The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches (2 page)

If money was involved Jennet wondered whether she would be sent to a posh school. That's what rich people did with children. It was an unwelcome thought and she mulled it over miserably. She and Ben had not been separated since the accident. Jennet could not imagine life without her brother, however much trouble he caused.

The stations the train stopped at were becoming smaller, their names spelled out in whitewashed stones on well-mown slopes. Some even had hanging baskets dangling from the eaves. It was like taking a journey back to the age of steam and Jennet half-listened for the 'chuff chuff' she had heard in old films.

The scenery was beautiful. Wild expanses of rolling moorland dotted with sheep shot by, then a dense pine forest, some farm buildings with a gypsy caravan parked outside, and then more wide acres of heather, cut through by a little brook.

The railway track became a single line. Just how far away was Whitby? It seemed as if they were going beyond the reaches of the civilised world. Jennet wondered how regularly the trains went there and wished she had thought to look at a timetable when they had changed at Darlington.

'Look,' said Ben excitedly, 'there's a river and there's a boat, see!'

A ribbon of water ran parallel to the track. For some moments it was obscured by dense trees, then it was revealed once more, wider than before. Buildings clustered on the far bank and the river swelled into a marina, with yachts. Jennet caught a glimpse of a high cliff, then the vision was snatched from view and the train, wheezing with exhaustion, finally drew into Whitby station.

'I saw the sea,' declared Ben, jumping up and down on the seat. 'And there were lots of fishing boats. Listen to the seagulls, Jen.'

She grunted an acknowledgement and stuffed the wreckage of the journey into her large blue bag. She left the empty can of lemonade and two brown apple cores on the table and told Ben to put his coat on.

'But it isn't cold,' he protested obstinately.

'Put it on,' she insisted.

Ben mumbled a sentence, but the only word Jennet could catch was 'bossy'. When he had fastened the top button of his coat, she guided him in front of her and swung the heavy bag over her shoulder.

There were only a few other passengers on the train; they filed past the children with neat little suitcases and holdalls, smiling as they gave their tickets to the man at the barrier. Ben stared at the sky. The rain had left behind a bright August day with big white clouds rolling inland. The seagulls circled high above and cried raucously.

'I can't see anyone,' said Jennet, looking up the platform. 'Come on, maybe she's waiting for us outside in her car.'

They trudged up to the barrier and Jennet began to rummage in her pockets for the tickets. The ticket collector cast a weary glance their way and held his hand out impatiently. Ben stared up at him and pretended to pick his nose. The man set his jaw and glared down icily. Jennet, meanwhile, was still rifling through her pockets.

'Come on now, miss,' said the man.

Jennet was flustered; she could not think what had happened to the tickets.

'Has it arrived, George?' came a brisk female voice.

The ticket collector turned and nodded to the newcomer. 'Aye, an' three minutes early. Miss Boston.'

Jennet looked up sharply. There, with her hands clasped firmly behind her back, stood a stout, white-haired woman. She wore a jacket of sage-green tweed with a matching skirt, and on her head sat a shapeless velvet hat. The cobweb lines around her grey, bird-like eyes suggested the old lady's age to be about seventy but her stance was like someone much younger.

'Ah, three minutes, is that so?' Miss Boston spoke challengingly and raised her eyebrows at the ticket collector. 'Well, well, what a day for wonders, to be sure.'

Then the old woman saw the children and her face lit up. The eyes blinked and disappeared and the rolls of skin beneath the chin shook like jelly. 'Oh, these must be mine,' she cried, clapping her hands together like an eager child.

'Yours, Miss Boston?' asked the ticket collector, baffled.

'Yes, yes, George. Now let them through that wretched thing.'

'But they an't give me their tickets.'

'Oh stuff!' she exclaimed in exasperation. 'Let them through at once, they're with me.' And she stamped her foot and gave the man a look which no one would have dared to disobey.

'This is most irreg'lar,' he said as the children squeezed past him, 'most irreg'lar.'

Miss Boston clucked gleefully as she ran her keen eyes over Jennet and Ben. 'Let me have a good look at you,' she demanded. 'So, you're Jennet.'

'Yes,' the girl replied, returning the interested stare.

'Pretty name—far better than Janet or Jeanette. Now I believe you are twelve, is that correct?'

'Yes.'

'Mmm. You look older—act it too. Not surprising, really.' Miss Boston nodded as though satisfied with the girl and turned her attention to the boy.

'And this is Benjamin, I presume.' It was a statement rather than a question.

The child stared back and said nothing.

'He's shy with strangers,' put in Jennet.

'Of course he is,' the woman returned. 'All sensitive children are timid.'

'Ben's not sensitive, just shy,' corrected Jennet firmly.

'Ah, yes—you must forgive me.' Miss Boston's face looked like someone guiltily sucking a boiled sweet. 'Well,' she went on, 'I trust I shan't be considered a stranger for very much longer—by either of you.' Her smile was warm and genuine. 'Now, come,' she cried, waving them out of the station, 'let us retire to my home and have a bite to eat before you unpack.'

As they left the station Jennet saw for the first time the town of Whitby. The girl stood stock still and absorbed the sight breathlessly. The station was close to the quayside and the harbour was filled with fishing boats, from large fat vessels with wide hulls and tall radio masts down to the simplest coble, painted red and white. Close by there was a long red boat which ran fishing trips for the tourists.

On the far side of the harbour was a jumble of buildings with roofs of terracotta tiles, nestling snugly alongside each other like a queue of nervous bathers waiting for someone to take the first leap into the water. They were built on a steep cliffside and the hotchpotch of sandstone and whitewash somehow seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape. They felt right, as though they had been there from earliest times and without them the land would be naked and ugly.

Jennet's eyes scanned up beyond the houses, to where the high plain of the cliff reached out to the sea. She gasped and stared. For there, surmounting everything, was a ragged crown of grey stone—the abbey.

The building was in ruins, but that did not diminish its power. The abbey had dominated Whitby for centuries and waves of invisible force flowed down from it. The ruin was a guardian, watching and waiting, caring for the little town that huddled beneath the cliff. It was a worshipful thing.

Miss Boston nodded. 'Yes,' she sighed dreamily, 'the abbey. It is indeed lovely. There has been a church on that site for at least fourteen hundred years. One gets a marvellous sense of permanence, living under such an enduring symbol of faith. If one believes in the
genius loci—
the spirit of place—then surely therein dwells something divine. The Vikings came, Henry did his best to destroy the abbey with the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in the Great War German ships bombarded it. Yet still it stands—stubborn and wonderful. They say a true inhabitant of Whitby is lost if he cannot see the abbey.' She paused and looked at the ground. 'Well,' she went on again breezily, 'there I go, off at tangents again. You two may have eaten but I have not. Come, tea awaits.'

Jennet dragged her eyes from the cliff and glanced about the road. 'Where's your car?' she asked curiously.

Miss Boston puffed herself up indignantly. 'A car?' she cried, her chins wobbling. 'I don't need a car. Whitby is not big enough to warrant the use of an automobile, child. However, I do have transport, now you mention it.' She strode round to where an old black bicycle was leaning against the station wall.

Jennet bit her lip to stop herself cracking up with laughter at the thought of the old woman riding round on that. Had she and Ben come to stay with the local nutter?

Miss Boston announced that she would not ride but walk, for the sake of the children. 'Now, this way,' she declared, setting off. The bicycle clattered and whirred beside her.

Ben had been silent since they had met but by now he had decided that the old woman was harmless and much friendlier than the Rodice. There were none of those phoney smiles and patronising looks which were a feature of the Rodice's way with children. He was also relieved that this adult had not tried to pat him on the head or ruffle his hair, like some others had done.

Now his excited eyes saw the fishing boats with their gleaming paintwork, orange nets and lobster pots. A twinge of pleasure tugged at his insides when he thought of actually sailing in one of them. It was not impossible. If the old woman liked him and Jennet and if he kept quiet about certain things, they might stay here just long enough.

Ben was already beginning to find Whitby a thrilling place, full of possibilities. Suddenly he remembered again what Mr Glennister had told him. As he walked behind his sister along New Quay Road a determined expression crossed his face and, forgetting his bashfulness, he pulled at the old woman's sleeve.

'Where's Peter Pan?' he demanded.

Miss Boston stopped and blinked. 'Whatever does the dear boy mean?' she asked Jennet in surprise.

'He was told Captain Hook lived here,' explained the girl in an apologetic tone.

Miss Boston hooted loudly and frightened some gulls on the quayside. 'Bless me, Benjamin,' she chuckled, 'it's Cook, not Hook. Captain Cook lived here.'

'Oh,' murmured Ben. He felt babyish and all the shyness returned in a great flood. He waited for the old woman to call him stupid, but instead she said something quite unexpected.

'Peter Pan, eh?' Miss Boston mused to herself. 'Do you know, young man, you have crystallised something I have felt without realising. For some time I have sensed that there is—oh how shall I say?—something special about this place of ours. It almost seems to have been neglected by time. Oh yes, we have motor cars passing through and amusement arcades on the West Cliff, which scream of the twentieth century, plus of course the summer visitors snapping their cameras, yet... there is an aspect of the town which belongs to the past. Never-Never Land is a good comparison... yes, most interesting. How perceptive you are.'

She wheeled her bicycle on once more. Ben looked up at Jennet, who gave him a frosty stare.

'Just don't be too perceptive,' she whispered harshly.

'Captain James Cook was a very famous mariner,' Miss Boston called to them over her shoulder. 'He lived for some time in Grape Lane on the East Cliff—we shall pass by there on the way to my cottage. He discovered Australia, you know. Still, we must not hold that against the man.'

They came to a bridge spanning the river. It was only wide enough to take one line of traffic at a time and was jammed with pedestrians, swarming everywhere.

'Our busiest time of year,' Miss Boston explained as she ploughed her way through. 'We've just got over our regatta and the Folk Week starts in two days.'

'Folk Week?' queried Jennet.

'Yes, with lots of morris dancing—people come from miles away. The town is always packed with bearded men who black their faces and walk about in clogs—such fun.'

When they were halfway across the bridge, Ben glanced back. The road they had left was just beginning to get interesting. He heard the crackle of electronic guns and the amplified voice of the bingo caller. A row of glittering arcades stretched out towards the sea beneath another cliff.

'That is the West Cliff,' said Miss Boston as she negotiated her way through a crowd of giggling girls. 'Traditionally the East Cliff was for the fishermen and the West for the holidaymakers. Of course it's got a little mixed up over the years; most of the fishermen can't afford to live here any more so they have to travel in.'

They reached the far side of the river. 'Down there is Grape Lane,' indicated Miss Boston, waving her hand.

The buildings of the East Cliff were more densely bunched together than Jennet had at first thought. They had been built in the days before planning permission was heard of and their higgledy-piggledy clusters formed a vast number of dark alleys, lanes and yards. The Whitby of the East Cliff was gazing at the world from an earlier time all its own.

Miss Boston led them up a narrow cobbled road called Church Street. It was the main thoroughfare of the East Cliff, yet still cars had difficulty making their way down it. Old buildings hunched over on either side in a forbidding manner, and tiny lanes led off through sudden openings to unseen doorways.

'Afternoon, Alice.' A thin, elderly woman greeted Miss Boston courteously. She had the palest blue eyes that Jennet had ever seen and her silvery hair was scraped tightly over her head, to be bound in a fist-sized bun at the back. She wore a grey cardigan over a lemon-yellow blouse, fastened at the neck by a cameo brooch, and clasped a brown handbag primly in front of her.

'Oh, Prudence,' returned Miss Boston hastily. 'Did you manage to come across that book?'

The other shook her head and sniffed. 'Sorry, Alice—must have thrown it out with Howard's things after all. Never kept much of his stuff you know.' Her voice was clipped and precise. Then she regarded the children and waited for an explanation.

'My guests. Prudence: Jennet and Benjamin.'

'Yes, well. They're younger than I thought. I hope you know what you're doing.' She then continued the conversation, ignoring the children completely. 'Actually, Alice, I have just come from your cottage. That Gregson woman told me you were not at home.' She shook herself and adjusted the cameo. 'So I was about to take myself off to call on Tilly. Haven't seen her for over a week—more kittens, I imagine. It's all getting too ridiculous. Well, must cut along. Goodbye.' And with that, she walked briskly away.