Winter Wood (34 page)

‘Nah. Sling it. This one'll do.'

‘Are you coming over again tomorrow?'

‘Shouldn't think so. Mum's working, as far as I know, and Dad's off somewhere so there's no one to give me a lift. And then it's school again on Wednesday, so it'll probably be the weekend before there's another chance. Snow'll be gone by then, I expect.'

‘Oh well. See you whenever.'

‘Yeah.'

George left the room, one or two feathers floating in the air behind him. Midge scrunched up the pillow she was holding, and began to push it back into the wicker box. Then she stopped. What was that?

She pulled the pillow out again, and peered into the shadowy interior. There was something else down there. Midge moved to one side, kept hold of the basket-lid, and tilted the whole thing towards the light. She could see pale-coloured material . . . a bundled-up garment of some sort . . . but wood also . . . the edge of a wooden box. A lock. With a key in it . . .

Midge's arm jerked backwards. She let go of the padded lid and it banged shut, the wicker basket rocking backwards and forwards a couple of times before settling creakily on its base. Oh my God . . .

Oh my
God
! It was in there!

Midge put her hands up to her mouth and tried to swallow. Aunt Celandine's jewellery casket. She was sure that was what it was, certain that it could have been nothing else. It was here, in this very room. But no, that would be just too incredible. Wouldn't it? Midge had to take a few deep breaths before she felt able to lift the lid again. She was shaking now, as nervous as if this basket held a cobra. Again she
peered down into the musty interior. And there it was. A wooden box, turned on its side, the lock and key facing upwards towards her. The pale garment that had been rolled up and bundled against the casket might once have been a pair of cricket flannels. Midge slowly allowed the lid to fold all the way back on its hinges, and then just stood there staring. It was a long while before it even occurred to her to do anything else.

She could just about reach. Bending down into the dark mouth of the basket, her arms extended in front of her, Midge was reminded of the wicker tunnel that led into the forest. She was groping forward into the shadows, feeling for the unknown. It was smelly in here, and claustrophobic. Then her hands gripped the edges of the wooden casket, and she wriggled backwards, surfacing to the here-and-now of her warm bedroom, bringing with her treasures from another world.

Midge carried the casket over to the corner of her bed and sat there with it on her lap. It was as her Aunt Celandine had described it: dark wood, quite heavy, with sides that sloped inwards. Four round feet . . . no, three. One missing. An inlaid diamond pattern on the lid, in paler coloured wood. Midge lifted the casket and shook it very gently, bringing her head closer to listen. There was movement in there, as of something shifting slightly, but no real sound.

She put her fingertip on the little metal key, stroking the smooth rounded surface for a few moments before gripping it between finger and thumb . . . ready to turn it . . .

No. This was a moment that needed preparing for. It was lunchtime, and her mum might call up to her at any second, or even come in to see her. Which could be disastrous. She had to know that she would be alone for this moment. Be patient, then.

Midge gently lowered the casket back into the wicker box, stuffed the pillow down on top of it and closed the lid. Then she went downstairs.

‘Are those things wet? The bottoms of your jeans look soaked.' Mum was in the kitchen, working as usual, papers and books spread out across the table.

‘Yeah, they are a bit,' said Midge. ‘I was tobogganing with George. I'm going to get changed in a minute. In fact I think I might get straight into my pyjamas. Mum, I'm really tired. Could I have a drink and a sandwich and take it back upstairs with me? I just feel like slobbing around – and I've got a bit of reading to do before Wednesday. I might have a rest first, though, while the builders are quiet.'

‘A rest? Must be nice to have the time. Get yourself a sandwich or something, then. There's cheese in the fridge. Might be some egg mayo, I think . . .'

‘OK.' Midge had thought that Mum might stop what she was doing and make a sandwich for her, but she was obviously too busy. She walked over to the fridge.

‘How's it all going?' she said, trying to at least pretend interest.

‘Oh, we'll get there,' Mum muttered. ‘We have to. What about you? Everything all right?'

‘Yeah, I'm fine.' Midge found herself fighting back sudden tears, and this took her completely by surprise. She pulled open the fridge door, and kept her head turned away so Mum couldn't see.

‘Only, I look at you sometimes, and I do wonder. You seem . . . so far away. I never know what you're thinking about . . .' The scrape of the kitchen chair told Midge that her mum was getting up and crossing the room.

Midge kept staring into the fridge. ‘I'm OK. Really. Don't worry.' She tried to pull herself together. This was no time to be weakening. Not today.

‘Well, as long as you know that I care.' Mum kissed the top of her head in passing. ‘But now I feel a bit guilty, because I'm going to have to leave you on your own for most of tomorrow – and it's your last day before school starts again. Brian's not around either. I'm going over to a trade show with Barry, to look at alternative sorts of heating for the holiday apartments, and Brian's seeing this wine guy, Alan Lavers. Which if I know Brian could take all week. Will you be all right? Although you
could
come with me and Barry, if you really wanted to . . .'

‘Er, no, Mum. Don't think so.'

Her mum laughed as she paused in the doorway. ‘Well, maybe not. But listen, the builders'll be around and about. And you know Dave, the really tall one. The foreman. He's a nice man – got kids of his own, here at the primary school. If there was ever any trouble . . .'

‘I'll be fine. Can I take a yogurt up with my sandwich?'

‘Go on, then. But mind the bedclothes please, miss. Get yourself a spoon, and a tray.'

‘All right. I'm going to eat this and then have a rest. My legs are all achey.'

‘That'll be the tobogganing. See you later, then. I'll give you a shout at teatime if you're not down before.'

‘Yeah. Thanks.'

‘But get yourself out of those damp clothes before you do anything else.'

‘OK.'

So that had been worth doing. Now she was as unlikely to be disturbed as could be hoped for.

Midge sat on the bottom edge of her bed and took a bite of her sandwich. She stared at the wicker box as she chewed, and tried to prepare herself. But for what? She hadn't the faintest idea what it might look like, this thing she was hoping to find in the casket.

It might be something really dangerous. That thought hadn't occurred to her before. Maybe it would explode . . . or cut her . . . or be poisonous. No, that wasn't very likely. Aunt Celandine had seen it, and she'd survived the experience.

But perhaps there would be nothing in there whatsoever. Nothing but ribbons and hairgrips and empty disappointment. And that thought was unbearable. It was the reason why she was putting off the moment, Midge realized. Not knowing meant that there was hope. Once she'd opened the casket, all hope might disappear.

Midge took another bite of her sandwich and put the rest of it back on the plate. Come on. It has to be done. She stood up, dusted the crumbs from her fingers, then retrieved the casket from the wicker box.

The key didn't want to turn. It was loose enough in its keyhole, but she couldn't make it work the lock. For a good five minutes Midge struggled with the casket, holding it firmly on her lap as she tried turning the key this way and that. But it was no use. Her fingers had become sweaty and sore from the effort, and now she couldn't even get a decent grip on the thing. Maybe she should go and find a screwdriver or something. She looked round the room.

The teaspoon for her yogurt. That might do it. She pushed the end of the spoon through the hole in the key. Which way
should
it turn? To the left seemed the most logical, and she applied a bit of pressure in that direction, using the spoon as a lever. Still nothing, and now she was frightened of breaking the key. Just a tiny bit more, then. Gently . . . gently . . .

It moved. The key had definitely creaked to the left. Something was beginning to give. Midge kept up a slow steady leverage, and then suddenly the mechanism broke free. The key twisted round all
the way with a jerk and the lid simply fell open. Midge tried to right the casket in order to keep the contents from spilling out, but it was too late, and the first thing her scrabbling fingers caught hold of was the Orbis.

Or at least it was the brown bundle of oilcloth in which the Orbis was presumably wrapped. Midge snatched at it as it rolled down into her lap, and there it was. In her hand at last.

Oh, but she needed a moment to recover before going any further. Her eyesight had gone all blurry, and she was shaking and sweating like anything. Midge rubbed her forearm across her brow, and then used the same free hand to jiggle the casket off her lap and onto the bed beside her. OK. Deep breath, then. Now she was ready.

The oilcloth was stiff with age, dry and crumbly. As Midge tried to peel it away, bits kept breaking off. It was mummified. The thin strips couldn't be unwound in the same way as the one that she had delivered to Aunt Celandine. But she persevered, picking gently at the loose ends, layer after layer, and putting all the bits on the tea tray beside her.

Very gradually the contents began to appear – a first glimpse of metal . . . a knurled knob . . . a curving section . . . a sliding piece with what might have been an engraving of the moon . . .

She had never been able to picture what the Orbis might look like, and so had not imagined what her reaction to it might be. But as the last few scraps of oilcloth fell away, Midge felt absolute delight. It was a gorgeous thing. Just beautiful – like something that
might be found on an old sailing ship, or in a museum of astronomy. There were bits to twiddle, little screws and knobs and slidey pieces. Beautiful.

But how did it work? What did it do exactly? Midge could see that the main curve of the frame, shaped like a letter C, would be able to hold something between the two knurled knobs at either end. A globe perhaps. Yes, there was a further circular frame built at right angles to the C, and so a ball shape would fit into the whole cage construction very nicely, and spin round on the pivots, like a classroom globe. But then there were three sliding pieces on the main frame – one with a sun emblem engraved into it, the other two with a moon and a star. And a little rod that popped out on a spring. What did all these things do?

Midge found that the sliders were each held in place by a small screw. By loosening the screws, the pieces could be repositioned on the curve of the frame. Except that there was magnetic resistance to this. The sliders moved in and out of several fields of magnetism around the frame, as though the frame itself were made up of a series of magnets invisibly welded together into one curving strip. And the central slider, the one with the sun on it, repelled the moon and star sliders when you moved them close together. It was wonderful.

Midge sat on her bed for ages, playing with the Orbis, taking bits off and putting them back on again, trying different combinations . . .

George would love this, she thought. But then she had another thought, and a more disturbing one:
she might have messed this thing up completely in her enthusiasm to explore its workings. It might have been as finely set as a chronometer, for all she knew, tuned in to some magnetic astral force that she knew nothing about. And now she'd changed it all around. How had it been when she'd first started fiddling with it? Oh Lord . . .

There was no chance of getting it back to exactly how it was. But at least she'd found it, and surely that was the main thing? Surely they'd be grateful for that?

Midge decided that she'd better not make matters any worse. She reluctantly put the Orbis to one side and looked in the casket to see what else was there. A folded piece of paper . . . a few glass beads and some ribbon . . . a flowery enamelled brooch . . . a couple of wooden combs. Nothing else that was anything like as interesting as the Orbis. Midge picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it. Lined notepaper, it was, brown and mottled with age. She saw tiny words, written in pencil. No capitals and all unpunctuated – a bit like text messaging at first glance.

‘
thee orbis be not saf and so it must leev this plas with thee this da I sl tel . . .
'

What?

Midge puzzled for a while over the strange formations of letters. It was English, of a sort, she realized, and bits of it made sense, but she couldn't get the entire gist of it. And who had written this?