Turnstone

By David Bramhall

Originally intended as a trilogy, the Greatest Cape series has now become a quartet of novels. Turnstone is a sequel to The Black Joke, The Bernadette and Rio Sagrado, and once again the little town by the sea is torn apart by sinister events. Pert and Rosella may be grown up and respectable now, while the mercurial Fenestra has retired to live with cannibals in the jungle, but other members of their families have taken up the torch. The entertaining June and Bertie continue their career of mayhem, leading a strike at school, trying to invent manned flight (well, girled flight, to be strictly accurate) and generally interfering in things that don't concern them. Even their wit and quirky charm is not enough to keep them out of trouble, though, and things get worse before they get better. A LOT worse!

... who is Etherial Faun, and is her pet really a hamster?

... are those charming girls at The Emporium really going to be made homeless?

... can a small girl actually fly, and who will catch her when it all goes wrong?

... what will it take to turn the awful Mrs.Wheable into an Auntie one can be proud of?

... someone makes the town an offer it can hardly refuse, but sinister forces are at work ...

... but mermaids, really? MERMAIDS? Oh, come on ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Bramhall
• Release date: Dec 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310785900

David Bramhall

Composer and author, now a novelist of sorts, and always a grumpy old person with too many opinions. That's what my wife says, anyway.

Book preview

THE GREATEST CAPE

Volume Four

TURNSTONE

Copyright © 2015 David Bramhall

First published 2015 by Walnut Tree Books

Second edition 2022

Walnut Tree Books

I

Lucius stumbled down the narrow gangplank and stood on the uneven cobbles of the quay, feeling the solid ground heave slowly after two days on the ship. He dropped his single bag onto the cobbles and pulled his coat round him as a spiteful wind from the sea ruffled his hair and chilled his limbs. He moved along the quay and sat on a bollard, watching the other passengers disembark from the packet Eglantine. They gathered their goods and packages around them and chatted cheerfully as they set off down the long breakwater towards the lights of the town. They had somewhere to go, someone waiting for them, and he had none. Soon the quay was empty, and the crew of the packet finished tidying their warps and halyards and disappeared to their warm cabin.

Feeling the ground still rocking beneath his feet he picked up his bag and trudged slowly after the other passengers, wondering where to go. He knew no one here, and had settled on this destination only because he had heard the town had no doctor, and he was a doctor, just about. Not a proper doctor as he had no patients yet, but he did have a certificate. The voyage on the Eglantine, a single-masted vessel that seemed designed to combine the most sluggardly pace with the most uncomfortable motion possible as it crept westwards along the coast, had been a miserable experience, made worse by the fact that he had not realised that food was not included in the fare so he had to watch the other passengers tucking in to the provisions they had brought while he had none. He ached with hunger and felt in his pocket, hoping his meagre store of coins would be enough to find an inn or café to serve him.

The town of grey walls and slate roofs rose up from the waterfront in ranks of narrow streets. There was nothing cheerful or welcoming about it, and little that was green until the eye rose to the moors that humped into the distance, and the great promontory that loomed to the west of it, a hideous and frightening height frowning over the sullen grey sea, sheer cliff faces seamed with dark chasms. It reached impossibly high, with a wisp of cloud crowning its peak and streaming inland, driven by the sea's wind. Craning back to look at it hurt his neck, and he dropped his gaze to its foot, where a jumble of great tumbled rocks protected it from the waves.

He was nearing the end of the breakwater, where it joined on to the main quay and enclosed the harbour. Rows of fishing boats were moored along the other side in front of the fish sheds and warehouses, with what appeared to be a single inn halfway along where lights were showing. He could see a few laggard fishing boats winding their way up the creek from the sea. A flock of smaller dinghies bobbed and jostled at the bottom of a flight of weedy steps, and the water sucked and tongued at the stones.

There were almost no people about, but in the middle of the harbour a small boat was sailing, with a single brown sail and two people sitting on the gunwhale. He could hear young voices whooping and calling. As he watched, the boat dipped and swung, turning through ninety degrees. The sail snapped smartly across to the other side and the crew ducked under it and moved to the opposite gunwhale in a smoothly choreographed movement they had obviously rehearsed many times before.

The boat was heading towards him now, and as it grew closer he could see how it heeled with the force of the wind, and how the crew were using their weight to balance it. He could hear the chuckle of water under its bow where a whisker of white foam appeared, and the chatter of the crew.

Go about, Bertie, go about, you'll hit the wall!

Not yet, you chicken, there's bags of room, replied the other, a small dark figure. He realised it was a girl, wicked looking with short black hair and a sharp, eager expression.

Don't be daft, you nincompoop, go about for God's sake!

The other was also a girl, bigger, with long blonde hair, laughing and ruddy-cheeked from the wind and plainly not really worried about their headlong course towards the harbour wall. Lucius got the sense that this cheerful bickering was normal for them. At the last moment, just as he felt sure they would crash into the wall, the dark girl shoved the tiller over and the boat whirled round, lurching onto the other tack as the sail flew across with a bang and the two leapt to the other side, laughing and shrieking. Instantly the boat gathered way and left a bubbling wake behind it.

This time they were headed for the jumble of small boats at the foot of the steps, and by the time Lucius had walked round they were holding on to one of the rings that studded the wall, still bickering.

No, June, you go ashore if you want. I'm going to drift around here for a while and watch the rest of the fishers come in. I might get in their way a bit. They get all red in the face and swear a lot, and then I smile sweetly at them and ask them if they've seen my Uncle Pert, and they get all confused and even redder. It's odd about grown-ups, isn't it, how easy it is to confuse 'em?

If you ask me, Bertronella Prettyfoot, it's high time you did a bit of growing up yourself. You can't be a child all your life.

Can if I want.

No, you can't. You're fourteen already, and you keep behaving as if you were nine still.

I am.

No you're not. You're fourteen.

Look, Mrs.Puppy-Fat, I shall be fourteen when I'm good and ready. Until that day comes, I shall stick at nine. I like nine. I liked it when I first was it, and the second year was just as good, and since then I've seen no good reason to change. So you can go off and be frightfully mature and get married and get a job and be dreadfully boring, but I shall just go on sailing and practising to be a pirate and being nine, thank you. Go on, off you go!

Still laughing, the blonde child ran up the steps and Lucius spoke to her.

Excuse me. I'm new here. Can you tell me where I can get something to eat, and if there might be a boarding house or something? I need somewhere to stay.

Oh! The girl stopped, still smiling. Close to, she had the face of an angel in a painting, plump and bonny, and Lucius found himself smiling back without meaning to. My mother takes boarders, actually. And she'll feed you if you ask her. She likes looking after people. But you'll have to make your own way there, because I've got an errand to run before I go home.

Will it be cheap? he asked anxiously, only I haven't got much money.

She looked him up and down. You do look a bit poor and skinny, she laughed. Did you come off the packet? I bet that wasn't much fun, she's a terrible old nail. Uncle Pert says she gripes like anything. But don't worry, my mum's nice. She'll only charge you what you can afford.

Where do I go?

Up there, through the Market Place, she pointed, then turn left into the Bearward. Our house is the big one on the corner, opposite the bottom of Pardoner's Alley.

And what's your mother's name?

April. My sister's called April as well.

Is that April? Lucius pointed towards the boat. The small girl was now standing up precariously on a thwart, screaming and waving her arms at the bemused crew of an approaching fishing boat.

No, April's my grown-up sister. She's beautiful and she's got a baby. That one is Betronella, but we call her Bertie. Though some people call her the Poison Dwarf. She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. Oh, silly me, I see what you meant! Listen to me, gabbling on. My mother's name is Mrs.Prettyfoot. Tell her June sent you, that's me. What's your name?

Lucius. Lucius Patella.

That's a funny name, she smiled sweetly. It doesn't suit you, does it? It sounds like a name for a much fatter person. Tell mother I'll be home soon. 'Bye!

And she was gone, sprinting towards the town. Lucius looked after her for a moment, then picked up his bag and began to trudge up the hill towards the Market Place.

The ugly clock on the mantelpiece ticked solemnly, measuring out the muffled minutes while nothing moved. The heavy curtains were drawn and in the dusk the furniture bulked dark and threatening. There was no sound, except that somewhere in the house something sighed occasionally, possibly a small draught under a door. In one last gleam of sunlight from the crack at the top of the curtains, dust particles sank slowly.

The street outside was not one that people used very often. It led nowhere important, only to other houses like this one, still and silent. Down at the bottom ran the High Street where there were shops and the café with the Royal St.Portius Hotel at the top of the hill. There would be footsteps, and housewives greeting each other, and boys running on secret errands of an urgency known only to themselves, and giggling girls in groups on the corner. Grunt the butcher would be standing fatly in the door of his shop, and the young man from Middup & Fogg, the hardware shop, would be clanking buckets and banging brushes as he built the daily display on the pavement. No doubt Billy Moon would be arranging the antiques in his opulent showroom opposite the hotel while his wife, Dillicent Denticle-Moon, worked in her office upstairs, preparing the next edition of her newspaper the Harbour Clarion, with brisk efficiency and a sharp eye for circulation.

But here in Low Street nothing moved. No footsteps clicked on the pavement, no voices called out, no horse or wagon passed. Inside the house silence reigned, and the dark and the dust. The woman sitting slumped in one of the uncomfortable armchairs picked at her handkerchief and sniffed in sodden misery. She felt the massive furniture pressing down on her, overbearing. The towered and crenellated sideboard threatened to topple slowly onto her, its doors bursting open to release an avalanche of glasses and napkins and cutlery unused for many years, ugly and tasteless like herself. The bookcases on either side of the fireplace held rows of heavy books she had never opened, that now were poised in the dark to leap on her and bury her. The thick carpets would rear up from the floor to trap her in their folds, pressing her down to choke in dusty oblivion. The other armchairs were shrouded in shadow and seemed to be occupied, though she knew therecould be no one there for she had not been out or even opened the door for weeks. And if there was anyone sitting there, staring at her, judging her, sneering at her, she knew it could be no one she knew and liked, for she liked no one she knew, and was liked by no one in return. Nothing could be occupying those shadowy hollows but hatred and contempt and bitter condemnation for what she was and what she had done.

The clock ticked, the dust-motes sifted slowly down, the wind sighed under the door and nothing moved. She shifted heavily in the chair. She might go to the kitchen and make a cup of tea, though she had no milk left and was frightened to go down to the shops where people might see her. In time past it had been her greatest pleasure to tinkle the little bell on the mantelpiece, and her servant girl would come and take her order, bobbing obediently. But there had been no girl for a long time, not since she had been released from that shameful place. Now she had to make shift for herself, and was making almost no effort to do so.

She might go up to her bedroom and lie down, but the stairs daunted her, lined with portraits of people she didn't know but had hung there because they looked distinguished. They would glare down at her, and sneer. And in her bedroom there would be more dark furniture waiting to intimidate her, and she had not changed the sheets for weeks. She knew they were beginning to smell, a rancid combination of shame and misery and unwashed flesh.

Come on, Delilah Wheable, she muttered to herself, pull yourself together. What do you suppose those so-called friends of yours are doing? Are they wallowing in their misfortunes like you? Do you suppose Widow Dolphin is not bothering to collect her rents like you? Hah! That'll be the day, when Amelia Dolphin passes up the opportunity to screw money out of someone less fortunate than herself! Or Mavis Chervil, is she languishing indoors too frightened and ashamed to go down the shops for fear of what people might say? Not her, the evil old trout. She'll give as good as she gets, and not give it a passing thought. And what about Throstle? Still scowling at everyone from the back of the post office?

A strange thought struck her. She had never known Miss Throstle's christian name. They always just called her Throstle, as if she were a servant. Which she was, really, or at least that's how they had treated her, miserable doormat that she was. Not that it made any difference, really, how high and mighty some of them thought themselves. They were all equal in that place, all equally humiliated.

She looked round. She knew there would be a patina of dust on every surface, something she would never have countenanced in the old days. The clock ticked on and time passed. The room was growing darker as dusk fell, and the shadows pressed closer, but she dared not light a lamp or candle, for people might see the light and know she was there. She had better brave the staircase, drink some water and go to bed. Then in the morning she would sit in the gloom again and listen while the clock ticked.

The worst thing, she thought as she rose heavily and began to grope her way to the door, was that she felt no sense of grievance about what had happened to her. If only she could feel she had been unjustly treated, some small spark of defiance might sustain her and give her the strength to endure. But there was nothing. The crime she had committed, that they had all unwittingly connived at and contributed to, was so awful that she was certain she deserved everything she got.

She might kill herself, she thought. No one would blame her, and many would be pleased. But how does one kill oneself? Take poison? She had no poison, and dared not go out to buy some. And poison would hurt, wouldn't it? When you poisoned rats they writhed and suffered before they died, and she thought she had suffered enough already. Surely no one could expect her to die in agony as a matter of choice? Anyway, she lacked the courage.

Could she throw herself off the cliff, like her old friend Urethra Grubb? But that would mean going out, and besides she was too old and fat to attempt the climb. She would probably have a heart attack before she was halfway up. Mind you, that would achieve the same end, she supposed. But with her luck, someone would find her before she was dead. Either they'd care for her and save her which would defeat the object, or they'd pass by, saying Oh, it's only Mrs.Wheable, leave her, she's not worth the trouble, which would be worse.

She might drown herself in the harbour, perhaps. That seemed more likely, but it also meant walking through the town. She could go at night when there was no one about, but suppose she floated, buoyed up by her fat, and didn't drown? Or could she hang herself? She knew nothing of knots and had no rope, and the task of climbing and balancing on chairs to pull down a curtain cord was certainly beyond her.

Might she throw herself down the stairs? That would be satisfying, in a way. As she pinwheeled down she would laugh at all the sneering faces. And death in the home was at least private. But suppose she didn't die but just broke a leg or something? She was well padded, after all. Then she'd be no better off - it would be just like it was at present, except that her leg would hurt and no one would come to help her.

No, that was not the answer. There was no answer. She had brought herself to this, and here she was and here she would have to stay. She reached the door and the shadows of the hallway flooded in, and the eyes on the stairs waited for her.

Just ahead of the packet Eglantine was moored a tall ketch, the Bernadette. On hearing Bertie's excited yelling, Rosella poked her head out of the cabin hatch and called to her husband, Pert, who was working on deck.

Is that my little sister making all that racket? she asked.

Pert nodded. Aye, that's her. Who else? Sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing, giving her that boat.

Rosella climbed out of the hatch and made her way along the side deck. You gave it to her because we needed something bigger. And if you hadn't, she'd only find some other way of being a nuisance. And June's nearly as bad. I shouldn't worry about it. I'm just going up to the Vicarage to collect Patience. What are you doing?

She leaned against his shoulder and pecked at his cheek. Slim and elegant, with tousled blonde hair, she was nearly as tall as he. Although he was darker, and bearded, they shared a look of calm authority and competence. He had loved her since they were both in the infants class and she had loved him almost as long, though it had taken the horrendous events of the pirate ship Black Joke and the bombardment of the town and the death of the awful Urethra Grubb to bring them together. But together they most certainly were, and both doted on their six-year-old daughter Patience.

I'm overhauling the halyards.

She laughed. Is that another of these made-up jobs you keep inventing? Sometimes I wonder if you know as much about running this ship as you make out.

Not made up at all, he protested. You have to turn them end-for-end occasionally to even out the wear.

She looked unconvinced. I don't know, it sounds spurious to me. I think you're just fiddling about up here to avoid doing some real work.

Like going to committee meetings and being all important? he teased.

She made a moue of disgust. Don't mention that, even in fun. It's all so incredibly tedious, and people are so stupid most of the time.

Yes, I'm sure if they just did what you said, there wouldn't be any problem. You are the Mayor, after all. What right have they to form opinions?

Huh, I wish. And I wouldn't be the Mayor at all if you hadn't chickened out. They wanted you really, I was just the second-best when you turned them down.

"You're never second best at anything. How could I be the Mayor? I'm not here half the time. This business doesn't run itself, you know. There are plenty of cargoes waiting to be carried, and we make a pretty good living out of carrying them. I was thinking, actually ... it won't be long before we can afford to buy a second boat. Something a bit smaller than the Bernadette, I thought. I can find enough cargoes for it, but who can we get as the skipper?"

The Bernadette was a trading ketch, with two masts and five sails and a cargo hold big enough to carry heavy loads from one port to another up and down the coast. Inland roads were so poor and lengthy that often the best way to move goods was by sea, and business was brisk. It was true, Pert did spend more than half his time at sea while Rosella and Patience lived with Pert's parents up on the hill.

Surely there must be one of the fisher skippers who'd like a leg up?

Yes, probably. It'll have to be someone steady and reliable, though. I'll talk to Mr.White about it - he knows the whole fleet, I imagine. Mr.White was the uncrowned king of the fishers, an ex-boxer of renown, and the father of the twins who had married Rosella's two younger sisters, April and May. He was retired from the sea, but was in charge of what was popularly known as the Harbour Army, a resolute band of fishermen who acted as an unofficial police force in the town when necessary.

I'm sure that's a good idea. You have to find the right boat first, though. Hallo, it looks as though Bertie's finally had enough. She's off for her tea, I expect. She does sail that dinghy remarkably well.

The little brown boat was scudding up the harbour, its sail out to one side to catch the following wind, while Bertie steered nonchalantly, still standing up, her spat with the fishers forgotten.

She'll go over the side one of these days, laughed Pert.

Not her. She knows how to keep out of trouble. She's like a little eel.

Out of trouble? She's never out of trouble, as well you know!

Yes, but haven't you noticed, she never gets caught? All the other kids are scared of her, Rosella said with a touch of pride.

How come - they can't know her, because she's hardly ever in school?

A frown clouded Rosella's face. Yes, that's a problem. I really need to get a grip on her. June's not as bad as she was, because she seems to have decided that she wants to go to St.Portius next year and train to be a teacher.

She'll be good at that, I should think. And if the kids don't behave, she can always set Bertie on 'em!

Oh, she won't have any trouble like that. What sweetness and charm don't solve, low cunning will.

She watched Pert working for a moment. There, he said, that's one more done. Just the mizzen halyards to go. John and Willum can do them tomorrow.

Right! she said, I'd better get off. Floris will be wondering whether or not she's supposed to give Patience her tea.

I'm sure Patience could eat both.

Yes, I don't know where she puts it. She's got a healthier appetite than I ever had.

Or me. Not that we had a chance when I was that age - Mother never had any money. It was mostly bread and dripping.

Oh, poor you, she said, stroking his hair. Poor little waif! Right, I'm off. Back soon!

Oh, before you go, there was something I meant to ask. About the school - when will Patience be going? She should have started already.

Yes, but they're still a teacher down, so they haven't taken any new children yet. The whole school situation's a nightmare, frankly, and we've got a council meeting next week to try and sort out what to do. I mean, Miss Clutterbrick's being terribly efficient as Headmistress for the time being, but it was only meant to be temporary after we ... er ... lost Mr.Trump and Mr.Merridew. She's ever so good with lists and posters and coloured pencils, but she's not the most sympathetic person, and poor Mr.Bristle's being very difficult. He thinks he should be the Headmaster, and nobody else thinks he'd be any good. Including me.

Well, I hope you and the council sort something out soon. Patience is losing out, and so are Silly and all the other little ones.

Patience's best friend Silmonella was the youngest daughter of the Vicar, Septimus Surplice, and his wife Floris. A tiny, elfin, smiling creature, she and Patience spent almost every day together, usually playing in the large garden of the Vicarage. But they had been ready for school for months now, and the place was still in disarray after the criminal lunacy of the senior teacher Edwold Merridew and the mysterious disappearance of Headmaster Trump - along with half the children in the school, though Pert and Rosella and the Bernadette had got almost all of them back.

Yes, I know, darling. I'm doing the best I can. And it's not just the little ones, either. Everyone was so glad to get the kidnapped children back that they've been thoroughly spoiled ever since, treated like little princes and princesses, and it's starting to show. They need a good dose of discipline. Clutterbrick's all right, but Bristle is useless now we've stopped him using the cane all the time. Look, I must go!

And she stepped lightly up from the gunwhale to the dock and strode purposefully towards the town. Pert watched her go, enjoying the lithe freedom of her stride and the proud set of her head. He had seen her broken and wounded, once when their love was fresh, and now he rejoiced in her health and vitality every day.

He picked up his fid and his marlin-spike and his shackle key and went to put them away, musing quietly. After their successful expedition to recover the children, the town council had asked him to become the Mayor, but he had declined. Then they asked Rosella. Now all he had to do was concentrate on running this ship and think about buying and manning another. She had to run a whole town.

II

At the grey school above the rows of terraced fisher houses, Miss Clutterbrick was preparing her classroom. Term began tomorrow, and there were lists to make, and edifying posters to pin on the walls, and registers to prepare and coloured pencils to sharpen. Miss Clutterbrick was a person with few natural advantages. She was not good-looking, or athletic, or particularly intelligent, she knew. Neither was she very good with other people, who either didn't take any notice of her, or nodded indulgently and then ignored her ideas and suggestions, or made jokes she didn't understand for she had no sense of humour whatsoever.

She had, however, managed to achieve a relationship with the outside world that worked, and her secret was this: she got what she wanted not by charm or force of personality, for she had neither. No, she won by being more organised than those around her. When confronted with schedules, lists, columns, and annotations in different colours, others were almost always too lazy to resist. What is the point, they seemed to say to themselves, of having ideas ourselves when it's already laid out for us neatly and in triplicate? What's the point of arguing when your opponent has only to point at a piece of paper and say 'But I've already allowed for that. See line twelve, column eight? And the asterisk to the annotation at the foot of page three. See? All taken care of. Now, can we get on with it?'

Ever since the disappearance of Headmaster Trump and the cruel deceit perpetrated by Edwold Merridew who had turned out to be some sort of lunatic rather than a proper teacher, Miss Clutterbrick had filled the breach and made sure that the remaining teachers and children carried on as normal. She had been irritated beyond measure by the defection (for this is what Miss Clutterbrick called it) of Miss Dimworthy who had elected to stay in South America and run a school there with her immense lover Joe Sweet, without giving even a week's notice, which was inexcusable. Never mind that Headmaster Trump had administered Miss Dimworthy's in-service training with the flat of his hand while she lay across his lap struggling feebly; what was the significance of that? Mr.Trump had never tried that with Miss Clutterbrick, who was sure that she would have struggled to far greater effect, and would then have listed and annotated every failure of leadership on the part of the lazy fat slug of a man. No one was quite sure what had happened to Trump, although there seemed to be some suggestion that he had met an unfortunate end in the Atlantic with a stick of dynamite down his trousers. But that was just hearsay. Miss Clutterbrick paid no attention to gossip.

What troubled Miss Clutterbrick's adamantine and organised breast was the knowledge that the dreadful events had taken place nearly two years ago, and still she was functioning as the interim temporary make-shift Headmistress while teaching a full timetable with her own class. No new staff had been appointed, and her position had not been made permanent as she indubitably deserved. She it was who had made the decision not to receive any new pupils, for there were not enough teachers. As it was, the oldest class was being taught for the second year running by Mr.Bristle who was, frankly, incompetent and nearly illiterate, yet bore a weight of grievance about the fact that it was she, not himself, who was running things. He was the longest-serving teacher after Trump and Merridew, he reasoned, so it should be he who was in charge. And he'd do things a bit differently, see if he didn't! These intolerable children would feel the end of his cane, and he had all sorts of ideas for staff in-service training, though his ambitions fell short of administering them to Miss Clutterbrick.

She was pinning up the last of the posters, the manufacture of which had occupied the bulk of her holidays apart from the week she had spent in St.Portius with her married sister, when a noise in the corridor made her look up. She went to the door of her classroom, and found Rosella Prettyfoot - or Rosella Potts as she now presumably was, though Miss Clutterbrick was not aware that the change had been accompanied by any formal ceremony - marching down the corridor towards her.

I'm sorry, we're not open today. And in any case, as I have said before, we are not in a position to receive your daughter this term, as we have no infants teacher.

Rosella smiled. Miss Clutterbrick envied her effortless poise. She remembered Rosella Prettyfoot as a tall, confident pupil when she herself had first come to the school, though she had never taught her. She also remembered that Rosella had quit the school under a cloud, having been involved in a playground brawl that culminated in the assault of a member of staff, Mr.Merridew, when he attempted to administer due punishment. Yet here she stood, still tall and confident, utterly unmoved at finding herself in the presence of authority. Indeed, that was the overriding impression Miss Clutterbrick had retained of this girl, that she was completely unafraid of anyone. With some reason, as it had turned out. Had she not pushed the dreadful Urethra Grubb off the top of Bodrach Nuwl, and very nearly perished herself?

I've not come to talk about that, Miss Clutterbrick. We have more important things to consider. As your school responsibilities leave you with no time to continue acting as Town Clerk, you may not know that I have just been elected Mayor? I will be chairing my first council meeting in three days' time.

Yes, I had heard. It was in the paper. All the same, I'm afraid you will have to find someone else to take the minutes ...

Rosella laughed. No, no, that's not what I have come to ask. In fact, it would be inappropriate for you to be present at all, because the main item on the agenda is this school and its future.

Oh? In what respect?

Despite the sterling work you have done for the last two years, keeping things going ... the present situation cannot possibly be allowed to continue. We need to appoint a new Head Teacher, and then we need to set about finding at least two other new teachers.

Miss Clutterbrick bridled. I'm sorry if the council feels that my running of the school has been in any way .... she began, but Rosella cut her off.

No, no, not at all. That's not the issue. It's just not fair on you, Miss Clutterbrick, to expect you to go on running the school while teaching your own classes. No, we need to formalise the situation, to have a proper structure and allow the Head Teacher the time to do the job properly. Not that you haven't, I hasten to add.

Miss Clutterbrick stared at her. This conversation was not going the way it should. It should have included the words 'We'd be grateful if you would accept the position ...', but Rosella plainly had her own agenda and would not deviate from it. I will be recommending to the council that the post be advertised in the normal way. I hope very much that you will apply. After all your work, the least we could do is consider seriously an application from you. But at the same time our responsibility to the town to manage things prudently means that we have to be seen to do things in a proper manner, so you must not expect to be the only candidate.

Miss Clutterbrick felt a surge of emotion, something she usually tried to avoid. Her hands shook as she took refuge in her trusty refuge, organisation, and began to tidy the nature table. Well, I ... I'm not sure what ...

Just apply, once the advertisement goes out, Rosella said kindly. I will make sure that you know the minute it does, and will be looking eagerly to receive your application. And it will get the most serious consideration, I promise. That's all I wanted to say. She began to move towards the door, but stopped. There is one other thing ... this is rather confidential ... are we alone? Mr.Bristle isn't here, is he?

No. He would never come in during the holidays. Actually, it makes things rather difficult. I have prepared so many lists that I need to discuss with him ...

Good. Can you tell me in confidence, how are things going with him? I suspect he thinks he should have been the acting Headmaster - is that so?

Oh yes. In fact, he has been quite rude about it. Consistently so, in fact.

I'm sorry to hear it. Hopefully once we make a proper appointment he will be able to accept it. Do you think he'll apply?

Probably. Yes, almost certainly.

Then he'll also receive due consideration. That's only right. But ... in your opinion, could he do the job?

Not in a million years.

But you could?

Yes.

Rosella smiled again. Yes, I think you could. Thank you for your time, and she was gone.

It's clever, isn't it? said Bertie idly.

What is? asked June. They were sprawled on the cobbles at the foot of the breakwater in the weak sunshine, watching the gulls swoop and squabble over the water.

The way they fly. They just hold their wings out, and the wind catches them and they can fly.

June grunted. Yes, birds can fly. Jolly clever of them.

So why can't we?

Er ... something to do with not having any wings?

Yes, but if we had wings, couldn't we fly?

I suppose so. But we haven't, so what's the point?

Bertie knelt up and grabbed her collar. Don't you see, she hissed, that we could? We could make wings! And then the wind would pick us up and we'd be able to fly.

June said nothing. It was school tomorrow. She was going to be in Mr.Bristle's class for the second year running, and he wasn't teaching her anything. Fortunately he knew enough to leave her alone, so when she went to school at all she had got into the habit of sitting at the back and reading books she had borrowed from Septimus, who had a considerable library at the Vicarage.

Do you think seagulls can talk? Bertie wondered. I always thought Farmer Throssell's sheep were talking to us. You know, they used to stare at us and go baa! ..... I'm sure they were trying to tell me something.

They probably were. They were trying to tell you baa. It's probably something really important in sheep language.

It's the only thing in sheep language.

Well, that must make it especially important, then.

Or perhaps they're just making conversation. They don't want you to think they're stand-offish. Lurk could, anyway.

Lurk could what? Lurk was their Auntie Fenestra's dog, currently with her in South America being a savage hound.

Talk.

June sat up. What do you mean, Lurk could talk?

Lurk used to talk to Fenestra all the time, didn't you know?

No. What made you think he did?

Well, when I looked at Lurk and he looked at me, I could hear something.

What?

Swearing, mostly. He knew some really ripe words, that dog. Anyway, what could we make wings out of?

Wood's strong.

But it's heavy. We need something light, like paper. You know, the boys at school fold bits of paper up and throw them, and they fly.

So you think you can fold some paper wings and you'll be able to fly? For goodness' sake, how old are you?

Nine.

No you're not, we've been through that. You're fourteen.

Are you sure? I can only remember eleven birthdays. There was the one when I got Matilda, my doll whose legs fell off, and the one when I was sick on Father's trousers, and the one when I set fire to the curtains, and the one after Father got his head knocked off - that was a good one - and the one when I had mumps, and ...

Yes, all right, all right, I get the picture. Actually, thinking about it, I'm sixteen but I can't remember sixteen birthdays. Perhaps the bit of your brain that remembers birthdays hasn't got room for them all, so each year it has to drop one off the bottom so it can get the new one in.

Bertie nodded, and thought for a moment. That's pretty tragic, when you think about it. So when you're really, really old, like about forty, and your birthdays are all the same and people buy you really boring stuff like handkerchiefs and soap and useful things for the kitchen, you'll remember them and forget all the good ones when you were little and had parties and jelly and stuff. That's dreadful!

Well, I should think it's pretty dreadful all round, being grown up.

I don't think I want to do it. I think I'll just refuse.

Not sure you'll have any choice, June said in a gloomy tone.

I say! exclaimed Bertie, sitting up, do you think the same thing happens with Christmas? Will we only be able to remember eleven of them as well? And forget all the presents under the tree, and Santa Claus coming down the chimney, and the fairy on the tree and all that?

And the jelly. And the Christmas pudding. I had four helpings last year. How awful.