The Forget-Me-Not Summer (10 page)

Once, Miranda would have jumped at the thought of such a delightful day out, but now she shook her head in pretended sorrow. ‘Sorry Beth, I've got other plans,' she said briefly, and then, seeing the spiteful look deepen on her cousin's face, she broke into hurried speech. ‘I'd come with you and give you a hand if I could, honest to God I would, but it just isn't on. I promised Mrs Mickleborough that I'd tidy round after they left, and then lock up. I told you, they're having a whole week at the seaside to make up for them all having the measles. They're renting two rooms down by the funfair; all she wants to do now is cook enough grub for the first three or four days of the holiday. I'm going to help her, I promised, and she's going to give me a sixpence if I agree to check the house every few days to make sure all's well.'

‘You're a liar,' Beth said at once. ‘Mrs Mickleborough's quite capable of doin' her own cookin'; she won't want you hangin' about. And if you told her you were needed to help with the tablecloths she'd probably say to leave the cleanin' till they're due back.' Her tone abruptly
descended from demanding to coaxing. ‘Aw, come on, Miranda, be a sport. You'll enjoy New Brighton, you know you will, and it'll be no fun for me if I have to go with Mam alone, 'cos she hates the seaside. If you've got any pennies we might have a go on the funfair – I'm rare fond of the swing boats – so why not be a pal and come with us?'

The two cousins were sitting on the steps outside Number Six, in Beth's case simply watching the other girls as they jumped in and out of the rope, chanting ‘Salt, mustard, vinegar, pepper' as they played. Miranda, on the other hand, was waiting her turn to join in the skipping, so only had half her attention upon her cousin. She understood why Beth was so keen to have her company and was tempted to agree to go along, for though she and Steve had been saving up every penny they could they still had not got enough money to buy really strong torches. Miranda had finally persuaded Steve to relent, but though each had acquired a pocketful of candle ends and a box of Swan Vestas, they had only essayed one attempt to look round the house by candlelight and they both remembered, with a jolt of sickening horror, how the moment they had opened the door the invisible laugher had reached out an invisible hand and snuffed their candles, to the accompaniment of mad giggling.

Naturally enough, their retreat had been fast and terrified; Steve almost trampling Miranda underfoot as they had both fought to escape back into the garden, whilst the mad giggle behind them had gradually faded into silence. Later, without telling anyone why he was interested, Steve had made some casual enquiries about the
place and learned that a man who had made himself a huge fortune by dealing in slaves had lived here. That man had profited by the misery and degradation of the people whose lives he had ruined. And now, Miranda had thought dramatically when Steve told her the story, his restless soul was not allowed to enter heaven, but was tied for ever to the place where he had lived in uncaring luxury for so long.

‘Miranda? What is it you and that feller get up to?' Beth whined. ‘You never used to go off without me. Sometimes you used to hang around the Close, sometimes you went wanderin' off up towards the centre where the big shops are, sometimes I believe you even went home to the Avenue, though there's strangers livin' in your house now. Oh, and you went to the theatre of course, hoping they'd tell you somethin' about your mam, only they never did, 'cos they don't know nothin'. But after we'd all had the measles, you changed. You and that Steve went off just about every day, I dunno where. And now, when the Mickleboroughs are off to the seaside for a whole week, you might at least do things wi' me until they get back.'

Miranda sighed, and was about to agree to go to the seaside with Beth – it was better than hanging around the Close, after all – when something suddenly occurred to her. Steve was nice all right, probably the only real friend she had, but after that one ill-fated expedition he had refused point-blank to explore the slave trader's mansion again. Miranda herself had learned a good deal about the house lately. She had gone to what the school children called the museum of slavery and seen for herself the leg irons and manacles, the instruments of punishment, and
talked to old folk who still remembered hearing how the slaves had been lined up in one of the city squares and auctioned to the highest bidder in those far off days. Miranda's soft heart had wept for the misery the slaves had suffered. Husbands, wives and children had been torn apart and Miranda, robbed of her own mother, thought she knew how they must have felt, the depths of their suffering.

One old man had told her many stories of how brutal and sadistic were the men who ran the sugar cane plantations on the island of Jamaica, where many of the slaves were destined to go. She had heard stories of dead or dying slaves being thrown overboard from the clipper ships, so many that sharks would follow in the ships' wake, eager for the ‘food' thrown out by such uncaring hands.

Though the stories had horrified her, Miranda had been tempted to pass them on to Steve, but in the end had decided against it. She guessed he would show a ghoulish interest in them, but she also guessed that it would probably make him even less keen to enter the house. And now, with the summer holidays looming to a close and even the sheltered trees in the walled garden beginning to take on the tints of autumn, their free time would soon become severely restricted. Opportunities to visit their playground would be limited to weekends, and once the really bad weather set in she imagined that Steve's enthusiasm, always somewhat lukewarm even for the garden, would probably disappear altogether.

Before her conversation with old Mr Harvey, Miranda had told herself that since she most certainly did not believe in ghosts it was some trick of sound, perhaps
from an underground stream, or even an echo, which had frightened her so. But now, with her new knowledge of the terrible past of the old house, she shared a good deal of Steve's apprehension, along with a growing feeling that, if there were a ghost, the ghost of some poor tormented slave who had suffered at the hands of the mansion's owner, it might recognise in her a kindred spirit.

For although it was perhaps unfair to compare living with her aunt to slavery, she was undoubtedly bullied and derided. Aunt Vi treated her like dirt, took pleasure in piling work on her weary shoulders, and the only emotion she showed her was dislike; never a hint of gratitude. Mr Harvey had called her ‘Cinderella', though only in jest, but to Miranda the nickname was no joke; it was too close to the truth. Furthermore, she too had known the pain of loss when her dearly beloved mother had been torn from her arms. It occurred to her now that if she went into the house alone, and there really was a ghost living there, then she would be able to identify with the poor creature, which was more than Steve could do.

‘
Miranda!
' Beth's whining voice jerked Miranda abruptly back into the present. In her mind's eye she had been seeing the tall white clipper ships and their miserable cargo as they sailed ever further from the country of their birth, and now here she was back in Jamaica Close with the girls playing jump the rope on the dirty paving stones and her cousin jerking at her arm. ‘Miranda,
will
you answer me! If that horrible boy is off to the seaside then why can't you come to New Brighton with Mam and me?'

‘I've
told
you . . . I promised to help . . .'

But Beth cut ruthlessly across her sentence. ‘I don't care what you promised, and nor will me mam,' she said angrily. ‘We can't manage all them bloody tablecloths without someone to give us a hand, so you can just make up your mind to it that you're coming to New Brighton with us; savvy?'

Miranda reflected with an inward smile that Beth was just like her mother. She never considered the feelings of others but simply went straight for whatever she wanted, either bullying or whining, depending which she thought would be more successful. Today, however, Miranda told herself, she was doomed to disappointment. She turned to her cousin, giving her a falsely sweet smile. ‘Sorry, Beth, you and your mum are on a loser. Unless you intend to drag me to the ferry in chains, you're going to have to carry those tablecloths yourselves.' She got briskly to her feet, dusting down her skirt, but moving judiciously out of her cousin's reach before she did so. ‘I can't even promise to help as far as the ferry because I shall be too busy. See you later, queen!'

‘One, two, three spells out! You goin' to jump in, Miranda?'

Elsie Fletcher, one of the older girls, grinned encouragingly at Miranda and indicated that they would slow the rope if she wanted to jump in. Miranda ran forward and saw Elsie and the other girls grin as Beth began to sob. ‘You're supposed to be me pal . . .' she was wailing, but when no one took the slightest notice she got heavily to her feet and went slowly through the front door of Number Six, still calling Miranda every bad name she could think of.

‘That there cousin of yours is a right nasty piece of work,' Elsie said as the rope began to revolve smoothly once more. ‘Dunno how you stand her meself.'

‘She can be all right at times, and anyway she's not nearly as horrible as my aunt,' Miranda confessed ruefully. ‘They want me to go with them to help carry a load of starched tablecloths back to one of the big hotels in New Brighton . . .' she grinned at Elsie, ‘but I've other fish to fry, and won't my aunt be mad when Beth tells on me!'

Elsie returned her grin. ‘I might have guessed she were a tale-clat as well,' she said. ‘Still, a day in New Brighton ain't to be sneezed at. You might even get an ice cream cornet out of the old witch; mebbe even a dinner, or at least a paddle in the briny.'

Miranda snorted. ‘If she bought me an ice cream she'd charge me for it, and the same goes for a dinner,' she said gloomily. ‘Aunt Vi doesn't give anything away for nothing. But I've got business of my own to attend to, so I'll bypass New Brighton, just this once.'

Elsie nodded understandingly. ‘Don't blame you; I only met your mam a couple of times, but Gawd above knows how she managed to have such a 'orrible sister as Vi,' she said. ‘If I were you I'd sag off, find meself somewhere else to live . . . ever thought of it?'

‘Heaps of times,' Miranda admitted. She and Elsie, being in different classes, had never had much to do with each other in the past but now Miranda realised she had an ally in the older girl. ‘But I'm always hoping my mother will turn up again; she'd never leave me on purpose, honest to God she wouldn't.'

The other girl grinned. ‘Course she wouldn't,' she said
firmly. ‘Well, kid, if you ever need help in gettin' away from that aunt of yours, just let me know. I'd be tickled pink to put a spoke in her wheel, especially if it helped you. And one of these days your mam will return; I'm as sure of it as I am that you'll escape from the witch. Did you know we called her that – the witch, I mean?'

Miranda shook her head. Not only had she found a friend, but she was now aware of how much her aunt was disliked. She thought the nickname suited Vi admirably and could not wait to tell Steve. She must go round to Number Two straight away, and help her pal's mother – who so generously fed her on bread and cheese when Aunt Vi let her go hungry – to get ready for their longed-for holiday.

TWO MORNINGS LATER,
having made up her mind to take advantage of Steve's absence to visit the old house, Miranda slid out of bed as soon as the first grey light of dawn could be glimpsed between the thin bedroom curtains. She had had an uncomfortable night, with Aunt Vi taking up three quarters of the bed and Beth occupying the remaining quarter, so that Miranda was forced to cling on to the edge of the mattress and hope she would not be pushed out by either of the other two occupants. She had managed to sleep for the first few hours, too exhausted to remain awake, for her aunt, furious over her refusal to accompany them to New Brighton, had brought back a large quantity of dirty linen which, despite the heat of the day, she had taken straight to the wash house. After tea, she had refused to allow Miranda to leave the kitchen; had actually locked the door so that escape was impossible. Then she had built the fire up, stood a row of irons in the hearth and made her niece iron every single one of the huge white tablecloths. Miranda's arms, shoulders and back had ached agonisingly by the time she tackled the last one, and though she had done her best and worked as hard as she possibly could she had somehow managed to scorch the hem, causing Aunt Vi to slap her head resoundingly and say that, had it not been so late, she would have sent her
niece back to the wash house to scrub away at the scorch mark and then made her iron the tablecloth again, wet though it would have been.

But the discomfort of her position had woken her long before the others were stirring, so she was able to slip out of bed without either of them appearing to notice that she had gone. She dressed quickly, not wanting to wash since the splashing might awaken one of them, and made her way down to the kitchen. There, the gingham curtains were still drawn across and the banked down fire showed red gleams where it was beginning to come to life. Miranda looked round the room; she could make herself some breakfast, but it would be best if she did not start to cook; just the smell of porridge might bring her relatives sleepily down the stairs. If so, they might start nagging again, or say she should stay at home to do the chores, or run messages; whichever it was, escape might become impossible, so Miranda cut a chunk off the loaf and spread it thinly with margarine, then generously with jam. She peeped into the pantry and saw a bottle of her cousin's favourite raspberry cordial standing on the slate slab beneath the window to keep cool. It was three quarters full. Miranda picked up an empty bottle, poured some cordial into it, went to the sink and added a judicious amount of water, capped the bottle and was about to investigate the contents of the large cake tin when she heard a slight noise from upstairs. It was probably only her cousin, or her aunt, turning over in their sleep, but Miranda was taking no chances. She glided across the kitchen and slipped out into the freshness of the morning. Closing the door behind her with infinite caution, she padded
across the yard and let herself out into the jigger; then she headed for the old house.