Big Change for Stuart (2 page)

‘Longer than you think,' muttered Stuart. Yet another thing he couldn't tell the other two Kingley sisters was that the ‘holiday' mayoress Jeannie Carr had gone on was likely to be permanent, seeing as the Well of Wishes had transported both her and Stuart back to the 1880s, and only Stuart had returned.

‘I wonder what Clifford will do now?' asked April idly. ‘I know he was desperate to be a magician, but I don't think Jeannie ever taught him anything useful.'

‘Just took loads of his money,' said Stuart. ‘And kept failing him on Grade Two Basic Magic Skills.'

There was no other news in the paper – only
a
list of jumble sales and rubbish collection times. Right at the bottom of the back page was a photograph captioned:
Our ever-ready staff, April, May and June Kingley
. The three clever-looking faces were identical, apart from the fact that April wore glasses.

‘Is the photo going to be changed,' he asked her, ‘now that you don't write for it any more?'

She shook her head. ‘I might stay on. I told June that I didn't want to be the crime reporter any more, but then she said they were looking for an arts correspondent.'

‘A what?'

‘Someone who'll write about local plays and exhibitions and things. And I thought it might be quite interesting so I've applied for the post. I've got an interview this afternoon.'

Stuart gaped at her. ‘An
interview
?'

‘Yes. We like to do things professionally. It's at three o'clock, and they'll let me know the result at four.'

Stuart tried not to laugh. In the short time he'd known April she'd proved herself to be clever,
resourceful,
courageous and loyal, the absolute best sort of friend to have if you were in trouble or in danger. But she was also (he had to admit) a bit of a know-all and one of the bossiest people he'd ever met in his entire life. And her sisters were even worse.

‘What are you smirking at?' asked April.

‘Nothing.'

She looked at him suspiciously, and then the door opened and Stuart's very tall father came into the kitchen.

‘
Salve, o fili
,' he announced, just as the phone in the hall started to ring. He turned back to get it.

‘What did your dad just say?' whispered April.

‘
Salve, o fili
. It's Latin for “hello, son”. You know what he's like.'

April nodded. Stuart's father compiled crosswords for a living, and never used an ordinary, modern word if there was a medieval fourteen-letter alternative.

He reappeared after a few seconds. ‘A Mr Felton is desirous of communication with you,' he said.

‘Hello,' said Stuart cautiously, taking the phone.

‘Rod Felton, Head Curator at Beeton Museum here. You're the youngster who claims to have found the magic tricks, aren't you?'

‘Yes,' said Stuart. ‘They belonged to my great-uncle.'

‘Well, we've had an idea that might interest you. As a matter of fact, it's a job offer. You're still on your summer holidays, aren't you?'

‘Yes. For another fortnight.'

‘Excellent. If you come to the museum this afternoon, I'll explain …'

‘HELLO, LITTLE CHAP,'
said the museum receptionist, smiling down at him. ‘Have you come for the Junior Fun Day story-telling session?'

‘No,' said Stuart.

‘You get a special hat,' she added encouragingly.

‘No,' repeated Stuart between gritted teeth. People were always mistaking him for someone younger; it was one of the worst things about being short.

He continued up the corridor, and then hesitated outside the door of Rod Felton's office.

‘What ails?' enquired his father, who had come along too, mainly because the museum had a bookshop.

‘Do you think Mr Felton realizes that it was me who broke all that stuff?' asked Stuart.

He was referring to an awful incident that had
happened
two weeks before. In a room filled with Victorian farm equipment, Stuart had accidentally nudged a large model of a dairymaid – which had shoved a cart wheel that had toppled a fake blacksmith which had knocked over an enormous artificial horse. The horse had lost an ear and a leg. Stuart's father had written out a large cheque to cover the damage.

‘That is something that we shall imminently discover,' said his father cautiously. He reached over Stuart's head and knocked on the door.

‘Come in!' called a keen voice. Rod Felton had a great many large teeth, and all of them were on display in a huge smile as Stuart entered the room. ‘Aha,' he said. ‘The young horse-smasher and his dad.'

‘Hello,' said Stuart with a sickly smile.

‘Sit down, sit down.' While Stuart and his father squatted on two very low chairs, Rod Felton sat on the edge of his desk and looked down at them.

‘Sorry again,' muttered Stuart. ‘About the horse, I mean. I honestly didn't—'

Rod Felton held up a hand to stop him. ‘We're prepared to forgive and forget,' he said, ‘because we
in
the museum have had what I think is a terrific idea. Our ‘Beeton in Wartime' exhibition has come to an end, and we have a two-week gap before ‘Roman Beeton' opens, which is obviously going to be a huge crowd-pleasing mega-blockbuster. There's going to be a half-size model of a
triclinium
and a working
balneum
.'

‘Would that be a
triclinium stratum
?' asked Stuart's father.

Rod Felton nodded so fast that his head was a blur. ‘It would indeed. The
triclinia lecti
are adapted for the
accubatio
and, excitingly, we also have a replica
cathedra
which was based on an illustration in the …'

Stuart sat like a lump of wood as the conversation whizzed over his head, most of it in Latin. After a minute or two he held up his hand, as if he were in class. After another minute or two Rod Felton noticed.

‘Yes?' he asked.

‘You were saying about the terrific idea. To do with my great-uncle's workshop …'

‘Oh yes, so I was. Well, you know that the
museum
offered to store the tricks until a more permanent home could be found for them.'

Stuart nodded.

‘Well, we thought that for the next two weeks, while ‘Roman Beeton' is being set up and most of the galleries are closed, we could use a side room of the museum to display your great-uncle's stage illusions – we thought we'd call it ‘Teeny-tiny Tony's Temporary Tricks'. And – this is the terrific bit – we had the idea of making you the exhibition curator.'

‘Me?' asked Stuart incredulously.

‘Yes. To demonstrate to other youngsters that the museum is for
everyone
, even people who've behaved badly in the past. You know –
Once I was a vandal and now I'm a helper!
'

‘I
wasn't
a vandal,' protested Stuart. ‘It was an
accident
.'

‘And it would be wonderful publicity,' continued Rod Felton, ignoring the interruption, ‘what with you being a relative of Tony Horten. I think we could even get local television to cover it. So would you be interested?'

‘What would I have to do?'

‘Welcome visitors, tell people about your great-uncle, answer questions about the exhibits and their history. Wasn't there some story about a terrible fire?'

‘Yes, Great-Uncle Tony's first magic workshop was in the Horten factory, but it got fire-bombed during the war, and every single illusion in it was totally destroyed, and his fiancée Lily – who was also his assistant – disappeared at the same time. And then Great-Uncle Tony rebuilt his tricks in the secret workshop under the bandstand, before disappearing himself four years later.'

‘Excellent,' said the curator approvingly. ‘I can see you'd be very good at it. And you'd even have official identification.' He picked up a small object from his desk and held it out to Stuart. It was a badge bearing a cartoon of a toddler wearing a gown and mortarboard, and it read:

‘What do you think?' asked Rod Felton.

Stuart hesitated. The badge was awful, the title stupid, and he was pretty certain that any visitors would either ignore him or laugh at him. On the other hand …

‘Would I be allowed to touch the exhibits?' he asked hesitantly.

Rod Felton looked surprised. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘As exhibition curator you'd have to know all about the items under your care. Do you want to come and see them now?'

‘Yes
please
.'

Stuart started to follow Rod Felton out of the room, and then realized that his father was still sitting on the chair, staring blankly into space – his usual expression when thinking of a crossword clue.

Stuart nudged his arm. ‘Dad?'

His father reached into his pocket and took out a tiny notebook and pen. ‘Vegetable amidst effort becomes a specialist,' he said dreamily.

‘What?'

‘The answer's
expert
.'

‘Is it?'

‘P – as in
vegetable
– in the middle of
exert
– as in
effort. Expert
. I'm really pleased with that one. And I've had another exciting thought—'

‘Dad, I'm just going to look at Great-Uncle Tony's stuff.'

Mr Horten nodded vaguely. Stuart had long ago realized that his father's definition of ‘exciting' was different to most people's. On a scale of 0–10 it would probably look something like this:

‘See you later, then,' said Stuart, following the curator.

‘Beeton in Wartime' was being dismantled. An air-raid shelter lay in pieces on the gallery floor, and a dummy wrapped in bandages was leaning against the wall, looking rather sinister.

‘Through here,' said Rod Felton, opening a door that had previously been hidden behind a poster about air-raid precautions.

It led into a square, high-ceilinged room, with only a single window near the top of one wall. The curator clicked the light switch a couple of times and then tutted with impatience. ‘The bulb must have gone,' he said. ‘I'll go and find the caretaker. In the meantime, have a poke around. I'm sure I can trust you not to deliberately damage anything.'

‘It was an
accident
,' said Stuart yet again, but the curator had already gone.

Stuart was alone in the room, with his great-uncle's legacy.