The Pathway to the Past: Book 1 of the Weatherspoons Trilogy

By David North

There's a lot of past, and there's getting to be more and more of it every minute.

Richard and Cynthia Weatherspoon, aged ten and eight ("and three-quarters"), are living as (step)brother and sister in the midtwentieth century. But when they and their parents call on old Granny Ogden, the children discover that when they unlock Mrs. Ogden's back door, a path appears that simply isn't there to anybody else.

They walk down the path with their dog, Timmy, escorted by a Magpie, and find themselves in the days of the Model T Ford where they meet their grandparents and sinister villains are foiled.

As the children get older, through their early and later teenage years and early adulthood, subsequent travels down the path with other birds as escorts take them to earlier and earlier timesto the days of the first steam engines, the days of Charles I, the Elizabethan age, and earlier, mediaeval times. Some wolves, travelling minstrels/players, would-be bandits, a Scots prince, and a mysterious relative all appear in the action as Richard and Cynthia with Timmy, and their avian escorts seek to free a princess from a fate worse than death at a sinister baron's castle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: May 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503505377

David North

David North was born in 1932 in Dewsbury, Yorkshire. He lived as a little boy some years in Estonia, but his parents moved back to England shortly before World War II broke out. He attended Manchester University where he took a Bachelor of Science degree in 1954. He has had quite a variety of work experience, but most of his working life was spent as a schoolmaster in Manchester and later in County Durham, and after immigrating to Australia in 1982, in Logan City, he married Mary Scott in 1954 and has four children—Deborah, Jeremy, Jason, and Davina—six grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. Mary died of MS in 1982, whereupon his brother John invited him to come to Queensland, Australia. In 1985, he married Vasilou, who had three children (Nicky, Kelvin, and Irene), and he now lives in Logan City. David began and scribbling stories, poetry, and songs in the 1970s and ’80s, but it was not until 2008 that he put any of them into bound book form. He likes books and chooks.

Book preview

The Weatherspoons & the Pathway to the Past

0

The Weatherspoons

S arah: Jack’s a good husband and I really love him and our kids… Richard and Cynthia are not actual brother and sister, but they might as well be; they’ve been together since she was a baby-waa and he a creepy-crawly starting to to ddle.

Jack: It’s funny the way things turned out. If Annette hadn’t … left me… I would never have met and married Sarah and got dear little Cynthie as a bonus… And we’ve got this nice house in Swansea Street. I only wish my parents could have lived to see us.

Richard: I’m ten, now. I like cars and I like reading. Especially about the way people used to be. Mum’s lovely. Dad’s an engineer. He’s really clever. Cynthia’s all right, she’s only a girl of course.

Cynthia: I’m eight and three quarters. I’m learning to play the piano and violin; I love music. Richard sometimes pretends he’s not interested in those things, but he does like to sing. He sometimes teases me, but he’s all right I suppose. Mum’s lovely. So’s Dad.

Sarah: We have our problems, mind. The kids’ squabbling gets on my nerves. And Jack’s boss always wanting him to do more overtime, so I don’t get a lot of help at home. And now it could be even worse… oh dear…

Jack: Troubles rarely come singly. Boss going to go bankrupt, no job next week… Still, I’ll have more time with the kids, now. Let’s make the most of it! Tomorrow’s another day.

Timmy: Woof!

1

The Rolling English Road

W hen we set out on a path, do we always know where it is going to tak e us?

*     *     *

Where are we going? both children demanded to know.

It’s a mystery tour, Sarah told them.

What’s a mystery tour? Cynthia wanted to know. She shook her long dark brown hair off her face.

A mystery is something you don’t know, explained her sandy-haired stepbrother, in a rather condescending tone.

You don’t know it either, retorted Cynthia smartly.

Well…

It’s going to be somewhere you’ve never been before, said Jack, coming into the room.

Where? the chorus.

You’ll know when you’ve been there, Jack teased.

Daddy, I think you don’t know yourself! cried Cynthia.

Of course I know myself. I’m Jack Weatherspoon, and I know myself pretty well. You could say I’m my best friend.

Sarah rolled her eyes and gave her husband a despairing look.

"Dad-dy!" protested Richard.

"Next to your Mum and you two, of course."

Sarah smiled. Come on, kids. I’ve packed us some goodies. You might need your raincoats, though, in case the weather turns wet again.

Timmy hasn’t got a raincoat, said Cynthia.

Timmy doesn’t need a raincoat, Richard said scornfully.

It daren’t turn wet today, said Jack sternly, tousling his son’s sandy hair. If it does I shall have a word with the Weather Man.

"You are the Weather Man, Dad. The Weatherspoon Man."

Sarah smiled, picked up a basket and headed for the door. As you will be, one day, Richard, she said. Come on, the day’s waiting for us.

They took the main road out of town but soon turned on to what G. K. Chesterton called the ‘rolling English road’ made by the ‘rolling English drunkard’, full of turns and twists for no better reason than that someone centuries before had walked that way after a cow, or to avoid a thicket now long gone. Hot and sunny now, it had rained previously and the hedgerows were bright green with wild flowers, foxglove, campion, dog roses and others. Their scent blew through the open windows of Jack’s elderly Ford Prefect.

Look, sheep! shrilled Cynthia.

Dad, can we stop and watch?

Okay, kids. Jack pulled over to the grass verge and let them out of the car.

A shepherd with two collies was manoeuvring his flock from one pasture to another. Not you, Timmy! Jack grabbed the dog’s collar; the shepherd would not be delighted to get enthusiastic assistance for his own two well-trained dogs. Timmy agreed to be restrained; half Labrador and half several other breeds, he was amenable to training and well-behaved, but had never seen sheep before. Richard and Cynthia waved at the man, but he didn’t return the gesture. Probably thinking, Ignorant townies and their blasted dogs, ought to shoot the lot of them.

The sheep gone, they resumed their journey. Passing over a stream, Jack stopped again.

What have we stopped for, Daddy?

We’ve just crossed a bridge over a stream. Jack grinned.

Pooh-sticks! yelled Richard. You each drop in a stick and see whose stick comes out first.

Cynthia found a twig and dropped it over the stone walled side of the bridge. It floated away.

"The other side, silly! The sticks have to float under the bridge."

"I know that! But my stick’s not a Pooh-stick. It’s a Piglet-stick." She stuck out her tongue at her stepbrother.

Sarah, the peacemaker, said, Let’s join in, Jack.

So all four of them dropped in a stick at the upstream side on Jack’s count: "On the count of three. One, two, three," and rushed to the opposite side to see whose came out first.

It was Richard’s. My stick won! he crowed.

Cynthia’s hadn’t make it through, though; it must have caught on something under the bridge. Yours must have been an Eeyore stick, scoffed Richard.

Let’s try again, Jack suggested.

So they all had a second go, and a third and a fourth. Cynthia won once, and Sarah twice.

Poor Daddy, said Cynthia. You haven’t had a win yet.

Oh, but I have. I’ve won a day off with you two. You three. He gave his wife a squeeze. "Four, if you count Timmy. But I might try once more. And you are going to be my Pooh-stick! He picked up his stepdaughter and pretended to be going to drop her over the parapet of the bridge. She squealed and he hugged her and put her down again. Come on. Back to the car."

But Timmy hasn’t had a go yet!

Do you want to be a Pooh-stick, Timmy? Do you know, I don’t think he’d mind a bit. But I would. I don’t want to have a wet hairy animal shaking water all over us in the car. Come on!

The sun climbed higher the day got hotter. They passed fields where hay was being cut and the sweet smell of coumarin pervaded the air. They drove through a village with a pub and a post office and a couple of shops and stopped to buy ice-cream…

I’ve been here before! exclaimed Sarah suddenly. "Déjà vu."

When would that have been? Jack inquired idly, sitting on a low stone wall and licking his ice cream.

It must have been when I was a little girl.

Tell us about it, demanded Richard, always wanting to know about Things That Happened Before.

"I can’t have been any older than you are now, Richard. Less, even. Perhaps I was seven or eight. We came to visit my auntie. Let me see, what was her name? She wasn’t a real auntie, at least, she wasn’t my real auntie, though she could have been somebody else’s auntie… Auntie Grace we called her. That’s it. Auntie Grace. She was an Ogden, too."

(Ogden had been Sarah’s mother’s maiden name.)

What’s an ‘ogden’? asked Richard.

It’s like a wolf den, said his Dad, grinning. Only it’s where ogs live instead of wolves.

Da-ad!

I know what a nog is, said Cynthia. It’s a kind of pig.

"That’s a hog, silly."

"I’m not silly."

Yes you are.

I’m not. You are.

Enough of that, you two. You’re silly only when you call each other silly. Go on, dear Jack prompted his wife.

Auntie Grace Ogden. She must have been a relation of my Mum’s. Anyway, it was near here. She gave us tea. She had strawberries and cream on little cakes. She had a nice garden with flowers in it at the front, and another for vegetables at the back, and she kept hens! Memories came rushing back. And a big red cock that kept shouting ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo’. Sometimes we called her Granny Ogden; most people round here did. There were some strange stories going around about her and her home, odd happenings. Not that anybody would ever speak to her about it, of course.

May we go and see the hens and the cock? asked Cynthia.

They may not be there now. Auntie Grace might not be there either, I’m talking about more than twenty years ago. But the house should still be there. I’ll point it out when we pass it. It should be along this road, about a mile, I would think.

Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden, Richard chanted.

Cynthia joined in the chant. Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden.

Hush up, you two, Jack chided, grinning.

Their ice creams finished, the Weatherspoons and Timmy got back into the car and they took the road Sarah indicated. They drove for a mile, passing only one other house, a farmhouse. That’s not it, said Sarah. It must be a bit further on.

It was as well Jack was driving slowly because, just that bit further on, a tyre blew out and the car swerved across the road. Jack managed to pull up just before it went into a ditch. That’s torn it, he said ruefully.

Can I help change the tyre? asked Richard. I know how. He loved knowing about cars, especially really old or very powerful ones. He wanted to be a racing driver one day.

You could— if we had one. Jack sadly shook his head.

You didn’t?… asked Sarah.

Remember? No. I was pushed for time at the time, then I forgot. I forgot! Sorry. It had happened that the last time a tyre had gone flat Sarah had been driving; she had changed it herself. She had told Jack, but … he hadn’t had the puncture repaired.

I know. Anything one postpones is likely to exact its revenge with interest at a later time. Usually at the most inconvenient time, at that, Jack groaned.

Now what?

We— uh-oh! walk back to the village we passed and see if we can get it fixed there, or we find a telephone and ring up somebody for assistance. Jack kicked the offending tyre. This one’s had it. What’s the spare like? Don’t reply, I know the answer. Anything you put off doing…

… is likely to exact its revenge with interest, Sarah finished with him. This is what we get for not doing things at the proper time.

My fault entirely. Jack agreed. Don’t rub it in, though. I wish somebody would invent a telephone that we could carry about with us, then we’d never be stuck like this without help.

Somebody might pass and give us a lift or take a message. But we haven’t seen another vehicle since leaving that village behind.

There’s a house just a bit up the road, Dad, said Richard, pointing. They might have a telephone.

It’s worth a try. Come on. Yes, all of you. Including Timmy. We’ll lock up the car and try there.

The house was just about eighty yards away at the top of an incline opposite a huge ash tree reaching high into the air on the other side of the road. Its privet hedge was due for a trim, its white-painted five-barred gate opened easily on to a short driveway. Jack was careful to see it was properly shut behind them. The small front garden had gravelled pathways and lots of flowers.

This is it! exclaimed Sarah. This is Auntie Grace’s place. Granny Ogden’s place.

Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden, Granny Ogden!

Shush, Cynthia.

2

Granny Ogden

T he Weatherspoons walked up the short gravel drive. A heavy front door of some dark-stained timber with black iron fittings stood behind a small porch open to the garden. Above it was a semicircle made out of stained glass segments, red, blue, yellow and green. There was no door-bell, but a heavy knocker in the shape of a dragon was not too high for Richard to reach. Whack! Whack! W hack!

Enough, enough, Richard! We don’t want to knock the house down.

Like the big bad wolf, said Cynthia.

"The wolf blew houses down, not knocked them down," said Richard.

I know…

Hush, you two and listen, chided Sarah.

They listened a moment. Then a moment longer. It looks like whoever lives here now is out, said Jack. Oh dear. Now what?

May I knock? asked Cynthia. I haven’t had a turn.

Can’t do any harm, sighed her father. If nobody’s there they won’t hear it anyway. And if there is, we might get a bit of help. Go on.

Cynthia could not reach the knocker so Jack hoisted her up until she could lift it and let it fall. Whack. And again, Whack. Once more, Daddy. Whack.

The door stayed shut, but a woman holding a garden fork appeared at the side of the building. Who’s that knocking at my front door? she said.

Good morning, ma’am, said Jack. Our car has blown a tyre and we haven’t got a spare.

I’m sorry, but I don’t have any spare tyres. Only this one, and the old lady gripped her tummy and smiled. The children stared at her. She was spectacled, short and stout, only a little taller than Richard, with a mop of curly grey hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat. She was wearing a long black skirt and an old blouse, cream coloured with a pattern of blue and red flowers. Black stockings and farm boots showed below the hem of her skirt.

We didn’t think you had, ma’am. But we hoped we might be able to telephone for help; you have a telephone? Jack knew she had; a telephone wire led to the house from a pole near the gate.

Why, certainly you may. And maybe you’d like a cup of tea and some pop for the children, too.

Just the telephone… Jack began to say, but Sarah broke in:

Aren’t you Auntie Grace Ogden?

Why, yes I am! How did you know?

I met you once when I was a little girl.

Well, well, well. Mrs Ogden came closer and peered at Sarah. You must be Sarah McLaughlin, then. Your father was Sandy McLaughlin; he married Chrissie Ogden. They called him Glocky at school here. A bit of a scamp, that Sandy. But he turned out all right.

Dad passed on years ago, said Sarah.

I’m sorry to hear that, Sarah.

I’m Sarah Weatherspoon, now. This is my husband, Jack.

Good morning ma’am. Pleased to meet you.

And I to meet you, Mr Weatherspoon.

You’re nothing like a nog, Cynthia chimed in. And your house isn’t like a nog den.

Hush, Cynthia. It’s not polite to make personal remarks, Sarah admonished. Richard made a ha ha face at his stepsister.

It’s good to see you teaching the young ones good manners, young Sarah. Far too many today have no manners at all, and even less sense. To Cynthia she said, Ogden’s an old English name, and it originally came from Oak Dene, meaning a valley where oak trees grew. Now, then. You’ll be wanting to use the telephone. Come in, all of you. Round the side, through the kitchen door.

Wipe your feet before you go in, cautioned Sarah to Richard and Cynthia.

We know, Mum, Richard whispered back indignantly.

It’s rude to whisper, said Cynthia smugly.

I know that too!

Mrs Ogden led them round the side of the house where she propped the fork against a garden shed. This way. Come in, all of you, and welcome. She took off her gardening boots, then ushered her visitors through a side door into the kitchen

Thank you, ma’am. Oh, Timmy. Timmy, you’ll have to wait outside. He’ll stay put if he’s told to, Jack explained to Mrs Ogden.

Oh, no, Timmy may come in too. I don’t have a dog myself now, only a cat, but she’ll keep out of his way.

Timmy doesn’t chase cats, said Cynthia. He’s a good dog.

I’m sure he is, dear, Mrs Ogden said, Come along in to my parlour.

‘Said the spider to the fly,’ said Cynthia.

Mrs Ogden ushered them through the kitchen into her sitting-room. I see this young lady knows the old rhymes and tales. Now just sit down there and I’ll put the kettle on and make us all a cup of tea. Or would you children prefer pop? I like a drop of pop myself sometimes.

Pop, please, they chorused.

Now, Mr Weatherspoon, through there, indicating a door that led to the centre of the house, and just to your left in the lobby is the telephone.

Thank you, Mrs Ogden. Or should it be Miss?

I was always Miss to the children when I taught school, but no, it’s Mrs. But Mr Ogden passed on long ago.

I’m sorry. Just call me Jack, by the way.

No need to say sorry, Jack. Go ahead and make your call. There’s a telephone directory if you need it. I’m glad now I had the telephone installed, and it’s good to have it used on occasion. ‘Use it or lose it,’ I used to tell the children; but there, I don’t suppose it applies to telephones the way it does to knowledge. I’m getting on a bit now and if I need the vet or the doctor I don’t have to walk. I used to, mind, to the village and back every school day and church on Sunday, rain, hail, snow or shine. Sarah, children, Right you are. I’ll not be long." She went back into the kitchen.

Sarah and the children waited and looked around them. The place was spotless, even though the furniture was old and showed signs of wear. A grandfather clock stood silent in one corner of the room, but another on the mantel showed the time, eleven o’clock; just then it struck the chimes like a miniature Big Ben, followed by eleven strokes. The mantelpiece above the fireplace held two vases and two old sepia photographs framed in ormolu, one of a bridal couple and another of a younger Mrs Ogden with about twenty schoolchildren. The fire was unlit but the hearth was swept clean and a set of fire-irons stood at one side; a spark guard enclosed the tiled fireplace. Cabinets displayed fine tableware and glassware and porcelain figurines. There was a three piece suite, its covers with a bright floral pattern, and lace antimacassars. The floor had a square of green carpet with dark stained wood around it. A small occasional table stood in the centre before the fireplace. There was no television set, but a wooden box, evidently a radio, about four feet high and fifteen inches square with black knobs and a dial, stood just to one side of the hearth. The walls were covered up to the picture-rail with lime-green paper having a floral pattern, and were painted a pale yellow above to the white ceiling. In the centre of the latter hung a brass lamp from a hook. A large bay window with plush green curtains admitted bright sunshine.

No electricity, how does she get the place so clean? wondered Sarah.

No kids, that’s why, said Jack, coming back in. Cleanliness is next to godliness, but when you’ve got kids…

… it becomes next to impossible. As I well know. Even so.

I suspect this was once a house for a fair-sized family, fairly well to do, and they had servants to do the cleaning.

Well, how did you get on, Jack? asked Sarah.

Can’t get anybody. I’ve tried the nearest garages, but one of them can’t spare anybody to come out today, they’re short handed, the mechanic’s away on another job and won’t be back today; the village has only a petrol station and they don’t do repairs. I thought of calling further afield, the next place where they might do something for us is ten miles away. They said they could do it first thing tomorrow, though. I thought I’d tell you first.

Oh, well, it’s not too far to walk back to the village and put up at the inn there.

No need for that, Sarah, said Granny Ogden, bringing a tray with teapot, cups and saucers and two glasses and a bottle of lemonade. You’ll stay here the night. All of you. No argument, no fuss, and no refusals.

Well, we can’t really do that, Aunt Grace,

No such thing as ‘can’t’. I insist on it.

I don’t know what to say, said Jack, sharing a look with his wife.

Just ‘thank you’ will do nicely.

Well, I don’t like to impose…

"You’re not imposing. I want you to stay."

Then, Thank you, Mrs Ogden.

Thank you, Aunt Grace, said Sarah. Children?

Thank you, Granny Ogden.

There we are, then. It’s all settled. Now, how do you like your tea…?

3

Granny Ogden’s House

W ithout a refrigerator, Aunt Grace, how do you ma nage?

Like my parents did, without one. The pantry’s always cool, I have a meat-safe to keep flies off the meat, and I get fresh milk delivered three days a week. I have fresh vegetables and salads from the garden except in winter, but even then I have carrots and potatoes and swedes and onions and Brussels sprouts. The hens give me eggs except in winter, but by then I’ll have some that I use in cooking laid down in water-glass. A grocery van calls once a fortnight and the butcher makes a special call once a week. Just for me, isn’t that nice? I used to teach him, and his wife.

Your place is spotless, how do you keep it so clean?

Usual ways people used to, Sarah, my dear. A carpet sweeper for the carpet, brush and mop for the floor. Only one person here, me, and I try to keep the outdoors where it belongs, outdoors.

Granny Ogden was preparing lunch for the family. The cooker used coal, not gas or electricity, but Granny Ogden knew exactly how to operate it to get first class results. She was enjoying herself no end asking Sarah about herself and her family. Sarah, helping her, told her much more than she had intended, but in a matter-of-fact manner as though the problems that had hit them all at once were just a passing irritation.

Jack hadn’t been doing much garden maintenance at home recently; indeed he felt that his front yard was letting the street down. (He wasn’t alone in that opinion; Mrs Nosy from across the road shared it.) Oddly enough, he too was enjoying himself. With a pair of shears in his hand, he was attacking Granny Ogden’s somewhat overgrown privet hedge in the front yard, and, despite not having had a lot of practice recently, was making a fair job of it. The hawthorn hedge round the rear garden needed attention, too, but that would require a billhook. Granny Ogden had all the appropriate hand tools, kept clean and in good condition, except that some needed sharpening. That was no problem to an engineer even though there was no power grinder; there were hones and files and oilstones.

Richard and Cynthia and Timmy were in their element. They had been allowed to feed and pet the chickens in their run in the back garden (who didn’t mind being picked up and cuddled, though they drew the line at being sniffed at by Timmy) and look for eggs (there were two). No rooster, though. Allowed to go roaming across the field and copse outside the back yard, acres and acres of grassland and trees. Trees to climb! Rabbits to sniff after and chase! Birds to see! Butterflies to try to catch, if they only had a butterfly net.

Don’t go out of sight of the house, now, they had been told, an order almost impossible to obey, but at least they kept the spirit of it, even when playing hide and seek. Come right away when you hear the bell ringing. It was Granny Ogden’s handbell that she used to ring to summon her charges to their lessons. It seemed to them to ring far too soon.

Wipe your feet; better still, take off your shoes, Sarah told them.

Timmy hasn’t got any shoes to take off.

Then wipe his feet; here’s a damp cloth.

Now wash your hands. There was only cold water, but they hadn’t got their hands very dirty.

Come to the table. They were to eat in the kitchen.

Thank you, Mrs Ogden, Jack said.

Granny Ogden, beaming, asked, Please say grace, Jack. Misunderstanding her, he said, Ah, thank you, Auntie Grace.

I mean, to give thanks to the Lord for His provision.

Jack, turning red with embarrassment, remembered the formula prayer said at school lunches and gabbled, For what we are about to receive may the Lord make us truly thankful, Amen.

Granny Ogden said Amen and Sarah and the children did so too.

The butcher having come the day before, they were able to have mince (if only small portions and with a lot of onion in it to make it go further) and mashed potato and gravy and a selection of vegetables, all from the garden, and for dessert, an apple pie and custard. Too excited to eat, Cynthia was bubbling over with her new experience and full of questions, until Granny Ogden in a kindly manner said to her, Let your meat stop your mouth.

Not my veggies?

Her mother explained. "When Aunt Grace was a little girl the word meat sometimes meant food in general. And we put it in our mouths to stop us talking too much."

But is it all right to talk a little bit?

"Yes dear. A little bit. But if you don’t finish your dinner you won’t get any apple pie and custard."

Richard asked, But what if we eat too much dinner and we don’t have room for apple pie and custard?

Granny Ogden laughed. I never met a boy yet who couldn’t find room for apple pie and custard, no matter how much dinner he ate.

After lunch the children were directed by their mother to clear the table and wash the dishes. But I’ll do the pans. No, Auntie Grace, my children are not going to grow up being either selfish or incapable. Indeed the pair was quite capable, not only capable, but eager and willing. This was Helping Someone Else, not just a chore done at home.

After lunch I usually have a lie down, said Granny Ogden when all was done. Jack and Sarah, just make yourselves at home. Now, Richard and Cynthia, it’s not a good idea to have strenuous exercise right after a meal, but I have some games and children’s books for you. She took a variety of games and children’s books out of a cupboard before going upstairs for a nap. Jack and Sarah sprawled on the settee and armchair for about five minutes, but neither of them was constitutionally capable of taking a siesta when there were other things to do and they soon got up, Jack to begin his assault on the hawthorn hedge, and Sarah to do some weeding among the vegetables. They left through a side door that led from the kitchen into the garden.

Richard and Cynthia played snakes and ladders and Ludo, but there is little or no skill involved in those games, and they turned instead to Enid Blyton. But the books too palled after a while. Their parents were both in the back garden and could be seen through the kitchen window, their father with a newly sharpened billhook hacking at the overgrown hawthorn, and their mother with a hoe chopping at weeds.

It seemed like a good time to explore the house, the downstairs anyway, with the grown-ups out of the way. Timmy followed them as they went from room to room. The ground floor on the right hand side of the house had the parlour or living room in the front and the kitchen at the back. The corridor from front door to back divided the building down the middle. On the front left was a room apparently unused, for it had dust sheets over the furniture, which included an upright piano and a large roll-top desk. The room to the rear of this was used as a store room for all sorts of items including a spinning wheel, a treadle-powered sewing machine and a frame upon which hessian could be stretched to form a basis for making rugs. They touched nothing in their explorations, although they were tempted by the spinning wheel and sewing machine. They could see the chickens in their run through the window.

Let’s see if there are any more eggs, said Richard. We don’t need to go all through the house; I’ll open the back door. There’s the key.

A large iron key hung on a nail high to one side of it just out of his reach.

A carved wooden chair stood in the room they had just left. Dragging it out, Richard was able to stand on it and get the key. It felt icy cold to his hand. Getting off the chair, he fitted the key in the large iron lock, and, with an effort, managed to turn it. Clack!

He pulled at the door. It opened quite silently, and…

The First Adventure; Magpie

4

The Pathway

T he garden wasn’t there! The chicken run wasn’t there! Their parents weren’t there! The fields that they had run about in before lunch were still there, but even they weren’t quite the same. That huge old oak tree just right of the green track that stretched away before them hadn’t been in the view seen from the window. A grassy pathway— markedly distinct from the pasture on either side of it— ran downhill from the door straight ahead, the land gently rising to the left and right. Richard gaped. Cynthia gasped, and ran back into the room from which they had dragged the chair. It’s all right, she called to him. Dad and Mum are still t here.

Richard came to look for himself through the window. Yes, their parents were still cutting the hedge and hoeing the weeds, the hens still scratching about in their run. He went back to the open door. That scene hadn’t altered at all either, except that a black and white bird with a long tail was flying off from a branch of the oak.

Kakakakaka! it cried.

Richard tentatively put a foot out on to the pathway. Nothing happened. He stepped out of the doorway completely, and turned round. He could still see Cynthia, white-faced and staring, and the passageway beyond her all the way to the front door and the semicircle of stained glass above it. He took two more steps along the grassy track and then in a sudden panic ran back indoors. He looked out again. All was as before except that the bird had returned to the branch.

You try it, he told Cynthia. It’s all right. You can get back in whenever you want.

But Cynthia held back. Richard stepped out again. He might not have gone any further than a few feet, but the black and white bird flew down to earth just before him, and walked right up to him. Go’ day, it said, and Timmy, full of enthusiasm, ran out to greet it. The bird flew back to its perch in the tree, while Timmy gambolled about on the grass.

"Come here, Timmy, he ordered, and the dog obeyed, reluctantly. You frightened that nice bird, he admonished. Say you’re sorry!"

So-rry, Timmy growled. At least it sounded like ‘Sorry’. And the bird flew back and alighted on Richard’s shoulder.

Go’ day, it said.

Good day to you, bird, Richard found himself saying.

Go’ day.

Cynthia, now enchanted, stepped out onto the path and took Richard’s hand. For once he didn’t shake it off. Come to me, birdie, she pleaded. The magpie hopped into the air and landed lightly on her other arm.

Go’ day, it said again.

Goo’ day, birdie. Now meet Timmy. Timmy, you behave yourself and be nice to the nice birdie. She crouched down until her arm and the bird were on a level with Timmy’s head. Timmy made a whining noise.

Go’ day, the bird said yet again. Timmy made a noise that approximated the bird’s go’ day