©Ian Gosling 2008

Here are the opening pages of a children's story that my wife, Maggie, asked me to write for her. The idea is hers, and the story is set in the village of Buckden in Cambridgeshire, where her family have lived for over 500 years. I chose the time frame – 1953, the year that I was born – and It recalls a time of innocence, although, like most adults I probably look back on my childhood with a pleasantly distorted nostalgia. But, I do believe that my generation of children was probably the last to truly enjoy the freedom to explore our surroundings, and learn from our own mistakes.

With this story I have been able to indulge myself and write about things that are not possible in popular crime fiction - for however preposterous the plot, or outrageous the characters, there are limits beyond which credibility simply cannot be stretched. (Although it might be amusing to create a detective who solves murders by magic ... hmmm?)

So as this is a story for children from 8 t0 80  I need make no excuses, and I can freely admit that it has steam trains, a tree-house, a ruined castle, a witch, a ghost and a dragon ... and, of course, there is some magic – in fact it has everything that the children are about to ask for ....

- 1 -

Really Extra Scary Things

‘I don’t want to go to sleep yet,’ said Sarah. ‘I’m too excited; Mummy and Daddy are coming tomorrow. Please tell us another story, Grandma Claire.'

Claire Wallis looked at her three young grandchildren and sighed. ‘And I suppose you two want one as well,’ she said, inviting the inevitable.

She didn’t mind. Far from it. This is what grandmothers were supposed to do, when their grandchildren came to visit. Put them to bed early and tell them lots of stories. It’s what her grandmother had done, all those years ago, in this very room. And she had no doubt, that it was what all the grandmothers before her had done – for as far back as she could trace them, and then some. She smiled at her young charges, knowing that it would only take a moment for one of them to answer her question.

‘Yes, please.’ replied Nick, the eldest, getting his say in before his sisters could answer. ‘Can we have one about adventures and fighting and things?’

‘I want something about animals,’ said Sarah, ‘and … about the olden days when you were a little girl, grandma.’

‘Less of the olden days, miss. You’ll make me feel quite ancient. And what about you, Claire, what would you like?’

Claire thought hard for a moment. It wasn’t fair – why couldn’t Grandma ask them in turn? The other two always got in before her. She was in the middle so whoever was first she ought always to be second. But somehow her turn always came last. Now she was sure that whatever she asked for would be included only as an afterthought, as she could see that Grandma was already thinking up the story. ‘I’m not sure … let me think …’

‘Oh! Hurry up, Claire,’ pleaded Sarah. ‘Come on, or it will be tomorrow and Mummy and Daddy will be here, before Grandma even starts the story.’

‘I’m going to count to three,’ said Nick, bossily, ‘then Grandma can start without you. One … Two …’

‘Wait ... I know … I know. I want something magic.’

‘Boring,’ said Nick. ‘That’s boring, you always want magic and fairies and stupid baby girlie things.’

‘Now, stop that. That’s enough, Nick,’ Claire scolded her young grandson. ‘Sarah’s right, if I don’t get started soon, it will be too late.’

‘Alright. I want magic, but not fairies. Something that’s about … bad magic and they both had two things so …’ Claire paused and poked out her tongue at her brother. ‘So I want it to have really extra scary things … so that he has to hide under his pillow.'

‘Here you have it. I won’t need to hide.’ Nick’s pillow flew across the room, in the general direction of Claire’s bed, but landed, just short, on the floor. ‘Nothing can scare me … I’m ten next week … and anyway only little girls get scared.’

‘That’s enough from the pair of you. Why can’t you be good and quiet like Sarah?’ Claire picked up the pillow and put it back under Nick’s head.

‘Cos I’m not a baby like her,’ Nick sneered.

‘Stop it, Nick. I want the story now,’ said Claire, crossly. ‘Please Grandma. Tell us the story.’

‘Ok. But no more nonsense or I’ll …’

Their grandmother didn’t need to finish – which was just as well, because whatever she threatened she would never actually carry out. Because, that’s not what grandmothers do – suddenly, as if as one, the three siblings were very still and very quiet. They all knew that the worst thing Grandma could do now, would be to turn off the light and close the door; leaving the story untold.

‘So where shall I begin?’

‘In the olden days of course, tell us about when you were a little girl,’ cried Sarah with delight.

‘But I’ve told you all that before. There’s nothing new to tell.’

‘Tell us anyway, Grandma,’ said Nick, ‘you know I always forget stuff. I don’t know how you remember everything. My brain doesn’t have enough room already, and I’m not even ten. You’re really old. You must have loads more to remember.’

‘Not “really old” if you don’t mind, young man,’ Claire frowned, pretending to look hurt; always knowing they could see right through her.

‘Well then, let me begin at the beginning, and if there are any parts that you already know, then so be it. This is a story about me and my brother and sister, I’ve told you about them before. And it all happened here in Buckden, when I was eight years old and Ellie was only five, and George was nearly ten.

‘I remember it very clearly, because it is such a strange story. And, I’ve never told you this story before because it wasn’t the right time. But now I think you are ready. This is all true, and it all happened just as I am going to tell you, and you must remember that … even when it gets really extra scary … I’m not making any of it up. And, it’s a secret, our secret, so you mustn’t tell a soul, not even Mummy and Daddy.

‘Now you must remember, because I’m sure I’ve told you before, that 1953 was a very special year. And, although it was the middle of July, everyone in the village was still talking about the Coronation. Yes, I forgot to say that. This story takes place in the same year as our Queen was crowned. Although, whether that is of any significance, I’m not really sure. Anyway, as I have told you before, it was a wonderful time, and when people weren’t talking about the Queen, they were talking about the brave men who had climbed Mount Everest.
‘Things were very different then. We hardly had any sweets and there were no burgers, or chicken nuggets, or pizzas, although we’d heard of these things from American airman who sometimes stayed in the villages around Huntingdon. All the trains ran on coal and were very noisy and dirty, and the roads were never very busy and it was quite safe to walk to school without a grown-up.

‘Of course we were in Nottingham on Coronation day. We were all given the day off school, and everyone who lived along The Boulevard crammed into Mr Mill’s front room to watch it on his brand new television set. There wasn’t much room and it was very crowded, but he let the children sit on the floor nearest the set, and somehow, even though there was still rationing, he had sweets for us all. It wasn’t a very good picture mind you, and rather small, but it was so exiting. And afterwards, Mother and father took us into town on the bus. It seemed as if everyone in Nottingham was in the Market Square, waving Union Jacks and dancing and singing.

‘My grandmother said it was also a great day here in Buckden, with a big party in the grounds of the Towers, dancing and a pig roast. The butcher made special Coronation pork pies and the baker baked some Everest buns, shaped like mountains, with icing sugar on the top to look like snow. The decorations in the Lion didn’t come down until August and someone told me that those in village hall stayed up until after Xmas …’

Nick frowned, ‘Granny, you’re dithering,’ he said. ‘When are you going to start the story?’

‘Sorry children. You know me, how I go on. But it is actually, now I think of it, quite important to the story. It’s hard to describe what it felt like, but well … 1953 was like the beginning of a new age. We thought anything could happen … little did we know.’

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1953

- 2 -

The Knitting Lady

‘Now be good and be careful. I’ve spoken to the conductor and he has telephoned ahead to Grantham. When you get there a porter will be waiting for you. He’ll look after you. Now, you are to do as he says and follow him to the waiting room. Don’t let go of Ellie’s hand until you are on the train for Peterborough, and don’t let George get too close to the edge of the platform.’

‘Yes, Mummy. Don’t worry, we’ll be alright.’

‘But I do worry Claire,’ said her mother, seemingly oblivious to the presence of the other passengers in the compartment.’ You know I do. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you children. You know I wish I could come with you, but …’

‘You have to stay with Daddy. He needs you to help him to get well. Now don’t worry. We’ll be quite safe and we won’t get lost. And, we’ll see you soon, when Daddy is better. Don’t worry.’

But, Claire’s mother was worried, and nothing her eight year old daughter could say was going to change that. The signs weren’t good. The week had started badly and got worse. This was supposed to be the first day of their holiday. It was the same every year; on the first Saturday of the school holidays, they all caught the train to Skegness.

They always stayed for a week at the pleasant, if somewhat unpronounceable ‘Mynydd Llangynidr Private Hotel and Restaurant’. It was where she and Peter had spent their honeymoon, and although they had been back every year since, they had still not fathomed why Mrs Lumsden’s rather modest B&B and tea shop should have such a grand name, nor why the lady in question, who by all accounts was Lincolnshire born and bred, should have chosen to name her establishment after a Welsh mountain. They had broached the subject with her one evening, as she was lowering the Welsh flag that by day fluttered from the tall pole in the front garden. She had muttered something about it being none of their business and then to their astonishment had started to chant in Welsh as she furled the flag. They never asked again.

But this year things were different, and she was to have taken the children herself. The office where their father worked had a new owner and his new boss wouldn’t allow him the time off, even though he had made the arrangements several month’s earlier. ‘I don’t care what you agreed with your old boss. You work for me now and you’ll work when I say. I can’t let you go gallivanting off just whenever you feel like it.’ Her father had been very cross when he came home that evening and said some very bad things about people who read the Daily Telegraph.

(At this point Claire, seeing a look of consternation on her grandchildren’s faces, felt it necessary to explain to them, that in the 1950s, this was how bosses – particularly those who took the Telegraph – often behaved; and that her father would almost certainly have been dismissed from his job had he argued.)

Then to make matters worse, yesterday evening on his way from work, their father had been knocked from his bicycle near the bridge at Bobber’s Mill, by a carelessly driven car, travelling much too fast along the Nuthall Road. Now he was lying in a hospital bed, where the doctor had ordered him to stay for at least a week. The children had been to see him this morning. Mr Mills, their only neighbour with a motor car, had not only taken them to the hospital in Hucknall Road, but had waited and then brought them to the station. The clerk at the booking office had been very understanding and had exchanged the children’s tickets, purchased only two days ago, and given their mother a full refund for her unused ticket. She hoped that Mrs Lumsden would also be so kind when it came to refunding their deposit, but somehow she doubted it.

Now as the guard blew his whistle and called out, ‘All aboard’, Claire received her final instructions.

‘Stay in the compartment and don’t wander about the train. Don’t let George put his feet on the seats or make a nuisance of himself. Remember to change trains again at Peterborough, or you’ll end up in London … and we wouldn’t want that. Now, your grandfather will be at Offord station to meet you, I’ve told him not to be late. But if he is delayed, you must sit in the waiting room until he arrives. Don’t forget to eat your lunch – there are cheese and pickle sandwiches, a flapjack for each of you and a bottle of homemade lemonade. Now …’
‘Mummy …’ cried George. ‘The man’s blowing his whistle again. You’d better get off before he closes the doors.’

George laughed, ‘And that would be funny, if the train goes before you can get off. You’ll have to open the door and jump down the embankment like they do in the films.’ Then his face turned red as he saw her puckered lips looming. ‘No mummy, I don’t want kissing, not in front of people.'

She kissed him anyway, and then Ellie and finally Claire, before running down the corridor, and leaping through the open door onto the platform, as the train started to move off. Fortunately for her, Mr Mills was waiting, and standing on the very spot where she landed, he broke her fall.

As the train moved off Claire studied their travelling companions. The compartment was almost full, and only the seat next to her remained unoccupied. Opposite George, there sat an elderly gentleman, who rather reminded Claire of their grandfather. Claire assumed that he must be returning home from his office, as she knew that offices like the one where her father worked always closed at midday on Saturdays. He was very well dressed, although his clothes were rather old fashioned – long black coat, striped trousers, waistcoat and a cravat, rather than a tie, loosely knotted beneath the starched-white wings of his shirt collar. He had been wearing a bowler hat and carrying an attaché case when he boarded – both items were now on luggage rack above his head – and from this Claire deduced that he must be quite important, maybe even a bank manager. Beneath his grey hair, he had a crumpled but kindly face, and she felt it not too impertinent to smile at him. He smiled back and his grey-blue eyes seemed to sparkle; just like her grandfather’s eyes. A moment later he disappeared behind a large broadsheet newspaper – the Daily Telegraph. ‘Oh dear,’ she thought, ‘maybe he’s that horrible man that daddy works for.’

Next to the old man, a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in black, was knitting a pullover, she had already been sitting in the compartment when the children when the children entered and had been knitting non-stop ever since. ‘She’s almost finished it,’ Claire noted. ‘That must have taken you a long time’, she said admiring the bright Fair Isle pattern. ‘It looks very complicated.’

The woman looked up, and now that Claire could see her face she realised that she was younger than her clothes implied – about her mother’s age. ‘Easy when you know how my dear,’ she replied. ‘Do you knit?’

‘Not very well, but my grandma is going to help me get better.’

‘Well, you just see that you pay attention. It’s very important for a young girl to learn to knit. There’s all manner of things you can make when you know how.’
‘Have you any children,’ Claire enquired.

‘Never had time to get married, my dear,’ replied the woman, in a matter of fact kind of way; as if the thought had never crossed her mind. And with that, she lowered her eyes and the monotonous clack-clack of the needles resumed.

‘Probably too busy knitting’, thought Claire.

Next to Knitting Lady was a young man of no more than twenty, and sitting next to him a pretty young woman, maybe a year or two younger. They were obviously together, and from the way that they looked at each other, Claire could tell that they weren’t brother and sister, and then when they held hands she knew they more than just friends. He was wearing strange clothes – very tight black trousers, a dark-purple jacket and yellow suede shoes – she had seen young men like this larking around in the Market Square on Saturday afternoons, but never before had she been this close to one. Her father said they were called ‘Teddy Boys’, although Claire had no idea why, and they bore absolutely to resemblance to any of the children's Teddy bears. Her father also said things like ‘… they’re all layabouts. Why don’t they get a job?’ and ‘… a year or two of National Service will soon sort them out’. But she had no idea what he meant by that and thought it was probably, as Mummy would say ‘…. just Daddy moaning on about things as usual’.

The young couple were talking about Skegness, so Claire assumed they were going there on holiday together. They only had one suitcase so she also assumed they were married. Although she thought it was a bit odd. The woman was wearing a ring, but Claire was sure that her mummy and her grandma wore theirs on the other hand. ‘Maybe they’ve only just got married and she isn’t used to it yet. Maybe …’

‘Are you going on your honeymoon?’ she asked.

The couple ignored her.

‘My mummy and daddy went to Skegness for their honeymoon,’ she volunteered. ‘We were supposed to be going to Skegness, today, but my daddy has had an accident, so now we are going to Grandma’s instead. We always stay at Mrs Lumsden’s near the beach in Skegness. Lots of people from Nottingham stay there. Is that where you’re going?’

The young man glared at her. Then he said something rude and Claire wished that she hadn’t spoken.

Ellie shuffled back in her seat until only the crepe soles of her sandals showed over the lip of the cushion. She didn’t take any notice of the other passengers as she played with her dolls, although she tugged at George’s jacket and told him to sit down when he stood on the seat and poked his head out of the window. The other passengers, however, didn’t appear to mind so Claire ignored her mother’s instructions, opened her satchel and took out a book. She started to open it at the page she had marked, but then changed her mind. The hypnotic noise of the train clattering over the points as it passed the shunting yards and the intoxicating smell drifting in through the open window was all too much for her.

‘Move over George, let me stand up there too.’

‘You’ll fall off and I’m not going to save you.’

‘There’s plenty of room, if you budge up a bit. I can get on that little ledge, if you get out of the way.’

And so it was, that as the train began its journey, their two little faces stared in wonder as the city raced past, disappearing before their very eyes. Two little faces – bright as buttons, clean as new pins, not an hour before, at their father’s bedside – gradually blackening; streaked and stained by the industrial grime that always filled the Nottingham air and the clouds of sooty smoke billowing from the steam engine at the head of the train.

Like all small boys, George loved trains. And, like most small boys, George wanted to be an engine driver. He had one or two friends who wanted to be conductors, but he couldn’t see the point of that. George loved everything about trains; the hiss of the steam escaping through the relief valves, and the sound of the wheels pounding over the rails, the sweet smell of hot grease on the bearings and the acrid, nose tickling, fumes that bellowed from the firebox flue, and streamed behind the engine, lingering in the air long after the train had passed. But most of all he loved the speed and that was why when he became a train driver he wouldn’t drive the Nottingham to Skegness route. Oh no! This was too slow, a stop every few minutes, no time to build up a head of steam and a turn of speed. George would be a driver on the main line.

When he was six, his grandfather took him fishing at Offord and the Flying Scotsman had thundered past on its way from Edinburgh to London. It must have been doing nearly a hundred miles an hour. George had never seen or heard anything like it. The ground shook beneath their feet as the monster passed, the giant twelve wheeled engine belching out a plume of grey smoke over a mile long. Since that day, there was only one train that George wanted to drive, and he quickly became bored with the one he was now travelling on.

They soon left the city behind, the train stopped briefly at Netherfield, where nobody got off and only two new passengers joined the train. The guard on the platform said a very rude word as he told the children not to lean out of the window. Daily Telegraph Man and Knitting Lady looked at each other, obviously relieved, but said nothing, as the two children sat down.

The train picked up speed again and George stared idly out of the window as they crossed the Trent at Radcliffe, where they stopped again and several passengers alighted. George watched a young man sprinting along the platform, grabbing at an open door as the train moved off. He couldn’t quite see if the man had managed to get on board before the train had cleared the platform. Now, ahead of them lay the open countryside of the Vale of Belvoir; it was now only three more stops and not much more than half an hour before they would reach Grantham.

Claire rubbed her nose and opened her book, leaving a black fingerprint on the page. She turned and looked at her brother, and gasped in horror as she realised that her own face must have been as dirty as his, and wondered what their grandmother would say when she saw them.

‘What are you reading?’ asked Ellie, looking up from her dolls. ‘Will you read to me?’

‘It’s called The Secret Garden. It’s about a little girl who finds the key to a door that leads into a garden that has been hidden away for many years. It’s like a magic place. Here I’ll read to you a while, but don’t interrupt.’

So engrossed were they in the story, that neither girl noticed that George had fallen asleep – his nose pressed against the window, leaving dirty smears on the glass. Nor did they notice Daily Telegraph Man getting off at Bingham, and they didn’t even realise that the train had arrived in Grantham. If it hadn’t also been Knitting Lady’s stop, they might well have ended up in Skegness, with the rude young man and his girlfriend.

As it was they were fifteen minutes late, although they hadn’t noticed the delay, the girls had been lost in their book and George was fast asleep, when the train stopped outside Bottesford; held up by a faulty signal. But it meant that they had missed their connection to Peterborough and would have to wait until past four o’clock for the next train.

‘Come with me,’ said Knitting Lady, brushing aside the porter who had come to meet them. ‘I’ll look after them. You can carry the cases.’ And, with that she took Claire and Ellie by the hand and marched across the platform, leaving George to bring up the rear.

‘Look at your faces. That will never do. Let’s get you washed up,’ she said, opening a large door.

‘I’m not going in there,’ said George, looking in horror at the large sign above the door – "LADIES WAITING ROOM".

‘You will do as you are told young man. You don’t think for one minute that I am leaving you here on you own.’

‘Shan’t and you can’t make me.’

‘Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll look after him.’ They all looked round to see that the porter, laden with cases, had caught up with them.

‘You take the girls, ma’am. I’ll take this one to the gents, and scrub him up.’
‘Thanks, mister,’ said George, as the porter turned on the tap.

‘Don’t thank me lad,’ said the man as he dunked George’s face into the basin of cold water. ‘You should have gone with that nice lady. There’s hot water in there.’

Knitting Lady, who had also missed her connection, was travelling on to York and, as her train would leave after theirs, she waited with them. The two girls sat in the waiting room with her. George resolutely refused to set foot in a room for ladies, and sat on his own on a bench outside the window, munching on a cheese and pickle sandwich.

Claire was glad that Knitting Lady was here. Not that she minded the burden that her mother had placed upon her. She actually felt rather proud that her parents trusted her, and placed her in charge, rather than her older brother. But then it was only right because she was the sensible one, and George – well he was only a boy and boys just couldn’t be trusted to be sensible. But it was a relief not to have to shoulder the full responsibility, at least for a while. Knitting Lady was very nice and Claire liked her. It was as shame that she had no children of her own, as she would have been perfectly acceptable as a mother. Then Claire noticed that she wore no ring, and felt sad for her.

As they waited, the porter came back and talked to George. Next thing Claire knew, they were gone. She wasn’t worried; Mummy had told her that the porter would look after them.

‘Here she comes now,’ said the porter, pointing into the distance. ‘Can you hear her?
George nodded, ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘You’ll feel the vibrations soon, then this whole bridge will start shaking like a leaf, and before you know it, she’ll be right under your feet.’
George climbed onto the iron work and raised his head above the top rail of the footbridge to get a better view. In the distance he could see a plume of smoke. The noise was getting louder.

The porter was right. The bridge started shaking and George almost lost his grip. He started to fall backwards, but the man put out a hand and steadied him. Then she was right there, and the noise was deafening. A great cloud of smoke enveloped the bridge, smothering them, stinging George’s eyes and burning his throat, as the great express train thundered through the station, only a few feet beneath him. He’d never been this close. It was magnificent. The most amazing, most exiting thing that George had ever experienced. And well worth what was to follow – a second dunking in the basin of cold water.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully. The train to Peterborough was on time. Knitting Lady, made sure that they and their luggage got on safely, and then bid them farewell, before crossing the footbridge to the north-bound platform. Claire thought that she noticed a tear in the corner of Knitting Lady’s eye as they parted; but she may have been mistaken.

The train stopped at Peterborough, and they had to run over the bridge to catch the local train, which was already waiting at the other platform. Claire saw Mr Antrobus, the vicar. He was also getting on the train. But as he was in the next carriage, she couldn’t say ‘hello’. Not that it mattered, he would be getting off at Offord too, and she would greet him then.

At Offord, they alighted to find their grandfather waiting on the platform. He bent down, picked them up and hugged them, one by one. Ellie first. Of course, she was everyone’s favourite. Then George. Then, as usual, Claire was last. Always last, she was the middle child, she should have been second at least, but she was always last.

Their grandfather had borrowed the van from the carpentry shop where he worked, and bundled their cases into the back. Claire and Ellie sat up front with him, and George got in the back, on top of the cases and the tools, and the wood, and some tins of paint. Then Granddad saw Mr Antrobus waiting at the bus stop and offered him a lift. And, Claire had to climb over the seat into the back, with George, and the luggage, and the tools and the wood and the tins of paint.

Claire liked Mr Antrobus, but not so much that she would have chosen to give up her seat for him. She wasn’t sure whether she should be cross with her grandfather for stopping or with Mr Antrobus for accepting the offer, when he could clearly see that in doing so he would have to displace one of the children. In the end she decided that she was cross with both grown- ups, who, in her opinion, should have known better. It was very difficult to sit up properly and she sort of perched on the edge of a suitcase, with her back against the side of the van, and another suitcase balancing on her lap.

The little van jiggled and jolted over every bump and pothole in the road, and at the mill, when Granddad took the bend over the bridge a little too quickly, the vehicle rocked from side to side, sending the children sprawling. Fortunately, it was only a couple miles to Buckden, and the thought that one of her grandmother’s Victoria sponge-cakes would be waiting on the kitchen table, took Claire’s mind off that rather uncomfortable journey. But she nevertheless let out a great sigh of relief when the van finally stopped outside the gate in Church Street.

All in all, it had been quite an adventure. And although the holiday had hardly begun, Claire sensed that something special was going to happen.
 

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To be continued

©Ian Gosling 2008