The Forget-Me-Not Summer (12 page)

‘I didn't know they were yours – the apples and plums, I mean – and if they are I'm very sorry,' Miranda said, trying hard to keep her voice steady.

There was a short silence, then the voice said: ‘Why you come here secretly, instead of knocking on door like Christian?'

‘Because we didn't know anybody lived here,' Miranda said, speaking each word separately and with great care. ‘For that matter, why are you hiding? I can hear your voice plain as plain but I can see neither hide nor hair
of you.' She hesitated, then decided to put the question uppermost in her mind. ‘Are you a – a ghost?'

This time the pause was very much longer and the voice, when it spoke again, sounded extremely puzzled. ‘Ghost? Why you think I ghost?'

Miranda shrugged helplessly. ‘If you're invisible, and I think you are, then you must be a ghost.'

This time the pause was shorter. ‘Can ghost own house? I told you this my house; you not believe me?' Miranda was growing accustomed to the voice now. Sometimes it sounded puzzled, sometimes unsure, but at other times impatience with her foolishness seemed uppermost. She shifted her position slightly, almost certain now that the speaker was standing in the corridor, but when she drew her candle out of her pocket and fumbled for the matches, the voice spoke sternly. ‘This is old house and catch fire quick. Didn't your mammy tell you not to play wi' matches? Go away now and take candles with you; I'm best in dark. But come back another day and we talk more . . .'

Miranda thought she heard a soft sort of shuffling sound and then she became convinced that she was alone once more, save for the little dog. The ghost had gone without leaving any clue as to his or her identity. Indeed, did a ghost have an identity? Miranda was not sure; the only thing she was sure of was that the woman – thinking back she was positive that it had been a woman's voice – meant no one any harm. Perhaps she was a ghost, or perhaps she was just a very shy person who now owned the place. Miranda was about to return to the garden when her attention was drawn to the little dog. It was staring at the doorway which led to the rest of the house
and wagging its poor little scrap of a tail, its shabby ears pricked and its tongue lolling out once more.

The Mickleborough family arrived home quite late on the Saturday, but as soon as day dawned on Sunday Steve was down in the kitchen helping his mother to prepare breakfast, since he was all on fire to get round to Number Six and see what Miranda had been doing in his absence. He had been surprised by how much he had missed her. She wasn't particularly pretty, or particularly clever, but she was grand company, and, despite her miserable home circumstances, game for anything.

Of course, he and his brothers had had a glorious time at the seaside. Little Kenny had watched with envy as the older boys splashed in and out of the sea and became totally at ease in the water. Then there were the wonderful fish and chip suppers, and perhaps best of all the new understanding between himself and his stepfather. Steve was not sure exactly why he and Albert Mickleborough had begun not merely to tolerate but to like one another. He thought it might be the fact that he had begun to call his stepfather ‘Dad', whereas previously he had simply avoided calling him anything at all. And then he had greeted the news that his mother was expecting another baby with real enthusiasm; Steve liked small children and had no objection at all to looking after Kenny, whereas his other brothers, particularly Joe, had no interest in their mother's second family. When Albert expressed his hope that the baby would be a girl this time, Steve entered into the discussion with zest, suggesting names, and promising to take the new baby off his mother's hands whenever she and her husband fancied a night out.

All this had made the holiday one of the happiest Steve had ever known, and though normally he would have regretted it when they packed up and made for home, this time, though he knew he would miss the freedom the holiday had given him, his eagerness to tell Miranda all about it was a real compensation for the loss of the seaside he had so enjoyed.

‘Wake up, Steve! Aren't you the one for dreaming. Got any plans for today? You've been such a good lad, lookin' after young Kenny so's your dad and I could have time to ourselves, that it's only fair to let you have time off to go around with your pals. If so, I'll pack you up a carry-out, enough for you and that poor little scrawny scrap of a girl what's livin' at Number Six.'

‘Oh, Mam, that'd be grand,' her son said with real gratitude. ‘But I'll help meself if it's all the same to you. Jam sandwiches, and your oatcakes and cheese, will be fine. I bet she's had a miserable time while we were away so I'll call for her and mebbe we can take a tram out into the country. Simonswood is her favourite place; we were dammin' a stream there to make ourselves a pool deep enough to swim in. She wants me to learn her how. I'd take her up to the Scaldy, but that's a place for fellers really, not girls.'

His mother smiled, and Steve reflected that she was still a pretty woman even though she was old; Steve considered anyone past forty to be over the hill. But now he returned her smile gratefully as he began to lay the table. ‘I'll go and get Kenny up if you like, and give him his breakfast,' he volunteered, but Moira Mickleborough shook her head.

‘It's all right, lad. You deserve some time to yourself.
And while I'm about it, I'd just like you to know that though I've said nothing, that don't mean I've not appreciated the way you've behaved towards my Albert. Life will be easier for all of us, particularly now that Joe's followed your lead and started calling him Dad too. I'm real grateful to you, 'cos sometimes I've felt like a bone between two dogs, and that ain't a comfortable way to feel.'

Steve chuckled. ‘I know what you mean; I've felt the same meself now and then. I won't wait for breakfast. I'll cut myself a carry-out now, with enough spare for Miranda.'

Ten minutes later Steve left the house with the food in his old school satchel and a bottle of water sticking out of the top. He approached Number Six rather cautiously, and was glad he had done so when the front door shot open and fat Vi Smythe appeared on the top step, with Beth hovering close behind her. She was in the middle of shouting for Miranda to come in at once and give a hand with the chores when she spotted Steve, and immediately switched her attention to him. ‘You're that blamed iggorant Mickleborough boy, what used to keep company with me niece,' she boomed. ‘Aye, you're a nasty piece of work as I remember. So where's Miranda got herself to this time? Not that you'll know, 'cos we've scarce seen either of you for the past week. But now you're back from wherever your mam's fancy feller took you, you might as well be useful. Tell me niece she's to come back here immediate, no messin', else I'll see she gets the thumpin' she deserves.'

Steve did not even answer, though he smiled to himself. If Miranda had not been around Jamaica Close,
then he could hazard a pretty good guess where she had been. Not that he intended to give her Aunt Vi any clue. He simply shrugged his shoulders and strolled past Number Six as though he had not even heard the fat woman's shout. However, he paused outside Number Eight when he heard his name hissed in a low voice. Turning his head he saw Jackie Jones gesturing to him. ‘I dunno if it's any help, but I seen Miranda goin' off around six o'clock, or even earlier, most mornin's,' the boy said. ‘I'm helpin' Evans the Milk to deliver – he pays me a bob an hour – and Miranda goes off real quiet, slippin' out of the front door and closin' it softly behind her. She gives me and Evans a wave, then puts her finger to her lips so we knows as she means we've not seen her, like. Any clues?'

Steve grinned. Jackie was only a kid, but like everyone else in the Close he hated Aunt Vi and pitied Miranda. ‘Thanks, Jackie; I guess I know where she's gone,' he said, and set off towards the main road, reaching it just as a nearby clock struck eight. Steve sighed. It would have been more fun had he and Miranda met at six o'clock so that he could have told her all about his wonderful week at the seaside. He felt a trifle peeved, since he had impressed upon Miranda the fact that the family would be returning to Liverpool on Saturday, and had hoped she might have called for him if she wanted to go to the garden. Still, he supposed it was asking too much to expect her to linger anywhere near Number Six and risk being nabbed, either by her aunt or even by Beth, who was not only a year older than her cousin, but taller and a good deal stronger as well.

‘Boo!'

Steve jumped quite six inches in the air and turned wrathfully to give whoever had scared him a thump, only to find Miranda, grinning from ear to ear and looking so happy that he nearly gave her a hug. However, he did not do so, merely punching her shoulder lightly and saying: ‘Well, well, well! So you
did
wait for me. It was nice of you to hang about when you might have been grabbed by your 'orrible aunt; and there was me thinkin' you'd forgot all about me!'

Miranda's whole face was lit up by an enormous happy smile and Steve saw that she, too, had a shabby satchel on her shoulder, which he guessed must contain food. As he fell into step beside her, he pointed to it. ‘Don't say you nicked some grub off of that fat old cow! But won't she take it out on you tonight, when you go home?'

Miranda giggled. ‘Who says I do go home?' she asked mockingly. ‘Well, sometimes I do, but I make sure it's so late that my aunt's abed, and I leave so early that her snores are still lifting the roof tiles. At first I was afraid she'd twig that food left the house at the same time as I did, but since I only ever take bread and jam and a tiddy bit of lemon water or raspberry cordial, I suppose she thinks it's cheaper than having to feed me a hot meal each evening. And of course there's fruit in the garden; the raspberry canes are awfully overgrown but I pick a good cupful each day, and aren't they the most delicious thing you ever tasted? And there's strawberries, too, and apples, and plums . . . oh, all sorts.'

‘Yes,' Steve said, ‘but bread and jam and raspberries won't keep you goin' for ever. You ought to have hot meals now and then, you know.'

‘I do; once or twice I've stayed in and told my aunt
I'd do her messages, help with the chores and so on, but only in return for a good meal.' She chuckled suddenly. ‘You should have seen her face! She was that furious I was quite frightened to go back into the house; but to be fair to Beth, she backed me up. Why, she even helped me with the cooking, though she mainly fetched and carried; didn't want to get flour and fat on her nice clean hands! I'm getting to know her better, and she's all right, underneath. In fact if she ignored her mum we might even be pals. Anyway, working around the house helped the week to pass quicker, which was a good thing, 'cos I don't mind telling you, Steve, that time didn't half drag while you were away.'

‘That's nice,' Steve said absently. ‘But I guessed you'd been goin' to the garden each day . . . well, you must have been, 'cos where else would you get raspberries?' He hesitated, then asked the question uppermost in his mind. ‘Have you been in the house while I was away? Have you – have you seen the ghost?'

‘No-oo, but I've heard it,' Miranda said cautiously. ‘In fact I wonder if there are secret passages in the house because I don't believe it is a ghost; well, ghosts don't eat, do they? The day before yesterday I put a slice of bread and cheese on the draining board in the kitchen, and yesterday when I went back the bread and cheese was gone. There wasn't so much as a crumb left, so if the ghost didn't take it, who did?'

‘Rats,' Steve said succinctly. ‘Or mice, I suppose.' He glanced over his shoulder. ‘I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a most peculiar-looking little dog following us.' He chuckled. ‘Half dog, half rabbit, half rat, at a guess. Shall I shoo it away?'

Miranda stopped short, broke off a piece of whatever it was in her satchel and held it out. The extraordinary little dog came timidly forward, glancing cautiously at Steve as it did so, then reared up on its hind legs and took the proffered titbit so gently that Steve thought it must have been trained to do so. Miranda turned to her pal. ‘This here little dog is mine; I call him Timmy. He's bright as a button and knowing as a human. I don't know where he goes at nights, he must have found himself a quiet spot somewhere, but the minute I reach the main road he comes trotting out and joins me. He stays with me all day, wherever I go, but when we get back to Jamaica Close he disappears.' She glared defiantly at Steve. ‘I know he's an odd-looking dog but I'm rare fond of him and he's rare fond of me. And he's extraordinarily polite; he waited to be invited before he would come into the garden. Why, if he hadn't been with me I don't believe I'd ever have gone into the kitchen and got to know the Voice . . .'

‘The Voice?' Steve interrupted. ‘Do you mean the giggler?'

Miranda sighed. ‘I'll begin at the beginning and go right up to this morning, when I popped out and said boo,' she told him. ‘Timmy attached himself to me the day after you went away, pretty well as soon as I left Jamaica Close, but I'm afraid I walked rather fast and because he's a stray and had been living on any scraps he could pick up he got terribly tired and terribly hot. His tongue hung out a yard and when I had a swig from my bottle of raspberry cordial I could see how thirsty he was. As you know, there's no pond or water tap in the garden, but there's a pump over the sink in the kitchen . . .'

She told her story well, even imitating the strange accent in which she had been addressed, and telling Steve she was sure the voice was a woman's, which made it hard for Steve to believe that she had imagined the whole thing. His own Uncle George, who was in the merchant navy, had once visited Jamaica, and when he came home had often imitated the accent of the Jamaicans he had met on his trip. Hearing that same accent on his pal's lips added authenticity to her story, and when she finished Steve whistled softly beneath his breath. ‘You aren't half brave,' he said admiringly. ‘You wouldn't have seen me getting into conversation with a perishin' ghost. I say, Miranda, has it occurred to you that there must be some connection between the Voice and the house itself? Why else should a Jamaican be living in Jamaica House?'