and focused on their food, which, to the naked eye, wasn’t there at all. Nevertheless, the trilby-hatted man carried on regardless as did his young dining companion. They munched on the air and stared straight ahead, occasionally pointing at something or someone in the crowd.
(Bobby Growler hadn’t taken a blind bit of notice of his bizarre customers as he bellowed at the radio as if his losing football team could actually hear his ranting about their utter lack of skill and their feckless manager. Distracted from the task in hand, the smouldering cigarette on his lower lip fell into the frying pan, and his sausages began to blacken and sizzle as the ash and white stub mingled with the greasy fat.)
Rachel had only one thing on her mind and pondered the question: who were these peculiar munching patrons?
However, that thought ended abruptly as her eyes grew as wide as saucers, and she gulped as the trilby-hatted man now stared at her. He had caught her gawping at them – gawping at their bizarre behaviour, but that moment came and went. The trilby-hatted man averted his gaze and spoke to the boy. In unison, they turned their backs on her, and their long shadowy bodies vanished all at once.
Rachel blinked, and she blinked again, but it was no use. ‘How the devil did they do that?’ she said under her breath then someone sniggered.
‘You know – talking to oneself is a sign of madness,’ a squeaky voice chuckled. ‘Well, unless you’re talking to the daisies?’
Taken by surprise, she spun around and peered at the person whose camouflaged face lay behind a curtain of yellow candyflosses.
‘Hiya, Rachel – I haven’t seen those pale legs of yours in quite a while,’ smirked the young boy who offered her a candyfloss, unable to brush his spiky blond hair out of his eyes as it bobbed about in the breeze.
Rachel accepted his candyfloss and gave him a suitable reply. ‘Like the rest of my body, Stew – my legs have been stuck indoors for the past week,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve been given stacks of homework to do over the holiday,’ she added gloomily and chomped down on her candyfloss.
‘Well, I s’ppose we’re pretty lucky at Gravelings. The teachers rarely hand out homework over the holidays,’ gloated Stewart gleefully, his angular face sandwiched between his two remaining candyflosses.
Rachel fixed Stewart with a beady stare. ‘No wonder you were always getting into trouble – you’ve got too much time on your hands,’ she said.
However, he knew her all too well and gave her a playful grin. ‘Trouble’s my middle name,’ Stewart told her with a smouldering smirk, but a smile raced across his face. ‘Anyway, if I hadn’t stolen those apples that day, we wouldn’t have crossed paths.’
Rachel beamed and said warmly, ‘It’s our anniversary this Friday. Perhaps my dad will bake us an apple pie to celebrate?’
They both chuckled and chatted about the day in question.
✽✽✽
Bored with nothing to do that day, Stewart had decided to go scrumping for apples. Unfortunately, he had picked the wrong place and time to steal them: her father had caught him red-handed in his orchard.
Stewart’s trouser, coat pockets and jacket were so full to bursting with Bramley apples, he had tried but failed to make his wobbly escape.
Taking pity on the boy, Rachel had lied to her father and told him the boy was, in fact, a friend, and she had asked him around for dinner.
With nothing to lose, Stewart went along with her blatant white lie – and the offer of free food.
With delicious dinner smells wafting up his nose, Stewart had called his mother and told her where he was and not to worry. He had sat down at the dining table and marvelled at the spread of food in front of him.
Minding his p’s and q’s, he had made polite conversation and nodded for most of the meal because he was quite busy with the chore of chewing and savouring every bite of the delicious homemade food.
At the end of the meal and almost filled to the gills, Stewart gave Rachel a satisfied grin and helped himself to a slice of homemade apple pie – and doing his utmost to ignore her father’s overly suspicious gaze.
Feeling even more stuffed than the turkey he had just eaten, Stewart joined the Cooks as they sat down in their crystal-covered conservatory.
With full stomachs, they made the most of the Indian summer and made small talk as the sun went down.
In the diminishing light, Stewart felt at ease with the Cooks and told them about his family – and the fishing tragedy that had killed his father. His mother, Polly Pickling, wanted to move as far away as possible from the coast and the ocean that had taken her husband’s life. Polly’s parents, Billy and Bella Bumble, had asked them to come and stay with them in Upper Inkcome. Polly went willingly because she never wanted to see that ocean and that town ever again.
And after that day in the orchard, Rachel and Stewart became the firmest of friends (kindred spirits Stewart’s sister had told them).
✽✽✽
‘Where’s Sally?’ Rachel asked Stewart, thinking about his twin sister.
A shadow of worry quickly spread across his face, but he squared his shoulders and said, ‘Sally’s ill in bed.’
Rachel didn’t like the sound of that at all: Sally didn’t get sick; the measles and the chickenpox avoided her like the plague – and even the common cold kept its distance.
‘Mum’s beside herself,’ Stewart added.
‘Is Sally going to be all right?’ Rachel asked.
Stewart sniffed. ‘We don’t know. At first, we thought Sis had the flu – but now the doctor thinks it could be meningitis!’ he told her.
‘Look, Stew, if there’s anything I can do –’ Rachel began, but she felt a comforting hand rest upon her shoulder.
Bella Bumble placed her other hand on her grandson’s shoulder. Her pale blue eyes appeared older than the waterfall of frizzled grey hair that draped down over her sagging shoulders.
‘That’s very kind of you, my dear, but she’s in good hands,’ Bella said. ‘Stewart, your mother told me she’s consulted another doctor.’
Stewart hadn’t hidden his look of concern on hearing the unexpected news and folded his arms disapprovingly. ‘And what do we know about this so-called doctor, eh?’ he pressed her, his voice thick with suspicion because he didn’t want any old quack visiting his sister.
‘The doctor comes highly recommended,’ Bella smiled.
‘Recommended by whom?’ Stewart demanded at once.
‘Recommended by you – silly,’ beamed Bella, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. ‘I know it’s been a while, Stewart – but surely you haven’t forgotten Doctor Foster already?’
On hearing the doctor’s name, Stewart spluttered, ‘S-she's – s-she’s coming here – to Upper Inkcome? I – I don’t believe it – s-she’s actually stepped foot outside the surgery?’
‘Doctor Foster called and said she would be here within the hour. I do hope Fidelia can remember the way – and how to drive a car –’ Bella began, but she fell deathly silent and stared wide-eyed at Stewart.
Rachel felt an icy cold shiver run down her spine; the tips of her toes tingled, and she peered down at her buckled shoes as they jingled.
BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The sonic boom shook the half-eaten candyfloss out of her hand and onto the ground. Stuck fast to the well-trodden grass, her candyfloss wobbled from side to side as another thunderous boom sounded out.
The ground beneath her feet rumbled from the sudden aftershock.
Billowing out from behind Bumble’s Beehive stall, a plume of pinkish smoke rose high into the sky – startling the seagulls overhead as well as everyone on the ground.
‘STEWART!’ bellowed a decidedly frustrated and irritated voice. ‘THE CONFOUNDED MACHINE’S GONE WRONG – AGAIN!’
Stewart gave Rachel a rueful smile. He turned around and faced his beleaguered grandfather, Bill, and shouted, ‘COMING, GRAMPS.’
With beads of sweat glistening on his brow, Bill mopped them away with a yellowing threadbare cloth and beckoned Stewart over.
‘What’s going on, Stew?’ asked Rachel heatedly.
‘The candyfloss machine’s been on the blink all week,’ he huffed exasperatedly. ‘Speak to you later, Rachel – duty calls,’ he added and thrust his remaining candyflosses into the hands of the elderly couple behind him and rushed full pelt towards the rear of the stall.
Both young and old watched in trepidation as the smoke swirled and spiralled upwards. The smoke thickened and turned a nasty shade of sanguine – sparkling and rolling as it rose higher into the cloudless sky.
Suddenly, from out of the blue, came an unimaginable grinding sound that pounded everyone’s ears into submission.
Rachel threw her hands over her head, and as she felt the ringing in her ears couldn’t get any worse, the ear-splitting noise ended with a tremendous bang and then silence. An unnerving calm fell upon the crowds, but they soon began chatting amongst themselves.
Bella let out a sigh of desperation and looked ready to burst into tears.
Rachel had seen the flash of fear that had cut across her face: without the scrummy candyfloss to draw the customers in, Bumble’s Beehive stall would probably have to shut up shop for good.
Tearing herself away from Vivian, Lorraine dashed towards Bella.
‘I’m sure Stewart will be able to fix the candyfloss machine,’ Lorraine told Bella reassuringly. ‘Your grandson mended our squeaky settee, our leaky shower – and all before the canapés were on the dining table.’
A grin inched its way across Bella’s face, and with a smile, she said, ‘Stewart takes after his father. They were like two peas in a pod, always covered in grease and tinkering with something or another. I guess some people are just gifted when it comes to fixing things.’
Rachel gave her mother such a smirk it could have melted cheese at twenty paces. When it came to household maintenance, she knew her father hadn’t the wherewithal to fix even the basic faults – no matter how small. His last encounter with something electrical hadn’t gone down too well. Mending the plug on the toaster had resulted in sending a couple of slices of burnt bread into orbit around the kitchen ceiling fan.
Her father’s mishaps were legendary: a week ago, he had nearly set the house on fire, as one of his baking experiments had gone awry.
With his steaming fruit and nut cake fit to explode, he had ducked for cover as it had shot through the oven door and out of the open kitchen window, missing the postman’s head before landing in a bed of tulips.
DING! DING!
‘Next customer please,’ Bill called out from the confines of his stall, putting the small hammer over to one side as the ship’s bell reverberated above his head. He looked over at Rachel and her mother and beckoned them over, giving his wife a wink and a nod.
‘I better see how Stewart’s getting on around the back,’ said Bella and bade them farewell, lifted up her long skirt and scuttled away.
Lorraine, however, had barely taken a step forward, when a woman’s voice trilled, ‘Oh, Lorraine – I’m so glad I’ve caught up with you – Mrs Cutler said you would be down in this neck of the woods.’
Rachel recognised the annoying shrill voice. Her mother’s long-term and long-suffering secretary, Ms Flora Dandelion, had an uncanny knack of tracking her mother down – wherever she was. Sweating profusely, Flora, a somewhat heavyset woman wearing an oversized oval hat and bright billowing dress, pushed her way through the burgeoning crowds.
With some difficulty, she wheezed her way around an elderly couple and their overweight white bulldog that had just licked a candyfloss stick clean; the dog sniffed the air and immediately pounced on a melting ice-cream cone, growling at her as she ventured near its slushy food.
‘W-what a d-day – what a d-day,’ Flora puffed.
‘Good morning, Flora – whatever’s the matter?’ asked Lorraine unsympathetically, waiting impatiently as the woman caught her breath.
‘W-we need to t-talk about the f-flower arrangements,’ she replied.
DING! DING!
‘I’m not getting any younger,’ Bill rumbled as he stretched out his aching spine, ‘and neither is my back or the crick in my neck!’
‘I’ll go and get the honey, Mum,’ Rachel said, and without waiting for her mother’s reply, she ran over and met Bill’s smile with one of her own. ‘Sorry about that, Mr Bumble – but Mum’s been bumping into just about everyone this morning.’
‘I bet Flora wished she hadn’t,’ he chuckled on hearing Lorraine’s vociferous voice, her rising temper near to breaking point. ‘And please call me Bill – let’s have none of that formal nonsense, eh?’ he added light-heartedly and wrenched a wad of crumpled newspapers from a stack that swayed dangerously by his side.
Rachel beamed and said in a pompous voice, ‘I must conduct myself in a manner that upholds the values and standards of my school. I will treat my peers with reverence and give them the respect that they deserve…’
With her head held even higher it hurt, she continued with her high and mighty condescending voice, ‘Within the boundaries of the school or outside its hallowed walls, good manners must be adhered to at all times. Pupils must follow by example and always act in accordance with the school’s rules. Our Prefects epitomise this most sacred creed and always strive to exceed it.’
Bill blew a low whistle through the gap in his smoke-stained teeth. ‘That’s a pretty good impression of your headmistress,’ he told her, ‘but next time, might I suggest you stick a plum in your mouth –’
‘YOU HAVEN’T BOOKED THE CONCERT BAND – THEY SHOULD HAVE BEEN BOOKED WEEKS AGO…’
The ship’s bell above Bill’s head hummed.
Lorraine’s disgruntled voice bellowed out again, ‘AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE VICAR’S BEEN DOUBLE BOOKED?’
‘Looks like my parents’ wedding anniversary has hit another snag,’ said Rachel glumly. ‘I’ll be glad when its all over and done with –’
Hissssssssssssssssssss!
A black lumpish cat leapt onto the countertop with a heavy thud.
‘Oh, not you again,’ Bill blustered, shooing the cat away with his tattooed hands. ‘Scram you feline fiend.’
The cat hissed again; its fiery green pulsating eyes darted everywhere and at everything. It spun around and raced up and down the countertop, sniffing the air, dodging Bill’s every attempt to knock it back towards the ground, but then the cat froze and let out a triumphant meow as it twitched its puffy tail. It leapt onto the top of the towering column of newspapers, crouched down and ripped them to shreds with its claws.
‘It’s gone bonkers,’ barked Bill inconsolably, who spun around and threw open the doors to a tall cupboard that was sandwiched between the shelves of honey jars. The cat’s manic behaviour sent scraps of paper high into the stall. ‘Ah, ha – this will sort you out,’ he added furiously, brandishing the broom at the cat that had gone most peculiar.
‘Don’t hurt it, Bill,’ Rachel implored.
‘Careful, Rachel – It’s probably got rabies,’ he replied warningly, jabbing the broom closer to the cat’s head. ‘Now, scat you stray.’
With the fear of violence only a couple of inches away, the cat slowly backed away from him, but all of a sudden, it twitched its tail, raised its claw and cut the twine. With a rate of knots, it sped down the column of newspapers and hit the floor with such force, it staggered sideways and careered into a wooden shelf. The cat let out a cry then rushed through Bill’s legs, threw itself against the back door and scampered away.
‘And don’t come back!’ Bill snarled, slamming the back door shut.
‘LOOK OUT!’ Rachel shouted, but her warning came far too late as the column of newspapers toppled over. Bill twisted to one side, managing to dodge the wayward wads of papers as they came crashing down, but one of them had a mind of its own and hit him squarely in the face.
‘Are you all right, Bill?’ Rachel shrieked.
He let out a half-hearted laugh and said mockingly, ‘Only me pride.’
‘That cat’s made a right mess of your stall,’ said Rachel lugubriously. ‘I’ll come around and help you clean up,’ she added, and by the time Bill had struggled to his feet, she had already vanished.
‘SORRY ABOUT THE DELAY, FOLKS – JUST GIVE ME TEN MINUTES TO CLEAN THIS MESS UP,’ Bill shouted out to his customers who were waiting in line, however, angry murmurings and mutterings quickly rippled down the queue, voicing their annoyance at the untimely delay.
Rachel grinned as she saw Stewart’s legs sticking out from under the broken candyfloss machine. He wasn’t having any luck; she could hear him cursing as she struggled to open the obstinate back door of the stall. With one almighty tug, she managed to wrench the back door open. Already hard at work sweeping up the shredded newspaper, Bill ushered her inside, and she gently shut the door behind her.
Rachel spotted the honey jars that the cat had toppled over. ‘I’ll sort the honey jars out,’ she informed Bill, and without uttering another word, she knelt down and inspected every jar, making doubly sure they hadn’t leaked, but as she put them back on the shelves, she saw a faint glimmer of light through the gloom.
Rachel peered beyond the honey jars. The thick covering of dust, spindly spider webs and just plain grot, almost obscured her view of the back of the shelves, and so with nothing apparently visible through the mire of murky threads, she went to stand up, but the faint ghostly blue light caught her attention again, and she readily knelt back down again.
Intrigued by the barely perceptible glow, she took the plunge and stuck her hand into the back of the shelves. However, it wasn’t any good, as her slim fingers were still miles away from the curious light. Rachel wasn’t the type to give up that easily, so she quickly snatched one of the newspapers that had hit Bill, rolled it up and tried once more.
Little by little, she tapped the curious object towards her. It glowed brighter with every tap until it was finally within her grasp; reaching in, she closed her fingers around the now radiant object. At first, a slight tingling sensation crept through her fingers, but that feeling gave way to fear as the throbbing sensation shot up her arm that made her grip the object so hard, she thought her fingers would snap and shatter.
Yanking her left hand and the oval object out into the shadowy light, the frightful feeling vanished, and she tried to let go of the rolled-up newspaper in her right, but the cloying cobwebs and globulus goo held it fast. In sheer desperation, she whacked the newspaper against the floor so hard it stayed put, pinned down by copious amounts of cat hair and something very sticky indeed.
Rachel studied the object in her hand and marvelled at its cerulean colour. The outer rim of the glass crystal glistened and appeared razor-sharp, but as she brushed her fingers lightly across its splintered shards, they felt as blunt as safety scissors.
The bluish glow that had attracted her to the crystal in the first place had waned, so she quickly shook it like a snow globe. To her delight, it glowed once more, and she smelt the sweet aroma of honey. Oozing out from the cork stopper, a trickle of runny honey ran down her fingers.
‘What have you got there, Rachel?’ asked Bill, his interest apparent.
‘It’s a crystal honey jar,’ she replied, fascinated by the striations of blueish nectar that spread out from the crystal’s glowing core.
Bill leant over her with intense curiosity.
‘I found it at the back of the alcove,’ she added excitedly, licked her sticky fingers, rose to her feet and almost fell back down again, as an intense rush of blood had made her feel quite dizzy and definitely woozy.
‘You all right, Rachel?’
‘I think so,’ she said, still dazed but grateful her sudden dizzy spell had all but disappeared. ‘I must have gotten up off the floor too quickly.’
‘Well, bless my soul,’ Bill expounded, staring at the crystal honey jar in her hand. ‘You’ve found our missing wedding gift.’
Rachel beamed. ‘It’s leaking a bit,’ she replied.
‘I wonder how it got in here,’ Bill postulated, scratching his head, deep in thought. ‘We thought it had been stolen.’
‘Who’s the prezzy from?’ Rachel quizzed him.
Bill pursed his lips. ‘Dunno,’ he replied, still flummoxed at her direct question as she handed over his lost property. ‘We found the jar amongst the other wedding presents with an oddly-written letter wrapped around it,’ he added with a mysterious undertone, pressing down on the crystal honey jar’s stopper with his thumb to seal the leak.
‘What did it say?’ asked Rachel keenly.
‘Now, let me think – my brain’s getting a little addled of late… ah, yes – something about the Remorrah and The Fate of The Scarlet Lady.’
Rachel’s eyes widened and a lump formed in her throat; she felt a peculiar sense of unease on hearing his spoken words.
Bill’s eyes blazed. ‘You’ve heard those words before – haven’t you, Rachel?’ he added with gritty inquisitiveness.
Rachel swallowed. ‘Yes – yes, I have,’ she said at last.
‘So, what’s the story, Rachel – I’m all ears?’
Rachel cleared her throat and said, ‘Granny decided to have a spring clean, so she sent Dad into her attic to have a tidy up. He was about to come back down the ladder when he stepped on a loose floorboard. As he went to put the floorboard back, he spotted something tucked right up against the eaves and pulled out a hexagonal book that smelt of seaweed.
With my eyes closed, he asked me to pick one of the tales from the book. Dad had barely finished reading the first chapter when Granny walked in with the tea and saw the Bookk of the Seaa in his hands.
I’ve never seen her so upset and angry before. She slammed the tea tray down on the table in a fit of rage, snatched the book away from him and ran upstairs in tears. We said we were sorry and tried to comfort her, but she told us to go and to leave her alone. She never spoke about that day and her odd outburst and carried on as if nothing had happened.’