Lynne Banks - The Key to the Indian

When he’d finished he went back to her. “Miss Driscoll…”

“You had better call me Aunt Jessie.”

He felt a strange glow of happiness when she said that. “Aunt Jessie, then. The nurse said you should have a hot drink with whisky.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself. I don’t drink spirits these days.”

“I – I want to ask you a big favour.”

“Ask.”

“You know the – the key you made.”

“Oh…!” she said on a groan. “Don’t remind me!”

“I want you to make me another.”

“What for?”

“The key you made… Look. Here it is.” He showed it to her.

She looked at it. “Why is it so big?”

“That’s hard to explain. The fact is, you’re small.”

She was watching him carefully.

“It’s all to do with your gift,” he went on. “The magic you put in the key.”

“Ah. I knew there was something.”

“And I need – I really need – another key with the same magic in it.”

“You want me to pour the lead for a second key?”

“Yes.”

She shrank into the blanket, as if she were deep in thought. Then she straightened and looked Omri in the face. “To do a favour for Lottie’s kin,” she said, “that would give me something to live for. Give me the key you wish me to copy.” And she sat down and began to twist up her straggling hair.

Racing downstairs to fetch the key, Omri stopped dead.

His parents were out. That must mean, in the car – there was no other way to get anywhere, other than on foot. No doubt they’d gone shopping in the village.

His heart was beating at twice its normal speed. He decided he had to calm down. Think. There must be a spare key somewhere, but he had no idea where. No, he’d have to wait – preferably patiently – till his parents returned.

Meanwhile, he would get Jessica Charlotte a hot drink.

He went to the kitchen, built out at the back of the longhouse. It was quite a simple kitchen, with a big Aga which was always warm, day and night. There was invariably a big heavy kettle simmering away at the back of it.

He rummaged in a drawer till he found what he was looking for – a tin of oil; his mum could not abide a squeaking hinge. It had a narrow spout with a little cap on top. He took this off, put it in a sieve and poured the very hot water over it to clean it. He sniffed it – okay, no oily smell. Then he made a mug of tea with a teabag, added milk and sugar, stirred vigorously and was just carrying it towards the stairs when Gillon came strolling through from the TV room.

“I see you got your cupboard out of the bank,” he remarked.

Omri spilt some tea. “When did you see it?”

“Yesterday.”

“Do you have to go snooping in my room?”

“You have to crash right through my room, about fifty times a day. I don’t get much privacy.”

“You wanted the outside room.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m beginning to think I messed up there. You’ve got the best room.”

“Yours is bigger.”

“This is a crazy old house, no corridors,” said Gillon. “You having hot chocolate? You might’ve made me some.”

“Tea,” said Omri reluctantly. Gillon knew he hated tea.

Gillon gave him a comic look of puzzlement. Omri turned, anxious to get away, and started up the stairs. Gillon followed.

“About the cupboard.”

“What about it?”

“Why’d you get it out of the bank?”

“You told me that it was silly to ask them to take care of it.”

“You didn’t get it out because of me,” said Gillon shrewdly.

“I wanted to have it back,” said Omri. They were in Gillon’s room by now. Omri walked straight across to his own door.

“Can I come and look at it?”

Omri turned sharply, nearly spilling the tea again. “Gilly, listen. I’m not just being – I mean, I’m busy with something. It’s something I’m – busy with. Of my own. You can see the cupboard later. D’you mind?”

Gillon looked at him for a moment, then turned away. “Why should I mind,” he said flatly. “I don’t care a toss about your old cupboard.”

It was obvious his feelings were hurt, even though Omri had tried to be as tactful as possible.

“Sorry, Gilly,” Omri mumbled, and went into his room. He didn’t want to bolt the door because Gillon would hear, and maybe be more hurt. But the need to be safe was paramount. He put the tea down on the desk, and moved the bolt with infinite slowness. Of course it had to squeak.

“Don’t worry!” Gillon called through the door. “You couldn’t pay me to come in now.”

“Sorry,” was all Omri could think of to reply.

He hurried to the bed. He was going to have to whisper – no, breathe – everything he said to Jessica Charlotte. These walls were thin.

She was there, as he’d left her, in the blanket. She’d twisted up her hair somehow and was looking a little better. He poured a drop of the hot tea into the oil-tin cap (spilling more on the floor than went in) and handed it to her.

She took it in both shaking hands and drank and drank. Then she said, “Thank you. Are my clothes dry?”

Omri rubbed the tiny dress between finger and thumb. It was nearly dry. He smoothed its skirt with his fingers, held it by its top and flapped it a little in the warm air above the radiator. He had to stop at once because the flapping nearly blew her drawers away! He handed the dress to her.

“What do you think? Is it dry enough?” he whispered.

“It will do quite well. Please bring my – other garments.”

He lifted his comb, taking great care to keep it level, and carried it to her. She snatched the drawers and the corset-thing and hid them in the blanket.

“I’ll go away while you dress, if you like.”

“I would be obliged.”

He stood with his back to her at the window. For the first time, he stopped to think that his dad was going to be well disappointed about his bringing Jessica Charlotte without him.

After a few minutes, she said, “I am ready.”

He turned. She was standing on the bed fully dressed. Her little weight made a dimple in the quilt. “Now, where is this key you spoke of?”

“I can’t give it to you until my dad gets here.”

“Your father!”

“He knows about the magic. He’s—”

Suddenly Omri heard the sound he’d been listening for. The car! He heard it coming along the lane, and stop near their gate.

“Wait! I’ll get it for you!” Omri said, forgetting to whisper, and dashed to the door. He stopped. No, he must go out the other way, through his parents’ and Adiel’s rooms, and down the other stairs. He couldn’t risk leaving the door between his and Gillon’s rooms open, especially as Gillon might have heard him speak. He wouldn’t blame him if he had a peep now.

He dashed down the other way, out of the house, and met his parents at the gate. They were unloading shopping from the car boot.

“Hi, Om, you look as if you’ve been running!” said his father cheerfully.

“Dad – please – can you come? Bring the key .” The last three words were not spoken aloud. He just mouthed them behind his mother’s back, and gestured turning a key in case his dad hadn’t caught on.

Excitement and secrecy brightened his father’s face. He hefted a big box of shopping and almost ran after Omri up the path and into the kitchen from the back. “What’s up?” he asked eagerly.

“I brought her! Jessica Charlotte!”