The Forget-Me-Not Summer (8 page)

Miranda giggled. ‘Calamine lotion,' she supplied. ‘It's awful, isn't it? When I was six and lived in the Avenue I got chickenpox and my mother dabbed the stuff all over me. It was all right while it was wet – quite cooling, in fact – but when it dried it was awful. Aunt Vi sent me to the chemist to buy a bottle for Beth but I told her how it would be, so we emptied it down the sink and put a tiddy bit of plate powder in the bottle with water and shook it up. Then Beth pretended we'd used it and said it wasn't any good, and when Aunt Vi got a plug of cotton wool and tried to dab it on the spots Beth grabbed the bottle and threw it out of the window. Good thing it was open, because she threw it pretty damn hard, I'm telling you.'

Steve laughed. His skin seemed oddly pale after being shut up indoors for three weeks but otherwise, Miranda considered, he was beginning to look like himself once more. But she vetoed his suggestion that they should go to Seaforth Sands. ‘No, I don't want to do that,' she said firmly. ‘Before you were taken ill you promised you'd show me the place where you hide your gelt, so I could add mine to it. And you sort of hinted that I'd be surprised when I saw the other side of that great wall at the end of Jamaica Close. I've waited three weeks and never nagged you, but I'm going to nag you now. I want to see the other side of that wall and I want to know where you hide your gelt and where I shall hide mine
in future. Why, Steve, if you were to be run over tomorrow I wouldn't be able to inherit your wealth, because I don't know where you keep it.'

Steve laughed. ‘I don't mean to get run over tomorrow, nor the next day neither,' he said cheerfully. ‘But I know what you mean and I reckon you're right. We'll save Seaforth Sands for another day, and as soon as you've had your breakfast we'll set off for the other side of the wall.'

They agreed to meet outside Number Two in half an hour, and Miranda trotted down the jigger, crossed the courtyard of Number Six and entered the kitchen, where she found Aunt Vi eating porridge whilst Beth sat on a low stool, clutching a fork upon whose prongs was spiked a round of bread. She looked up as Miranda entered the room, and frowned. ‘I don't fancy porridge, norreven with brown sugar or golden syrup,' she said crossly. ‘I'm havin' toast wi' raspberry jam. What'll you have?'

Miranda knew that this was a rhetorical question. The raspberry jam, her cousin's favourite, was most certainly not on offer so far as she herself was concerned. Not that she minded; porridge with just a sprinkling of brown sugar was her favourite breakfast, and if she helped herself to a full dish it would not matter if she did not come in for the midday meal.

However, when she examined the saucepan there were only about two spoonfuls of porridge left in it, so her hopes of a good filling breakfast were dashed. She put it into her dish, however, then cut herself a round of bread, keeping one hand on it so that no one should filch it whilst she ate her porridge.

A rich smell of burning caused Beth to give a squeak
of dismay and throw the cindered slice down on the table, then reach for the slice of bread beneath her cousin's palm. ‘Gimme!' she commanded. ‘You can have the burned bit.'

‘Beth Smythe, you are the most selfish . . .'

Aunt Vi's hand clipped Miranda so hard across the ear that she nearly fell off her chair, making Beth give a muffled snort of laughter. ‘Serve you right,' she said tauntingly. ‘What's to stop you cutting yourself another slice, if you don't like a bit of burn?' But Aunt Vi was already scuttling pantry wards with the remains of the loaf clutched in her hot and greedy hands, so Miranda jammed the piece of bread into her skirt pocket, ignored her aunt's shout that she was to bleedin' well wash up before she took one step out of the door, and crossed the kitchen.

‘No time; I'm meeting a friend,' she called over her shoulder. ‘See you later, Beth.' Miranda was sure her aunt would think nothing of pursuing her down the Close, so she decided that loitering outside Number Two was not a good idea and turned right into the main road. Because the summer holidays were now in full swing there were a great many children about, one or two of whom Miranda knew. She stopped and spoke to Jane and Elizabeth Meredith, twins who were in her class at school, and they told her that they had just returned from a wonderful week down on the coast; at Rhyl, in fact. ‘Oh, girls, how lucky you are!' Miranda breathed. ‘My mother was always promising to take me down to the coast, but somehow she never got round to it.'

She had heard much of the delights of seaside resorts in summer and remembered her mother's description of
golden sands, gentle blue seas and the enthusiastic audiences who had attended the shows on the pier. One day, Arabella had assured her daughter, they would go to Rhyl, or Llandudno, or even further afield, but at present she was content to stay with the theatre over the summer, helping with scenery painting, costume repair and other such tasks which were best done when the theatre was empty.

Lizzie was a sweet-tempered girl, but it was her sharp-tongued twin who responded. ‘Your mam, your mam!' Jane said contemptuously. ‘That were when you were in that posh private school, I suppose? I bet they never knew your mam was on the stage, 'cos that's common that is . . . bein' on the stage, I mean. If she took you to the seaside at all you'd have had your face blacked up and a black curly wig on your horrible head, so's you could earn a few pennies in the black and white minstrel show . . .'

Miranda was interrupted just as she was contemplating handing out a punch on the nose. Someone caught her arm and a voice spoke warningly in her ear. ‘Hello-ello-ello? Hangin' round waitin' for me, was you? Gorrany grub? That bleedin' aunt o' yours might hand over a bit of cake or a chunk of bread and cheese. Still, I've got some of each so we shan't starve.'

It was Steve, of course, and as he spoke he had been drawing her away from the twins, giving her arm a warning pinch as he did so. Miranda, who had taken a deep breath, preparing to shout abuse at Jane even as she threw the punch, subsided, though she shook Steve's hand off her arm as they moved away. ‘It's all right; it's just that when somebody says something nasty about
my mother, I lose my temper,' she said ruefully. She turned to her friend. ‘
Are
we going to see the other side of the wall, Steve? It's not fair to keep talking about some mystery or other and then making excuses not to go round there.'

They had been walking quite briskly along the pavement, but at this Steve stopped short. ‘Look, I told you I've not said a word to anyone else, about either where I stash me gelt or what goes on on t'other side of that there wall. I'm still not sure if I'm doin' the right thing . . .' He heaved a sigh. ‘But a promise is a promise, so we turn right here and keep goin' for a bit. Despite what you might think, it's a long way round to reach the other side of that wall and it's no use you askin' me a lot of silly questions 'cos I shan't answer 'em. Chatter away all you like, tell me stories about your mam, but don't ask me no questions about where we're goin' or what we'll do when we get there, gorrit?'

‘Yes, all right, if that's the way you want it,' Miranda said rather sulkily. ‘But I think you're being awful silly; how can a wall which is so ordinary on the back be mysterious and different on the front? That's what I want to know.'

As Steve had said, it was a long walk to reach the other side of the wall, but when they did so it was just as mysterious and extraordinary as Steve had hinted. The wall which truncated Jamaica Close hid what appeared to be a huge, crumbling mansion of a house; it was only visible over the top of another large wall, and the roof was half missing, telling Miranda that it was now a ruin, though it must have been magnificent years ago. She could see the tops of trees and the staring
glassless eyes of windows, but could see no way in. She turned and stared at Steve. ‘Are you sure that Jamaica Close is on the other side of that crumbling great house?' she asked uneasily. How did one tell from the only sort of view they could get that Jamaica Close was really so near? For all she knew Steve might have led her for miles, through dozens of tiny streets – well, he had done so – before stopping in front of the only building of sufficient height to own that wall. Miranda looked at the neighbouring buildings, but none of them were houses. There were small and large factories with busy yards full of bicycles in racks, the occasional car, and men strolling to and fro, smoking cigarettes or eating food from greaseproof wrappers, for by now, Miranda guessed, it must be dinner time. Clearly, the reason that no one was interested in the old walled house was because people came here to work and not to live; this was not a family neighbourhood. Whereas in Jamaica Close there were always children playing, mothers shouting to their offspring to run messages or go indoors for a meal, here, Miranda guessed, when the siren sounded for the end of the shift, workers were merely intent upon getting back to their homes and had little or no interest in their surroundings.

She said as much to Steve, who grunted assent. ‘The strange thing is that when I'm in Jamaica Close I hardly hear any noise from over here, apart from the hooter which marks the end of the shift; I suppose it's because the wall's so high. And then, of course, grown-ups' voices don't carry in the way ours do. But now that you know what's on this side of the wall, you'll maybe notice sounds which you wouldn't have noticed before.'

Miranda agreed to this, though with reservations. But
then Steve gave her a friendly poke in the ribs. ‘What are you thinking?' he asked. ‘Don't tell me . . .' he pointed to the slated roof of the mansion so far above their heads, ‘you don't believe that Jamaica Close is a stone's throw away. Tell you what, how about if we prove it? No use doing anything now, in broad daylight, but tonight when we're back in the Close and there's no one about I'll get something real brightly coloured and shy it as high as I can, right over the wall and the house as well, if I'm lucky. Then tomorrow we'll come round again, and the proof will be there.'

Miranda sniffed, but gave Steve a reluctant grin. ‘All right, all right, I'm sure you've worked it all out and Jamaica Close is just over the wall. And now, how the devil do we get to the house?'

‘I suppose you think it's impossible, don't you?' he asked mockingly. ‘Like most people, you see what you expect to see, not what is really there. Walk very slowly around this bleedin' great wall and mebbe you'll see a way in and mebbe you won't. I aren't goin' to help you, 'cos this is a sort of test. Go on, start lookin'.'

Forewarned, Miranda began to walk very slowly along the wall. She kept her eyes on the ground, half expecting to find that some animal had dug a tunnel beneath it, but saw nothing. Then she began to examine the brickwork and in a remarkably short space of time, or so her gratified pal assured her, she had found the way in. Perhaps a dozen feet from where she had started looking a mass of ivy hid the uneven brickwork, and had it not been for the sudden tension of the figure beside her Miranda might have passed it by without a second glance, assuming that, in the way of ivy, it had rooted and clung
to every crevice in the great wall. But the slight stiffening of Steve's body was enough to make Miranda not only look, but also to put a hand to the gleaming ivy. She prepared to tug, then realised that the ivy was rooted on the far side of the wall and what she beheld was simply a curtain, which, as soon as she moved it away, revealed a tiny scratched, scarred door.

‘Well done you!' Steve said in a low voice. ‘Better make sure no one's watching . . .' He glanced quickly round, then reached down and pulled open the door. To Miranda's surprise it opened easily, without a squeak or a protesting creak, and though she turned towards Steve to remark on it, he pushed her through and shut the door behind the pair of them before turning to her and blowing out his cheeks in a parody of relief. ‘Phew!' he said. ‘Now I'll show you where I hide my gelt.' He turned towards the house, but Miranda put a detaining hand on his arm.

‘Hold on a minute!' she whispered. ‘This is a perishin' garden. Oh, I don't deny it's been let run wild, but it really is a garden, Steve. I didn't know there were gardens anywhere near Jamaica Close. Why, there's fully grown trees – flowers an' all. Someone could live here. I wonder who owns it? Oh, look, roses, really beautiful ones! Gosh, don't they smell sweet? And there's masses of blackberries, only they're still red berries now – and look at the rhubarb! The stems are as thick as my wrist; I bet they'd be really tough if you tried to put 'em in a pie.'

Steve followed her glance. ‘Is that rhubarb?' he said, sounding surprised. ‘I've never seen them big leaves on top of it when it's for sale in St John's market. But there's gooseberries, two or three different sorts, and I reckon there were strawberries once, only they've all gone tiny.
But the blackcurrant bushes, though the fruit is getting thinner, are still just about alive.'

Miranda drew in a deep ecstatic breath and expelled it in a low whistle. ‘Oh, Steve, this place is just about perfect! We could come here every day and bring it back to what it was years ago. We could root out the weeds, harvest the fruit – I've already seen two apple trees, a Victoria plum and a greengage – and then we could sell the fruit and buy seed with the money. The first thing we ought to do is get rid of the weeds and dig over all the beds. I remember my mum saying you should always plant potatoes in ground that's new to cultivation, and before the crash came she was a farmer's daughter and knew what she was talking about. Oh, Steve, do let's.'

She looked at her pal and saw that he was laughing. ‘Honest to God, Miranda, you're mad as meself,' he said approvingly. ‘I had the same thought when I first found me way in, but it ain't possible, of course. Someone must own both the house and the garden, and I'll take a bet that if we started to interfere somebody would fetch the scuffers.' He pointed to the wall. ‘See that loose brick? It's the one with the splash of white paint on it, which I put there so's to identify it. Pull it out.'