The Secret of Platform 13 (17 page)

The Sister patted his shoulder. Mrs Trottle had sounded so kind and concerned on the telephone that it never occurred to her to be suspicious.

‘Ah, here they are now,’ she said.

Two men came into the room. They wore natty suits – one pin-striped, one pale grey – and kipper ties. One of them had long dark hair parted in the middle and trained over his ears; the other was fair, with thick curls. Both of them smelled strongly of after shave, but their fingernails were dirty.

Ben disliked them at once. They looked oily and untrustworthy and he took a step backwards.

‘I don’t want to go with you,’ he said. ‘I want to find out what all this is about.’

‘Now come on, we don’t want a fuss,’ said the dark-haired man. ‘My name’s Stanford by the way, and this here is Ralph – and we’ve got a long drive ahead of us so let’s be off sharpish.’

‘Where to? Where are we going?’

‘The name wouldn’t mean anything to you,’ said Ralph, putting a comb through his curls. ‘But you’ll be all right there, you’ll see. Now say goodbye to the Sister and we’ll be on our way.’

The Sister looked troubled. The men were not what she had expected, but her orders were clear. Ben must not leave the hospital alone and in a state of shock.

‘I’m sure everything will be all right, dear,’ she said. ‘And of course you’ll come back for your Granny’s funeral.’

The men caught each other’s eye and Ralph gave a snigger. One thing the children at Ramsden Hall did
not
get, was time off to go to funerals!

Ben was so tired now that nothing seemed real to him. If the Sister thought it was all right, then perhaps it was. And after all, what was there for him now in Trottle Towers?

He picked up his jacket. The letter was still in his pocket, but he didn’t want to read it in front of these unpleasant men.

‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m ready . ’

And then, sandwiched between the two thugs Mrs Trottle had hired to deliver him to as horrible a place as could be found in England, he walked down the long hospital corridor towards the entrance hall.

It was very late. As she trudged through the streets, Odge was dazzled by the headlights of cars and the silly advertisements flashing on and off. Advertisements for stomach pills, for hairspray, for every sort of rubbish. For a moment she wondered if she was going to be able to stand it. On the Island now it would be cool and quiet; the mistmakers would be lying close together on the beaches and the stars would be bright and clear. It wasn’t a very nice thought that she would never see the Island under the stars again. Well, not for nine years. But in nine years she might be as silly as her sisters, talking about men and marriage and all that stuff.

She stopped for a moment under a lamp to look at the map. First right, first left, over a main road and she’d be there.

London wasn’t very beautiful, but there were good things here, and good people. The Plodger was kind, and Henry Prendergast, and even quite ordinary people: shop assistants and park keepers. It wouldn’t be too bad living here. And she wouldn’t miss her bossy sisters – well, perhaps Fre-degonda a little. Fredegonda could be quite funny when she was practising squeezing people’s stomachs to give them nightmares.

The mistmaker she’d miss horribly , t hat was true, but she couldn’t have kept him. The way those idiots had carried on in the Astor had shown her that, and he was old enough now to fend for himself. When the others realized that she hadn’t gone ahead – that she’d doubled back and hidden in the cloakroom – they’d see to him, and explain to her parents. And even if she wanted to change her mind, it was too late. In an hour from now, the gump would be closed.

‘I am a hag,’ she reminded herself, because rather a bad attack of homesickness was coming on. ‘I am Odge with the Tooth.’

She turned left . . . crossed the road. She could see the hospital now, towering over the other buildings. Ben would be in there still and when she imagined him watching by the old woman’s bed, Odge knew she’d done the right thing. Ben was clever, but he was much too trusting; he needed someone who saw things as they really were. No one was going to get the better of Ben while she was around and if it meant living in dirty London instead of the Island, well that was part of the job.

Up the steps of the hospital now. Even so late at night there were lights burning in the big entrance hall. Hospitals never slept.

‘I am Miss Gribble,’ she said, and the reception clerk looked down in surprise at the small figure, dressed in an old-fashioned blazer, which had come in out of the dark. ‘And I have to see—’

She broke off because someone had called her name – and spinning round, she saw Ben coming towards her, hemmed in by two men. His face was white, he looked completely exhausted, and the men seemed to be helping him.

‘Odge!’ he called again. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you—’

The man on Ben’s right jerked his arm. ‘Now then – we’ve no time to chat.’

He began to pull Ben towards the door, but Ben twisted round, trying to free himself.

‘She’s dead, Odge!’ he cried. ‘My grandmother. She’s dead!’ His voice broke, it was the first time he’d said that word.

Odge drew in her breath. Then she looked at the big clock on the wall. A quarter past eleven. They could do it if they hurried. Just.

‘Then you can come with me!’ she said joyfully . ‘You can come back to the Island.’

Ben blinked, shook himself properly awake. He had lost all sense of time, sitting by his grandmother’s bed; he’d thought it was long past midnight and the gump was closed. Hope sprang into his eyes.

‘Let me
go
!’ he said, and with sudden strength he pulled away from his guard. ‘I’m going with her!’

‘Oh no, you aren’t!’ Stanford grabbed his shoulders; Ralph bent Ben’s arm behind his back and held it there. ‘You’re coming with us and pronto. Now walk.’

Ben fought as hard as he knew how, but the men were strong and there were two of them. And the receptionist had gone into her office. There was no one to see what was happening and help. They were close to the door now, and the waiting car.

But Odge had dodged round in front of them.

‘No, Ben, no! You mustn’t hurt the poor men,’ she said. ‘Can’t you see how ill they are?’

‘Get out of the way, you ugly little brat or we’ll take you too,’ said Stanford, and kicked out at her.

But Odge still stood there, looking very upset.

‘Oh, how dreadful! Your poor hair! I’m so
sorry
for you!’

Without thinking, Stanford put his hand to his head. Then he gave a shriek. A lump of black hair the size of a fist had come out of his scalp.

‘That’s how it starts,’ said Odge. ‘With sudden baldness. The frothing and the fits come later.’

‘My God!’ Stanford grabbed at his temples and another long, greasy wodge of hair fell on to the lapel of his suit.

‘And your friend – he’s even worse,’ said Odge. ‘All those lovely curls!’

It was true. Ralph’s curls were dropping on to the tiled floor like hunks of knitting wool while round patches of pink skin appeared on his scalp.

‘Usually there’s no cure,’ Odge went on, ‘but maybe they could give you an injection in here. Some hospitals do have a vaccine – it gets injected into your behind with a big needle – but you’d have to hurry!’

The thugs waited no longer. Holding on to their heads, trying uselessly to keep in the rest of their hair, they ran down the corridor shrieking for help.

‘Oh, Odge!’ said Ben. ‘
You
did it! You struck them with baldness!’

‘Don’t waste time,’ said the hag.

She put her hand into Ben’s and together they bounded down the steps and out into the night.

The three-masted schooner was at anchor off the Secret Cove. Beside it lay the Royal Ya cht with its flying standard, and the charter boat. A number of smaller craft – dinghies and rowing boats – were drawn up on the beach. The tide was out; the clean firm sand curved and rippled round the bay. In the light of the setting sun, the sea was calm and quiet.

But the King and Queen stood with their backs to the sea, and facing the round dark hole at the bottom of the cliff. The cave which led to the gump was surrounded by thorn bushes and overhung by a ledge of rock. It was from there that the Prince would come.

If he came at all . . .

Flanking the King and Queen were the courtiers and the important people on the Island. The head teacher of the school had come on the charter boat and the Prime Minister and a little girl who had been top in Latin and won the trip as a prize.

And standing behind the King and Queen, but a little way off because they still hadn’t allowed themselves to wash, were Lily and Violet and Rose. Each of them held a firm, unopened banana in their hand, and their eyes too were fixed on the cave.

There were just two hours still to go before the Closing.

‘Your Majesty should rest,’ said the royal doctor, coming forward with a folding stool. ‘At least sit down, you’re using up all your strength.’

But the Queen couldn’t sit, she couldn’t eat or drink, she could only stare at the dark hole in the cliff as if to take her eyes from it would be to abandon the last shred of hope.

At ten-thirty the flares were lit. Flares round the opening, flares along the curving bay now crowded with people . . . A ring of flares where the King and Queen waited. It was beautiful, the flickering firelight, but frightening too for it marked the ending of the last day.

But not surely the end of hope?

Five minutes passed . . . ten . . . Then from the crowd lining the shore there came a rustle of excitement . . . a murmuring – and from the Queen a sudden cry .

A lone figure had appeared in the opening. The King and Queen had already moved towards it, when they checked. It was not their son who stood in the mouth of the cave – it was not anyone they knew. It was in fact a very tired witch called Mrs Harbottle, holding a carrier bag and looking bewildered. She’d heard about the gump from a sorcerer who worked in the Job Centre and decided she fancied it.

The disappointment was bitter. The Queen did not weep, but those who stood close to her could see, suddenly , how she would look when she was old.

Another silence – more ticking away of the minutes. A cold breeze blew in from the sea. Rose and Lily and Violet still held their closed bananas, but Lily had begun to snivel.

Then once more the mouth of the cave filled with figures. Well known ones this time – and once more hope leapt up, only to die again. There was no need to ask if the rescuers had, after all, brought back the Prince. Cor was bent and huddled into his cloak; Gurkie carried her straw basket as if the weight was too much to bear – and where the fernseed had worn off, they could see the ogre’s red, unhappy face.

From just a few people on the shore there came hisses and boos, but the others quickly shushed them. They knew how terrible the rescuers must feel, coming back empty handed, and that failure was punishment enough.

Cor was too ashamed to go and greet the King and Queen. He moved out of the light of the flares and sat down wearily on a rock. Gurkie was looking for Odge in the crowd gathered on the beach. She could make out two of Odge’s sisters but there was no sign of the little hag – and trying not to think what a homecoming this might have been, she went to join Cor and the ogre in the shadows.

‘We must go and speak to them,’ said the King. ‘They will have done their best.’

‘Yes.’ But before the Queen could gather up her strength, the child who had won the Latin prize put up her hand.

‘Listen!’ she said.

Then the others heard it too. Baying. Barking Howling. The sky yelpers were back!

They burst out of the opening – the whole pack – tumbling over each other, slobbering, slavering, their saucer eyes glinting. Freed suddenly from the tunnel they hurled themselves about, sending up sprays of loose sand.

But not for long! The smell came first – and then Miss Witherspoon, holding her whistle.

‘Sit!’ screamed the harpy – and the dogs sat.

‘Grovel!’ she screeched, and the dogs flopped on to their stomachs, slobbering with humbleness.

‘Stay!’ she yelled – and they stayed.

Then she stepped aside. The smell grew worse, and out of the tunnel, feet first, came Miss Green, Miss Brown and Miss Jones. The monstrous bird-women’s wings were furled and one look at their smug faces showed the watchers what they wanted to know.

Turning, the harpies took their place on either side of the tunnel and stretched out their arms with their dangling handbags. ‘Lo!’ they seemed to be saying as they pointed to the opening. ‘Behold! The Great One comes!’

A cheer went up then and to the sound of hurrahs and the sight of waving hands, Mrs Smith appeared in the mouth of the cave.

And in her arms – a sack! A large sack, tied at the top but heaving and bulging so that they knew what was inside it was very much alive.

The Prince! The Prince had come!

All eyes went to the King and Queen. The Queen stood with her hand to her heart. He had come in a sack, as a prisoner – but he had come! Nothing mattered except that.

But before she could move forward, the chief harpy put up her arm. She had decided to drop Raymond at the feet of the King and Queen – to sail through the air with him, like the giant birds in the stories. Now she picked up the sack in her talons; unfurled her wings – and circling the heads of the crowd, holding the squirming bundle in her iron claws, she came down and with perfect timing, dropped it on a hummock of sand.

‘I bring you His Royal Highness, the Prince of the Island,’ said Mrs Smith – and patted her perm.

The cheering had stopped. No one stirred now, no one spoke. This was the moment they had waited for for nine long years.

The harpy bent down to the sack – and the King banished her with a frown. Later she would be rewarded, but no stranger was going to unwrap this precious burden.

‘Your scissors,’ he said to the doctor.

The doctor opened his black bag and handed them over. The Queen was deathly pale, her breath came in gasps as she stood beside her husband.