Dear Scarlett (12 page)

The thing is, it turns out Mrs Gayton can’t swim.

We know that because we saw her sink to the bottom of the pool. Everything else is rumour. On the bus on the way back to school, everyone’s telling stories of things their mums and dads have said.

Apparently:

“Mrs Gayton’s husband emigrated to Australia the day after they married.”

“At the weekends, Mrs Gayton’s one of the wrestlers on the pier.”

“Mrs Gayton’s not really a human being, she’s
from a computer game.”

“Mrs Gayton’s mum was Godzilla.”

“Mrs Gayton’s really a man.”

Whatever’s the truth, we don’t see her afterwards. Instead, Mrs Mason takes our class.

I’m probably dead and gone to heaven, because for the rest of the day, Mrs Mason lets us draw all over our literacy books, and write poems about the sea.

Feeling like I’m in a dream, Ellie and I catch the school bus to her house. We sit right in the middle of the bus and no one makes fun of Ellie. Amber actually shifts along to make room.

The others have left a sort of ring around us, not the usual “you stink” kind of ring, but a ring of awe.

They’re looking at us, smiling at us; but a little bit scared of us, too.

It’s as if without Mrs Gayton, the Coven can’t exist.

It’s very nice.

That’s the upside; the downside is the long black car with a little flag on the front that follows us all the way home.

We watch it slide around corner after corner just far enough away, but with no chance of losing it.

“Ellie!” shouts the bus driver. “Your stop.”

We have to get out at Ellie’s, the driver won’t let us stay on, but before the bus has even pulled away, we duck down an alley and run all the way through the golf course until we can get back into the other end of Ellie’s avenue of very neat houses.

“Phew,” says Ellie, unlocking the front door. “Lost them. What a day.”

But behind us, I hear the low purring of a car rolling slowly into the street. We throw ourselves in through the door and slam it shut.

I peer through the square of glass in the front door.

My mouth goes dry.

The nose of the big black car nudges the bushes at the edge of the drive and it rolls to a stop outside the house.

Mum and Syd clamber out.

“Oh no,” I say.

“Oh!” Ellie gasps, ducking out of sight.

I watch Mum lean in through the car window.

“NO,” I say.

“What?” asks Ellie.

“She’s inviting them in.”

“She can’t,” says Ellie.

The lady mayoress staggers out of the back of the car and up the steps towards the front door.

“NO! Absolutely not,” shouts Ellie and bolts for the stairs.

The chauffeur follows from the car and Mum fiddles about in her handbag looking for her keys.

I hesitate for a moment too long.

The door opens.

“Oh – hello, dear,” says the lady mayoress. “How lovely, are you going to join us for tea too?”

Mum’s busy in the kitchen. I can hear cups rattling on saucers. The lady mayoress has settled herself on Uncle Derek’s tilty chair. She’s playing with the buttons and the foot rest keeps going up and down. Her sausage legs are going up and down with it. It’s not a nice sight and it’s making me nervous.

At my feet, the chauffeur’s playing with Syd. Syd’s running a car over the chauffeur’s jacket. It’s as if he knows the man as well as he knows Uncle Derek. The chauffeur gives Syd an awkward hug. Syd grips the chauffeur’s jacket and buries his head in it.

Syd’s really happy.

I’m not. I wish they’d go away and I don’t know what to do with myself. I tried to hide in the kitchen but Mum sent me out. “Entertain them,” she said, handing me a plate of Jammie Dodgers.

Between chair rides, the lady mayoress examines the room. Her eyes slide from the piano to the sound system to the lampshades. She fingers the cloth of the cushions as if she’s working out how much they’re worth.

Mum’s still clanking about in the kitchen, so I stare at the floor. It’s not very interesting; Uncle Derek doesn’t really go in for interesting. It’s just beige, but the chauffeur’s definitely trying to catch my eye, and I’m trying really hard not to let it get caught.

In fact, I’m staring at the floor so hard, I almost don’t hear him. “Scarlett,” he says quietly. “Time’s runnin’ out.”

I look up. I don’t mean to and I catch Syd planting a slobbery kiss on the chauffeur’s chin.

Syd loves him.

There’s nothing I can do, my blood’s already frozen; I can practically hear it stopping my heart.

“Syd,” I mutter.

“Well, Scarlett, dear?” asks the lady mayoress.

“Syd, come here.” I hold out my hand but Syd burrows closer to the chauffeur.

The lady mayoress leans forward. “All right, ducks? Be lovely if you decided to help us, save a lot of bother.”

I suddenly remember the biscuits.

“Syd,” I say. “Biscuit?” I hold out the plate.

“Ta, love,” says the lady mayoress, grabbing one with her painted nails and jamming it into her mouth.

Syd gazes up at the chauffeur’s face, then looks ravenously at the plate of biscuits. He uncurls from the man’s chest, launches himself across the room towards me and snatches a biscuit before rolling off behind the telly to eat it.

Phew.

“Thing is, Scarlett, dear,” says the lady mayoress. “We saw you’d had a present, a box, but when we ‘learned’ about the contents, they were … disappointing.”

The chauffeur’s up on his feet now, turning over the books on the piano stool, flicking through the magazines on the coffee table, poking about.

He moves over to my school bag, picks up one of
the straps and looks me in the eye.

The scrapbook’s in there.

I try to look as if it doesn’t matter, make myself breathe.

I try to breathe like a normal person, but my heartbeat’s going mad in my ears and I don’t feel a bit normal.

I shrug.

“Knowing our criminal friend, as we did,” says the chauffeur, passing the strap through his fingers. “We know, and you know, that there’s something else out there, something that belongs to us. You’ve a choice – you can either give us everything you know, now – and we’ll be out of your lives forever, or have us follow you, until you lead us there. It could take years – but then, we’ve already waited five.”

He swings my school bag from one finger, watching me closely. “Worried I might find somethin’?” he mutters, reaching for the zip.

“Go on, dearie, do make it simple,” says the lady mayoress.

“Yes,” says the chauffeur. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Scarlett – I’d hate to wreck your mum’s summer holiday.” He steps across the carpet until he’s
towering over me, the bag dangling from his hand.

I take a step back. I want the bag but I don’t want to be next to the man. I try to remember what else is in there. He’ll have to sort through loads of old rubbish to find the scrapbook. He won’t just reach in and pull it out.

But then again…

“Mum!” I squeak.

“’Um!” bellows Syd. “’Artlet want -ooo.”

Mum bursts in with the tea tray. “Ready for a cup?”

The room fills with movement and the sound of shiny fabric bouncing back into place. Still holding the bag, the driver leaps forward and hauls the lady mayoress to her feet.

“Must go,” he says. “Places to go, people to see.”

“But, Mum!” I say. “He’s got my bag.”

Mum lands the tea tray on the coffee table and stares at the chauffeur and me. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“That was lovely, dear,” says the lady mayoress, a beach load of crumbs cascading from her stomach to the carpet.

“You’re going without a cup of tea?” says Mum.

“Oh, thank you, the biscuits were most restorative,
dearie,” says the lady mayoress. “And I nearly forgot.” She rustles in her handbag and pulls out a bag of boiled sweets. “Here, lovey.” She presses a glowing red sweet into Syd’s hand. “For you, petal.” Syd beams. He’d go anywhere with these two.

“Er – excuse me, you’ve got Scarlett’s bag?” Mum says, hesitating in the doorway, but the chauffeur ignores her.

Outside, the lady mayoress lurches towards the car, her heels sticking in the gaps in Uncle Derek’s drive. The chauffeur, behind, winks at me, and he’s just about to swing my bag into the car when I bound forward and grab it off him.

He stares at me.

I stare back.

“Oh,” says Mum. “Good, you’ve got it back now, Scarlett.” But she’s speaking slowly as if she’s trying to make sense of their behaviour.

“So she has,” he laughs. “How did that happen? Lovely to see you again – Scarlett.”

I don’t answer, but looping the bag over my shoulder, I hang on to Mum’s shirt, just to keep her there, with me. I’ve forgotten about Syd, because he charges out between Mum’s legs to stroke the car one more time. “Whoa there, little fella,” says the
chauffeur and he picks Syd up and throws him into the air above his head.

It’s too high. Far too high.

Mum gasps, but stands still like someone’s frozen her.

Syd screams with delight and the driver does it again, and again.

He stops, looks at me, and throws Syd miles into the sky, until Syd’s squealing like a piglet and I’m nearly ready to rummage in the bag for the scrapbook, in fact I’m just starting to bend round to the zip when I hear Syd’s feet running on the concrete drive again.

I can’t take much more of this.

I turn back towards the car and grab Syd’s dungarees as he stamps past.

“Take the little fella in the car one day, he can sit in his car seat, come on our rounds,” says the chauffeur.

“Yes,” says Mum doubtfully.

And the driver taps the side of his nose and winks at me again.

I hang on to Mum’s shirt until the car slides quietly out of the drive and along the avenue. Mum grips my hand, very tightly, and picks up Syd by
the straps of his dungarees.

“Come on, you two, let’s watch a film with Ellie till Uncle Derek gets back.”

Uncle Derek takes us to school in the morning. In the police car. The lady mayoress's car is parked in the lay-by opposite. “After school, don't go on the bus. Wait in the playground if I'm late, but I won't be,” he tells us.

He parks in front of the lady mayoress's car, gets out and stares at it doubtfully as we go into the school gates, then he goes to Mrs Mason's office. “To have a word.”

From our classroom, I see his car speed down the road, and we sit, flicking paper pellets, waiting for a teacher.

In the end, it's Mrs Mason who comes in, and for once we actually learn something – I mean, did you know that you can grow crystals from salty water? Or that the first animal in space was a dog?

Mrs Gayton seems to have left the school. She's not even been mentioned. Sam Lewis sticks up his hand in the middle of an argument about Louis Armstrong the musician and Neil Armstrong the spaceman. “Miss? Miss? What's happened to Mrs Gayton? Is it true that she's really a man?”

Mrs Mason pinches her lips and shows us a picture of moon craters.

Just before break, Mrs Mason says: “Ellie, Scarlett, my office please, now.”

Ellie stares at me and I shrug – I don't think we've actually done anything wrong recently, although I suddenly start to worry about Uncle Derek, who was definitely acting strangely this morning – has he found out about the sweet-shop raid? Has he told Mrs Mason?

I think about Uncle Derek stuck on his own on a tiny island in the middle of the sea.

With no watch or phone or stopwatch.

Mrs Mason, too.

We follow Mrs Mason out across the playground.
I grab an apple from the fruit basket in the corridor. I don't really mean to eat it; I just feel the need to hold something.

I glance towards the road. The lady mayoress's car is still sitting there. I take a bite of the apple, feebly hoping to hide behind it.

Mrs Mason pushes open the door to her office.

I nearly choke.

There, on a chair, sits Mrs Gayton. She's wearing a proper tracksuit, one that covers up her legs, and she's gripping a box of chocolates.

“Right, girls, Mrs Gayton has something to say to you,” says Mrs Mason, edging behind her desk. She puts her hand out as an invitation to Mrs Gayton.

Mrs Gayton screws up her face. Her teeth show, and she pulls back her painted red lips in a way that suggests someone dying in extreme pain.

It's a smile.

“Girls,” she says. “Tha … Thanks.” She holds the box of chocolates out in front of her; it quivers at the end of her bony arm. “I'm … very … grateful.”

Ellie sashays forward and takes the chocolates, taking care not to touch Mrs Gayton's scary fingers.
“Thank you, Mrs Gayton, I'm glad we were able to help.”

I just stand with my mouth open.

What?

Mrs Gayton said “thanks”?

To us????!!!??

What?

“And?” says Mrs Mason.

“Scarlett,” says Mrs Gayton. “I must apologise for my attitude to you.” She looks up at Mrs Mason.

I can see the words really hurt her.

Mrs Mason's talking again. “So, girls, now, if you want to see Mrs Gayton, she'll be working on the pier – isn't that wonderful?”

“Yes,” I say, wondering what she's talking about.

“Well,” says Ellie. “That's very exciting, Mrs Gayton. All-in wrestler – who'd have thought it?”

We're sleeping back at our house for the first time since the burglary. Mum's tidied up my bedroom and burned a scented candle so it smells of fake lemons instead of scene-of-crime officers. They broke my bedside moon lamp, so Mum's bought me a jazzy blue one that seems more grown up, but it feels strange.

Ellie's doing her homework, it was set about five minutes ago, but she likes to clear it out of the way, “so that I can enjoy the rest of the weekend”. I'll do mine at bedtime on Sunday night. Ellie will get ten out of ten. I would normally get “Could try harder” in Mrs Gayton's scrawl, but perhaps this time I
will
try harder, to please Mrs Mason.

That would be the
right
thing to do.

I'm staring at the ceiling trying to think of good things, and I'm trying not to let the pair in the lady mayoress's car worry me. Just at the moment, we're all in the house, Uncle Derek too, so we're safe.

Good things.

The best good things are the ones that you've done for other people. I mean, Mrs Gayton has been living a lie, but when we rescued her, we did the right thing, even though she's been doing the wrong thing for years. She was lucky we were there, she was lucky Ellie's dad sent us on a lifesaving course, and she was lucky the lifeguard knew how to get the whistles off from round her neck, or she'd have been strangled.

She was lucky there was a job for an all-in wrestler at the end of the pier. I don't even know what an all-in wrestler is – it just sounds like the right thing
for Mrs Gayton.

She's also lucky I could forgive her.

“Ellie?”

“Yes – are you thinking about Mrs Gayton?”

“I am,” I say. “But we did the right thing.”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “Scarlett?”

“Yes?”

“Would you rather it was Mrs Gayton, or Melissa and Jessica at the bottom of the pool?”

I think about it for a minute. “All of them?”

Ellie laughs. “Me too.”

I listen to the rumbling of Mum and Uncle Derek talking downstairs.

I'm still trying to think about Mrs Gayton, but my mind keeps wandering back to the lady mayoress.

Ellie's doing a long page of maths. I take out my book bag and flick through to the homework.

It swims in front of my eyes.

I can't do it.

Mum and Uncle Derek are chatting in the kitchen. They think they're being quiet. I slip out of the bedroom and sit at the top of the stairs, listening.

It's mostly boring, about Syd's nursery and
Mum's job, but then he says: “I'm sorry I don't measure up to Richard very well, you must think me a poor second best.”

“You're a good man, Derek Green,” Mum answers.

“But Richard earned all that money, and gave it away. What a thing to do!” Then Uncle Derek must turn around, because he becomes harder to hear. “You don't think he drove himself off that cliff on purpose – to protect other people?”

“I've thought of that, but who?”

“You and Scarlett?”

There's a long silence. Houdini climbs the stairs to doze on my lap. I slip down one more tread so that I can hear better.

“Who was he protecting us against?” asks Mum.

Uncle Derek takes a long time to reply. “Queenie, and her gang, the ones that didn't get caught.”

“Queenie?” Mum sounds sad. “I was afraid you'd say that. I wanted to think she was just a figment of someone's imagination, but she's not, is she? Could I have seen her, Derek? Recently?”

Someone starts to chop something on a board. The knife echoes up the stairs.

“Yes, I think you probably could have. Sadly she's
not a figment of anyone's imagination,” says Uncle Derek. “And she didn't go to South America either, all two hundred pounds of her is alive and well and watching TV with our faces plastered all over it.”

“How do you know it's her? I thought no one had ever seen her?” asks Mum.

“The last couple of days I've been poking around, asking questions, talking to the Metropolitan Police, and I'm pretty sure it's her.”

“Isn't there anyone who'd testify against her?”

Uncle Derek laughs. “Testify against her? No way – the person who told me what she looked like asked to join the witness protection scheme. There's no way I can get anyone to stand up in court against them. I've got to catch them
red-handed
.”

“So, she was our burglar?” asks Mum.

“Her brother,” says Uncle Derek. “Her brother, the chauffeur.”