Cold Shoulder Road Page 4

“After the Reverend Amos Furze went to New England,” explained the Admiral, “the Silent Sect elected as their new leader a man recently arrived in this country from the Lowlands. His name is Dominic de la Twite. Naturally I asked your Mother if there might be any relationship between this person and her husband. She thought not.”

  “Fancy his being called Twite, though,” said Is thoughtfully. “It ain’t a common monacker. What sort of cove is he, Admiral, sir?”

  Admiral Fishskin considered. “Not just in the common way. A big man. Tall, very handsome. Keen eyes. Impressive presence. Godlike.”

  His voice was disapproving.

  “Godlike?” said Arun.

  “His eyes,” went on the Admiral, “are a particular shade of blue-grey. I would never choose a man with eyes that colour to be my first officer. No indeed.” He folded his lips together and shook his head. “Twite’s sister, though,” he added after a moment, “is a woman of great capacity.”

  “The Twites are a dicey lot,” sighed Is. “Slice ’em where you like.”

  Arun said, “And folk think my Mum went off with the kid? But why in the world would she do that?”

  “So far as I know,” said the Admiral, “there is no shred of evidence to support such a wild story. Except, of course, that they were both lost to view at the same time.”

  “How old would the kid be now?”

  “Five, or six, maybe.”

  “A boy?”

  “I am not sure. I never laid eyes on the young person.”

  “And what about the second kid? The one the Merry Gentry took? Whose was that? And where was it taken?”

  “Ah, it is said that it was taken through the Tunnel into France. Where the organisation is known as Les Gens Aimables. No doubt it remains there.”

  “Whose kid was it?”

  “I have a notion,” said the Admiral vaguely, “that it was some connection of your neighbour, Mrs Boles. But people are very reluctant to talk, as you will find. And I may not have the facts correctly.”

  “Mrs Boles certainly don’t wish to talk.”

  “Ah, well, she has reason,” said the Admiral. “Her husband Ern, who, I fear, was a sad drunken fellow – a lamplighter, he used to be, in the town – one night he boasted, when in his cups, in the Bluejackets’ Rest, that he knew a clever artist who had seen all the members of the Merry Gentry and could draw their portraits. Dear me, that was not a wise thing to do.”

  “What happened?” Arun asked, as the Admiral fell silent.

  “He was found, three days later, in Shadoxhurst Forest. His hands had been clipped together in a green ash tree which had been split and pulled apart and then allowed to spring together again . . . He was dead.”

  “How horrible!” cried Is. “Had he died of hunger?”

  “No,” said the Admiral. “The wolves had got him. A quantity of wolves (as you may know) have contrived to slip over from France and squeeze between the bars of the Tunnel gate. You must always keep a sharp look-out for wolves at night in the countryside – or even here, in less well-lit parts of the town.”

  At this moment something black and furry, and about the size of a football, came sliding down, on a silvery thread, from the soot-grimed ceiling.

  Is and Arun both started violently, then watched with starting eyes as this creature, which had two very bright eyes and a lot of legs, toddled across the floor, climbed up the Admiral’s white-trousered leg, and settled itself cosily in his lap.

  “Rosamund, one of my spiders,” said the Admiral, stroking the creature, who appeared to enjoy this, but all the time watched Arun and Is with brilliant, diamond-coloured eyes. “I brought back her great-grandmother from the Larboard Islands on my last command. Such beasties make capital watchdogs Rosamund keeps my house safe from intruders . . . And from mice, also.”

  I’ll lay she does, thought Is, who did not care for spiders. She scowled at Rosamund.

  “Sir – would you have any notion at all of where my Mum might have gone?” asked Arun, trying to keep his eyes away from the spider.

  “There, my boy, I regret I cannot help you. But if some notion should ever come into my head I will, of course, communicate it to you at once. You plan to remain in Cold Shoulder Road?”

  They nodded glumly.

  “I do not think that is a good plan,” said the Admiral. “I fear that you may have difficulties with neighbours. Mrs Boles, alas, is not a sensible woman and her husband’s fate overthrew what wits she had. – Also I believe her daughter ran off to America. I should not be surprised if it were Mrs Boles who had been putting about all these unkind tales concerning your mother and the child. Also, the Sect were never popular in this town. It might,” went on the Admiral thoughtfully, “it might be better for you to transfer yourselves to Seagate. There are numerous empty houses in that town, after the late disastrous flood. And I can always send messages to you by the baker’s boy. Or indeed, come myself.”

  He cast a glance at a mechanism which Is had been staring at, on and off, ever since she noticed it. Half-covered with a waterproof sheet, it stood in a shadowy corner: a spindly affair, made of metal, with two large wheels, one somewhat bigger than the other, which were connected by various rods and a revolving chain; between the wheels and attached to the bars hung a triangular piece of wood, covered with leather, which might be intended for a seat.

  “I invented the device,” said the Admiral proudly. “When becalmed, years ago, in the Sea of Sargasso. I call it my Dupli-gyro. I sit, you see, on that leather crupper, place my feet on these small bars – which rotate – causing the wheels to do likewise, and I thus proceed at a quite remarkable velocity, I can assure you.”

  “Doesn’t it fall over sideways?” asked Arun, fascinated.

  “No, my boy, because the velocity maintains its equilibrium . . . As when you bowl a hoop, you know, or spin a top.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  “I have made a number of them,” said the Admiral in a tone of satisfaction. “But this one is the best. I can propel myself to Seagate and back on it in little over an hour. So – my dear young people – I strongly advise you to transfer to that charming little place.”

  Seems like everybody wants us to leave Folkestone, thought Is, who now knew what it was that she had seen gliding across the hillside on the previous evening. I shouldn’t care to ride on that thing, she thought. I reckon the Admiral is a spooky old gager, with his spiders and his Dupli-gyro.

  “Sir – Admiral,” she said. “Mrs Boles wants us to stow Arun’s Mum’s pictures somewhere safe.”

  “Pictures?” The Admiral at once looked very interested indeed.

  “There’s a whole scoop o’ pictures upstairs in Arun’s house. We think his Mum musta painted ’em.”

  “I should be most curious to see them!” declared the Admiral. “Are they landscapes? Still lifes? . . . Portraits? Are any of them portraits?”

  “They’re beautiful pictures,” said Is. “They aren’t like anything else at all. Stunning, they are. Ain’t they, Arun?”

  But Arun did not seem to want to talk about his mother’s pictures.

  “Are there many?” A greedy light flashed in the Admiral’s eye.

  “You just bet! A whole roomful.”

  “Well,” said the Admiral, in a tone of gracious consideration, “I do not see why they should not be stored – as a purely temporary measure, you understand – in my dene-hole cellar. Fortunately it is very spacious. And dry. And, I confess, you have made me quite curious to observe these works!”

  “A dene-hole?” said Is doubtfully. “What’s that?”

  “Dene-holes are very well-ventilated,” the Admiral assured her.

  “But what is a dene-hole?” asked Arun, rousing himself out of a longish, moody silence.

  “Made by prehistoric folk some time between the Stone Age and the Bronze Age. (That is to say, many many thousand years ago.) Chipped out of the chalk, you know, by flint knives. Their habit, those long-ago folk, was to dig out qui
te a network of caves. Indeed, I have never explored these ones very far. My lame leg, you see, prevents me.” He patted it, causing Rosamund to turn on him a reproachful glare. “And also – I must confess – I am not partial to enclosed places.”

  “How can we shift all the pictures, though?” puzzled Is. “There’s a mortal lot of ’em. We’d need a wagon.”

  She hoped the Admiral would suggest sending his carriage. Instead he said, “I have a trolley. On which I am used to wheel my golf clubs. That would serve, no doubt?”

  “Let’s have a look at it.”

  So – first tipping Rosamund on to the floor; she retired sulkily up her web again – he led them through a back door into a spacious conservatory, filled with a mad clutter of garden tools, golf clubs, fowling pieces, fishing-rods, baskets, hip-baths, and boots.

  Among these articles stood a large trolley, made from heavy sail canvas stretched over a metal framework and mounted on grooved wheels which had solid tyres made from thick rope.

  “A very handy device,” pronounced the Admiral, surveying it with approval. “I designed it myself. The wheels, as you see, will run over the turf of the golf course without injuring the grass. And this same factor will enable you to transfer your mother’s works of art by night, without arousing the unwelcome attention of neighbours.”

  “At night? You think that would be best?” said Arun.

  “Undoubtedly, my boy. I fear thatan angry crowd, if they saw you, might reduce the pictures to shreds – and, possibly, you too. I most strongly advise you to shift them tonight; then to remove yourselves from Folkestone without further delay. Now I will show you the entrance to my underground store.”

  He walked through a door into a kind of garden room next to the conservatory, which contained wheelbarrows, wicker furniture, many more kites hanging on hooks, and several more Dupli-gyros in various stages of construction. A well-like cavity occupied the centre of the floor, and a ladder led down into it.

  “At the foot of the ladder, down below,” said the Admiral, “you will find a circular series of rooms, cut in the chalk. There will be ample space to store the pictures, nobody will disturb them, and your minds can be at ease. I will instruct one of my gardeners to leave a lamp and matches here tonight, at the top of the ladder.”

  “Won’t you be here, sir?”

  “Most unfortunately,” said the Admiral, “this evening I must attend a meeting of the Folkestone and District Association of Magistrates and Justices of the Peace. But very likely I shall return before you have completed your task. How many loads of pictures do you suppose there will be? At a rough estimate?”

  Arun and Is eyed the trolley, comparing its size with the roomful of pictures. “Three, maybe.”

  The Admiral’s eyes brightened noticeably at the thought of so many pictures. “Capital, capital. In that case I may very likely be home before you have done, and can invite you to a little hot supper afterwards. Goodbye, then, my dear young friends, for the present. You need not re-enter the house; this path will lead you round the house to the gate, and you may take it tonight.”

  Isn’t it a bit rum, Is thought, that the Admiral gets us to store the things in a place where he don’t care to go himself? Wouldn’t you think there’d be a space somewhere in that great house of his?

  But then she recollected the state of the house, the number of things already stored in it. Maybe there wouldn’t.

  Waving a brisk hand in farewell, the Admiral turned back into the conservatory. Pulling the trolley behind them – it ran very smoothly – Arun and Is followed a path among the shrubberies. On their way to the gate they noticed five or six men at work in the gardens.

  “Queer he keeps his garden so spange when the house is such a mux,” Is remarked as they reached the gate.

  “He’s a rum old cove and no mistake . . . Did you like him?”

  “Oh – tol-lol. I didn’t like Rosamund above half. Creepy sort o’ pet to keep.”

  “Still, I reckon we could use one like her in Cold Shoulder Road,” Arun said gloomily.

  Indeed, when they arrived back at Arun’s home they were discouraged to find that a piece of paper had been nailed up on the back door which said in large red letters:

  GIT ART YORE NOT WONTED

  Thoughtfully, they parked the trolley in the back garden among the sad cabbages.

  “Hope that means you’re leaving!” A man strolled along the back path, leaned on the fence, eyed the trolley, and spat.

  “None o’ your affair, I should think!” retorted Is, carrying out a pail of dirty sea water, and emptying it close to his feet.

  “Ho? No? But what about Miz Twite making off with the Gentry child? You know what? The Gentry stuck up a sign saying they’ll take a whole lot more kids if that one’s not brought back. And already Tabitha Howe had her youngest took.”

  “Well we didn’t take the little perisher,” snapped Is.

  “No, but his Mum did,” said the man, spitting again, with a nod towards Arun. “Her and the one with the cat. Two of a kind, ask me.”

  “Hey!” Is called after him. “What d’you mean, the one with the cat?”

  But he made no answer, and was soon out of sight.

  “Arun,” said Is, “I’ve a notion – dunno if it makes sense, but you never know . . . Hey, Arun! Do listen!”

  “Oh, what?” he said impatiently. “Don’t bother me, there’s a good girl. I’ve a splitting headache. To tell the truth, I’ve had just about enough of it here.”

  Is studied her cousin with dismay.

  When she had agreed to travel south with him on the Dark Diamond, her plan had been to stop for a night with Arun and her aunt Ruth in Folkestone, and then make her way north-westwards to her own home with her sister Penny and cat Figgin in Blackheath Woods. By now she was longing to rejoin her own family.

  But the arrival in Folkestone to the mystery of the empty, wretched house had given this plan a decided check. Is felt that she could not leave Arun with such uncertain prospects. He did not seem fit to face them on his own.

  “Oh, what’s the use of it all?” he burst out, flung down his scrubbing brush, and strode off to the shingle ridge. There, between two upturned fishing boats, he sat down heavily, and stared out to sea.

  He seemed quite overthrown by all these happenings.

  I only hope he won’t want to go back to being a cat again, thought Is, deeply worried.

  She was fond of cats – particularly her own cat Figgin – but she did not feel it would help matters just now if Arun should choose to eat nothing but fish and stop speaking to humans.

  She, too, left off scrubbing (really it did seem a waste of time if they were not going to stay), went slowly upstairs, and stared for a long time at Ruth Twite’s amazing pictures.

  Seen in daylight, they were like an explosion. Vermilion red, black, olive green, lime yellow, sapphire blue, peony pink. Solid shapes and thick black lines scrambled and rioted and twisted.

  “Croopus, Auntie Ruth, you musta had a whole lot of fun painting ’em,” breathed Is, staring at each in turn. She studied all the ones in the bedroom, then pulled out the ones from the closet which had been Arun’s room, and looked at those.

  Some of them were almost recognisable as flowers: arum lilies, honeysuckle, anemones, bee orchids. Others were wholly unfamiliar.

  Maybe Aunt Ruth just made ’em up, Is thought, studying some green, black, and salmon-pink star-shaped flowers the size of horses’ hoofs, which were being visited by giant bees.

  At the very back of the closet, under the last pile of pictures, she found a slip of paper. It was grubby and dusty, folded into a concertina shape, tucked under the skirting-board.

  Is carried it over to the window, for she could see faint writing on it. She read:

  Carry my heart to the steps of the sky

  Carry it high

  Throw down the blackhearts, we must be free

  Springy as wicker

  Sleek as the sea

&
nbsp; We must be free

  We must be free

  Now we must bring out the blind to see

  The dumb to deliver their ABC

  Blow wind my heart to the roof of the sky

  Lark and lapwing fly with me

  Peewit and plover, come fly with me

  Lies and silence are gone for ever

  Fear and envy are gone for ever.

  “Well!” said Is.

  The lines were in Arun’s handwriting, but in a childish script that was rounder and larger than his present style. They must have been written years ago, before he left home.

  There was writing on the other side of the paper as well; she turned it over and read, Somewhere in the woods.

  Is pondered over this for a long time. Then she slipped the paper into her pocket (she wore breeches like a boy, a habit she had acquired from life in the woods, where it was often necessary to run very fast or climb trees to escape the wolves). She left the house, shutting the kitchen door behind her, and found her way to the steep and narrow High Street.

  The town was very silent. Few people were about. The ones that were eyed each other suspiciously and had nothing to say. Is received many hostile looks and some muttered remarks were flung after her.

  “Who’s that little skellum?”

  “One o’ those Silent Folk, maybe.”

  “We don’t want her sort round here.”

  Ignoring these comments, Is brought two hot faggots at a ham-and-beef shop, and, at a baker’s next door, two large slabs of thick, pale pudding studded with large flat raisins. These things she carried to the shingle ridge, where she found Arun sitting in exactly the same position.

  “Here,” said Is, “have a bit o’ dinner.”

  Arun silently accepted the food and ate it. He was already beginning to take on the look of a cat, Is thought, sighing; his eyes were slitted and his cheeks were drawn in. But perhaps that was just lack of food. He seemed very hungry.

  “We gotta find some way to earn a bit o’ blunt,” Is remarked when the meal was done. “That was my last brown. You got any mint sauce?”

  “Not much.” He turned out his pockets and produced a sixpence and a few pennies.