Robin Jarvis - The Whitby Witches

Miss Boston chuckled. ‘Dracula is but a character of fiction. His creator, Bram Stoker, came here in 1890, a dozen or so years before I was born. Mind you, the black dog was a grisly creature of legend he borrowed from the locals – the Barguest. As big as a calf with fiery red eyes, it was supposed to stalk through the streets of Whitby in the dead of night. Anyone who heard it howling was doomed.’

Jennet shivered. ‘That’s horrible, Miss Boston.’

The old lady sighed. ‘Really, Jennet, you must stop calling me Miss Boston; I gave up lecturing a long time ago. My name is Alice.’

‘I can’t call you that. It doesn’t sound right.’

‘Then how about Aunt Alice? Will that do?’

Jennet simply smiled in reply and slid her hand automatically into Aunt Alice’s.

The seagulls woke Ben up; for a moment he wondered where he was and then he remembered. Hastily, he pulled his clothes on and ran downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Jennet finishing off a boiled egg.

‘Those seagulls are a bit loud, aren’t they, Jen?’ he said chirpily.

Jennet blinked at him wearily. ‘It’s seven in the morning,’ she answered grumpily. ‘I’ll never get used to this.’

‘Where is she?’ asked Ben, heaving himself on to a stool.

Jennet emptied the eggshell into a pedal bin and rinsed her plate under the tap. ‘She went out ten minutes ago. Says she always goes for a walk before breakfast.’

‘Where’s mine?’ demanded Ben hungrily.

His sister poured some milk into a bowl of cereal and passed it to him. Ben picked up a spoon; it was an odd colour and he sniffed it suspiciously.

‘It’s nice here, isn’t it, Ben?’ said Jennet as she watched him munch his breakfast.

‘Um,’ he agreed, with his mouth full.

‘I hope we can stay here for a while; she’s a nice old lady. I feel a bit funny calling her “Aunt” though.’

The latch on the front door rattled and Aunt Alice stepped in looking windswept and rosy. She stayed in the hall to hang up her hat and coat.

‘Don’t like these spoons, Jen,’ hissed Ben, waving his in the air.

‘Shush! They’re probably made of silver and very old – behave.’

Aunt Alice entered, undoing the top button of her blouse. ‘There,’ she puffed. ‘I like to climb the hundred and ninety-nine steps, whatever the weather. Blows the sleepy cobwebs away, it does.’ She bent down and opened the door of an old-fashioned refrigerator. ‘Now,’ she mumbled, ‘will it be kippers today or scrambled eggs? Kippers it is!’

Ben liked the smoky smell of the kipper but the taste was too strong for him – he preferred fish fingers, and said as much. Aunt Alice roared that he would get no fish fingers from her as long as he stayed in Whitby. He could eat fresh fish or none at all.

Twenty minutes later, she was dabbing the corners of her mouth with a hanky and praising the art of a Mr Bill Fortune. ‘Well now, children,’ she addressed them as she pushed the plate away, ‘what do you intend to do today?’

They shrugged and looked at her blankly. ‘Explore?’ suggested Jennet. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Why should I mind, child? I hope you enjoy yourselves. I shall want to know what you have discovered when you return.’

‘Oh,’ said Jennet disappointedly, ‘aren’t you coming too?’

Aunt Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Certainly not, I have far too much to do. You can look after yourselves – you won’t get lost in a small town like this.’ She rose and scraped the kipper bones into the pedal bin, then washed her plate with Ben’s breakfast things. ‘Now I think you ought to brush your teeth, don’t you?’

Jennet was the first one down from the bathroom and she took her coat from the peg in the hall. ‘When should we come back, Aunt Alice?’

‘Oh, whenever you like, dear. I have to go out myself.’

‘But how shall we get in if you’re not here?’

Aunt Alice came into the hall, dangling a key to the front door between her fingers. ‘A spare,’ she said.

Jennet thanked the old woman. It had been a long time since anybody had trusted her like this and she appreciated it.

‘Just come back when you get hungry,’ beamed Aunt Alice. ‘I should be here by lunchtime.’

Ben struggled into his coat while Jennet wiped the toothpaste from his mouth, then all three left the house. The weather looked promising. Aunt Alice waved goodbye to them and set off purposefully towards the West Cliff.

It was still early and Jennet and Ben wandered through the narrow streets, gazing into shop windows which were filled with pieces of Whitby jet. It had been fashioned into all sorts of jewellery – rings, pendants, bracelets and tie-pins. Jennet looked longingly at a pair of jet earrings and stroked the glass dreamily. Ben tutted in disgust and walked away, muttering about the dullness of shops.

Then he spied a joke shop. He pressed his face against its windows and uttered little yelps of delight. It had everything, from black-face soap to horrific rubbery masks. There were sugar cubes that turned to worms when placed in tea and ghastly sets of false teeth. He wondered what he could afford – maybe Aunt Alice would buy him something. He drooled over the possibilities until his sister came to look for him.

Eventually the children came to the harbour and watched some late fishing boats return. A fresh, salty tang was in the air and they ran across the bridge to see the fish auction. It was being held in a large covered area on the West Cliff. Wooden crates filled with silvery fish were stacked into high piles, whilst an official in a white coat gabbled away, faster than they believed possible.

Jennet wrinkled her nose at the strong fishy smell. Ben peered into one of the crates and tried, unsuccessfully, to outstare the dead fish, until a gruff man in a black coat shooed them away.

They walked along the Pier Road, but as it was only half past eight they could not go into the lifeboat museum. Instead, they chased each other along the sandy beach. The morning wore on, shops opened and the holiday-makers strolled out of hotels and bed-and-breakfasts.

Jennet ran up to the green door and searched in her pockets for the key. Outside Aunt Alice’s cottage was an old barrel which overflowed with geraniums and above the door itself hung a curiously shaped stone with a hole worn into it.

‘Mornin’,’ said a voice suddenly. Jennet dropped the key in surprise.

Leaning against one of the other doors in the yard was a thick-set, dark-haired, surly-looking woman. A cigarette was balancing on her bottom lip, and when she spoke it stayed in place as though it were glued on. Her face showed disdain as she looked Jennet up and down. She folded her bare, fleshy arms and said, ‘You one of them what’s come to stay wi’ her?’

Jennet nodded, mesmerised at the acrobatic skill of the cigarette.

‘Given you a key as well, ‘as she? Me an’ my Norman know what she gets up to, her an’ them friends of hers. Oh, she thinks she’s so clever, bossing everyone about.’ The woman blew through the curling blue cigarette smoke. ‘Anyway, you make sure you keep your hands to yourself, you hear me? I know your sort, lass – don’t you come thievin’ round here. She might be daft as a brush, but I’m not.’

Jennet was so taken aback by the woman’s outburst that before she could think of anything to say the dreadful creature had gone back into her house and slammed the door. Jennet stuck her tongue out and turned the key in the lock.

Inside there was no sign of Aunt Alice. Jennet took off her coat, wondering whether she was in the parlour, having a nap. She knocked but there was no answer, so she turned the brass handle and peeped in.

The parlour was papered a rich burgundy and lined with shelves full of dusty volumes. A large round table dominated the centre of the room and in the corner, a tall grandfather clock monotonously ticked the time away.