The Forget-Me-Not Summer (9 page)

Miranda did as she was told and found that the brick had been hollowed out and contained an interesting number of coins and one beautiful, if dirty, ten shilling note. Hastily, she plunged a hand into her skirt pocket and produced almost a shilling in pennies and ha'pennies, which she slid into the hollow of the brick. She watched as Steve replaced it in the wall, then jerked her thumb towards it. ‘Isn't it time we took a look at the house itself? You were kidding when you said someone would get
the scuffers if we dug the beds over, weren't you?' she asked hopefully. ‘No one's been here for years – ten, or twenty, or even more! The garden's a wonderful tangle, but we shan't be able to play in it until we've cut the weeds and brambles down. Goodness, Steve, there's a bed of nettles up agin that old door that's almost as tall as I am, and though the brambles are covered in berries, they're covered in prickles as well. We can't do much out here until we've armed ourselves with a scythe, a couple of spades and some garden shears. As it is, we'll have to be right careful, because the path's disappeared and if we aren't really clever we'll arrive at the house just about covered in stings and scratches. You'd better go first, because my legs are bare and you've got kecks. Look, that's where the path was once; it goes straight to the door, and . . .'

Steve gave a snort. ‘If you think I'm goin' to walk, bold as brass, up to that door you're bleedin' well wrong,' he said roundly. ‘I've not told you, because I didn't imagine you'd be daft enough to risk goin' into a tottering old house, but since you are I'll tell you why I won't go with you. It's haunted, that's why!'

Miranda stared at him, scarcely able to believe her ears. This was one of the rough Mickleborough boys, and everyone knew boys feared nothing, so why should he pretend that the house was haunted, unless he was simply saying it to frighten her? Well, he wouldn't succeed. She pulled a face at him, then tried to push him along the almost obliterated path. ‘Don't be so stupid. If you'd said it might fall down and crush the pair of us to a jelly then I would have believed you, but haunted? Ha, ha, ha! You'll tell me next that it's the ghost of your
great-uncle who lived in the house when he was a boy and got trapped in an old oak chest, like the woman in the story.'

She looked at Steve, waiting for him to begin to laugh, and to say that he was only kidding, but he did nothing of the sort. ‘If you go in there, you go alone,' he said firmly. ‘I've only ever been in once, and that was enough for me. Honest to God, Miranda, I never believed in ghosts until I discovered this place. I liked it so much that I fought my way through the nettles and brambles and went in through that door, the one you can see there. I crossed the kitchen – I think it was the kitchen – and went into the next room. It were pretty dark because the windows have been boarded up, though of course the wall goes all the way round the whole building so there ain't a lot of light anyhow. There's furniture in there; I reckon it were a dining room once, but no sooner had I took a look round than I heard someone singing. At first I thought it were coming from outside, but then I realised it were in the next room along. I'm tellin' you, Miranda, for two pins I would have cut and run . . .' he grinned unhappily, ‘but I didn't have a pin on me, so I fumbled my way along a short corridor, which smelled horrible, until I found the doorknob of the next room, and . . . oh, Miranda, even remembering makes me go cold all over . . . and before I could turn the handle I felt it turn in my fingers. I swear to God I hadn't moved it, so I knew there was someone on the other side of the door. I can tell you I snatched my hand back as though the doorknob were red hot, but the door swung open and after a moment I peered inside. The singing had stopped, but I couldn't see no one; the room was empty and dark.
Then . . . someone started to laugh. It was a horrible laugh, the sort madmen give, you know? I took one last look round the room – it was empty all right – and then I ran like a rabbit and didn't stop until I had me hand on the outside door. Then I collapsed on to the grass and telled myself that I'd imagined the whole thing. Only I'm not the imaginative kind.' He straightened his shoulders and grinned perkily at Miranda. ‘So if you go into the house, you go alone,' he repeated firmly. ‘And now let's have the bread and cheese me mam gave me. I wish I'd thought to bring a bottle of cold tea – even telling you about the ghost has dried me mouth.'

Miranda stared at him; he was the most down to earth person she could imagine, which meant that if he said he had heard mysterious laughter coming from an empty room then she simply had to believe him. He had said he thought the house was haunted, but Miranda thought this most unlikely. She knew sound travels in peculiar ways and decided it was quite possible that a tramp had moved into the old house, but did not want anyone to know the place was occupied. Being a child of the theatre she knew very well that it was possible for someone to ‘throw their voice', so that the sound appeared to come from somewhere quite different. Therefore, she patted Steve's arm in a motherly fashion and sat him down beside her on a low wall. ‘I know what I'm going to tell you sounds odd, but we have had variety acts in the theatre from time to time. All sorts of different ones – conjurers, tight rope walkers and mystery acts – and one of the latter is a chap called Cheeky Charlie, who can throw his voice. It's really odd; he can stand stage left, smiling at the audience, but his voice will come from stage
right, and because he's also what they call a ventriloquist you won't see his lips move, not even a little bit.'

Steve snorted. ‘Do you expect me to believe that a feller with a gift like that is wasting his time frightenin' kids so's they don't investigate a tumble-down old house?' he enquired, his voice vibrant with disbelief. ‘Pull the other one, Miranda Lovage, it's got bells on! Tell you what, if you go in, and can find a logical reason for that awful laughter, then I'll give you a bag of Mrs Kettle's gobstoppers and not even ask for a suck.'

Miranda giggled. It was a good offer, and one she should have seized immediately, yet to her own surprise she did not do so. Instead, she got up and, skirting the worst of the nettles and brambles, made her way towards the house. Even as she did so, she found herself hoping that something would occur to save her from having to put her theory to the test. She looked back hopefully at Steve. ‘If you come with me you'll be able to see that it's all moonshine and there's no ghoulies or ghosties or long-leggedy beasties waiting to jump out and shout boo,' she said. ‘If you won't come in, how can I prove that I've even crossed the threshold?'

Steve chuckled. ‘I'll see you go in, and I can guarantee that if you get into the room I told you about you'll come out of there like a rocket, and that'll be proof enough for me.'

That was scarcely reassuring, but Miranda took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and began to push her way through the waist-high leaves, having to stop every now and again to detach the clinging brambles as she approached the old house. As she got closer, two things occurred to her. One was that the door which she took
to lead into the kitchen was sturdy and strong-looking; the other was that it looked quite modern, not at all in poor repair like the rest of the house. Insensibly, Miranda found this cheering. Indeed, she found herself hoping that the door would be firmly locked against her, which would be a cast iron excuse for going no further. When she reached it, however, her secret and unworthy hopes were proved false. The door swung open easily beneath her touch, with no eldritch shriek of old and unused hinges. Indeed it swung wide, letting in light which penetrated the room for several feet.

Behind her, Miranda heard a peculiarly nasty chuckle which made her blood run cold, until she realised that it was only Steve trying to frighten her. Then she walked steadily into the room, which was indeed the kitchen. It was, as Steve had said, very dark inside, because every window was covered by shutters, firmly closed.

She crossed the kitchen on silent feet, beginning to be aware of a rather unpleasant sensation. She felt that she was being watched, though there was no one in the room beside herself – she could tell that even in the semi-darkness – but she wasn't afraid, only annoyed with Steve, who had refused to back her up and search through the building with her. She glanced back at the open door and through it she saw Steve sitting on one of the low walls eating an apple, staring through the aperture at her. Miranda gave a little wave and was disproportionately glad when Steve waved back. She wished she had an apple, and for a moment contemplated returning to the garden and insisting that Steve share his ill-gotten gains, but then, with a resigned sigh, she decided to get her exploration over. She left the kitchen, mouse quiet,
and entered the passageway of which her pal had spoken. Because there was no light at all, not even a crack from a badly shuttered window, the corridor was pitchy black, and though Miranda told herself over and over that she did not believe in ghosts, she still felt a frisson of something very close to fear when she stretched out her hand and laid it on the doorknob of the room which Steve had said was haunted. She moved her fingers very carefully, half believing that the door knob would be wrenched out of her hand by sepulchral fingers, but greatly to her relief it was only she who gently twisted the knob, opened the door silently and peered inside.

Blackness met her eyes, total blackness without one speck of daylight. Miranda took one faltering step into the room and even as she did so she thought she heard a low chuckle begin. It was, as Steve had said, an inhuman noise; it sounded as though it came from hell itself and all Miranda's courage and determination fled. She shot out of the door backwards, clouting her elbow so hard on the unseen door jamb that she emitted a startled shriek, and as she ran at top speed along the corridor, crossed the dimly lit kitchen at a gallop and burst into the warm and sunny garden she was only too willing to admit that there was something very odd indeed hidden away in the crumbling mansion.

Steve was laughing. ‘Told you so,' he said mockingly. ‘Did you hear that awful laugh? I've been sitting out here telling myself it was some sort of trick, like what you told me about the man who could throw his voice. Well, I dare say it is, but it's put me off and I bet it's put you off too.'

He had remained sitting on the low wall and Miranda
sat down beside him. She was still breathless, both from her fast run up the garden, heedless of nettles and brambles, and her fear over what had befallen her in the house, but she was beginning to calm down and to examine what had happened with a critical eye. ‘What is really odd is that I still like the house, and the garden too. The garden's beautiful, somewhere I wouldn't mind spending a great deal of time. And I think, if we came back here with an electric torch each and threw open all the shutters in the house, and got to work cleaning it, then it would be a grand place to play. We could have it for our own, because no one else seems to want it. In fact we could kit it out – the kitchen at any rate – and stay here overnight, if we had a mind.'

Steve stared at her, and she read awe in his glance. ‘You're a girl and a half, you are!' he exclaimed. ‘Ain't you afraid of nothin', Miranda Lovage? I wouldn't stay in that bleedin' evil mansion, norrif they paid me a hundred quid a night. And as for likin' it – you must be mad! Don't tell me you wasn't scared, because I shan't believe you.'

Miranda snorted. ‘I was frightened all right, when I heard that laugh,' she admitted. ‘But I'll tell you something really weird, Steve. I know it sounds daft – quite mad, really – but when I was in the kitchen I kept having the oddest feeling that the house had something to do with my mother and her disappearance. The police stopped being interested ever so soon after she went, and though some of her friends, especially the Madison Players, tried their best to contact her, even their interest faded away after a few months. But I still believe somebody stole my mother away and if I hunt really hard I'll
find her.' She looked hopefully at her companion. ‘Will you help me, Steve? You've never met my mother, but she's ever so beautiful and the nicest person in the world. If we find her, she'll take me away from my aunt and reward you somehow, though I don't know how. What do you say to that, eh?'

Steve was sitting, elbows on knees, hands supporting his chin, but now he stood up, nodding slowly. ‘I'd like to get you away from your perishin' aunt. That woman has some nerve, to knock you about when you aren't even her own child,' he said, and Miranda had to turn her head away to hide the smile. She thought it funny that Steve believed mums and dads had a perfect right to scalp you alive, but other relatives should keep their distance; still, no point in raising the matter now. Instead she got up and headed for the door in the garden wall.

‘Let's be getting home so we can earn some money. Torches are expensive, but candles are pretty cheap. Suppose we come over here tomorrow with a few candle ends and explore the house that way? If we wait until we've saved enough for electric torches, we'll still be waiting come Christmas.'

‘Shurrup,' Steve said briskly. ‘I agree with you that the garden's prime, but I won't go into the house again, not if you were to pay me a hundred smackeroos. Not by torchlight, nor candlelight, not even by bleedin' searchlight. Hear me?'

‘Where have you been, Miranda Lovage?' Beth's voice was shrill with annoyance. ‘You're supposed to be a friend of mine, as well as me cousin, but you bobby off without me whenever you've a mind, leavin' me to do
Mam's messages while you play with that nasty, dirty Mickleborough kid from Number Two.' She glared spitefully at the younger girl. ‘Mam were goin' to take the pair of us to New Brighton tomorrow because she's got a load of starched tablecloths for one of the big hotels on the front, and she said if we'd carry half a dozen each then once they were delivered – and paid for, o'course – she'd let us play on the sand and paddle and have tea and doughnuts before we come home again. But when I tell her how you've been off wi' that scruffy Steve Mickleborough, that'll be you out.'