Ballad of Favour

By Monica Dickens

The summer is over and Rose Wood leaves the Wood Briar Hotel for school. Missing the summer buzz and her freedom, and with several weeks passing by quietly since her magical adventure with the Great Gray Horse, she worries that her mission as the messenger of this ancient, brave steed is over.

But when the mysterious composer, Mr Vingo, returns to the hotel, Favour, the Great Gray Horse reappears and Rose is summoned for another mission. This time she travels to an abandoned house in a town nearby where a forlorn family tries to survive their hardships. Will Rose and Favour be able to help them? Will Rose resist the temptation to share her secret with her friends, Abigail and Ben? She can only stay the messenger of the horse if she is brave and works undiscovered…

The Ballad of Favour, is the second book in the four-part fantasy adventures series about Rose and the magical Great Grey Horse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Feb 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781448213917

Monica Dickens

Monica Dickens, MBE, 10 May 1915 - 25 December 1992, was the great-great-granddaughter of Charles Dickens and author of over 40 books for adults and children. Disillusioned with the world she was brought up in - she was expelled from St Paul's Girls' School in London before she was presented at court as a debutante - she decided to go into service and her experiences as a cook and general servant formed the basis of her first book, One Pair Of Hands in 1939. She married a United States Navy officer and moved to America where she continued to write, most of her books being set in Britain. Monica Dickens had strong humanitarian interests and founded the Cape Cod and the Islands Samaritans in 1977, and it is for this charity that she recorded this audio edition of A Christmas Carol to benefit Samaritan crisis lines, support groups for those who have lost someone to suicide, and community outreach programs. In 1985 she returned to the UK after the death of her husband, and continued to write until her death on Christmas Day 1992.

Book preview

Monica Dickens

Ballad of Favour

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

A Note on the Author

Chapter One

By late September, the Wood Briar Hotel was only half full.

Rose, who lived and worked there, had loved the busy summer, with all the rooms in the hotel and its annexe house taken, but autumn was a good time too, with less work and more time for herself when she came home from school.

Soft misty days were perfect for riding, and the sea was still just warm enough to swim when the sun was out. Weekenders came, and a few retired people pottered about the hotel, giving no trouble, taking walks, reading on the verandah in the low golden sunshine.

One-nighters on car trips were more relaxed, and often stayed an extra night. Salesmen on the road were still cheery before the winter wore them out. Jake and Julie, two of Rose’s favourite guests, still came from the city for a night or two. Her friend Ben would come with his family when he had a weekend off from school. The elusive Mr Vingo, who lived in the round turret bedroom with his little yellow upright piano, would probably turn up again soon from one of his mysterious disappearances.

Although he and Rose were close friends, and shared the colossal secret about the legendary Great Grey Horse, he would never tell her where he had been, or why. He would leave without warning and then just reappear, bulky and out of breath, and say something like, ‘Yes, thank you, I will have tea and two thin slices of that good pound cake,’ as if he had never been away.

The small seaside hotel stood across the road from low sand dunes and a long curved beach; a gabled, turreted old house which had been built a century ago by someone with a taste for stained glass windows and odd bulges and balconies. Next to it stood a smaller, red brick house that was used as an annexe to the hotel, with extra bedrooms and a lounge.

When Rose’s parents, Philip and Mollie Wood, bought the hotel four years ago, it was called with mournful grandeur, ‘The Cavendish’. It had been shabby and gloomy, with terrible food and bad service. Now it was all white paint and bright rugs and curtains, with real flowers on the dining-room tables instead of dusty plastic ones, and well-fed guests who were made to feel at home. The hotel had been rechristened ‘Wood Briar’, because the girl who lived there was called Rose Wood.

Rose was thirteen. She was energetic and practical, and she helped the staff with all the jobs in the bedrooms and the kitchen and dining-room.

‘If you can call it help,’ Mrs Ardis said in one of her many different voices, a hoity toity one designed to show that she had known a much better life than being a chambermaid.

Making beds with her, Rose had flung down a pillow and flown to the window at a shout from below. Abigail on her dun pony – Abigail was back! She pulled in her head and said, ‘Won’t be a sec.’

‘I know your secs.’ Mrs Ardis bent with a groan to pick up the pillow, and punched it as if she would like to do the same to Rose.

But Rose was gone, scooting along the twisting corridor, sliding down the bannisters, jumping far out into the hall and skidding on a rug, to the outrage of old Mrs Plummer who was sitting behind a large fern waiting for her taxi to take her to the hairdresser, to have her stiff grey sausage curls dyed blue. Rose dashed through the kitchen where Hilda was stringing late beans and reading the paper with her one good eye, and outside to where Abigail sat gracefully on her pony on the back lawn.

‘Where you been?’ They always said that to each other, whether they had been apart for months, or only days or hours.

‘Well, you know. In Chicago.’ Abigail was American. ‘But Dad’s back here now at the engineering plant, so we’ve opened up the farmhouse. Where you bin?’

‘Here.’ Rose grinned, and rolled the sleeves of her overall higher. ‘Working.’

‘So what’s new?’ Abigial always said that. She said, ‘What’s noo?’

‘Nothing much.’ Rose wanted to say, ‘Lots,’ but she couldn’t tell Abigail about the enormous and splendid adventure that had come into her life when she was chosen as a messenger of Favour, the Great Grey Horse, in his fight against the sad and bad things of the world. So she laughed and said, ‘Mrs Ardis gave in her notice this morning.’ This was a weekly ritual, sometimes daily, if things were too hectic in the summer, or too boring in the winter. ‘Jake and Julie’s dog dug up the bulbs my mother planted. Dilys’s new boy friend broke her heart, and she broke five sherry glasses. A man called Robert McRobert did four crossword puzzles and two jigsaws before lunch on a rainy day. Hilda used coffee syrup instead of gravy browning …’

‘So what else is new?’ Abigail’s long chestnut hair was pulled tightly into a plait down her back, stretching the corners of her lively eyes. She had a pointed face, like an elf.

‘I don’t know what’s new.’ Rose’s father had come out of the shed that was his summer workshop behind the hotel, where he tested products for a magazine that told people what to buy. ‘But what’s old is that I’ve asked you before not to ride that damn horse on my lawn.’

‘It’s a pony, Dad,’ Rose said bluntly, and Abigail explained, ‘He doesn’t have any shoes. He’s been out to grass all summer.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Philip Wood was treading back a small piece of turf raised by the pony’s hoof, with as much fuss as if it had been made by a bulldozer.

‘Hi, Mr Wood,’ Abigail said charmingly. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

‘Good to see you.’ Rose’s father nodded ungraciously and went on into the hotel.

Rose wished he could be like Abigail’s father, who welcomed you as if you were the one person in the world he’d been wanting to see, but Abigail said cheerfully, ‘He’s neat, your Dad. Leaves you guessing.’

Above them, Mrs Ardis pushed her head of wild brindle hair out of a bedroom window and called in one of her coarser voices, ‘It’s now or never, Rose!’

If that was why the pony flung up his head from the grass and jumped sideways, why was he afterwards still tense and quivering, flicking his short Arab ears back and forth, staring away from the hotel towards the wood?

‘Cool it, you jerk.’

Abigail could not hear anything. Only Rose heard it, beyond the wood on the turf of the moor, the drumbeat of galloping hoofs. Into her head came the first rising notes of the horse’s strange tune, dropping into the low, thrilling staccato of a snort blown into the wind.

She had not seen him for so long, she was afraid she had lost him, but now she knew that he had never been far away from her, the challenging spirit of the Great Grey Horse that hovered always at the edge of her dreams.

Rose’s mother was delighted to see Abigail again. Mollie Wood was a young, pretty woman with curly gold hair which she had not passed on to Rose, whose hair was straight and neither blonde nor brown. The hotel was Mollie’s joy and pride. She did everything she could to make the guests happy and comfortable – far too much, according to her husband, to whom guests were customers, who shouldn’t get more than they paid for. One of the reasons she liked Abigail was that Rose’s American friend loved the Wood Briar Hotel as much as Rose and Mollie did.

‘Just the woman I’ve been hoping to see!’

Abigail grinned at Mollie’s greeting. ‘Me too, Mrs Wood. The hotel looks swell. Can I come and help Rose some time?’

‘This evening, if you like. We’re going to be busy. You can help Rose to serve dinners.’

Abigail thought it was the finest thing in the world, and was constantly nagging her parents to buy a hotel in Chicago. When she came back, she tied on one of Rose’s blue check aprons, which looked instantly elegant on her, while on Rose it just looked like a short blue check apron, and helped to lay the tables. After the usual argument about whether the pudding spoon went beside the knife or above it, she and Rose went out into the fine September rain to pick some chrysanthemums from the garden of the annexe house next door.

‘There used to be ghosts in this house, you know.’ Everyone had thought that was Rose’s imagination, but Abigail believed it.

‘Oh, gee.’

‘They’ve gone now.’

‘Where?’

‘Who knows? Wherever ghosts go when they’ve been released from haunting.’

‘Darn it,’ Abigail said. ‘You might have kept them for me.’

‘You like ghosts, madam?’ a man’s voice asked from the other side of the garden wall, as if he were selling ghosts in a department store.

Rose stood up. Of course. Mr Vingo usually came back in this kind of weather. He liked the rain.

‘Favour is back,’ she muttered quickly, to let him know without Abigail hearing. He nodded and winked, one large smooth upper lid descending like the back of a spoon under the turned up brim of his rain hat.

‘And so is – so is Abigail.’ Rose had been longing to introduce her two best friends. Now she was nervous. Would they like each other? She had told Mr Vingo about Abigail, and written to Abigail about Mr Vingo. Would her enthusiastic descriptions fit at all? ‘Abigail Drew. Mr R. V. Vingo.’ That was his name in the hotel register. Sometimes Mollie wrote up his bill as Harvey Vingo. It didn’t seem to matter.

Mr Vingo looked shy. If Rose had been Abigail, she would have been shy too, but Abigail never seemed to bother with things like shyness and doubt. She stood up, holding a bunch of red and gold flowers, with Mollie’s yellow oilskin jacket round her shoulders and her eyes shining, and said, ‘You must be the gentleman with the piano.’

‘Indeed.’ Mr Vingo’s thick eyebrows smoothed out and one of his great baggy smiles crumpled the flesh of his broad pale face. ‘And you must be the lady with the flute.’

How did he know? Rose could not have told him, since Abigail had only told her