Jenny Nimmo - Midnight for Charlie Bone

Grandma Bone was always sitting in a rocker by the stove, criticising Maisie’s cooking or the state of Charlie’s hair. Today the rocker was empty. That was the first unusual thing.

It was Benjamin’s tenth birthday on Saturday and Charlie had decided to make him a birthday card instead of buying one. He’d taken a photo of Benjamin’s dog, Runner Bean, smiling or, to be more precise, showing his long, incredibly yellow teeth.

Charlie had asked his mother to get the photo enlarged at Kwik Foto on her way home from work. He intended to stick a balloon saying ‘Happy Birthday, Benjamin!’ above Runner Bean’s head.

The second unusual thing was about to happen.

At five minutes past four, Charlie’s mother came in with a box of over-ripe apples and rhubarb. ‘They’ll make a lovely crumble,’ she said, dumping the box beside Charlie’s plate and kissing his shaggy head. Amy Bone worked part-time in a greengrocer’s shop, so there was always plenty of fruit and vegetables at number nine.

Charlie leaned away from the rotting fruit. ‘Have you got my photo, Mum?’ he asked.

Amy Bone rustled about in her shopping bag and found a large orange envelope. She put it on the other side of Charlie’s plate.

Charlie opened the envelope and revealed – not Runner Bean – nothing like Runner Bean.

It was at this moment that Grandma Bone appeared. She hovered in the doorway, fingering her neck, touching her silver-white hair and pulling at her stiff black skirt. She looked somehow as though she was on the brink of fulfilling her destiny. And in a way she was, though, at sixty-five, you could be forgiven for thinking it was a bit late.

The photograph that Charlie now held showed a man cradling a baby. The man sat on an upright chair. He had thinning, greyish hair and a long, mournful face. His crumpled suit was black and his thick pebble glasses gave his pale grey eyes a lost, marble-like stare.

Instead of pushing the photograph back into the envelope, Charlie continued to gaze at it. In fact, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. He began to feel dizzy and his ears were filled with mysterious sounds, like the hiss and swish of voices on the radio, when you can’t pin them to the right frequency.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Er, what . . .?’ His own voice seemed far away, trapped behind a kind of fog.

‘What’s wrong, Charlie?’ asked his mother.

‘Is something happening?’ Grandma Bone crept forward. ‘Aunt Eustacia rang me. She had one of her premonitions. Are you a proper Yewbeam, after all?’

Maisie glared at Grandma Bone, while Charlie pulled his ears and shook his head. If only the horrible muffled buzzing would go. He had to shout in order to hear himself. ‘They’ve made a mistake at the shop. Where’s Runner Bean?’

‘There’s no need to shout, Charlie.’ His mother looked over his shoulder. ‘My goodness, that’s certainly not a dog.’

‘Ow!’ wailed Charlie. But suddenly the mumbling voices broke free of the buzz and made themselves clear.

First came a woman’s voice, soft and unfamiliar: I wish you wouldn’t do this, Mostyn.

Her mother’s gone. I don’t have a choice. This voice was definitely male.

Of course you do.

Will you take her, then? said the man’s voice.

You know I can’t , replied the woman.

Charlie looked at his mother. ‘Who said that?’

She looked puzzled. ‘Who said what, Charlie?’

‘Is there a man in here?’ he asked.

Maisie giggled. ‘Only you, Charlie.’

Charlie felt claw-like fingers sink into his shoulder. Grandma Bone leaned over him. ‘Tell me what you hear,’ she demanded.

‘Voices,’ said Charlie. ‘I know it sounds silly, but they seem to be coming from this photograph.’

Grandma Bone nodded. ‘What do they say?’

‘For goodness sake, Grandma Bone, don’t be ridiculous,’ said Maisie.

Grandma Bone gave Maisie a withering look. ‘I am not being ridiculous.’

Charlie noticed that his mother had gone very quiet. She drew out a chair and sat down, looking pale and anxious.

Maisie began to bang saucepans about, muttering, ‘You shouldn’t encourage it. It’s all rubbish. I won’t have it . . .’

‘Ssssh!’ hissed Charlie. He could hear the baby crying.

The strange woman spoke again. You’ve upset her. Look at the camera, Mostyn. And please try to smile. You look so dismal.

What d’you expect? said the man.

A camera shutter clicked.

There. Shall I take another?

Do what you want.

You’ll thank me, one day , said the woman behind the camera. If you really intend to go through with this, it’s the only thing you’ll have to remember her by.

Hm.

Charlie noticed that a cat peeped from behind the man’s chair. It was an extraordinary colour; deep copper, like a flame.

From far away Charlie heard his mother’s voice. ‘Shall I take the photo back, Charlie?’

‘No,’ murmured Charlie, ‘not yet.’

But it seemed that the photograph had nothing more to say. The baby grizzled for a moment, and then was quiet. The gloomy man stared silently at the camera, and the cat . . .? Was that a purr? Maisie was making such a noise with the saucepans it was difficult to hear anything else.

‘Hush!’ commanded Grandma Bone. ‘Charlie can’t hear.’

‘It’s all nonsense,’ Maisie grumbled. ‘I don’t know how you can just sit there, Amy, and let your potty mother-in-law get away with it. Poor Charlie. He’s just a boy. He’s got nothing to do with those crazy Yewbeams.’

‘He’s got their blood,’ said Charlie’s mother, quietly. ‘You can’t get away from that.’

Maisie couldn’t. She closed her mouth in a tight little line.

Charlie was very bewildered. In the morning he had been an ordinary boy. He hadn’t been touched by a magic wand, or banged his head. He hadn’t had an electric shock or fallen off a bus, or, as far as he knew, eaten a poisoned apple. And yet, here he was, hearing voices from a piece of photographic paper.

To set his mother’s mind at rest, Charlie said, ‘I don’t think it was anything, really. I just imagined it.’

Grandma Bone leaned even closer and breathed into his ear, ‘Listen tonight. Things work better after midnight.’

‘He’ll be asleep by then, I’ll have you know,’ said Maisie, who had ears as sharp as a rabbit’s. ‘It’s all rubbish.’

‘Huh!’ retorted Grandma Bone. ‘Just you wait!’ She wafted away, leaving a scent of mothballs and mint drifting round the kitchen.

‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Charlie said when she had gone.

‘Are you sure?’ his mother said anxiously.

‘Honest. I was just doing it to tease Grandma Bone.’ He was trying to convince himself as well as his mother.

‘Charlie, you’re a wicked boy,’ Maisie said happily as she banged a meat cleaver into a meaty bone.

Charlie’s mother looked relieved and opened the evening paper. Charlie slipped the photograph back into its envelope. He felt exhausted. Perhaps a bit of TV would help him to relax. But before he could escape, the doorbell rang and Grandma Bone could be heard saying, ‘It’s Benjamin Brown, isn’t it? Charlie’s in the kitchen. And you can leave that mangy Baked Bean outside.’

‘It’s Runner, not baked,’ said Benjamin’s voice, ‘and I can’t leave him outside. It’s nasty weather.’

‘Dogs like nasty weather,’ said Grandma Bone.

Benjamin and his dog appeared in the kitchen. Benjamin was a small, pale-faced boy with hair the colour of damp hay. Runner Bean was a large, long-nosed dog also with hair the colour of damp hay. For some reason Benjamin was always being picked on by other boys. People stole things from him, tripped him up, laughed at him. Charlie tried to help his friend but, sometimes, Benjamin was beyond help. Sometimes, in fact, Charlie thought that Benjamin didn’t even notice that he was a victim. He lived in a world of his own.