2: Chocolate Box Girls: Marshmallow Skye (18 page)

25

January feels like the longest month since time began. The weather is grey and cold and endlessly wet and even the teachers are depressed and grumpy, except for Mr Wolfe, who pins a lifesize
Dr Who
poster up on the classroom door and starts dressing the part too, wearing a bow tie to class. It’s not a good look.

Interestingly, though, he has graduated from everyone’s favourite teacher to torment to everyone’s favourite teacher, full stop. ‘He’s a dude,’ Alfie shrugs, which may be partly because the two of them bonded over the whole flying rucksack incident, or maybe because Alfie is a big fan of
Dr Who
.

He cannot resist the occasional tease, of course. Old habits die hard. ‘What’s the time, Mr Wolfe?’ is Alfie’s
favourite greeting to our history teacher these days, reminding me of the playground game we had at Kitnor Primary. I think he is waiting for Mr Wolfe to say, ‘Dinner time!’

A couple of weeks into the new term, Mr Wolfe brandishes his new sonic screwdriver at the class and announces we are having a surprise history quiz. There are groans of dismay because nobody has revised, but Mr Wolfe says that the questions are random, some based on things we’ve been studying and some not.

There is a prize, a huge bar of chocolate, and Mr Wolfe says we can use any method we like to find the answers providing we stay inside the classroom.

‘This quiz is to show you that history can be fun,’ Mr Wolfe says. ‘I want you to be time travellers. We may not have time machines or sonic screwdrivers in real life, but we can find other ways to unlock the secrets of the past. Books, letters, photos, paintings, objects … all of those things can help. Be time detectives – use any evidence you can find to piece together the answers.’

I blink. That’s what I need to be – a time detective, solving the mystery of Clara and Finch. It’s like Mr Wolfe says,
it’s just a case of finding the evidence and piecing it together. And now I know the letters can’t help me, I need to find some more clues.

There is a scramble for the three classroom computers, and the place goes into meltdown as pupils ransack the stock cupboard, leafing wildly through books and sorting through the topic boxes. ‘Can we use mobiles, Sir?’ Alfie asks, and Mr Wolfe says yes, but not to wave them about too much in case Mr King comes in, as we are not actually supposed to have them switched on in school.

‘Cool,’ Alfie says, taking out an iPhone to google for the answers while other kids try ringing home for help.

I scan through the quiz, my mind elsewhere.

Which British leader abolished Christmas?

Who was Hereward the Wake?

What is a palaeontologist?

Mr Wolfe is a teacher who believes in time travel, who thinks that all of us can be history detectives. If anyone could help me sort facts from fiction on the Clara story, it would be him. I abandon my quiz and wander over to his desk.

‘Everything OK, Skye?’ he asks, smiling at me over half-moon spectacles. ‘Not finished already, surely?’

‘Um … yes, Sir,’ I say.

All around me, my classmates are showing a real feeling for history too. Millie is wearing a papier-mâché Viking helmet rescued from the stock cupboard and Summer is twirling about the room in a red cloak and a crown taken from the ‘Kings & Queens’ topic box. Kids are sitting on tabletops, talking on mobiles, leafing through textbooks, gathered round the computers, some of them wearing chain mail or top hats.

‘It was Cromwell, trust me,’ someone is saying. ‘My dad mentioned it over the holidays …’

‘What’s a wake, anyway?’

‘Hang on, hang on, I’m googling it …’

‘It’s the study of birds, isn’t it?’

‘No, no, that’s ornithology. That’s got nothing to do with history …’

If Mr King were to stick his head round the door, it would look like chaos, but I think it is a good kind of chaos.

Mr Wolfe raises an eyebrow. ‘So, Skye? Can I help?’

I swallow. ‘I haven’t finished the quiz yet, Sir, but … I wanted to ask you something …’

‘Ask away,’ he says.

I look around, but nobody is listening. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Sir?’

Mr Wolfe raises an eyebrow. ‘That’s a loaded question,’ he says. ‘I haven’t actually seen any myself, Skye. But then again, I wouldn’t rule anything out. History can leave a long shadow on the present day, I know that much. Who knows? Why? Have you seen something?’

A blush creeps into my cheeks. I haven’t, of course, not really. A dream is very different from a ghostly figure in white who glides through walls and makes the temperature plummet down below zero. And wasn’t I the one telling Summer a few weeks ago that ghosts don’t exist?

‘No, no, of course not,’ I say, backtracking. ‘It’s just that there’s a ghost story in our family I would like to investigate. I’d like to find out more of the details, but I don’t know where to look … or who to ask. I mean, there might not be any information out there …’

‘What kind of dates are we talking?’ Mr Wolfe wants to know. ‘If it’s nineteenth- or twentieth-century stuff, Kitnor Museum may be able to help. They hold quite a lot of information there. Parish records of births, deaths, marriages … old newspapers … even some old diaries
and household account books. I can’t promise miracles, but you should find something about your ghost story.’

‘Thanks, Sir,’ I grin. ‘I’ll try that.’

‘YESSSS!’ Alfie Anderson whoops from the back of the class, his new cool-boy persona forgotten in the heat of the moment. ‘I’ve done it, Sir – finished! That chocolate bar is MINE!’

That, of course, is a miracle in itself.

I haven’t been to Kitnor Museum since I was nine or ten. It’s small and quiet and dusty, with strange shop dummies from the 1960s dressed in home-made costumes to look like smugglers and highwaymen and Victorian ladies. There are displays of old photographs and paintings, a couple of bits of ancient furniture and assorted china, handmade lace and broken clay pipes locked up in glass cases.

I manage to sneak off after school without anyone asking too many questions. Summer has a ballet class and Millie hasn’t wanted to come over to Tanglewood or hang out in the village for weeks now, which at least means I don’t have to give her any excuses.

Still, by the time I get to the museum it’s almost closing
time, and the place is deserted except for a smiley woman with dark frizzy hair sorting through some old papers at the desk. As she works, she reaches out and selects a chocolate from the box beside her, and I almost laugh out loud because they are Chocolate Box truffles, our chocolates.

‘Excuse me,’ I ask. ‘I wonder if you can help me? I’m trying to find out about a girl who lived in Kitnor in the 1920s …’

She looks up. ‘Oh, you’re one of the Chocolate Box Girls!’ she says, delighted. ‘One of the Tanberrys, yes? I saw you and your sisters in the magazine, and I’ve spotted you in the village once or twice.’

She picks up the box of truffles. ‘My boyfriend gave me these for Christmas,’ she says. ‘They’re the best chocolates I’ve ever tasted!’

‘I’ll tell Mum,’ I say.

‘Yes, do. So … you’re trying to trace someone from the 1920s? We’re about to close, but I was planning on working late anyway. Let’s take a look at the parish records.’

Searching through the records, I tell the museum lady the story of Clara Travers and about the trunk Mum and Paddy found. ‘You have her dresses?’ she asks. ‘Really? And
hats and shoes and bracelets and letters? They’d make an amazing exhibit, if you wanted to lend them to the museum at any point!’

‘Maybe,’ I frown. ‘If I could just find out what actually happened …’

The idea of parting with the dresses feels uncomfortable, and I can see for a tiny moment why Summer doesn’t like my attachment to them. They’re not my dresses, after all – why shouldn’t I share them? I’m worried if I do it’ll mean giving up the dreams, that’s why.

Half an hour later, we’ve found an entry for the birth of Clara Jane Travers from the year 1909, daughter of William Henry Travers and Elizabeth Mary Travers of Tanglewood House.

‘If your story’s right, and she was seventeen when she died, that would make it 1926,’ the museum lady says. ‘But there’s no record here of her death, or of her marriage either, obviously. I’m guessing that the death wasn’t recorded, perhaps because her body was never found. Let’s see if the newspaper archives have anything …’

But when we look through the newspaper reports, there are no mentions of a death by drowning, no references to
suicide. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,’ the museum lady says. ‘Perhaps it was covered up to spare the family the scandal? They’d have tried to keep something like that out of the newspapers.’

‘Well, we tried,’ I say. ‘I have a photograph of Clara’s fiancé, but he didn’t live in Kitnor so there’s no point in looking for him. I don’t suppose there’s any way to trace the gypsies?’

‘Doubtful,’ the museum lady sighs. ‘They lived outside society, for the most part. They rarely recorded births, deaths or marriages because they moved around so much.

‘We do know that the Romanies used the woods by Tanglewood House as a stopping-off point until the 1920s. After that, they switched to the pastures down by Kitnor Quay. Perhaps that was because the Travers family warned them off, as your story says? It’s a pity we don’t have a name to work on …’

‘Finch,’ I say, although I have no proof that the boy from my dreams has anything to do with Clara Travers. My cheeks glow pink. ‘I mean … it could be Finch, possibly, but I have no evidence. Just … something I’d heard.’

‘Do you have a first name?’ she asks.

I frown. ‘No … no first name. Sorry.’

‘Well, leave it with me. I’ll take a look at the local farm records from the 1920s and let you know if I find anything.’

Abruptly, the door flies open and a tall, dishevelled figure wearing a tweed jacket and yellow corduroy trousers bowls in, wrestling a dripping umbrella.

‘Grace!’ he says, flinging his arms round the museum lady.

‘Charlie!’

Mr Wolfe catches my eye over his girlfriend’s shoulder, and his face reddens.

‘Ah … Skye, how nice to see you … you took my advice then!’

‘Yes, Sir,’ I grin. ‘Guess I’d better be going. Um … what’s the time, Mr Wolfe?’

‘Almost six, I think …’

‘Dinner time,’ I say, grinning, and sprint for the door.

Alfie Anderson would be proud of me.

26

‘Sorted,’ Mum says, putting down the phone. ‘It’s all booked. The village hall, Thursday 14 February, eight till late … the best birthday party of the season!’

It’s the following day after school, and Summer, Cherry and I are all in the kitchen, finishing up homework before dinner.

‘Brilliant!’ Summer whoops. ‘Can we invite everyone? All the kids in our year? And all the girls from the dance school, as well?’

‘I don’t see why not!’

‘And some of the boys from the high school?’ Summer checks. ‘Not that I am interested in boys, obviously, but some of the other girls might like that …’

‘Shay could do the sound for you,’ Cherry volunteers. ‘He’s really good.’

‘Definitely,’ Summer says. ‘We can make playlists, and have a Valentine’s theme with pink streamers and pink lemonade, and a big pink cake shaped like a heart …’