The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (10 page)

To Jennet's dismay she learnt that a small celebration had been planned in her honour that evening.

"Do bring all of your chums round," Aunt Alice called after her as Jennet left early for school. "The more the merrier for when you open your presents."

Jennet closed the front door without answering or waiting for her brother and wondered if it was possible to stay out late. But miserably she realised that there was nowhere she could go. With a sullen look on her face, she left the courtyard and wandered through the street beyond.

It was a blustery morning, the wind rampaged through the narrow lanes and the signs which projected over the shop windows swung madly on their hinges.

Gloomily, Jennet trudged the way to school. The street was still quiet, for few businesses opened before ten o'clock and her solitary footsteps rang off the cobbles.

Outside the new curio shop, the girl paused and gazed inside. A section of the window display was full of unusual jewellery and beautifully made little trinkets. Longingly, she contemplated the silver then the carved coral and finally rested her forehead against the glass as she studied the local jet.

Jennet drooled over the brooches made of this deliciously black material and she idly hoped that when she opened her presents that evening one of them would contain something small and precious like this. It was a vain wish, however, and she knew she might as well pine for the moon. With a final, lingering glance at the unattainable, she raised her eyes and started in surprise.

Within the shop, someone was watching her.

Sitting behind the counter, a dark-eyed, exotic-looking woman with short black hair viewed the girl over the rim of her spectacles. With an air of indifference, she arched her elegantly plucked eyebrows then shifted her gaze back to the accounts she was efficiently sorting into order.

Jennet considered herself dismissed and the girl slowly resumed the boring walk to school.

When she had departed, Hillian Fogle, new resident of Whitby and owner of the curio shop, lifted her large brown eyes once more. "So," she uttered with a faint and husky accent, "it was she."

Later that morning, the woman turned the sign on the door to read CLOSED and stepped from the shop, locking it behind her.

She was dressed in clothes more appropriate for the director of a successful company than the proprietor of a glorified junk shop. By the cut and the way it fitted her slightly plump, short figure, it was obvious the outfit had been tailored especially for her and was hugely expensive. Everything about the woman denoted her extravagant taste and style, from the immaculate make-up which lightly covered her olive skin, down to the handmade Italian shoes that tapped nimbly down the street.

Amidst the tourists, who were already ambling through the East Cliff in their weatherproofs and sturdy boots, Hillian was an incongruous sight. A few anorak-wrapped people turned to gape at her crisp, chic figure before returning to ogle the fudge bombs and enormous chunks of cinder toffee in the sweet emporium.

Briskly, Hillian opened the door of The Whitby Bookshop and passed quickly inside.

It was a small place, but every available space was utilised to the full. All manner of fascinating works crammed the shelves from floor to ceiling; carousels of spoken-word cassettes and picture books loomed in every corner, a crowd of dumpbins vied for position, almost shouldering one another aside in a rugby-like scrum, and above all this, spinning gaily in the draught from the open door was a flock of colourful mobiles suspended from the ceiling.

At first glance the shop seemed chaotic but everything was in fact well-ordered and each book occupied its own logical position, ready to be found by the prospective and gleeful purchaser.

Despite these enticing charms, however, that morning the bookshop was virtually empty. Only two customers were wandering between the shelves, stooping to peer at the titles and flick leisurely through the pages.

Hillian looked at them with annoyance then turned her attention to the woman behind the till.

Miriam Gower was a large lady of middle years. Her tall, mannish height permitted her to reach the highest shelf, but her ample bosom and matronly figure made this a comical and ungraceful spectacle. Strictly speaking she was not fat—just heavily-built like a shot-putter. To counteract her unwieldy frame, she was always attired in the most feminine clothes she could find to fit her broad size and bore herself with as much pompous dignity as she could muster.

Today she was wearing a printed cotton dress covered in pale pink roses, with a neckline that plunged so low that it verged on the scandalous. Her thinning hair was coiffed and set into a perfect confection that had been dyed a dusky shade of orange. She had a broad, heart-shaped face—bisected with a vivid slash of crimson lipstick painted over her wide mouth. A nose that was slightly too small and pointed nestled snootily in the centre of this fleshy expanse, and on either side were two permanently narrowed eyes that could swivel sharply round and glare with such arrogant force and accusation that she had already become a terror for the local children.

It was obvious to even the most casual of observers that Miriam loathed the bookshop and no one knew why she had bought it. If she had been more approachable perhaps the curious would have asked but as yet none had dared and so it remained a Whitby mystery. The only satisfaction she appeared to gain from working there was in keeping her suspicious gaze trained on her customers. With Medusan looks that could petrify a troublesome child at the furthest end of the shop, she watched and waited—hoping that one of them would foolishly commit a crime worthy of her retribution.

So far this had not happened and although she had not given up hope, Miriam became bored with the daily running of the place. When Hillian entered, she did not even bother to look up. She was too occupied in painting her nails the same garish colour as her lips so that it seemed she had dipped her fingers in fresh blood then drank the rest.

Hillian gave a slight cough at which Miriam's eyes gleamed out at her. A look of recognition passed between the two and the nail varnish was swiftly consigned to a shelf below the counter. Hillian faintly nodded at the other customers and the large woman understood at once.

Suddenly the crimson, sneering mouth became one massive smile that almost wrapped itself around the back of her head. Like a ship in full sail, Miriam Gower rose majestically from her seat at the counter and bore down upon the unsuspecting browsers.

"May I be of assistance?" said she who had been no help at all so far.

The customers were so astonished by her abrupt change of manner that they allowed themselves to be herded like sheep to the nearest shelf where, by Miriam's enthusing they were compelled to choose a book they had no intention of ever reading.

Within ten minutes the customers were ushered to the door and they stumbled out into the street clutching their unwanted purchases, shaking their heads as if emerging from a bewildering dream.

Locking the door behind them, the smile vanished from Miriam's face as she turned to Hillian.

"There is none persons above?" the smaller woman asked, peering up the spiral staircase which led to the tiny first floor area.

Miriam only snorted in response and resumed her seat behind the counter.

"Have you news?" she asked with a note of desperation in her resonant voice.

A pert smile curled over Hillian's more delicate mouth. "Indeed yes," she said. "The contact shall be made tonight. Then will we receive our instructions."

Like a huge, deflating balloon, Miriam let out a great sigh. "Praise be!" she exclaimed. "I doubt if I can stand it here very much longer—each day is a torment without
him."
Her bright fingers reached for her throat about which was strung a necklace of primitive wooden beads. The adornment jarred with everything else the woman was wearing, yet as she touched it her eyes closed and she breathed deeply as though drawing strength and pleasure from it.

"We all are feeling in the same way," Hillian told her, "but until we know what is required, waiting is all we can be doing."

"Let it be over soon," Miriam moaned. "I shall go mad submerged within these barbarian absurdities! Oh how I despise this hideously dull backwater!"

"If we are favoured, then you shall not suffer it too much longer."

Miriam's eyes sparkled. "When shall we meet?" she asked breathlessly. "Make it here—tonight."

The other woman agreed. "It shall be so, but there is many things to be done before then. I must also be informing Susannah."

At the mention of that name Miriam's face clouded over and grew hard. With her nostrils twitching disagreeably her face took on a sour and contemptuous expression.

"Tell Plain Little Susie?" she scoffed. "Is there any point? I fear our own darling Quasimodo is lapsing!"

Hillian shook her head. "She will do exactly what she is bid!" she said firmly. "As will us all."

"Have a care," Miriam purred. "You have not been made priestess yet."

"Nor you either," Hillian retorted. "The ring of amethyst could maybe go to any one of us."

"Tuh! Not our hunchbacked little leprechaun! That is just unthinkable."

Hillian was tired of this petty feuding. "Never have you tried to like Susannah," she muttered. "Who of the circle ever had liking for the one who was our replacement in
his
affections? Yet we must be bound by our oaths and labour together. I do not doubt that Susannah will obey; her heart belongs to
him
as surely as the rest."

Miriam licked her teeth. "I shall try to be more... Christian," she said, her voice dripping with irony.

"Just be ready for this tonight," Hillian said curtly. "The bickering and argumenting must cease. Are we not splintered enough? Adieu."

"Goodbye... Sister," Miriam answered in drawling tones as the short plump woman left the shop. Then, when she was alone amongst the hundreds of books, Miriam stroked her necklace and kissed it reverently. "Soon," she silently mouthed. "Oh, make it soon."

***

When Jennet returned to the cottage that afternoon, she found Miss Wethers rushing around the kitchen in a cloud of flour and icing sugar.

The woman let out a shrill squeal when she saw her and hastened to the table with a tea towel to hide the cake that she had spent most of the day struggling and toiling over.

"Hello, dear!" she twittered, wiping a stray stripe of pink icing from her nose. "Do go into the parlour, there's a good girl."

Jennet removed her coat and surveyed the kitchen with mild amusement. It looked as though every pan, dish and bowl that Aunt Alice possessed had been used by Miss Wethers and they lay in a jumbled chaos, spilling over the crowded sink and covering every visible surface.

Throwing her school bag into a corner, Jennet left the kitchen and, with some apprehension, opened the parlour door.

"Jennet!" cried Aunt Alice as the girl entered. "Oh splendid! Have you brought your friends along? Do bring them in, there's plenty to tuck into."

In the centre of the room, the round table which had once been used for Aunt Alice's séances was now covered in a clean white cloth and laden with a sumptuous spread of sandwiches and soft drinks.

Leaning forward in the wheelchair, Miss Boston clucked excitedly and shook her chins with childish enthusiasm.

"I put the sausages on the sticks myself," she proudly declared, "and cut up the cheese into cubes. Not an easy task with these infernal hands of mine. Well, what do you think? We've been dying for you to return."

Jennet looked at the humble feast and tried to be as enthusiastic as Aunt Alice, but a party was the last thing she had wanted and though she had tried to tell them no one had listened.

"It... it looks lovely," she managed at last.

The old lady eyed her in surprise. The child didn't seem interested at all and she could not understand this unexpected reaction.

"Your friends," she muttered, "are they here?"

"No," Jennet said firmly, "I haven't brought anyone."

"Why ever not?"

"I just haven't—all right? I didn't want to."

Miss Boston slowly wheeled herself over to the girl.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked gently. "You don't seem very happy."

Jennet gazed at the kindly, wrinkled face for a moment. How could anyone so old understand what she was feeling? It was impossible to tell anyone of the thoughts and emotions which troubled and frightened her.

"I'm fine," she said at last. "Just tired, that's all."

Aunt Alice patted her hand consolingly. "You do know that I'm always here for you, don't you, Jennet dear? You used to tell me everything. Nothing's changed has it?"

"Only me," the girl replied. She hesitated for several moments as she wondered if she could confide in Aunt Alice after all. Then, taking a deep, decisive breath she began. "Tell me, is it possible to hate something—or someone, so much yet still..."

Abruptly, the door bell rang in intermittent bursts and Miss Boston groaned as she recognised the sound which always heralded the arrival of Sister Frances.

"Confound the woman!" she snorted, wheeling around the table. "I shall be glad when I'm fit again—if only to be able to run from that blethering nuisance!"

Jennet slowly shook her head and braced herself for the nun's entrance.

"Many happy returns!" Sister Frances shouted as she burst into the parlour, gushing her good wishes to the birthday girl.

"Good evening Miss B!" the nun cried. "I say, isn't this enormous fun!"

"What on earth are you doing here?" Aunt Alice demanded. "You're not due until Tuesday!"

Sister Frances nodded. "I know," she heartily agreed, "but who should I meet on his dawdly way from school but little Bennykins, and when he told me it was sweet Jennet's birthday I insisted on joining the celebrations. Oh how delightful! What a delicious looking tea! Bags I a ham and egg sandwich!"

Aunt Alice rolled her eyes in exasperation. Sister Frances had the thickest skin she had ever encountered. "Well, you had better make yourself at home," she said grudgingly.