The Whitby Witches 3: The Whitby Child (20 page)

With her eyes half closed, letting the vibrant, dazzling patterns shine through her lashes, she contemplated her young life and wished it belonged to someone else. It was a warm afternoon and Jennet blinked drowsily—was she dreaming or could she hear music?

Very faintly, brief snatches of a lilting tune were carried to her on the river breeze and it was so delicious that the girl hardly breathed, in case she lost the sound forever.

The music appeared to be coming from the East Cliff and, filled with curiosity and the desire to hear more, Jennet hurried over the bridge.

In Market Place a crowd of tourists were gathered, and when Jennet hastened up Sandgate she squeezed her way to the front and let the delightful music flood through her.

Encircled by the appreciative onlookers was a small female folk band. One of them breathed sensual life into a wooden flute, and her joy at the glorious earthy tones that it oozed was sculpted on her ecstatic face. At her side a younger but much more serious woman concentrated on the fiddle that was wedged firmly beneath her chin, and when the bow flew across the strings, the notes made Jennet's heart leap and she tapped her toes unconsciously. The third musician possessed one of the most beautiful faces the girl had ever seen. She was both graceful and delicate, dexterously playing a sweet-sounding concertina, her elegant fingers nimbly moving over the ivory buttons as her lovely face nodded to the rhythm. Her long hair hung in a great corn-coloured sheaf that glinted with veins of deep gold when it caught the evening sunlight and, aware of this, she stood a little apart from the others to remain within the slanting rays.

They were all dressed in richly-coloured and flowing clothes, with tiny mirrors sewn around the full skirts and bright tapestry waistcoats with tie-dyed scarves and bandanas knotted loosely about their hips, and, joining in with the instruments, a multitude of bangles, necklaces and bracelets chimed and rattled against one another.

Together the women weaved a harmonious display of melody and brilliance and Jennet was enchanted. It reminded her of those first happy weeks when she and Ben had just arrived in Whitby and explored the town during its annual folk festival.

With a combined shout, the trio ended their music and bowed as the audience showed its approval. Each woman handled the enthusiastic applause differently. The flautist went quite red in the cheeks and glanced at the ground bashfully, whilst her friend with the fiddle was too busy retuning to take much notice of anything. Grandly stepping forward however and basking in the adulation, the golden-haired beauty laughed and shook her burnished mane. With a flamboyant sweep of her arm, she took up a tambourine and beat it to focus everyone's attention solely upon herself.

"Shall we play you one more before we finish for the day?" she asked.

The people nodded keenly and clapped in time with the beat of the tambourine.

"What shall we give them?" she called to her companions.

Brushing her own mousy and rather neglected hair from her flushed and freckled face, the flautist in a shy voice muttered, "'Bobbing and Ducking'?"

"'The Moon in her Eyes'," suggested the fiddler.

Dismissing both of these, the beauty unleashed her ravishing smile upon the crowd and every man gawped and yearned for her.

"No, no," she said huskily, "I've a mind to bring in my daughter on this one. Pear! Pear, where are you?"

On the opposite side of the audience from Jennet, a girl not much older than herself had been sitting cross-legged on the ground, but at her mother's summons she skipped into the centre of the area and took the tambourine from her.

She was as raven as her mother was fair. The girl's hair was sleek and dark and the two contrasted starkly with each other even though she was attired in the same hippy fashion. Tiny Indian bells tinkled around the hem of her purple cheesecloth dress and beneath them a pair of grubby, dusty feet tripped lightly over the stone flags.

"What is it to be?" the fourth member of the troupe cried, playing up to the crowd.

"'The Ballad of Molly Werbride'," her mother answered, taking hold of the concertina once again.

At a signal from her the other musicians began to play and her daughter waited for the cue.

This tune was different to the one that had gone before. It was a slow, haunting lament and the flute whistled faintly like the wind over the moors as the strings of the fiddle began to moan, suggesting a human voice wailing in despair.

Then the concertina introduced the main theme and the girl called Pear opened her mouth and started to sing.

She had a fabulous, throaty voice which at times mirrored the high notes of the flute and soared up to the sky entwined with its purity. Abruptly it then merged with the resonant chords of the fiddle—matching it until the two sounds were impossible to separate.

Jennet listened to it spellbound. The ballad was a dark and cautionary tale of a young maiden who went "a-roaming" over the moors and was seized by the hunting spirits of the wild, never to be seen again.

The singer performed it marvellously and no one in the audience made a sound. Even the children in pushchairs were dumbfounded, and as the sublime music carried into the streets the milling traffic of shoppers and trippers were so moved that they caught their breath and momentarily forgot about postcards and the price of souvenirs.

When the song was over, the applause was tremendous and lasted several minutes with much ringing of the change that was tossed into the upturned and clattering tambourine.

"That's all for today," the girl's mother told everyone, "though we will be here tomorrow if you fancy a second helping. I thank you!"

With admiring glances, and making mental notes to return the following day, the clot of people around Market Place began to break up.

Jennet leaned against one of the pillars of the old town hall and lingered to watch the folk band pack away their instruments.

Hopping over the ground, collecting the stray coins that had missed their target, the young singer drew close to Jennet and with a merry grin stared at her.

"What's this then?" she asked pertly. "Glued to that pillar, are you? Did you like the performance so much you can't tear yourself away?"

Jennet smiled shyly. "I thought it was excellent," she said, "only I missed most of it."

"Well, there's always tomorrow if you can bear any more of my warbles. Some think the old ballads are too long-winded and one exposure is quite enough."

"No really, I thought that last one was—well, perfect. I understood everything that was happening and why she went off like that."

"I must admit of all the pieces we do that one is a real favourite with me too. It's got a bit of everything, don't you think? Passion and cruelty, excitement and misery, fear and dread—but that's the way of things. I think if I was tied down to drudge in the one dismal spot for too long I'd go raving mad and run off as well. I don't blame Molly Werbride in the slightest—good on her!"

Jennet agreed readily. She liked this strange girl, with her bare feet and the ready laugh in her voice that threatened to erupt into explosive mirth at any moment.

"They call me Pear," she said. "It's actually short for a great mouthful, but what can you expect from a mother who used to be a teacher but expects to be treated like the Queen of Sheba?"

"Is that your mother—with the fair hair?"

"Oh, you mean the really ugly one," she nodded sarcastically. "Yeah, it's a shame—she can't help it. Still, her boils and scabs aren't too noticeable today. Urgh! Did you see those letchy old dads in the crowd before? I thought they were going to start slobbering—I almost hit them with the tambourine! Lusting after my mum indeed and her born so deformed! Quite disgusting."

The girls laughed and the sound made Pear's mother turn and advance towards them with her fine eyebrows raised quizzically.

"What's all this?" she inquired. "Who's your new friend? Are you plotting something together? Were you talking about me?"

Now that she could see her more closely, Jennet was certain—the woman was truly beautiful. Every feature was perfectly modelled and the few lines that marred the otherwise smooth and lustrous skin only served to accentuate the exquisite symmetry of her face.

"Don't you listen to a word this vagabond tells you," she advised. "I'm afraid my daughter has no sense of what's polite or acceptable. No shoes again I see, Pear."

The girl folded her arms obstinately. "Meta's always nagging at me to wear bits of dead cow on my feet," she complained, "but I keep telling her that shoes are for horses. I want to feel the sand in my toes and the grass under them. I won't eat meat so why should I wear it?"

"I bet you do in winter," Jennet teased.

"No I don't, I put my placky wellies on."

"See what I mean?" her mother groaned. "She's so stubborn—I just know she'll do something really awful one day to shame me."

"Thought I already had," Pear smirked. "Have to try harder, won't I?"

The woman gave her a gentle shove then looked back at the others. "Well," she said, "we're ready for the off. Are you coming, you savage?"

"No," Pear told her. "I'll hang round here for a bit, see you after."

"All right, I'd leave you and..?"

"Jennet."

"I'll leave you and Jennet in peace. Lovely to have met you, catch you later—ciao."

The two girls watched the trio pack up the instruments and set off down Church Street towards the one hundred and ninety-nine steps.

"I like your mum," Jennet said. "Is she always so laid back?"

"Yeah, Meta's cool I suppose, never gives me any hassle. Terminally vain though—the time she spends brushing her hair and looking beautiful, I couldn't be bothered."

"Funny how you call her by her name," Jennet said thoughtfully. "My mum would've killed me if I'd done that."

"Why?"

"She just would've, that's all."

Pear tied the tambourine to a yellow ribbon around her waist. "That's dumb," she remarked. "Meta would laugh her socks off if I started calling her 'Mummy'. How old is yours? She sounds like a real crumbly."

Jennet hesitated then replied, "Both my parents are dead."

"BONG!" Pear howled and promptly enacted a routine where she mimed cutting her tongue off.

"It's all right," Jennet assured her. "It was a few years ago. I didn't say it to make you feel awkward."

"Oh, I don't," Pear chirped. "In fact my dad's six foot under too so we're halfway equal. Now, if I could only bump gorgeous Meta off we'd be square!"

Jennet giggled and realised that she had not felt so relaxed and at ease with anyone for a long time.

"So where are you staying?" she asked. "Is it in the Youth Hostel up by the abbey?"

Pear pulled a painful face. "Come off it," she cried. "No, we're parked behind that ugly church on the cliff."

"Parked? So you're staying outside Whitby?"

"No, our van's up there. Caroline—the one with the fiddle—owns a camper and we all pile into that."

And so she told Jennet of the nomadic life the folk band led, drifting all over the country performing their songs and living from day to day—not knowing where they would be from one week to the next.

Intrigued, Jennet listened and pangs of jealousy rankled within her. It all sounded so marvellous. They were free to do whatever they wished and she felt that her own life was completely drab and uneventful in comparison.

The two girls talked together for nearly an hour. Pear was a unique character; she was nearly sixteen and despised conforming to convention and the ridiculous rules of society, flouting them whenever possible. She loved to puncture snobbery and regaled Jennet with hilarious stories of life on the road. She had never been to school but had learnt everything from her mother—except how to behave in a "decent and responsible" way.

Ambling leisurely through the streets, the impudent girl would pull all manner of faces at those who obviously found her gypsy-like appearance startling, and Jennet cracked up to see how quickly they hurried away.

Yet for all this, Pear was also an excellent listener and Jennet revealed more to her in that short time than she ever had to either Aunt Alice or her brother. Deprived of a real friend for so long, she spoke of her innermost fears and dearest longings.

"Look," Pear eventually said, "we've been gassing for ages and I'm starved. Why don't you come round and have something to eat with me and the others?"

Jennet eyed her doubtfully. "Oh, I don't know," she began.
"
I 
mean I don't want to intrude..."

"Rubbish," Pear told her. "You're dying to see the van and it's Liz's turn to cook—the things she does with a packet of lentils and a few herbs! You can't refuse that, now can you?"

Jennet was intrigued and longed to join them, but she really should have returned to the cottage over an hour ago.

"'Course, if you've something better to do..?"

That decided it. "Nothing!" she replied at once.

Behind the wall of the churchyard, overshadowed by the stately ruins of the abbey, was a large car park. In the winter months the place was deserted except for the steamed-up vehicles of courting couples but in the summer it was choked and congested by many different kinds of transport, from motor bikes to small lorries, and that evening was no exception.

Pear led Jennet through the maze of cars, chatting amiably as they went. "We were lucky when we arrived this morning," she said. "Someone was just pulling out of a space near the edge and we nipped right in. That's the van over there."

She pointed to where the corner of the churchyard wall met the cliff edge. A cream and orange camper van took up a generous amount of space, and sitting outside it upon the hummocky grass were Pear's mother and the other two members of the folk band.

They waved in acknowledgement as the two girls approached and Jennet saw that the woman who had played the flute was busily cutting up vegetables and throwing them into a huge pan which bubbled above a Primus stove.

"Hi!" Pear called when they were close enough to be heard. "I've brought Jennet back to try some of your grub, Liz."