Groosham Grange (3 page)

“My dad also got a letter from them,” Jill said. “But they told him that Groosham Grange was a really classy place. They said I’d learn table manners, and embroidery and all that sort of stuff.”

Jill’s father was a diplomat, working in South America. Her mother was an actress. Neither of them were ever at home and the only time she spoke to them was on the telephone. Once her mother had bumped into her in the street and had been unable to remember who she was. But like David’s parents, they were determined to give her a good education and had sent her to no less than three private schools.

“I ran away from the first two,” she explained. “The third was a sort of finishing school in Switzerland. I had to learn flower arranging and cookery, but I was hopeless. My flowers died before I could arrange them and I gave the cookery teacher food poisoning.”

“What happened then?” David asked.

“The finishing school said they were finished with me. They sent me back home. That was when the letter arrived.”

Jill’s father had jumped at the opportunity. Actually, he had jumped on an aeroplane and gone back to South America. Her mother hadn’t even come home. She’d just been given two parts in a Christmas pantomime – playing both halves of the horse – and she was too busy to care. Her German nanny had made all the arrangements without really understanding any of them. And that was that.

By the time they had finished telling their stories, David realized that they all had one thing in common. One way or another they were “difficult” children. But even so, they had no idea what to expect at Groosham Grange. In his parents’ letter it had been described as old-fashioned, and for boys only. Jeffrey’s parents had been told it was some sort of educational assault course. And Jill’s parents thought they were sending their daughter to a posh ladies’ college.

“They could be three completely different places,” David said. “But it’s the same school.”

“And there’s something else p-p-peculiar,” Jeffrey added. “It’s meant to be on an island next to N-N-Norfolk. But I looked on the map and there are no islands. Not one.”

They thought about this for a while without speaking. The train had stopped at a station and there was a bustle in the corridor as people got on and off. Then David spoke.

“Listen,” he said. “However bad this Groosham Grange is, at least we’re all going there together. So we ought to make a pact. We’ll stick together … us against them.”

“Like the Three M-M-Musketeers?” Jeffrey asked.

“Sort of. We won’t tell anybody. It’ll be like a secret society. And whatever happens, we’ll always have two people we can trust.”

“I’m still going to run away,” Jill muttered.

“Maybe we’ll go with you. At least we’ll be able to help you.”

“I’ll lend you my swimming trunks,” Jeffrey said.

Jill glanced at his bulging waist, thinking they would probably be more helpful if she used them in a parachute jump. But she kept the thought to herself. “All right,” she agreed. “Us against them.”

“Us against th-th-them.”

“Us against them.” David held out his hand and the three of them shook.

Then the door of the compartment slid open and a young man looked in. The first thing David noticed was his dog-collar – he was a vicar. The second thing was that he was holding a guitar.

“Is that free?” he asked, nodding at one of the empty seats.

“Yes.” David would have preferred to have lied. The last thing he needed right now was a singing vicar. But it was obvious that they were alone.

The young man came into the compartment, beaming at them in that horrible way that very religious people sometimes do. He didn’t put his guitar up on the luggage rack but leant it against the opposite seat. He was in his thirties, with pink, rosy cheeks, fair hair, a beard and unusually bright teeth. As well as the dog-collar he was wearing a silver crucifix, a St Christopher medallion and a B
AN THE
B
OMB
sign.

“I’m Father Percival,” he announced, as if anybody was slightly interested in who he was. “But you can call me Jimbo.” David glanced at his watch and groaned silently. There were still at least two hours to King’s Lynn and already the priest was working himself up as if any moment he was going to burst into song.

“So where are you kids off to?” he demanded. “Going on hols together? Or having a day out?”

“We’re going to s-s-school,” Jeffrey told him.

“School? Fab! Triffic!” The priest looked at them and suddenly realized that none of them thought it was at all fab or triffic. “Hey – cheer up!” he exclaimed. “Life’s a great journey and it’s first-class all the way when you’re travelling with Jesus.”

“I thought you said your name was Jimbo,” Jill muttered.

“I’ll tell you what,” the vicar went on, ignoring her. “I know how to cheer you youngsters up.” He picked up his guitar and twanged at the strings. They were horribly out of tune. “How about a few hymns? I made this one up myself. I call it ‘Jesus, You’re My Buddy’ and it goes like this…”

In the hour that followed, Jimbo played six of his own compositions, followed by ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ and, because Christmas was approaching, a dozen carols. At last he stopped and rested his guitar on his knees. David held his breath, praying that the vicar wouldn’t finish off with a sermon or, worse still, pass the collection plate around the carriage. But he seemed to have exhausted himself as well as them.

“So what are your names?” he asked.

Jill told him.

“Great! That’s really super. Now tell me – Dave, Jeff and Jilly – you say you’re off to school. What school’s that?”

“Groosham Grange,” David told him.

“Groosham Grange?” The vicar’s mouth dropped open. In one second all the colour had drained out of his face. His eyes bulged and one of his cheeks, no longer rosy, twitched. “Groosham Grange?” he whispered. His whole body had begun to tremble. Slowly his fair hair rippled and then stood on end.

David stared at him. The man was terrified. David had never seen anyone quite so afraid. What had he said? He had only mentioned the school’s name, but now the vicar was looking at him as if he were the devil himself.

“Grrooosss…” The vicar tried to say the words for a third time but they seemed to get caught on his lips and he hissed like a punctured balloon. His eyeballs were standing out like ping-pong balls now. His throat had gone dark mauve and it was evident from the way his body shuddered that he was no longer able to breathe.

“…ssss.” The hiss died away. The vicar’s hands, suddenly claws, jerked upwards, clutching at his heart. Then he collapsed, falling to the ground with a crash, a clatter and a twang.

“Oh dear,” Jill said. “I think he’s dead.”

The vicar had suffered a massive heart attack but he wasn’t actually dead. The guard telephoned ahead, and at King’s Lynn station a British Rail porter was standing by to whisk him away on a trolley to a waiting ambulance. David, Jill and Jeffrey were also met. One glance at the man who was looking out for them and they would have quite happily taken the ambulance.

He was horribly deformed. If he had been involved in a dreadful car crash and then fallen into an industrial mangle it could only have improved him. He was about five foot tall – or five foot short rather, for his head was closer to the ground than to his shoulders. This was partly due to the fact that his neck seemed to be broken, partly due to his hunched back. One of his eyes was several centimetres lower than the other and he had swollen cheeks and thin, straggly hair. He was dressed in a loose leather jacket and baggy trousers. People walking along the station were trying so hard not to look at him that one unfortunate woman accidentally fell off the platform. In truth it was hard to look at anything else. He was holding a placard that read G
ROOSHAM
G
RANGE
. With a sinking heart, David approached him, Jeffrey and Jill following behind.

“My name is Gregor,” he said. His voice came out as a throaty gurgle. “Did you have a good journey?”

David had to wait for him to say this again because it sounded like, “Dit yurgh av aghoot churnik?” When he understood, he nodded, lost for words. “Bring your bags then, young masters,” Gregor gurgled. “The car is outside.”

The car was a hearse.

It had been repainted with the name of the school on the side, but there could be no disguising the shape, the long, flat area in the back where its grisly contents should have lain. The people in the street weren’t fooled either. They stopped in respectful silence, taking off their hats as the three children were whisked away towards their new school. David wondered if he wasn’t in the middle of some terrible nightmare, if he wouldn’t wake up at any moment to find himself in bed at Wiernotta Mews. Cautiously, he pinched himself. It had no effect. The hunchback hooted at a van and cursed. The hearse swept through a red light.

Gregor was a most peculiar chauffeur. Because of his height and the shape of his body, he could barely see over the steering wheel. To anyone out in the street it must have looked as if the car were driving itself. It was a miracle they didn’t hit anybody. David, sitting in the front seat, found himself staring at the man and blushed when Gregor turned and grinned at him.

“You’re wondering how I came to look like this, young master?” he declared. “I was born like it, born all revolting. I gave my mother the heebie-jeebies, I did. Poor mother! Poor Gregor!” He wrenched at the steering wheel and they swerved to avoid a traffic island. “When I was your age, I tried to get a job in a freak show,” he went on. “But they said I was over-qualified. So I became the porter at Groosham Grange. I love Groosham Grange. You’ll love Groosham Grange, young master. All the young masters love Groosham Grange.”

They had left the city behind them now, following the coastal road up to the north. After that, David must have dozed off because the next thing he knew the sky had darkened and they seemed to be driving across the sea, the car pushing through the dark green waves. He rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window.

It wasn’t the sea but a wide, flat field. The waves were grass, rippling in the wind. The field was empty but in the distance a great windmill rose up, the white panelled wood catching the last reflections of the evening sun. He shivered. Gregor had turned the heater on in the car but he could feel the desolation of the scene creeping in beneath the cushion of hot air.

Then he saw the sea itself. The road they were following – it was barely more than a track – led down to a twisted wooden jetty. A boat was waiting for them, half-hidden by the grass. It was an old fishing boat, held together by rust and lichen. Black smoke bubbled in the water beneath it. A pile of crates stood on the deck underneath a dirty net. A seagull circled in the air above it, sobbing quietly to itself. David hardly felt much better.

Gregor stopped the car. “We’re here, young masters,” he announced.

Taking their suitcases, they got out of the car and stood shivering in the breeze. David looked back at the way they had come but after a few twists and turns the road disappeared and he realized that they could have come from anywhere. He was in a field somewhere in Norfolk with the North Sea ahead of him. But for the windmill he could have been in China for all the difference it would have made.

“Cheerful, isn’t it,” Jill said.

“Where are we?” David asked.

“God knows. The last town I saw was called Hunstanton, but that was half an hour ago.” She pulled her cardigan round her shoulders. “I just hope we get there soon,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because the sooner we arrive, the sooner I can run away.”

A man had appeared, jumping down off the boat. He was wearing thigh-length boots and a fisherman’s jersey. His face was almost completely hidden by a black beard, as black as the eyes which shone at them beneath a knotted mass of hair. A gold ring hung from his left ear. Give him a sword and an eye-patch and he could have walked straight out of
Treasure Island
.

“You’re late, Gregor,” he announced.

“The traffic was bad, Captain Bloodbath.”

“Well, the tide is worse. These are treacherous waters, Gregor. Treacherous tides and treacherous winds.” He spat in the direction of the sea. “And I’ve got a treacherous wife waiting for me to get home, so let’s get moving.” He untied a rope at the end of the jetty. “All aboard!” he shouted. “You … boy! Weigh the anchor.”

David did as he was told although the anchor weighed so much that he could hardly lift it. A moment later they were away, the engine coughing, spluttering and smoking – as indeed was Captain Bloodbath. Gregor stood beside him. The three children huddled together at the back of the boat. Jeffrey had gone an unpleasant shade of green.

“I’m not m-m-much of a sailor,” he whispered.

The captain had overheard him. “Don’t worry!” he chortled. “This ain’t much of a boat!”

A mist had crept over the water. Now its ghostly white fingers stretched out for the boat, drawing it in. In an instant the sky had disappeared and every sound – the seagull, the engine, the chopping of the waves – seemed damp and distant. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it parted. And Skrull Island lay before them.

It was about two miles long and a mile wide with thick forest to the east. At the southern end, a cliff rose sharply out of the frothing water, chalk-white at the top but a sort of muddy orange below. A twist of land jutted out of the island, curving in front of the cliff, and it was to this point that Captain Bloodbath steered the boat. Another jetty had been built here and there was an open-top Jeep standing nearby. But there was no welcoming committee, no sign of the school.

“Stand by with the anchor!” the captain called out. Assuming he meant him, David took it. Bloodbath spun the wheel, slammed the engine into reverse and shouted. David dropped the anchor. Jeffrey was sick over the side.

They had arrived.

“This way, young masters. Not far now. Just a little more driving.” Gregor was the first on land, capering ahead. Jeffrey followed, weakly dragging his suitcase. David paused, waiting for Jill. She was watching Captain Bloodbath, who was already raising the anchor, backing the boat out.