The Mystery of the Cupboard (20 page)

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one of the family felt called on to go to Tom Towsler's funeral with Omri a week later.

Patrick and Tony, of course, had gone home, and Omri and Gillon were back at school. Omri's mother had never met Tom, and his father - who might have gone simply out of respect - was being intensely busy doing-it-himself around the house and at the last minute said, “Could you do the honours by yourself, Omri? I'm just getting into this now, and it would mean putting on a suit.” Omri's dad owned only one suit that had been going for ten years as he only wore it for weddings and funerals, which he grandly called “state functions”.

So Omri took the morning off from school and put on a suit himself (well, a pair of school trousers and a jacket and tie anyway), and cycled carefully to the village church. He purposely got there half an hour early.

He wasn't so eager for the funeral — who is? — but there was something he did want to do, and that was to find Jenny's grave.

Wandering around the churchyard, he tried to imagine where he would have put it if he'd been Tom, and he guessed somewhere quiet and private, and headed into the corners. Two yielded nothing, but in the angle of the third, protected by a straggly hedge, he found it.

It was beautiful and perfect, a work of love. The grave was six inches long, a neat oval mound covered, not with grass, but with a sweet-scented plant with tiny bright green leaves that Omri later found out was called camomile.

There was a border of small, flat, white stones all round it to discourage the grass from overgrowing it too soon. The grass around it had been cut very short, perhaps with scissors, though it was growing out now. The cross was small to match the grave, but beautifully made of polished wood. It had a tiny plaque, about an inch square, made of a piece of brass, simply engraved:

JENNY
R.I.P.

Omri had no views about the hereafter. He didn't really think there was one. But a strange hope came to him as he crouched by the grave. He hoped that Tom had believed in one, one where time and size didn't matter, and people who had loved each other would come together.

“On my way, Jen…” Yes, Omri thought as he stood up and walked back to the front of the church. Tom had believed that he was going to find her.

After that, Omri didn't feel too sad at the funeral itself. But Peggy was in a bad way. She was sitting in the pew just in front of him (there were a lot of people in the church, including two of their own thatchers who nodded solemnly to Omri when they saw him) wearing dark clothes and a navy blue headscarf over her hair. She was crying all the way through the service. Omri felt really sorry for her, and after it was all over, he steeled himself to go up to her in the church porch, where she was standing near the vicar, accepting people's condolences.

When she saw him she grabbed him and gave him something like a hug.

“Thanks for comin',” she whispered in his ear. “I got somethin' he'd've wanted you to have. All them little plastic toys he kept so nice, his collection… You was the last one he talked to… Never woke up again after that.” The memory seemed to affect her unbearably, and she burst into tears again and clutched Omri to her.

Feeling himself clasped in her arms, Omri moved a bit to free himself politely. By accident he brushed against the side of her head. The navy headscarf slipped, and he found himself staring at an aquamarine drop earring.

He cycled home in an unusual mood of philosophical acceptance.

Since he'd failed to find the earrings in the cashbox, he'd assumed Jessica Charlotte had sold them or hidden them somewhere. It never occurred to him that she had given them to Tom, as thanks for what he did for her at the end.

Well. So much for his hopes of handing them to his mother. He wondered if Peggy knew how valuable they were. Almost certainly not. Tom had called them ‘a trifle'… Omri felt sad, a bit frustrated, but… well. There it was.

He asked himself if he would have traded the earrings for the sight of Jessica Charlotte singing. The chance of actually meeting her. The relief of knowing that he had not interfered — or rather, that the interference he'd intended hadn't changed anything. His gratitude to Patrick for being so unexpectedly sensible.

He decided he wouldn't. Those things were more important than earrings. He felt sorry his mother wouldn't have them, though. But then, when he thought about it, he decided she'd have looked funny in them. She only wore silver and fun stuff. Glittery real jewels weren't her style.

Well, that wrapped it all up. And speaking of wrapping up, he made up his mind that as soon as he got home, he'd wrap up the cupboard and get his dad to take it back to the bank. For good, this time. At least he'd resisted the temptation (reinforced by Patrick, who hadn't been too sensible to beg for just a brief chat with Boone) to bring their old friends to life.

Because there was no such thing, with this business, as a “brief chat”. Bringing them back always led to something. Patrick had reluctantly seen the point in the end. He hadn't had the scare Omri had had, but he got the point just the same, and had taken Boone away with him, sadly but resignedly.

Omri leant his bike against the front of the house.

Kitsa was playing with her kittens on the lawn. She'd brought them to show them off about three days ago, leading them in a line, tiny pointed tails erect, across the lane and up the path. The fuss that had been made of her mollified her (or possibly she just couldn't face lugging them all up that ladder again) and she had now taken up residence with her kittens in the bottom of a cupboard in one of the living rooms. As a direct result, the ground floor had become infested with fleas, the whole family was eaten alive, but nobody even thought of kicking her out or speaking a single cross word to her. She was queen of the house once again. The pest man was coming today.

Kitsa graciously allowed Omri to give her an
admiring caress and even, briefly, to pick up one of their kittens to stroke. Then she put her front paws against his leg and administered a Kitsa-hint by sticking all ten claws into him. He laughed, put the kitten down, and went into the house.

“How was the funeral?” his mother called from the kitchen.

“Okay,” said Omri.

“Surprise for you,” she said. “Go and look in your bedroom and see what Dad's been doing!”

The first thing he noticed was that there were bolts on the insides of both the doors in his room.

“Oh, great, Dad, thanks!” he yelled, though there was no sign of his father now. Then he looked around again, and his blood congealed in his veins.

There was a series of properly fitted shelves at shoulder height on the wall. Prominently placed on one of them stood the cupboard, with the key in its lock.

Omri's arrangement of bricks and planks had gone.

He felt his legs buckle, and his face turn icy cold. He turned and stumbled out of the room and downstairs. He stood there at the bottom. He was afraid to his marrow, afraid to confront his father - afraid to ask.

His mother came past, and paused, seeing him so still:

“Anything wrong, love? Don't you like the shelves?”

He had to cough before he could speak. “Where — where did Dad put the — bricks and stuff that were up there?”

“He was going to bash them up to make hardcore for a patio—”

Omri didn't listen to any more. He couldn't run, he felt too unsteady, so he walked, slowly and deliberately, down the path, through the gate, across the lane… He found his father sitting in his studio. He wasn't working or painting. He wasn't doing anything, just sitting and staring out of the window.

“Dad.”

He expected his father to turn to him the face people show when they expect to be thanked for something nice they've done. But he didn't look like that at all. He too looked as if he had had a shock. Omri knew at once that something fundamental had happened. A quantum leap.

“Dad? Where are they?” It seemed to take all his courage to frame the question.

“I put them where I thought they belonged,” said his father in an odd voice.

They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time.

“Where?”

“In the cupboard, of course,” his father said. “Isn't that where you put them?”

Another long silence. Then Omri forced himself again.

“Did you — you didn't lock them in?”

“Yes,” said his father. “I locked them in.”

Omri gave a gasp. “Then they're al—When?”

“About twenty minutes ago.”

Omri turned to run. His father's voice stopped him.

“I heard them.”

“What?”

“I heard them in there. I heard their voices.”

He stood up shakily and came to the doorway where Omri was standing, tense in every muscle. He put his hand gently onto Omri's shoulder.

“It's true, isn't it,” he said, in the voice of someone who only wants to be reassured that the world is still the world he woke up to in the morning. “Your story. It was all true.”

Omri suddenly threw himself into his father's arms. Something long held in seemed to burst inside him. His father held him tightly, then held him away.

“Go on,” he said. “Ask.”

There was only one question that mattered.

“Have you told anyone?”

“Not a living soul. And furthermore, I am never going to.”

Omri closed his eyes. Then he leant forward, pressed his face once again against his father's shoulder, and turned and ran.

Safe — really safe, now — in his room, he slammed the bolts and flung himself at the cupboard. He could hear them now. Matron's voice, high-pitched, inquiring. Little Bull answering in grunting tones. Fickits, barking orders. Only Twin Stars didn't seem to be talking, but there was a sudden wail as a baby started to cry. Mingled with it
was the shrill whinny of a horse. Twenty minutes they'd been in there in the dark! Twenty minutes!

With infinite care, controlling his rampaging excitement, Omri lifted the cupboard down and put it on his table. Then he turned the key and opened the door.

The horse braced its front legs and tugged at the rope, held in the hand of the Indian. Standing beside him was Twin Stars, holding a bawling year-old boy in her arms. When the light struck him, he stopped crying and stared, out of eyes like black olives, at Omri. His fat brown cheeks were streaked with tears and his black hair stood up on end.

Fickits wore a sergeant-major's stripes and had put on weight. He was red in the face, and his cap was on the ground. It appeared to have been jumped up and down on.

Matron's cap was well and truly on her head. It had reached new heights of importance, and her face matched it. She looked as if she was just dying to give whoever was responsible the telling-off of all time.

But it was at Little Bull that Omri principally looked.

He looked much as he had when Omri had first seen him. Bare-chested, with knife in hand, he stood, legs apart, looking ferocious and baffled.

But when he saw Omri his face changed. It seemed to ignite.

“Hey, Little Bull!” Omri said.

“Brother!” shouted the Indian joyfully. He dropped
the horse's rope and held out his hand. “This good! I have much need!”

“Why, what's wrong? Can I do something?”

Just at that moment, there was a tap on the door, and they all froze.

“Omri,” said his father's soft voice. “May I come in?”

They all froze. Little Bull fixed Omri with a fierce grimace. He knew what an adult voice meant. Matron knew too — her hands flew to her mouth. Fickits sprang to attention, as if, whatever was about to happen, he was going to meet it like a true Royal Marine.

It was Twin Stars who spoke, in a terrified whisper.

“We hide? Omri tell what to do!” She had her hand over the baby's mouth - too tight! He looked as if he were about to burst.

There was another gentle tap on the door.

Slowly, Omri made himself relax.

“It's okay, Twin Stars,” he said, keeping his voice steady to reassure them. “Let Tall Bear yell if he wants to.”

Twin Stars tentatively removed her hand. Tall Bear's eyes bulged with rage. He drew a deep breath and gave the loudest bawl he was capable of.

Little Bull had to shout to make himself heard.

“Who big man voice, who make noise on wall?”

For answer, Omri went to the door, unbolted it, and stood aside.

Even Tall Bear, drawing breath for another howl, fell silent as a giant among giants walked into the room.

“This is my father,” said Omri.

His father, with a look of absolute wonder on his face, came slowly forward, and then went down on his knees in front of the cupboard, bringing his face level with the little people. Twin Stars hid behind Little Bull. Tall Bear's black eyes could be seen peering in awe over his father's bare shoulder. Matron's hands instinctively went up to straighten her cap. Fickits, his face a pale shade of putty, nevertheless managed a brief, convulsive salute.

“Dad,” said Omri, “I'd like you to meet my friends.”

There was a brief silence, and then his father said, “I am - incredibly - pleased - and honoured - to meet you.”

From now on,
thought Omri,
whatever happens — and plenty will — Dad's in on it. Which is bound to make things… very, very complicated.

But there was no room in his heart for anything but pleasure as they all gathered round to shake the giant's forefinger.

LYNNE REID BANKS
was born in London in 1929. Her father was a GP and her mother had been a well-known actress. Aged ten when the Second World War began, she was evacuated to Canada with her mother and cousin, where she spent the war in Saskatoon, a small prairie town. When the family was reunited in 1945 Lynne had to learn secretarial skills before she was allowed to study for the stage. After acting for five years, her father died, and she went over to journalism, eventually becoming one of the first women reporters on British TV in 1955. Seven years later, shortly after the publication of her first novel, she emigrated to Israel where she married and lived throughout the 1960s, teaching, writing and having three sons.