Authors: Chris Mould

The Wooden Mile (9 page)

BOOK: The Wooden Mile

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“
Wh
at?” said Stanley.

“Listen to me, young Buggles, and listen good. Your Great-uncle Bart was no admiral. Sure, he was a good man and all that but he'd never been in no navy. He was a pirate. A buccaneer. Came here to settle down. Had enough of the sea life and villainy and all that. But he brought trouble with him, you see; once a pirate, always a pirate. Where trouble goes, trouble follows.”

“What?”

“Stop saying
what
and listen.”

Stanley was sitting with his ears pricked up and eyes wide open.

“Now I'll guess you ain't never heard of the Ibis?”

“You mean the bird? An ibis is a wading bird.”

“Right, well yes it is, but that's not what I mean. This is different. It's an ancient amulet, one of the most precious in the history of looting and pillaging. Stolen a thousand times, buried on every island the world over, and passed through the hands of every rotten crook and scoundrel that ever lived to tell the tale. Now I don't know much about it, Stanley, but one thing I do know is that it's here.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere here, in this old place. And now that Cake is gone, they will come in the
night and they will tear your house apart.”

“Oh,” said Stanley. “I â¦ I see.” He hesitated.

“What is it, Stanley? What you thinking? Come on, let's have it out. Let's get to the bottom of all this.”

“Well â¦ why have they never come here during the day? If they're fearless pirates and they're so desperate, they wouldn't bother about
when
they came, would they?”

“Let me tell you something, Stanley. Those
fearless pirates
ain't got a brave bone in their pathetic little bodies. They're villains and they act like most villains do. Tough when they've been at the beer, brave when there's a few of 'em, fearless when it's dark n there ain't no one around. But deep down they ain't made of much. All the same, what they wants
is here and they're desperate. They won't give up until they find a way.”

“Why can't they just be thrown off the island?”

“It's a nice thought, Stanley, but Flynn owns the old windmill on the far side of Crampton Rock. He can stay as long as he's alive, along with his guests. Most people think he's just an old shoemaker. I can't prove he's a pirate. Can you?”

“Well, no. But maybe they just wanted revenge on Cake and that was all. Maybe they'll never try and get in the house.”

“They already have.”

“What?”

“Oh yes, Stanley. Your brave pirate heroes have darkened your door once before. After your Great-uncle Bart died, before you came,
they were here late one afternoon after too much beer.

“Came across the moor they did, creeping through the garden. Came right through that back door, into the kitchen.”

Stanley sat bolt upright. “And what then?”

“That's when they learned not to mess with Mrs. Carelli, Stanley. This old lady ain't no pushover.”

A smile broke over Stanley's face. “Tell me more.”

“I'd just mopped the floor, so needless to say that lop-sided lump, Jones, was on his back as soon as he came through the door.”

“Then what?” asked Stanley, already breaking into laughter.

“Well, I'd just got my bread fresh out of the oven and I was standing there wondering
what to do and, well, it just came naturally.”

“What did?”

“I've always had a good punch, Stanley. Ever since I was younger. So I dug my hands into those fresh crusty loaves and used 'em like boxing gloves. My goodness, they were hot, but it worked like magic. Knocked those two lily-livered landlubbers flying, I did. Mind you, I was sickened. Them beautiful loaves was wasted.”

After all Stanley had gone through and everything he had just heard, the thought of Mrs. Carelli bashing Randall Flynn and Bill Timbers with two brown loaves sent tears of laughter streaming down his face.

Mrs. Carelli's face had told her tale very sternly, but suddenly she saw the funny side.
She looked at Stanley and burst into a giggle. Soon they were both laughing uncontrollably at the crazy story of the pirates and the loaves of bread.

“I guess that's why they would rather you were tucked up in bed when they came,” he said, trying to straighten his face.

And somehow Stanley knew that he would never see the three buccaneers in quite the same way again.

Dreaming

In the short time before daybreak that Stanley slept, he dreamed of the mermaid. She came to life and swam around his head, singing beautifully. But the sound haunted him and he stirred restlessly, tossing and turning in his bed.

He saw row upon row of freshly baked loaves. And then the wolf was standing over
his bed. He woke with a start, praying for the end of the night.

When the morning finally arrived, he was keen to know if there was any evidence of the previous night's adventures.

He wandered down to The Sweet Tooth. The door was wide open and the sign in the window read, “Open as Usual.” Intrigued, he peered inside.

There was Mr. Cake, like nothing had ever happened, busying himself behind the counter.

Stanley retreated slowly, his mind crazy with thoughts. What had he done? Who had he shot? Somebody else?

“Stanley Buggles, Stanley Buggles. Come on in, I have something for you.”

Before Stanley could turn and run, Cake
was right there upon him. He held Stanley by the arms and stared into his face.

“I want to thank you, Stanley. Your stay here has changed my life. Here, you must take these,” he said, and thrust a huge bag of sweets into Stanley's hands. “And if ever I can help you in return I should be pleased to do so.”

Cake was different. His eyes were a pale blue and his pupils were back to normal. There was a mild expression in his face. A terrible scar ran right across the middle of his forehead. A scar that suggested the shape of a bullet. A silver bullet, perhaps!

That night, Stanley dreamed of the pike. A single frosty eye glared at him closely, and as he watched he could see his own reflection in its pupil. He could hear the rush of the water. And then the fish spoke again.

“Fear not, Stanley. When you are gone, I shall hold your secret safely.”

The pike spoke the words over and over. When Stanley eventually woke, it was the dead of night and he found himself standing in front of the pike's glass case.

What did it mean? The only secret Stanley held close at heart was the terrible business with the wolf.

“I don't have a secret,” he said sleepily. Confused by yet more senseless dreams, Stanley rubbed his eyes and went back to bed, where he slept until late morning.

Making Plans

The seed of an idea planted itself in Stanley's head as he sat at the breakfast table. The idea grew and grew until, in a short space of time, it was a glorious foolproof plan that he was proud of.

He knew that it wouldn't be long before the pirates were on to him, one way or another. He'd made it safe for them to move
at night. He had a feeling they were waiting and watching from somewhere.

First things first, thought Stanley, and without breathing a word to Mrs. Carelli, he set off to make devious arrangements with Mr. Grouse down at the harbor.

An hour later he returned with a wicked grin on his face. “Phase two,” said Stanley, as he sat at the kitchen table with a large piece of paper and a clutch of pens and brushes.

If there was one thing Stanley could do well, it was draw. He spent the rest of the day sketching a map. When he had finished he took what was left in the teapot, stained his artwork, and dried it out again. Then he crumpled it, folded it, stood on it, dragged it through the dirt, burnt the edges, and did anything else he could to it, until it looked like a perfectly scrappy piece of old parchment.

Stanley looked out from his window across the harbor to enjoy the remains of the day. All was quiet. The fishing boats were back, and seagulls picked at scraps in the fading light. It was a crisp, clear evening and the onset of dusk had just about cleared the streets. In time, Stanley thought, people would realize there was no longer any danger.

Three old ladies in cloaks and bonnets were heading along the harbor wall. One carried a basket of flowers. Another hobbled on a stick. Someone shouted to them from a look-out, “Hurry along, ladies.”

“Oh yes, thank you,” came a weak croak of a voice.

The trio were making their way to the door of Candlestick Hall.

Stanley ran downstairs, and had opened the door before they could knock.

What a sight. Three ugly mugs with eyes bulging out of their bonnets, crooked teeth, and bad breath. Stanley realized it was
them
. Here already! They couldn't even wait until it was safe to break in, such was their enthusiasm.

Stanley knew he ought to be scared. But to his surprise, the overwhelming feeling of amusement at the three rogues dressed as women made him laugh out loud.

“Good evening, young sir, we is from the church and would like to talk to you about our good work wot we 'as been doing,” said Jones in a feeble, high-pitched voice.

“Oh yes? Did you really think we wouldn't know who you are?” Stanley chortled.

“Let us in, Buggles. We still got business with yer,” whispered Jones, changing his tone back to a gravelly rasp.

“And look, I brought flowers for the good lady of the 'ouse,” Timbers claimed, as he took a withered bunch of heather from his basket. Stanley could see the blade of the fish knife underneath. It caught a chink of light from the hallway and twinkled, glaring at him in warning.

Stanley moved to shut the door, but in a flash Timbers swapped the bouquet for the knife and pierced the blade into the wood, pushing the door back.

“Ain't no one quicker than old Bill Timbers with a knife, Stanley, so why don't yer let us in before I ties you up with yer own gizzards.”

The three pushed their way in and Stanley backed up into the drawing room. Timbers kept watch by the door to the kitchen corridor, peering nervously around.
Perhaps, Stanley thought, he was waiting for a baguette to spear him from behind. Or maybe a shower of bread rolls that would rain down and knock him to the ground. He concealed his laughter, but his shoulders were shaking.

“Someone there, Stanley?” came a familiar voice echoing down the long staircase.

“Only â¦ Mr. Grouse,” he replied, “brought some fish. I'll take care of it.”

Mrs. Carelli was tidily out of the way. Stanley knew she could handle the pirates, but she would scupper his plan. Sure, a right hook with a crusty bread loaf would keep them at bay, but they needed dealing with permanently.

“Good boy, Stanley. We got you well trained, 'aven't we. Now listen. We needs to 'ave a look around the old place. So keep 'er
upstairs, will yer?” Flynn eyed the room up and down. “Yer great-uncle Bart âad somethin' that belonged to us and â¦ well, we needs it back.”

“And what would that be?” inquired Stanley.

“Oh, just a small worthless trinket to be honest, lad. But â¦ yer know, it was my mother's brooch an' all that so I'd like to 'ave it back.”

The three of them were snooping around, eyeing the place over, lifting lids and opening drawers. Stanley hated bad manners. And he knew just how to get their attention.

“Pirates don't usually dress up as old women and threaten folk with knives just to get their mother's brooch back,” he began. “What you're after isn't here, I can assure you.”

“An' how would you know that, Buggles?
We knows this place better than you do. Just let us find what we're after and we'll be gone. Nobody gets 'urt and it's all done an dusted. Or if you want we can come back later when everyone's asleep. We don't mind.”

Stanley felt the urge to toy with them for a while. It was safe. He had the answer they needed, so they would have to be careful with him now. He had all three of them in the palm of his hand. They wouldn't admit that, but they knew it.

“You know, it's my favorite breed of bird,” Stanley announced.

“What?” asked Timbers.

“The ibis,” Stanley carried on. “A magnificent wading bird common to many parts of the world. The scarlet ibis is my favorite, though I've never actually seen one, except in a booâ”

That did it. All three turned on him immediately. Timbers's knife was back in his hand and pointing into the Adam's apple on Stanley's neck before he could blink.

“WHERE?” they all said at the same time.

Stanley slowly drew a deep breath and stared right at them. They backed off, six yellowy eyes staring at him.

“It isn't here,” said Stanley.

“Liar,” said Flynn. “Don't mess with us, Buggles, I 'aven't paid you back for getting rid o' my dog yet.”

Stanley ignored Flynn's remarks. He took the map from the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Ever seen this before?” he asked, knowing full well they hadn't. “It was Great-uncle Bart's.”
He held it open, but not near enough for them to scrutinize it. “Kept it under lock and key, he did. Was a long time before I found it. Shows a small island. North-East Needle. Don't mean anything to me. Could be anywhere.”

“Pass it 'ere,” snarled Jones, hobbling forward.

Stanley held the map over the flames of the fire. “Mister Jones, your manners are appalling.” All three shrieked and jumped forward. He held it there.

“I don't want your precious Ibis,” said Stanley. “I want you villains away from my property and out of my hair. So be good pirates and do as I tell you, and we'll all get what we want.”

Stanley was feeling good, until the edge of the map singed and burnt his finger, and they all laughed at him.

“Shhhh,” he insisted. Mrs. Carelli would hear them.

“Cocky little snipe, isn't he?” said Flynn.

Mrs. Carelli was making her way down the staircase. They would have to go out the back door. Stanley herded them down the long corridor to the kitchen. Jones's wooden leg dragged along the polished floorboards.

“Stanley, what's all that banging?”

“Nothing.”

He stepped outside with them.

“Listen,” he started, “I got a boat for tomorrow. I'm heading out there alone.”

“Yeah, and we're comin' with yer!”

“You can't,” he insisted. “It'll look suspicious. I can't be seen with you three.” He paused a moment. “OK, but you'll have to get on board early and hide in the three barrels. You'll have to do it at night. At least you're safe in the
dark now. I'll be leaving at six a.m. Look for the
Blue Oyster
. That's the boat.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Buggles,” laughed Flynn, and the three old ladies clambered over the gate and back across the moor.

Stanley sneaked back inside.

“Where did you put the fish?” asked Mrs. Carelli.

“Sorry, did I say fish? I meant â¦ flowers,” Stanley said as he gathered up the basket still on the floor with the flowers thrown to one side and gave it to her. “Mr. Grouse brought you flowers.”

“Oh,” she said, and her eyes pored suspiciously over the withered heather. “Stanley, are you up to something again?”

“Not at all, Mrs. Carelli,” he insisted, and put a confused look on his face to reassure her.

“Good. Now get them doors bolted before we have unwanted visitors.”