The Whitby Witches 1 - The Whitby Witches (6 page)

'Because she has three legs?' asked Jennet. 'I don't see the connection.'

Aunt Alice laughed wickedly. 'Well, she can't run as fast as the other lady cats.'

The children roared and Miss Droon looked away.

Ben turned the ammonite over in his fingers and stared intently at it. It was the same size as a fifty-pence piece and charcoal in colour. Miss Boston had told him that it was incredibly old, older than the human race, in fact. Ben held it tightly. It felt safe to touch something so ancient—there was very little permanence in his turbulent life and this small, time-polished fossil was like a magic talisman, a sign that perhaps things would be different from now on.

It was late and the three of them were sitting in the parlour. The curtains were drawn and Aunt Alice had lit a fire as the night had grown chill. Now the children lounged on the wide sofa and sipped hot chocolate.

Jennet looked across at the old lady, whose face glowed in the flickering firelight.

'Shall I tell you the legend of the ammonites and St Hilda?' Aunt Alice asked them.

Ben pushed himself further into the cushions and nodded.

The old lady gazed into the fire and began. 'In the olden times, when Caedmon was alive, the Abbess of Whitby was the niece of a great northern king. They were dark, severe days and most of the people were still pagan, worshipping cruel gods on the moors and at the river mouth.'

Her quiet voice lulled Jennet's senses and she began to drift far away. The old lady's words conjured up vivid pictures and she shivered, imagining the horrible things that must have happened in those savage times.

'Well,' continued Aunt Alice, after she had drained her mug, 'it is said that the cliff-top where the abbey now stands was alive with snakes. They were such a nuisance that the Lady Hilda took up a whip or staff and drove them all into the sea where, by her prayers, they were turned to stone. However, the three largest serpents had escaped her anger, and they rose out of the grass to strike her. Furiously, she hit out first and cut their heads clean off, while their bodies sailed through the air and were embedded in the wall of a house at the bottom of the hundred and ninety-nine steps. They are still there to this day, if you care to look.'

Ben groaned—yet another soppy story. He liked the bit about the snakes, though. He examined his fossil once again and hissed softly to it.

Jennet stirred a little but still gazed at the flames through narrowed eyes. 'Is any of that true?' she asked. 'I mean was Hilda really the niece of a king?'

'Oh yes,' Aunt Alice assured her earnestly. 'Edwin of Northumbria was her uncle, though some say father. She was a princess, in any case. Word got around that one of royal blood was coming to Whitby and gossip confused the true facts—rather like Chinese whispers, I imagine. Eventually half the population believed Hilda was a great sorceress, but we actually know very little about the real woman. The story of the snakes is obviously allegorical, the serpents representing the pagan religion which Hilda overcame. Still, it is a quaint tale.

'Now I think it is time for you both to go to bed. You've had a busy day and so have I, what with troublesome cats and barmy old Tilly.'

Jennet dragged Ben from the cushion cave he had made for himself and his pet snake. Hissing like a puncture, the boy ran up the stairs. His sister followed behind him and turned to Aunt Alice, who was carrying the three empty mugs into the kitchen. 'Did you go to the estate agent's?' she called down sleepily.

'Indeed I did,' answered the old lady, raising her voice above the sound of the running tap as she rinsed the cocoa dregs away. 'The house is not going to be knocked down. A woman has bought it. They weren't going to tell me but I know the mother of the young man behind the desk. He told me a Mrs Cooper had purchased the place. Has ideas of turning it into an antiques shop—ridiculous notion. We have far too many of those already and the house is too far off the beaten track to make it worthwhile.'

Miss Boston emerged from the kitchen and smiled up at Jennet. 'Well, goodnight, dear,' she said.

The next day was Saturday and the beginning of the Folk Week. Early in the morning the two children raced round the West Cliff, looking at the odd assortment of people who were turning up. They spent an interesting half hour watching cars and vans squeeze through the town while they tried to guess what sort of people were inside.

There were morris dancers, a whole gaggle of bagpipes, long-haired hippies with guitars and peace stickers, a fleet of flutes and penny whistles, a group of mummers dressed in the most outlandish costumes Ben had ever seen, and even two belly-dancers.

Whitby was heaving with people. Jennet laughed as she realised how true Aunt Alice's words had been—there were a lot of bearded men and they all seemed to have the same sort of clothes on. It was like some kind of uniform: a good thick jumper with a clean white shirt underneath, then brown corduroy trousers, and, for the really serious, the ultimate accessory was a pewter tankard, attached to the belt.

A jolly, fat lady with cheeks like two beetroots clambered, with difficulty, out of a beaten-up old Mini. Then she leant in once more and hauled out an accordion as big as a coffee table. She beamed at the children as she passed by. Ben stared after her eagerly. This really was the most extraordinary place he had ever been—something always seemed to be happening.

The morning shadows dwindled and lunchtime drew near. Ben's stomach growled and he reluctantly agreed with his sister to head back home. The town was seething, its streets thick with enthusiasts, musicians, tourists, and the poor locals trying to do their Saturday shopping. It took an incredibly long time to reach the bridge and crossing that was another Herculean task.

Jennet sighed with relief as the narrow streets of the East Cliff closed round her, but even here the crowds were phenomenal. She gripped Ben's hand tightly in case he was washed away on the tourist tide and launched herself into the flow.

It was while she was passing the small post office in Church Street that a thought came to her, and she dragged her brother inside. It was jam-packed with people but if she didn't do this now she would probably forget.

'What are we doing here?' Ben demanded. 'I want my dinner.'

'I'm going to send Aunt Connie a postcard,' Jennet replied, gently pushing through the bodies till she came to the rack.

'Can't I go home now? I'm starved.'

Jennet ignored him and studied the collection of cards. It was a picture of the abbey that she eventually chose and she squirmed with it through to the counter. Strangely enough, nobody else seemed to be buying anything. Jennet put her postcard down and looked through the glass at the postmistress.

'Can I have this and a first-class stamp, please?' she asked.

The woman was about fifty. Her greying hair resembled a dilapidated haystack and the sides of her mouth twitched nervously. Jennet eyed her neat, beige cardigan. There was a crumpled tissue poking out from one sleeve, in case of emergencies. There was no wedding ring on the woman's finger and Jennet guessed that here was one of the town's spinsters, and smiled unconsciously.

The postmistress blinked in confusion, not sure why the girl had smiled at her. Up went her ringless hands, fluttering before her like frightened birds.

'A stamp,' the woman repeated in a flustered voice as she searched under the counter. 'Dear me, no—television licence stamps.' She twiddled with the chain around her neck, attached to which were her glasses. 'Oh fly!' she muttered. 'I had them a minute ago.'

Jennet smiled again. The woman was a terrible ditherer; how had she ever got the job?

'Ah,' came a grateful sigh, 'there you are, you terrible thing.' She pulled a large book of stamps towards her and put on her glasses before wading through it.

'There you are, dear,' the woman breathed wearily. 'That's forty-five pence, please.'

Jennet counted out her change, and while the woman waited, the tissue flashed out and dabbed at her nose, then was just as speedily consigned to the sleeve once more.

Jennet took her stamp and postcard, thanked her and looked round for Ben. He was not there. Then from the street came a terrible commotion; a car horn was blowing harshly and voices were raised in anger. Jennet put her hand to her mouth and ran outside, thinking the worst.

A large old Bentley was attempting to plough down Church Street and the driver was being none too gentle. Jennet found Ben on the pavement, laughing at the surprised and angry looks of the people who were thrust aside. A girl in a bright orange and purple dress that had little mirrors sewn around the hem shouted equally colourful abuse at the occupants of the car and shook her tambourine at them furiously.

Once Jennet had got over the relief of finding her brother in one piece she shook him roughly and angrily told him, 'Don't you ever, ever do that again! Do you understand?'

But Ben was not really listening. He was still staring at the car, which had pulled up outside the post office. The driver was a bluff Yorkshire man in grubby gardening clothes, but on his head he wore a chauffeur's cap. He got out and walked to one of the rear doors.

''Ere we are, madam,' he said gruffly as he opened it. Both Ben and Jennet peered inside to see who his passenger might be.

A large, flabby lady in a silk print dress and a fur stole stepped heavily on to the pavement. Her hair was a pale peach colour and there seemed to be an inch-thick layer of make-up covering her face. Her lips were smeared a sickly orange to match her rinse, but it just made her look ill. She wore a necklace of pearls and her podgy hands were bejewelled with rings.

Jennet thought she looked like a fat pantomime fairy. Ben began to giggle as the apparition waddled gracelessly towards the post office and brushed past them. Her perfume was incredibly pungent—he could almost taste it.

The woman peered down her nose at the children and gave a peculiar excuse for a smile. Ben scowled. This was one of those phoney acknowledgements, the sort the Rodice used to dole out. Jennet nodded at her and shuddered as she wobbled into the post office; there had been lipstick all over her teeth.

'Come on,' she said to her brother, 'let's go and have lunch.'

They found Miss Boston already in the kitchen making ham sandwiches for them and, as they sat down to eat, they told her what they had done that morning. The old lady listened attentively, clucking now and then in wonder or approval. She laughed as they described the morris dancers and sucked in her cheeks at the disgraceful behaviour of the Bentley.

'That Banbury-Scott woman really is too much!' she snorted. 'Thinks she owns the town, she does.'

'You know that fat lady with all the cack on her face, then?' asked Ben, forgetting his manners.

Aunt Alice spluttered at this description, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows to disassociate herself from it. 'Yes, I know her,' she said. 'She just happens to be one of the wealthiest women in the town. Married well, you see—married twice, actually, but both her husbands are dead now. Mrs Banbury-Scott is a very important person; her home is one of the largest and probably the oldest around here.' Miss Boston sighed wistfully and took another bite of her sandwich.

'She's very fat,' Ben said again.

Jennet kicked him under the table but Aunt Alice nodded in agreement. 'Yes, she is a bit of a pig,' she admitted. 'Far too greedy. I'm afraid.'

Ben chuckled with surprise and appreciation—he had not expected her to agree with him.

'I didn't like her,' said Jennet flatly.

'Not many do,' confided Aunt Alice, 'but because she's rich they put up with her. Very useful to have her on the board of this and that if she makes a contribution to the funds now and again. Of course she's got terribly above herself—putting on airs and graces. She might be able to fool some of them round here with her fancy ways but I remember what she was like before she got married. Plain Dora Blatchet she was then, father lived in the yard opposite—simple fisherman.' She leaned back and stared into space for a moment. 'Oh, but she was a lovely creature then—prettiest little thing in Whitby. Another cruel trick of age.'

Ben licked the crumbs off the plate and looked round for something else. Miss Boston gave him an apple but he looked at it woefully; he had been hoping for some chocolate biscuits.

'She can't have any real friends, then,' said Jennet thoughtfully. 'How awful to be liked just because you have money.'

'Oh, but she does have friends, dear,' Aunt Alice quickly put in. 'There's Edith Wethers, the postmistress; Mrs Joyster, Tilly Droon and...' here she paused, then added guiltily, '...and there's me. In fact Mrs Banbury-Scott will be coming here tomorrow evening. Our ladies' circle meets once a month.'

She cleared the plates away while Jennet puzzled over her words. The way Aunt Alice had mentioned the ladies' circle was strange, as if she was embarrassed and did not want to talk about it.

'Is it a party?' Ben asked with interest.

Miss Boston gave a nervous laugh and shook her head quickly. 'Oh no, Benjamin,' she said. 'Just a collection of dreary old woman like me—extremely dull, I'm afraid.'

Jennet looked across at her brother. It was obvious they were not wanted at this meeting and she wondered what they were supposed to do during it.

By a strange coincidence. Aunt Alice was thinking exactly the same thing. The old lady stuck out her chins and chewed the problem over in her mind. It would never do for the children to find out what happened at these meetings and discover her little secret, she told herself. Jennet watched her and a suspicion began to form in the back of her mind, but for the moment she said nothing.

The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to the various little pockets of folk music that sprang up wherever a clear space could be found. Ben enjoyed this immensely and joined in the clapping and cheering. There was so much to see that the time passed very quickly and the children were exhausted by the time they eventually clambered into their beds.