Chapter 16
Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness (Psalm 88)
Mother, Fenestra and Mr.Surplice were seated at the kitchen table, the remains of a frugal supper in front of them.
“Oh Pert,” said his mother, “just look at your clothes.”
He looked down at himself. His shoes were wet through, his trousers were out at both knees and his shirt was torn right down the front.
“And your face,” said Fenestra. “Your poor face, does it hurt a lot?”
“No,” he said, sitting down. “I'm jolly hungry though.”
His mother got up to fetch the bowl of broth and a piece of bread. Pert ate hungrily, while Mr.Surplice looked on with a gleam in his eye.
“Fenestra's told us what happened,” Mother said. “I don't know what's going to happen. There's bound to be a heap of trouble from this.”
“There, dear lady, what can't be cured must be endured,” said the curate. “From what Fenestra tells us it doesn't sound as though there was much choice.”
“No, there wasn't really,” said Pert, pushing his empty bowl away. “But it would have been much worse without Seth and Solomon and Billy Moon. And Rosella. Especially Rosella.”
Mother and the curate exchanged glances. “Where is Rosella now?” she asked.
“Gone home.”
“And where did you go? You've both been missing all afternoon.”
Pert looked at her, wondering why it mattered where they had been. They could hardly have stayed in school, after knocking a teacher down.
“We went up on the moors,” she said, “and up to the top of Bodrach Nuwl.”
“And what else?”
“Nothing else. We paddled in a pool, and then we came back. We knew we had to keep out of the way.”
Fenestra came and stood beside him and stroked his hair. “Billy said you knocked Mr.Merridew over. Did you really?”
“Yes. He was going to cane Rosella. He'd given us the cane, me and Seth and Solomon and Billy, and then he started on her, so I sort of shoved him and he fell.”
“Who else attacked him?” asked Mother.
“I never attacked him!” he said hotly. “It was just me, but I never attacked him. I just pushed him away from Rosella and he sort of tripped. So we ran.”
Once again the two adults exchanged a look Pert didn't understand. “Er, can I be clear ... your teacher was going to cane a girl? In front of the whole class?”
“That's what Billy said,” put in Fenestra. “And Pert got two lots!”
Mother got up and started tidying the table. “Well, I can see nothing but trouble coming from this,” she said tiredly. “I think you two had best go straight to bed, and Pert must stay home from school tomorrow. I can't imagine he'll be welcome there.”
They moved towards the stairs, but on the first step Fenestra stopped. “Mother,” she said quietly, “you won't let anyone forget, will you, that Pert was just looking after me? Those boys had me in the toilet and they hurt me, and Pert stopped them.”
“No,” said his mother. “No, we won't forget that. Whatever happens, we won't forget that.”
It was strange, not going to school. Fenestra went, reluctantly. Pert walked her to the school gates, and there leaning against the wall was Billy Moon. She brightened up when she saw him waiting.
Billy followed her through the gates. “I'll look after 'er, guv!” he said to Pert. “Don't you worry about a fing!”
Pert wandered up through the Market Square. Some people he passed stared, and pursed their mouths, and turned muttering to each other. But one or two smiled at him, and nodded. As he passed Mrs.Toogood's stall she called out to him.
“Hallo, dearie, I hear you've been in the wars! Here, take this – a man needs a little something to set him up, doesn't he, when he's been standing up for his family?”
She handed him a stick of peanut brittle. He thanked her, and she smiled and beamed at him as he went on his way. His pleasure evaporated at the sight of Urethra Grubb standing massive and threatening in the door of the Emporium. She looked at him hard through her one eye, and Pert felt the force of her malice clear across the road.
He decided to go down to the quay to see if Walter Glibbery had any jobs for him to do. Down at the corner of Market Hill the four would-be pirates were lounging again, and Pert wondered if they might come after him. They simply scowled, though, and made no effort to follow.
He heard a shout behind him, and found that the twins were running down the hill. “Hold up!” they called, “we're bunking off school today, our Mum said we could, in case he gave us the cane again!”
Pert greeted them with pleasure. “Our Mum's livid!” said Seth gleefully, “you should've seen her! I thought she was going to explode!”
“She said we were just sticking up for you against those bullies, and we shouldn't have got the cane for that, we should've got a medal,” said Solomon, “and she's a good mind to go up to that school and wrap that cane round Merridew's head!”
“And when we said about you knocking old Merridew on his backside, cor, our Dad did laugh! It was prime!”
They walked on past the Drop o' Dew. It was a bit early for pirates, probably, for there was no one sitting outside.
“Billy's in school, though,” said Pert. “Have you heard anything about Rosella?”
“I don't think Billy worries about anything, much,” Seth said. “He just does what he wants to do, regardless. He can't half fight. No, we've heard nothing about Rosella. Coo, didn't she kick, though?”
At the root of the breakwater they ran into Walter Sabbage. He was on his own today, and stood waiting for them, his hands on his hips and his gazed fixed somewhere over Pert's shoulder.
“Well, well, cometh the bold warriers, I 'ear!” he greeted them. “Fightin' and scrappin' an' half-murderin' the masters, an' wipin' the floor wiv giants twice yer size, whatever next?”
The thing about Sabbage, Pert thought, was that you could never tell whether he was serious or whether he was poking fun at you.
“We didn't murder anyone,” he said, “I just pushed him and he fell over.”
“Must 'ave been an almighty push, then! We 'eard all about it in the alehouse last night. Talk o' the town, you are, Master Potts. 'Alf of 'em wanted to go an' give you a good kickin', an' the other 'alf wanted to elect you Mayor. You cert'nly stirred 'em up, an' no mistake. But listen 'ere ...”, he grasped Pert's shirt front and pulled him close, “you listen 'ere, young Master, if'n any o' these louts an' hobbledehoys gives you any grief, tell 'em to take it up with Walter Sabbage. I'll tickle their ribs with my little rib-tickler, see if I don't!”
He gave a cackle and let Pert go. “An' don' ferget the Capting, lad, 'e's powerful taken with you, is the Capting, an' 'e wouldn't like for anything to 'appen to yer!”
“Don't worry, Mr.Sabbage,” called Seth, “we're keeping an eye on him now! He'll be safe with us!”
Pert felt heartened, but uneasy all the same. Protection from pirates was liable to be a dubious comfort – there would be a price to pay at some point. He just wished he knew what it was.
Solomon too was in a realistic mood. “They'll get us back”, he said. “Never mind Merridew, there's still Bunt and Durridge. They aren't happy with us.”
His brother snorted. “What are they going to do? We beat 'em once, we can beat 'em again!”
“Don't be daft. They won't come at us all together. They'll follow us, and pick us off one by one.”
“Look here,” said Pert, “what Solomon says is right, but we mustn't get too worked up about it. For a start, we can all run faster than they can, so as long as we avoid dark alleys and dead ends and always have an escape route in mind, we can get away from them, easy.”
“True!” said Seth.
“Also, they won't try anything when there are people about, so don't go out at night, and stay in the busy streets all the time.”
“Also true,” said Set
h, “gets my vote every time!”
“And it should be easy for you, because there are two of you. Just don't ever split up and go round on your own.”
“On our own?” mused Solomon, looking at his brother. “We never go anywhere on our own. Tell the truth, it never occurred to us.”
“Yeah, we even get the cane in tandem!” laughed his brother. “We've got to go now, our Mum said she wanted some chores done, and the mood she's in ... will you be all right?”
“Yes, thanks. I'm going to have a chat with Walter Glibbery. I can see him in his boat over there!”
The boys shot off, but Pert did not do as he said and seek out the old fisherman. Instead he followed the twins, more slowly, back up the town, thinking he would wait outside Rosella's house and see if she was all right. As he turned up the Bearward the two oldest Prettyfoot girls were coming down, holding hands. They did not smile or even look at him, but as they passed him one of them hissed “Follow us! Don't let anyone see!” so he stopped as though he'd forgotten something, then sauntered back the way he had come.
At the corner he couldn't see where they had gone, until an arm appeared from behind one of the market stalls and beckoned furiously. He ran, and the two girls grabbed him and dragged him behind the canvas of the stall.
“Rosella's locked in her room!” the taller one said. “They've taken her boots away, and locked her in, and she's crying!”
“Can't you rescue her?” said the other. “We don't know what's going to happen to her, and we're scared!”
Pert was stunned. Rosella never cried. He could not even imagine her crying. Rosella was strong. She was always in control.
“Have they ... done anything? Like, have they punished her?”
“No, just the locking up. But there's something going on, we know it. No one took us to school, and Mistress Grubb came to the house this morning, and she and father talked for a long time in father's study. They were shouting about something.”
Pert felt numb. This shouldn't have happened. This wasn't fair. What was he to do? He needed to ask someone ... his mother? Mr.Surplice? Aunt Gittins, that was it! She was old, she must be wise, she knew the town and its habits ... yes, that was it – Aunt Gittins! He would go straight away.
“Look, I've got to get some advice about this,” he told the girls. “You go home and watch and wait, and if anything happens, you need to get a message to me somehow. You could tell my sister at school, or give her a note or something. And if you get the chance to speak to Rosella, tell her I know and I'll think of something. Now run along – I don't think you ought to be seen speaking to me.”
The little girls wasted no time, but were off. Pert looked round. No one had seen. He was about to set off for Aunt Gittins' house but thought it would be a good idea to follow the girls up the Bearward and make sure they had got home safely. He saw them turning into their gate, but stopped. No sooner had they gone in than Mr.Prettyfoot came out, and marched briskly up the hill towards Pardoner's Alley. Pert couldn't imagine that the Prettyfeet knew anyone in Pardoner's Alley, for only poor people lived there. Goodness! He must be going to their house! What was going on? Was he going to give them news about Rosella or what? Pert ran up the hill, turned into the Alley, then skidded into their yard and crashed through the door.
Mother sat at the table, looking pale and tearful. Mr.Surplice stood at the foot of the stairs, his eyes wide. Over the table stooped Mr.Prettyfoot, his fists clenched. Mr.Prettyfoot was, like his daughter, tall and fair. Pert thought he must once have been a good looking man, but his features had ... slipped, somehow. His eyes looked as though they had seen some things they didn't like, and his mouth was slack and wet-lipped as though driven to pronounce words that had disagreed with them. His cheeks were flushed, and as Pert entered he thumped his fist on the table.
“Never!” he said harshly. “Never again! You see to it, madam, or I will!”
He realised that Pert had come in, and turned to face him. “You,” he ground out, “you spawn of Satan! You vile, filthy little grub! How dare you put your dirty hands on my daughter? Fifteen years we nurtured her and protected her from scum like you, and you take her up the hill and ... I'd kill you with my own hands, but that would be too quick! I'll ruin you, I'll make your life a misery!”
He paused for breath. His face had steadily got redder and redder, and his cheeks by now were almost purple.
“Sir, I don't know what you're talking about,” Pert began, but got no further.
“And don't you ever imagine,” the man went on, “that you'll get within a stone's throw of my daughter again. I've taken steps! I'm sending her somewhere you'll never get to her! She'll learn the error of her wickedness, and she'll be safe from you!”
He rushed to the door and shoved Pert aside. At the door he turned, and delivered his parting shot. “And you, madam, I blame you for this! You would do well to consider who owns this house, this den of filth where you bring your children up to connive with criminals and seduce innocents! Like grandfather, like father, like son – never a truer word!”
With that he was gone. Pert stood and looked at his mother.
“Oh Pert,” she said sadly, “you didn't?”
“I don't think I did,” he said. “What?”
His mother put her head in her hands and did not answer. Mr.Surplice stepped forward and put his arm round her.
“Pert, Mr.Prettyfoot says you took his daughter up on the moors and ... did something with her you ought not to have done. He says you ruined her.”
“I did not!” Pert said hotly. “I told you what we did. We went up on the moors and we paddled in a pool, and then we came back. She was a bit dirty, but she wasn't ruined.”
“Nothing else?” asked the curate.
“No! We were happy, and now you're turning it into something else, something dirty. It's foul, you have no right! You have no right!”
Mother raised her head. Her eyes were wet. “Pert, if you say that's what happened, that's what happened. You're my good boy. Come, come and give me a hug, you're my good boy, oh dear, oh dear ....”
Later, when they had all recovered themselves a little and the curate had kindly made them all a cup of tea, they sat round the table and discussed the matter more rationally.
“I hope the tea is all right,” Mr.Surplice said, “I had to make it twice, because I forgot to put any tea in the pot first time.”
“It's perfect, thank you, Mr.Surplice,” his mother smiled, and patted his hand.
“Oh, that's a relief,” he said. “Making tea is one of the many accomplishments that have eluded me so far. Dear lady, I wish you would call me by my name, my first name I mean. If I am to live under your roof, it seems more appropriate. My name is Septimus, Septimus Surplice.”
“Dear Mr. ... dear Septimus, it will be my pleasure.”
“And you too, my boy. We are friends, are we not?”
“We are,” said Pert, but could not gain any satisfaction from this exchange, for weightier matters bore down his spirits.
“Of course, we know who's at the root of this, I think,” said Mother. “Urethra Grubb.”
“She visited the Prettyfeet this morning, Mother. One of Rosella's sisters told me. They were shouting in his study.”
“Oh yes, that'll be it, then. She always manages to turn things dark and twisted. She's an evil, manipulative woman and she likes nothing better than to drag everyone else down to her level.”
“Dear lady, in my profession I feel obliged to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, as Our Lord would have done, and offer forgiveness for even the blackest sinner. But in this case I fear you are not too far from the truth. I have only had the doubtful pleasure of speaking to the lady once or twice, but I formed the impression of great malice, a deadly hatred for anything good and bright. Not that my impressions are likely to be any help in finding a solution.”
“I can't think of any solution at all,” said Pert. “Poor Rosella's locked up in disgrace, and all
she did was step in to help me when those bullies were beating me. And my name's mud, and everyone'll think I did something wicked to her and I can't go back to school because of Merridew, can I? I'd better start fishing with Mr.Glibbery as soon as the weather opens up. There's one good thing, though ... Billy Moon's decided he has to look after Fenestra when I'm not there.”
“Oh my goodness!” said Mother. “He's the last person ...”
“Now, now,” interrupted Septimus, “you said yourself you never had anything against the mother. But he's very small ...”
“Oh, don't let that worry you,” said Pert. “He's small but he's vicious. I think he'll manage very well.”
Later he went down to the school to meet Fenestra. She was waiting with Billy at the gate. She looked happy, and Billy was grinning as usual. Billy walked up the hill with them, explaining that he had nothing better to do, and since he couldn't read he never did homework anyway
“Oh Pert,” Fenestra said excitedly, “I've had such an interesting day! All the other girls were being much nicer to me than usual, and Esmerelda wanted to be my friend again but I'm not sure I'm going to let her because ...” she thought for a moment, “well, perhaps I will. It's not her fault she's little and scared. I'm a bit scared myself, sometimes.”
“Don't you be scared of nuffink, Ferny,” said Billy. “I'll sort you out, no trouble!”
Ferny, thought Pert? Ferny? Where did that come from? Fenestra didn't seem to turn a hair.
“And anyway,” she went on, “the Headmaster came to my class and took me outside, and I had to tell him everything that happened yesterday, about those boys in the toilets and everything, and then he just said “Thank you Fenestra” and sent me back.” She skipped a couple of paces. “And Mr.Merridew ... well, perhaps Billy ought to say, because he saw it.”
“Yeah, I saw it all right,” Billy said. “'E come in with this big bandage round 'is 'ead, and a face like thunder. I fought 'e were goin' ter start whackin' us again, only you and Rosella an' the twins were away, so I fought blimey, Bill, it's all down ter you today, you're goin' ter get what for ....”
“But you didn't, Billy, did you?” said Fenestra.
“No, 'cos the 'Eadmaster come in an' another teacher come an' sit wiv us while Merridew 'ad to go outside, an' when 'e come back 'e was all white in the face, an' e' din't say 'ardly anyfink the rest of the day an' 'e din't cane no one. I fink 'e got it in the neck, did Mister Merridew!”
“And all the children are saying that you and Rosella and Batty Bunt and Darren Durridge aren't ever coming back to school again, is that right, Pert?” asked Fenestra.
“I don't know. It wouldn't surprise me. I shall go fishing instead, I suppose. But just because Bunt and Durridge aren't at school doesn't mean they're not going to be around the town. We need to be careful.”
“So who'll take me to school and everything, if you're out fishing?”
“I will, Ferny!” said Billy, grinning even wider. “I'll come an' meet you in the mornin's and walk you 'ome after. Don't you worry, they won' ever get near us, I'm too quick for 'em!”
“Oh. All right then,” Fenestra said, looking pleased.
When they got home Fenestra went in and got some bread and dripping and a cup of tea for Billy. He refused to go into the house because of the smell, he said, and he'd much prefer to sit on the dustbin instead. Mother looked a bit relieved.
Then before Pert had to have his own supper, he and Billy ran down to the quay so Billy could look at the pirate ship. But Billy didn't go straight down the road to the bottom. He knew a better way, he said, and dived down a little alley at the foot of the Market Square with Pert at his heels.
Pert had lived all his life in the town, but plainly there were things and places he had never discovered. Billy led him up little stone staircases between the buildings, and ducked under archways. At one point they inched along a six-inch stone ledge above the river, their heads so close to the open windows of the buildings backing onto the river that they could hear the conversations within. Eventually they came out in a wider alley that ran, so far as Pert could judge, parallel to the quay but behind the houses and inns that faced the sea.
Billy had just pointed to a little passage that would lead them onto the quay itself when Pert heard a familiar voice.
“Oh yes,” it said, full of scorn, “oh yes, William Smy, you're a fine one to talk! 'Oo was it said 'e'd served with ol' Benido, but 'e never? 'Oo was it said 'e knew where them trinkets was that Bully Hayes left on Trocadero, but 'e never? 'Oo was it said Dutch Pete would never 'ave the nerve, an' 'e did, so there?”
It was unmistakably Walter Sabbage. Pert stopped. The voice came from a window, slightly open, above his head. At his frantic signal Billy Moon crept back to join him.
“All I said,” replied another voice, deeper and hoarser than Sabbage's, “all I said was if someone do know where the stuff is, an' someone won't tell, what's wrong with throwin' a tarpaulin over someone and stowin' 'im away neat an' tidy in a ship we know of, an' stickin' pointy things in 'im until 'e tells us where it is? Eh? What's wrong with that?”
There was a murmur of agreement. This was evidently quite a large meeting.
“Where is this place?” Pert whispered to Billy.
“Back room of the Drop o' Dew,” he answered.
“What's wrong with that,” Sabbage said, “is it ain't what the Capting wants, an' since we elected 'im Capting, we has to respect 'is ways. Or don't we?”
Again there was a murmur of agreement. Plainly powerful arguments were being deployed on both sides.
“Well whatever you say, it weren't Dutch Pete what done the deed, it were the Capting, so squits ter you, Sabbage! I would 'a thought you'd a' knowed that!”
A laugh ran round the table, and calls of “One in the eye fer you, mate!” and “You tell 'im, go on!” and “Where's that slavey? This jug's empty!”
But now Sabbage's voice fell. Pert could picture him leaning forward over the table, cajoling and persuading. Only occasional words could he hear, words that sounded awfully like “treasure” and “hidden” ...
“It's the pirates, but I can't hear what they're talking about!” he moaned to Billy.
“No problem, guv!” Billy grinned, and wriggled away down the passage.
Pert waited. The conversation went on, voices rising and falling. Pert heard “them townies” and “slit their gizzards” and laughter. There were occasional oaths and disagreements, but it sounded as though Sabbage was winning them round slowly.
Suddenly one of the voices said “'Ere, what's that smell?” and then there was pandemonium, rough voices shouting, chairs crashing over, a short scream and a cry of “I'm bit! I'm bit!” and another shout of “'old 'im, 'old 'im, cor, e's a slippery li'l devil ...”
Pert knew exactly what had happened. Billy had wormed his way into the room, probably under the table where the pirates were plotting, and then been discovered and captured. It was up to him to do something.
He ran down the passage and came out, as he expected, on the quay right beside the Drop o' Dew. He dashed inside, through the dim bar room, and made for the back of the building, where there was an open door and lights and noise.
In the back room were a dozen pirates at least. Walter Sabbage was the least disreputable of them and looked positively angelic beside the squalor and lust of those faces. There were scars, and eye-patches, and extravagant moustaches with beads threaded in, and three cornered hats and pistols in belts, and in the middle of the table lay Billy, every limb pinioned to the wood, and at least three knives at his throat. He was still grinning, but it was the sort of grin you wear when you are very scared and can't think how to escape.
“Oh, let him go, let him go!” cried Pert. “He's my friend! He wasn't doing any harm, he was looking for me and thought I was in here with you!”
Sabbage's face broke into a smile. The rest of the faces did not.
“Why, Master Potts as ever is!” he said. “Wha
t a welcome surprise! Gents, this is the very young 'ero I was speakin' of, as vanquishes bullies five times as big, and floors the very teachers and makes off with bootiful young maids! If ever a young master deserved a seat at this table, this is 'im!”
The faces began to relax. They especially liked the bit about the bootiful young maids.
“Oh, please, I didn't ...” he stuttered, “it wasn't like that, exactly. She made off with me, really. Please, will you let my friend go, he meant no harm.”
He drew himself up and tried to sound as honest as he could. “I will vouch for him.”
“Vouch? Oh well, in that case ...” said one voice, and another “If it's proper vouchin' 'e's doin', why that's a diff'rent kettle o' fish” and another called out “let 'im in, 'e's practically one of us ...”
Billy was released, and the pair pressed to take a seat at the table. A glass was placed in front of each of them, and liquid poured from a jug. Billy knocked his back immediately, but Pert sniffed and then sipped it, and found that it burned the back of his throat and made him cough. The man next to him slapped him on the back and said “Go on, you'll soon get used to it!” He had one ordinary hand, and the other was a hook with a ribbon tied round it. He smelled strongly, rather like Billy but with less wellington boot.
But the conversation didn't return to its original subject. Billy and Pert had evidently spoiled the mood, and there was no more mention of tarpaulins or treasure. Instead, they fell to recalling old shipmates they had sailed with, and the dreadful fates they had met. It did seem as though every sailor who had ever sailed the sea, met with an unusual and picturesque end. It made Pert wonder if there were any sailors who made it home and died in their beds.
Billy downed a second glass of liquor and sat happily grinning and listening. Pert was still on his first one, not liking the taste but getting used to the burning sensation as it went down. He felt happy, pleased to be accepted into the company of these brave and experienced old salts. His face kept breaking out into a silly smile, and he wondered if he had caught something from Billy.
Several of the old shipmates seem to have fallen foul of someone called Davy Jones, which puzzled him.
“This Davy Jones,” he asked the man next to him, the one with the hook, “he seems to be a bit of a nuisance. Why hasn't someone sorted him out? Who is he, anyway?”
There was a sudden silence. The very old man at the end of the table put his glass down on the table with a bang. "Who's Davy Jones?" he said scornfully. "Who's Davy Jones, 'e asks!" He leaned forward and fixed Pert with a rheumy eye. "What ignorant little squit is this, as don't know Davy Jones?"
“Careful now, Secret ...” warned Walter Sabbage, but the old man ignored him.
Pert squirmed in his seat. All eyes were upon him and he didn't know what to say. “Please,” he faltered, “please, I never heard of Davy Jones. Please, he doesn't live here, or I'd know him.”
"No," the old man said slowly, "e' don't live round 'ere, that's right enough. Davy Jones lives in the sea, that's where."
Round the table there was a movement, a sigh, a relaxation, for these rough men knew when a story was coming. There was a murmur of “Go on, Samivell, tell 'im.” Stories were a real and living pleasure to them, stories were what kept them alive round the focs'le lantern on dark nights at sea, stories were what drew them together.
"Right at the bottom of the sea, right away out in the deepest bits off the Azorios, down among the wrecks an' the bones an' the fishes, 'e lives. And 'e comes up to the surface when the weather's bad, and 'e bobs about on the waves and 'e sees a ship comin', and 'e swims across and 'e talks to the tars on the deck, and 'e calls to 'em!"
There was an appreciative murmur from the men, leaning forward and listening intently. This was the kind of story they liked, this was a story that touched them where they lived.
The old man drew on his pipe, and continued: "An' Davy Jones, 'e knows which o' them sailors will live an' which will die, and them as'll die, 'e calls to, puttin' 'is hooky hands out o' the sea and beckonin', beckonin', and when they get close 'e lays hold an' ... loves 'em, like ..."
"Loves 'em?" asked a voice.
"Aye, loves 'em. He'll love you all right, will Davy Jones, if'n 'e gets his hooky hands on you! He'll put 'is clammy fingers on your privates, an' he'll put his cold lips on your'n, an' he'll wrap his slimy arms around you, and you'll gasp for breath and yer chest'll heave and he'll pull yer down with the foam in yer throat an' he'll hold you fast and down you'll go, down to the fishes and the mud, where no one'll remember who you was or what you did. Cold you'll be, an' wet you'll be, and yer eyes'll stare and yer mouth'll gape, an' down you'll go, an' down an' down ..."
Old man Secret broke off with a cackle that turned into a choking and he pulled at his glass and the spell was broken. Men began to shift in their seats and look around for more drink, and one began to sing in a tuneless voice ...
“Davy Jones is King o' the Sea,
An' grief's his tax, and death's his fee;
When seamen on the oceans roam,
King Davy he will call 'em home ...”
And the rest of the men joined in with the chorus, very quietly and tapping their pots on the table ...
“... be you young or be you old,
The ocean mud is wet an' cold;
When food an' drink an' love is past,
King Davy he will love you last,
King Davy he will love you last ..."
Pert was starting to feel a bit strange. His head was nodding and he was finding it hard to keep his eyes open. Sabbage noticed, and brought proceedings to an end.
“Now then,” he said, “we don' want to get the lad in more trouble than 'e's already in, do us? Roust 'im out and escort 'im into the cold air, that'll set 'im right!”
He was right. As soon as Pert felt the fresh sea air outside he felt better, and he and Billy walked up the hill. “You know,” said Billy, “there might be somefink in this washing lark after all. I mean, they smelled me in there, that's 'ow I got caught. Imagine, wiv all their own pong ...!” It looked as though Fenestra might get her way after all.
In the Market Square there was a strange atmosphere. The stalls were still crowded with shoppers at this late hour, but no one seemed to be buying anything very much. Instead, they stood around in groups muttering to each other, their eyes roving round. Pert felt some hostile glances as he threaded his way up the hill.
As he was about to turn up the Bearward, he felt a tug at his sleeve, and a little hand slipped into his. The tiny Prettyfoot looked up at him, smiled nervously and disappeared. In his hand she had left something small. He closed his fingers round it and continued innocently up the Bearward. Not until he was safely back in his own yard did he look to see what it was. It was a note, tightly screwed up and written in red ink on a piece of school notepaper.
Dere Mister Ptts,
Rosella is still loked in her room but she hav
stoped criing so much and nuffen else hav hapen
hop you are kwite well
A frend (a gurl)
PS but not a gurl frend ha ha
PS PS you no wot I mean
PS PS PS its April prettyfoot reely
Pert smiled sadly. This was news, not good news exactly, but it might have been worse. If only he could speak to Rosella, reassure her, comfort her in some way. If only he could get closer to the house.
He left the yard again, and walked further up Pardoner's Alley. He knew that at the top it turned into a muddy track that wound uphill past some abandoned farm buildings, and then onto the moor. It was turning chilly, and he pulled his coat around his ears. Past the farm buildings he left the track and began to make his way to the left hand side, over coarse grass and boggy patches where he had to leap from tussock to tussock. Below him was the straggle of roofs that was his own Alley, and beyond that the broader swathe that was the Bearward which went up past Rosella's house and then curved back on itself and down into a muddle of s
maller houses. He stopped and spent some time trying to work out which was the Prettyfoots', and eventually narrowed it down to one grey roof. It was directly below him, across a paddock of thin grass and a tumbledown stone wall. He picked his way across the paddock, and an ancient horse ambled across to see what he was up to. He patted its nose and it snorted gently at him and sauntered away.
Peering cautiously over the wall and being careful not to dislodge any more stones, he found himself looking down a steep bank and at the bottom, a trim lawn with some fruit trees. This must be Rosella's back garden. Beyond the lawn was a flower bed, and beyond that the rear wall of the house. He counted eight windows, three downstairs and five up. He had no idea which was Rosella's. He guessed that her room was probably at the back, but which one?
He stood for a long time, willing something to happen that would help, but there was no sign of life. The house might have been deserted, though he knew it was not. The rain was heavier now, and his shoulders were soaked. His hair was soaked too, and water ran down his neck and into his shirt. He was doing no good here. He should go home.
As he squelched back down the hill, he ticked off on his fingers the things he had to deal with.
One, he was out of school, in disgrace and jobless.
Two, Rosella had seemed within reach and was now snatched away again. Worse still, she was in trouble and unhappy and he could do nothing to help her.
Three, he knew there was something sinister in the town, to do with the church and the Church Council, but he didn't know what it was.
Four, he knew there was something mysterious about his father but he didn't know what.
Five, there were evil forces in the town, mainly in the shape of Sabbage and his friends, and they seemed to want some thing from him but he had no idea what it might be.
Six, there was a vague mystery about treasure and he had, at least, found out that it existed once upon a time, but there was no clue what had happened to it.
Seven, the two bullies, and presumably their families, had a score to settle. They had not shown themselves yet, but they might any day.
And eighth and last, everyone seemed to think it was all his fault. Well, not everyone, but quite a lot of people. He hadn't done anything to Rosella that he shouldn't have, and he was certainly not in league with the pirates as some suggested.
All in all, he thought this was a pretty dismal tally. He wondered what he had done to bring all this trial and disaster on his head. Was there some act he had committed, some seemingly trivial wrong decision, that had set matters in train and enmeshed him? He could think of nothing. The only things he had done were to try and protect his sister, and to admire Rosella. They didn't seem like dreadful sins, exactly.
As this approach had produced a fairly damning list of problems, he decided to try and redress the balance by listing all the things he had in his favour.
One, he didn't have to go to school any more. Admittedly this meant he couldn't see Rosella every day, but as she was locked in her bedroom he wouldn't have been able to anyway.
Two, he had a sort of career available to him, in the shape of Walter Glibbery and his fishing boat, the Better Times.
Three, Fenestra's problems seemed to have evaporated for the time being, and for some odd reason he trusted Billy Moon to care for her.
And four, financially they were a little better off because of Mr.Surplice's rent money, and Mother seemed to be happy having him around.
Well, he said to himself, they say “count your blessings”, but it's not very encouraging when you do and find out that for every blessing you can count, there are two curses. Still, it was a clarifying exercise, trying to sort things out like this. Perhaps if he did the same with his options. What options did he have? What actions could he take that might help?
First, he knew how to get hold of the Church Council accounts, which might solve one mystery, and there was a communion service on Sunday morning.
Second, he must, must, must get to see Rosella. Perhaps the little Prettyfeet could help? He resolved to write them a note.
Thirdly he could make a start on his new career. He would go out with Walter Glibbery tomorrow.
And fourthly he needed to find out more about the pirates' quest. As he was already regarded as half a pirate himself, it wouldn't hurt to continue talking to them.
That evening he wrote a note to the Prettyfeet. It said ...
Dear April Prettyfoot,
I need to know which is the window to
Rosella's room. Can you draw me a picture?
Signed
Your servant,
P Potts
Pert went to bed early that night, on purpose to catch Fenestra while she was still awake. He found her sitting up in bed. On her hand sat the mouse, eating a piece of treacle tart.
“That was my mouse,” he said, “and you've tamed her. You're very annoying.”
“I know,” she said, smiling at him sweetly. “Pretty, though.”
Pert rolled his eyes. “Look,” he said, “I need you to give this to April Prettyfoot at school tomorrow. Don't let anyone see. It's a secret.”
“Can I read it?”
“I suppose you'd better. You'll only look when I'm not there.”
She opened it, read it, and grinned. “Wow,” she said, “how exciting!” and she slipped it under her pillow.
“I don't even know which one is April,” he said.
“She's the one that's oldest after Rosella. But May Prettyfoot is in my class, shall I give it to her? She's the next one.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Only you have to make her see that it's a deadly secret,” he said.
“It's all right. I will,” she said sleepily. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
“I was speaking to the mouse.”
He rolled his eyes again and went to sweep the spiders out of his bed. He was just climbing between the blankets when there was a patter of feet on the floorboards and Fenestra jumped on top of him and kissed him.
“I'm sorry,” she said, “I love you really. It's just that I feel all peculiar at the moment and I don't know why. Mother says it's because I'm growing up. Bit scary, really.”
She hugged him once more and she was gone.