The Secret Passage (14 page)

Ben's eyes grew large and dark and shiny. “I want my Dad to come home,” he said.

“H
MM,”
M
R
G
REEN
said. He stopped smiling and looked at Ben in a sad, rather sorry way.

And Ben went dreadfully white, as if he was going to faint.

“I feel sick,” he muttered, and clasped his hands over his stomach.

“Not on my good carpet,” Aunt Mabel said. She flew to him and led him, groaning, from the room.

“Excitement, I daresay,” Mr Green said. He stood up, thoughtfully tapping his teeth with one end of his spectacles. Then he folded them up, snapped them away into a red leather case and began to gather his papers together. “I imagine your Aunt will be fully occupied for a little while. Perhaps you would convey my sympathies to Master Benjamin and tell Mrs Haggard I will contact her in the morning. I have a little business to do.” His mouth was set in a grimly amused smile, as if the little business was something he rather expected to enjoy.

The children waited while he fastened his brief case and picked up his neat bowler hat and his neat, black umbrella. Then they showed him politely to the door. When he was gone, they stood in the hall and looked at each other. John and Mary felt rather confused and their stomachs had that queer, fluttery feeling stomachs have when you are in the middle of something exciting.

John said thoughtfully, “I think I could do with some more
bread-and-dripping,” and set off purposefully towards the kitchen. Mary followed him and, after a minute, Victoria followed her; lagging behind and moving very quietly as if she wasn't sure whether she was wanted or not.

Their minds were so full of what had happened that they ate several slices of bread-and-dripping without speaking. Then, when his stomach was feeling slightly distended, but more comfortable, John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “I don't think Ben really understands. Not about Wills and things.”

“Perhaps we'd better not tell him,” Mary said. “It would upset him dreadfully. Not being rich, I mean, but thinking that Miss Pin might die one day. He'd simply hate to think of her dying.” A lump came into her own throat and her eyes smarted.

John said, “Do you think he'll turn into a fat, rich man like that fat man on the plane from Nairobi? Do you remember—the one who kept on drinking whisky and smoking simply enormous cigars?”

Mary giggled. “Perhaps Ben'll be so rich that he'll buy an aeroplane of his own.”

“And a yacht and a car—a marvellous, exotic car, like a Golden Hawk.”

They began to laugh. It seemed so absurd to think of little Ben, grown very fat and riding round in a huge car, drinking whisky and smoking cigars. They laughed, a bit hysterically, until their sides and their stomachs ached: everything they said made them laugh harder. “Perhaps he'll wear a
bowler hat
,” John gasped, and the idea of Ben in a bowler hat was one of the funniest things they had ever heard. They reeled about the
room, half doubled over and clutching at each other for support.

They might have gone on for ages, giggling in that wild, silly way, if Victoria had not made an odd, choking sound. That sobered them. They stopped cavorting round the room and looked at her, wiping their streaming eyes.

She was standing by the kitchen door, hunched up and miserable, and trying very hard not to cry.

“What's up?” John said. For a moment he felt rather irritated; it seemed that Victoria was always crying, or about to cry. Then he remembered what had happened in the police station and thought that perhaps she had rather a lot to cry about. So he said awkwardly, “I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was so cross and beastly.”

Victoria rubbed her eyes with her knuckles. “It's all right,” she said. “It's just—just that you're so
lucky
. Whatever happens—whatever the police do, your Aunt'll see nothing very awful happens. Everything turns out all right for you. Nothing does for me—you'll see, I shall just get into dreadful trouble and Mrs Clark'll send me back to the orphanage and I shan't be able to play the piano again, ever,
ever
….” And two tears spilled out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, fat and pale as pearls.

“You mind about not playing the piano dreadfully, don't you?” Mary said slowly. This was something that was rather hard for her to understand.

“More than anything,” Victoria said in a hard, sad little voice. “More than anything in the whole world.”

John and Mary looked at her, troubled. “Is Mrs Clark horrid to you?” John asked.

Victoria shrugged her shoulders. “Oh—she's not so bad. Not really. But I have to do such a lot of things. I get up early and do the fires and dress the children and then I have a lot of housework to do when I come home from school.” She bit her lip. “I wouldn't mind that, but she doesn't like me. Nor does anyone. I lived with four foster mothers before I came to Mrs Clark and none of them liked me.” She looked at Mary. “I bet you don't know what that's like. Always having people not like you.”

Mary thought that it must be very strange and sad. It had been bad enough when they had first come to Henstable and she had thought that Aunt Mabel didn't like them. And Aunt Mabel had been the only person who had ever not liked her—only one person, in her whole life! She thought that it would be sure to make you cross and unhappy if people didn't like you.

She said, “We like you. Me and John and Ben.”

“Do you?” Victoria said. “Do you, really?”

“Yes,” John said sturdily. “But
you
don't like many people, do you? And it's jolly hard for people to like you, if you don't like
them
.”

“I suppose it is,” Victoria said. She looked very wistful and solemn, as if she was thinking very hard. Then she said, “I suppose if you start to like people, they start to like
you
. I think, even the
idea
of liking someone makes me feel nicer inside. And I do like some people now. I like you two, and Ben. And … and I
love
your Aunt Mabel.”

Her face lit up as she said this and John and Mary were quite surprised. They hadn't expected anyone else to see that Aunt Mabel was so much nicer than she seemed to be.

Then, suddenly, the door bell rang, very loud and long as if someone very important was standing on the steps and could not bear to be kept waiting, even for a minute. They heard Aunt Mabel come quickly down the stairs and along the passage to open the door. Then they heard a voice. A cracked, high, old man's voice.

“It's Mr Reynolds,” Mary whispered. She clutched John's hand very tight. They listened. They could hear Mr Reynolds saying something and Aunt Mabel answering him, but they couldn't hear what either of them said. Then their voices died right away—they must have gone into the dining room, John thought—but the children still stood, still and strained and listening.

They stood there for about ten minutes. Then they heard the voices again. And Aunt Mabel called, “Children. John, Mary—come up here.”

John went up the stairs, very slowly and reluctantly,
dragging
his feet. Mary followed. Her heart was beating so fast that it felt like flapping wings, trapped in her throat.

Mr Reynolds was alone. He was standing in the hall, hunched in his thick, black coat and looking like a very old, fierce bird. He was looking round him with his sharp, bright eyes as if he was reckoning up how much the carpet and the pictures were worth. As the children came into the hall, Aunt Mabel walked down the stairs carrying Ben who was wearing John's dressing gown and looked a yellowish, greenish colour.

Mr Reynolds was frowning. His nose was purple and there were fat veins standing out on his forehead.
He's found out about the Bust
, John thought and stood, frozen, waiting for the terrible outburst of anger that was bound to come.

But to his surprise—to his utter astonishment—Mr Reynolds cleared his throat and said, “I have come to apologise to you all. You had no right—no right at all—to break into my house, but it was wrong of me to jump to the conclusions I did. I wish to apologise for calling you thieves and, by implication, liars, and especially, I want to apologise to this young
gentleman
here.”

He made a stiff, formal bow towards Ben who was sitting on the stairs, glowering at him.

It was a remarkably handsome apology. The children let out shaky little breaths of relief.

Mr Reynolds took something out of his pocket and held it on his open palm. It was the green horse. “This isn't mine,” he said. “Though to be fair to myself, I think my mistake
understandable
. This is a very good piece and I have one almost exactly like it.”

“It's a lot prettier than any of your's,” Ben said firmly.

Mr Reynolds went on frowning, but his nose was a lot less flushed and red. “I hope you will look after it, then,” he said. He paused, as if he was thinking of something. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “I suppose you wouldn't like to ask your Aunt if you could sell it to me?”

“No,” Ben said. “It was given to me by my friend, Miss Pin.” He stood up shakily, his legs feeling very wobbly beneath him, came down the stairs and held out his hand.

Mr Reynolds sighed. He looked at Ben closely and then gave him the horse—but reluctantly, as if he were sorry to part with it. Then he sighed again and said, “Well, that's settled, I hope. No hard feelings.” He smiled at them all, looking almost benign. “I shall speak to the Police and tell
them to drop the charge against you. You have been very naughty children, but as far as I can see, you have done no damage….”

Mary gasped. It was such a loud gasp that Mr Reynolds stopped speaking and everyone turned to look at her.

“What's the matter, Mary?” Aunt Mabel asked.

“I expect she's going to be sick too,” Ben said hopefully.

Mary shook her head. She looked straight at Mr Reynolds and said in a faint voice, “It's very kind of you, to apologise and that. But … but we
did
break something. I'm sorry. It was an accident. I … I knocked into it and it fell over.” When she had got it out, she felt horribly frightened, but relieved underneath.

“
What
fell over?” Mr Reynolds said in an awful voice. He wasn't looking benign anymore.

“Come and see,” Ben said. He took hold of Mr Reynolds' coat sleeve—just as if he was an ordinary old man and not terrifying at all—and tugged at it. He said, over his shoulder, “I shan't catch cold, Aunt Mabel. I've got my slippers on.”

Aunt Mabel seemed too stunned to protest. She just shook her head in a bewildered way and opened the front door. The curious little procession, Ben in his dressing gown, Aunt Mabel in her apron, Mr Reynolds and John and Mary, went down the steps of
The Haven
and along the pavement.

Victoria followed them. But when they went into the House of Secrets, she stayed outside. She was quivering and her eyes were wide and dark; suddenly a sly look came into them and she took to her heels and ran.

*

“See?” Ben said proudly. “We put another one in its place.
I think this one is nicer. It's mine, but you can have it because we broke your one.”

“And who gave you
this
, may I ask?” Mr Reynolds said in a sarcastic tone. “If I may say so, young man, you seem to have some extraordinary benefactors.” He took out a pair of
gold-rimmed
spectacles and looked up at the head of the African boy.

“Well,” he said after a minute. “Well ….” His sharp, angry old face seemed to soften; he looked surprised and almost awed. “This is a remarkably fine piece of work.” He looked at Ben and said, not sarcastically at all, but quite humbly, “Would you mind telling me who gave it to you?”

“Nobody. I bought it,” Ben said. “I put a deposit down on it. Uncle Abe made it—he's a sculptor. But he's not very good at selling the things he makes, so he said as I was a friend I could have it, cheap.”

“How much?” Mr Reynolds snapped—not angrily, but eagerly.

“Seventy-five pounds,” Ben said promptly. “I put down a deposit of one and three halfpence.”

“Indeed?” Mr Reynolds took his spectacles off and polished them on a beautiful, white handkerchief. “And he's not selling very much at the moment, you say?” His eyes had a new, sharp glint in them. “I think I'd like to have a talk to your Uncle Abe….”

“He's …” Aunt Mabel began but she got no further because the front door, which had been left ajar, burst open suddenly and Victoria marched into the hall.

She was breathing very fast as if she had been running hard and there were bright spots of colour in her cheeks. She said,
quickly, “You mustn't be angry with Mary because she didn't do it. She said she did because I was so scared, but she didn't. I did. I was going to run away but then I thought about what they said about liking people, so I came back.” She flung her head back and stood, very proud and straight. “You can do what you like to me,” she said.

Mr Reynolds stammered, “What do you mean? Who—who
is
this?”

He turned helplessly to Aunt Mabel, who was smiling.

“This is Victoria Clark,” she said in a curiously cheerful voice. “I told you about her.”

“Oh. Oh—yes.” As he looked at Victoria, Mr Reynolds' eyes were sharp but kind. “So you're the girl who likes to play the piano,” he said at last.

Victoria looked back at him. It had taken a lot of courage to come back and say she had broken the Bust but she was not a naturally brave person, and was beginning to feel very weak and trembly. She whispered, so low he could hardly hear, “I'm sorry. I wasn't doing any harm. It's a lovely piano. I didn't bang at the keys or anything …”

John broke in, “She had to play with the soft pedal down all the time so she couldn't do the bit with trumpets blowing.”