Читать книгу Charlie Bone and the Time Twister - Jenny Nimmo - Страница 10

Hiding Henry

It was the other Charlie who spoke first.

‘What a joke,’ said the boy. ‘I haven’t travelled very far at all.’

He had such a normal sort of voice that Charlie was reassured. This wasn’t a ghost. But if not a ghost, what was it? Clearing his throat, he asked, ‘Where have you come from exactly?’

‘Here,’ said the boy. ‘Just now I was here, but,’ he shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed up at the row of electric lights illuminating the hall, ‘it wasn’t like this. How did it get so bright?’

‘Electricity,’ said Charlie. He was beginning to recognise the boy. ‘Are you . . . ?’ he began. ‘I mean, have you . . . well, the thing is, I’ve seen you in a photo. Are you Henry Yewbeam?’

‘That’s me,’ said Henry, beaming. ‘I think I’ve seen you too. Somewhere. Who are you?’

‘I’m your . . . erm . . . sort of cousin, Charlie Bone.’

‘No! This is very good news. A cousin, well, well.’ Henry marched over and shook Charlie’s hand. ‘Very glad to meet you, Charlie Bone.’

‘The news isn’t that good,’ said Charlie. ‘What was the date when you . . . just now?’

‘January 12th, 1916,’ said Henry. ‘I always know the date.’

‘I’m afraid it isn’t that now.’

‘No?’ Henry’s smile began to fade. ‘So . . . ?’

‘You’re almost ninety years ahead of where you were,’ said Charlie.

Henry’s mouth opened but no words came out. Instead, there was a sharp ping as something dropped out of his hand and hit the floor.

Charlie saw a large glass marble rolling across the hall. ‘Wow!’ he exclaimed, but before he could pick it up, Henry shouted, ‘Careful, Charlie. Don’t look at it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s what brought me here.’

Charlie stood back from the shining glass marble. ‘You mean it brought you through time?’

Henry nodded. ‘It’s a time twister. My mama told me about it, but I’d never seen it until just now. I should have guessed what it was. I knew Zeke would try and punish me.’

‘Zeke?’

‘My cousin, Ezekiel Bloor.’ Henry suddenly grinned. ‘I say, he’s probably dead by now.’ And then a sad and solemn expression crossed his face. ‘They’re probably all dead: Mother, Father, my sister, and even my brother, James. There’s no one left.’

‘There’s me,’ said Charlie, ‘and I think your brother is . . .’

At that moment, a dreadful howl came from the stairs above them. The boys looked up to see a squat, ugly-looking dog standing at the top of the stairs. It howled again, raising its long nose towards the roof, while folds of almost hairless skin shook beneath its whiskery chin.

‘What an ugly beast,’ Henry whispered.

‘It’s Cook’s dog, Blessed.’ Charlie didn’t wait for the dog to howl again. ‘Quick,’ he said, grabbing Henry’s arm. ‘You’ve got to hide. This isn’t a good place for you to be right now. There are people here who might – do something nasty, if they find out who you are.’

‘Why?’ asked Henry, his eyes widening.

‘Just a feeling,’ said Charlie. ‘Come on.’ He dragged Henry towards the door into the west wing.

‘Where are we going?’ said Henry, scooping up the Time Twister and slipping it into his pocket.

For a moment Charlie had no idea why he was taking Henry into the west wing. He turned the heavy brass ring in the door and pushed his new friend into the dark passage beyond.

‘I know this place,’ whispered Henry. ‘I never liked it.’

‘Nor me,’ said Charlie. ‘But we have to go this way to find somewhere safe.’ He closed the door behind him just as Blessed gave another mournful howl.

The two boys made their way along the passage until they reached an empty, circular room. A dim light, hanging from the ceiling, showed an ancient wooden door and, opposite the door, a flight of stone steps.

‘The tower?’ Henry looked at the steps and pulled a face.

It was then that Charlie realised why he had brought Henry to this place. ‘You’ll be safe at the top,’ he said.

‘Will I?’ Henry looked doubtful.

‘Trust me,’ said Charlie.

As Henry began to mount the steps, Charlie noticed his peculiar tweed breeches. They reached only to the knee, where a button held them in place over loose grey socks.

Henry’s boots looked distinctly feminine: black and shiny, they were neatly laced just above the ankle.

‘We’d better find you some more clothes,’ Charlie muttered as they reached a second circular room. A door led off this room into the west wing, but Charlie urged Henry up a second flight of steps. ‘The Bloors live through there,’ he said.

‘Interesting,’ said Henry. ‘Some things haven’t changed then.’

They kept climbing upwards but long before they reached the top of the tower, the sound of a piano could be heard, echoing down the narrow stairwell.

Henry stopped. ‘There’s someone up there.’

‘It’s the piano teacher, Mr Pilgrim,’ said Charlie. ‘No one else comes up here, and Mr Pilgrim doesn’t really notice things. He won’t be a problem, promise!’

Another two sets of stairs brought them to the small room at the top of the tower. Sheets of music lay scattered on the floor and the shelves that ran from floor to ceiling were crammed with huge leather-bound albums, and thick dog-eared scores.

‘It’ll be warm here,’ said Charlie, moving a few piles away from the bookcase. ‘You see, if we put some paper on the floor like this,’ he spread several sheets of music between the bookcase and a wall of piled scores,‘it’ll make a sort of bed, and you can hide here till morning.’

‘And then what?’ asked Henry.

‘Well . . .’ Charlie scratched his head. ‘Then I’ll find a way to get you some breakfast, and maybe some new clothes.’

‘What’s wrong with my clothes?’ Henry gave an anxious frown.

‘They’re just different. We don’t wear that kind of stuff now.’

Henry glanced at Charlie’s long grey trousers and thick-soled shoes. ‘No. So I see,’ he said.

‘I’d better be getting back,’ said Charlie. ‘The head boy, Manfred Bloor, will be after me, and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him. He hypnotises.’

‘Oh. One of those.’ Henry had heard about the hypnotisers in his family. ‘Are you one of them?’ he asked Charlie. ‘The endowed?’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Charlie. ‘That’s how I knew you.’

‘What about him?’ Henry pointed to the door behind which the piano music flowed on.

‘He won’t bother you,’ said Charlie. ‘’Bye now.’ He gave a wave and backed out of the small room feeling inexplicably guilty.

In the King’s room, a boy with a long, sad face glanced anxiously at Charlie’s empty seat. The boy’s name was Gabriel Silk, and he worried about Charlie. He should have gone after Tancred, not let Charlie go. Charlie was younger and likely to land in some sort of trouble. He was the kind of boy unfortunate things happened to.

And then the howling began. At first they all tried to ignore it, but in the end Manfred flung down his pen and exclaimed, ‘Bloody dog! Billy, go and shut it up.’

‘I’ll go,’ Gabriel offered.

‘I said Billy.’ Manfred gave Gabriel one of his horrible stares and then turned his piercing black gaze on Billy. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You can talk to the wretched thing. Ask it if it’s got a bellyache.’

‘Yes, Manfred.’ Billy scuttled to the door.

As he ran down the chilly stairwells and dark corridors, he talked to himself. He hated it when everyone else was shut away doing homework. He was afraid of meeting the ghosts. He knew they were there – gliding about in the dark. Billy never went home. He had no home to go to. Sometimes he stayed with an aunt. But not often.

He had reached the wide landing where a grand staircase led down into the hall. Blessed was sitting at the top of the stairs, still howling.

Billy sat beside the dog and put one hand on its plump back. ‘What’s the matter, Blessed?’ The words came out in a series of little grunts and sniffs. A language that Blessed could understand.

The old dog stopped howling. ‘Boy came,’ he said. ‘Bad thing. Wrong.’

‘What boy? Why was it wrong?’ asked Billy.

Blessed considered this question. He seemed to be having some difficulty with his reply. At last he grunted, ‘Boy came from nowhere. With ball, very small. Shiny. Blessed not like this ball. It bad magic.’

Billy was perplexed. ‘Was it Tancred?’ he asked. ‘Boy with lots of yellow hair?’

‘No. Boy was like that one.’ Blessed stared down the hall.

Following the dog’s gaze, Billy was surprised to see Charlie Bone quietly closing the door into the west wing.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Billy called.

Charlie looked up, startled. ‘Nowhere,’ he said. ‘Just looking for Tancred.’

‘Blessed said another boy was here; a boy like you.’

‘Blessed’s got a vivid imagination.’ Charlie began to cross the hall.

‘He says there was a ball. It was small and shiny and he didn’t like it.’

‘I think Blessed was dreaming,’ said Charlie, climbing the stairs towards Billy.

Billy looked at the old dog. ‘Blessed doesn’t lie,’ he said. ‘Dogs can’t.’

‘They can dream, can’t they? Come on, Billy. We’d better get back to our homework or we’ll get detention.’

‘Go back to Cook,’ Billy told the dog. ‘Go on, Blessed. No more howling.’

Blessed gave a sullen grunt and began to flop down the stairs, while Billy and Charlie ran back to the King’s room.

When homework was over, Charlie had half a mind to go and visit Henry. He didn’t like leaving him alone in the tower, nearly a hundred years from where he was supposed to be. Of course, he wasn’t quite alone, but Mr Pilgrim hardly counted. Charlie badly needed to confide in someone.

When he reached the dormitory, he found Fidelio filling his cupboard with the clothes from his bag. There were two boys from Drama in the room and Charlie couldn’t risk being overheard. ‘I want to ask you something,’ he whispered to his friend. ‘Can we go somewhere else?’

‘The art room,’ Fidelio said softly.

As they came out of the dormitory, they walked straight into Billy Raven.

‘Billy gives me the creeps these days,’ Fidelio whispered as they sped down the corridor. ‘I used to feel sorry for him, but I don’t like the way he watches people.’

‘Someone’s got to him,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t know who it is, but they’re making him spy for them. I don’t think Billy can help it.’

They had reached the art room.

‘Light’s still on,’ Charlie commented. ‘But no one’s here.’

‘Mr Boldova might come back,’ warned Fidelio. ‘We’d better hide over there.’

A large painting of trees had been propped against two easels near the wall, and the boys managed to squeeze behind it and squat on the floor. In a hushed voice, Charlie began to tell his friend about the sudden appearance of Henry, the boy with the Time Twister, who had vanished nearly a hundred years ago. However, as soon as he mentioned the voices in the photograph, Fidelio clutched his arm.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘D’you mean you can hear what’s going on in photos?’

Charlie nodded. He had never told Fidelio about his peculiar talent. ‘I don’t like people to know,’ he muttered.

‘I don’t think I would either,’ said Fidelio. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. Go on about Henry. Where is he now?’

‘I took him up to the top of the music tower. I couldn’t think of anywhere else.’

‘What about Mr Pilgrim?’

‘He won’t even notice Henry, and if he does . . .’ Charlie hesitated, ‘I don’t think he’ll harm him.’

‘Hm. I wonder! You can’t tell with Mr Pilgrim,’ murmured Fidelio. ‘So, what are you going to do with this long-lost great-great-uncle?’

‘I thought I’d try and smuggle him home at the weekend. But first I’ve got to get some food to him.’

‘Lunch break would be best,’ said Fidelio. ‘He can have my meat – if it’s not mince; and you can sneak up to the tower while I . . .’ He broke off suddenly, as a face appeared at the top of the tree painting.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Emma Tolly.

Charlie was tempted to tell her; she was, after all, a friend, as well as endowed, but something held him back. ‘We’re just talking,’ he said. ‘Can’t get any peace in the dorm.’

‘I know,’ Emma sighed. ‘I came to finish a drawing.’

‘We were just going,’ said Fidelio.

The two boys wriggled out from behind the painting.

Just as they were leaving the art room, Charlie caught sight of a large sketch book, lying open on a table. He stared at it, and moved closer.

‘It’s mine,’ said Emma. ‘Just sketches, nothing special.’

But they were special. Both pages of the open book were covered with pictures of birds: birds in flight; swooping, hovering, soaring and diving. They were so real, Charlie felt that if he touched them he would feel real feathers.

‘They’re brilliant,’ he murmured.

‘Brilliant,’ Fidelio repeated.

‘Thank you!’ Emma gave one of her shy smiles.

All at once, the door behind them opened, and a voice said, ‘What’s going on in here?’

Mr Boldova appeared. You could tell he was an art teacher because his clothes were covered in splashes of paint. Even his green cape, which he often forgot to wear, had little flecks of colour on the sleeves. Mr Boldova always looked as if he had just been on holiday. He had bright hazel eyes, a very healthy complexion, and long brown hair tied in a ponytail.

‘I was showing my work to Charlie and Fidelio,’ Emma said confidently. ‘We were just going.’

‘That’s all right, Emma.’ The art teacher beamed at them all.

It was impossible to be afraid of Mr Boldova. He never gave detention, never punished pupils for untidiness, forgetfulness or even being late. The only thing that made him angry was bad art. He gave Charlie a searching look and said, ‘Ah, Charlie Bone.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Charlie. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

The three children slipped past him and ran for their dormitories. It was already five minutes to lights out. Matron would be on the warpath, and Matron was not an understanding person. She was, in fact, Charlie’s great-aunt, Lucretia Yewbeam.

As they dashed into their dormitory, the boys heard Miss Yewbeam shouting at some poor girl who had lost her slippers.

‘We’ll just make it before she gets here,’ said Fidelio, rushing to the bathroom.

Billy Raven was sitting up in bed. ‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked Charlie.

‘Had some extra work to do,’ said Charlie. He pulled on his pyjamas and jumped into bed, just as Matron poked her long face round the door.

‘Lights out!’ she barked, flicking the light switch.

Out went the bare bulb hanging in the centre of the room.

‘That was a close one,’ murmured Gabriel Silk from the bed next to Charlie.

Just before Charlie finally drifted off, he thought of the boy in the tower; cold, hungry, and probably frightened. What was to be done with Henry Yewbeam?

Unable to sleep, Henry Yewbeam was staring out across the city. There was a small, round window in the wall between the bookcases and Henry, anxious to know if the world had changed in ninety years, had climbed on to a stool to find out.

The world had, indeed, changed. The sky above the horizon seemed to be on fire. It had a terrifying orange glow. Could it be the rows of street lights leading into the distance? Pinpricks of radiance shone out from the dark blocks of houses and, below the tower, pairs of shining lights, some red, some white, swept across Henry’s field of vision, like earthly shooting stars.

‘Motor cars,’ murmured Henry, as one came closer. ‘So many.’

‘So many,’ said a voice, like an echo.

Henry became aware that a man was standing in the darkness beside him. The piano music coming from the room next door had stopped. Henry was relieved; he didn’t have much of an ear for music.

‘Are you Mr Pilgrim?’ Henry asked.

There was no reply to his question. In the soft light coming through the window, Henry could make out a pale face and very black hair. The man’s expression was solemn and faraway.

‘I’m Henry Yewbeam,’ said Henry.

Still no reply.

It was like talking to someone who wasn’t really there. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if Henry told him the truth.

‘I’m very old,’ he said. ‘Or at least I should be.’

In the distance a clock began to strike. The deep chimes of the cathedral pealed out across the city. Mr Pilgrim turned to Henry. His eyes held a strange glitter.

Henry had just counted the twelfth stroke when Mr Pilgrim said, ‘Are you cold?’

‘Yes,’ said Henry.

The piano teacher took off his blue cape and wrapped it round the boy’s shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ said Henry, stepping off the stool.

Mr Pilgrim smiled. He stretched up to a high shelf and pulled a tin from a row of books. Lifting the lid, he offered the tin to Henry. ‘Oatcakes,’ he said. ‘You see, I live up here practically. And one gets hungry.’

‘One does,’ Henry agreed, politely taking only one oatcake.

Mr Pilgrim didn’t offer him any more. He put the tin on the stool and said, ‘Help yourself.’ The faraway look had come back into his eyes. He seemed to be trying to remember something. Frowning, he murmured, ‘Goodnight.’

And then he was gone, slipping away down the stone steps with hardly a sound.

Henry would have liked the strange man to stay. He was grateful for the extra cape but, to tell the truth, it was not as cold as it had been. In fact, the temperature was rising rapidly. The icicles hanging outside the window were beginning to melt.

All around the tower there was a steady drip, drip, drip of ice turning to water. It was a sound that filled Henry with foreboding. He had just worked out that his sudden twist through time must have had something to do with the cold. He had arrived in Bloor’s when the temperature had reached exactly the same degree as when he had left, in 1916. A change in the weather could make a difference to time travel.

‘I won’t be able to get home,’ Henry said to himself. ‘I’ll never see my family again.’ And suddenly his situation seemed almost too grim to bear. ‘But I must!’ he murmured.