Step by Wicked Step Read online

  Robbo said nothing, but, backing out through the door, he swept his holdall on the nearest bed, and started to root for his pyjamas. The girls fled upstairs, and Colin and Ralph pulled the hidden door closed behind them. By the time Miss O’Dell and Mr Plumley climbed wearily up the stairs a few minutes later, carrying sandwiches and drinks, all that they saw in the first tower room were three dark mounds under the coverlets.

  ‘Fancy!’ said Mr Plumley. ‘I’d no idea they were as tired as that.’

  Miss O’Dell dumped the drink cans on the floor.

  ‘Where are the girls?’

  She tiptoed further up the stairs.

  ‘Ah! Here they are. Fast asleep as well.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wake them?’

  The way Miss O’Dell stared at him, you’d think he’d asked, ‘Shouldn’t we stab them?’

  ‘Haven’t we had enough problems? There might be a bit of a fuss tomorrow, if they can’t find beds next to their best friends. But after that frightful journey, I’m not waking anyone.’

  Pulling the pile of wrapped sandwiches out of Mr Plumley’s arms, she tipped them on the end of the nearest bed.

  ‘Anyway,’ she added cheerfully. ‘These five must have something in common. That’s why I picked them out. It didn’t seem fair that the only ones not to travel on the bus should be the few who hadn’t yet barged rudely onto the last seats. So I just looked at my list, and picked out the first five names with a tick in one of the columns.’

  ‘Which column?’

  Mr Plumley was interested. It didn’t seem to him that little firebrand Pixie had anything in common at all with steady, sensible Claudia. Or that quick-witted and hard-working Ralph was in any way similar to Colin, whose habit of drifting through the hours of each school day as if his thoughts were hundreds of miles away drove all his teachers to despair.

  And as for soccer-mad Robbo! What this sports-crazy boy might share with any of the rest, Mr Plumley couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Which column?’ he asked again.

  But Miss O’Dell was already half-way down the stairs. Impatiently, her answer echoed up, prompting him to scuttle down after her.

  ‘How should I know? Maybe they’re all vegetarians. Or allergic to wasp stings. Or non-swimmers. I didn’t bother to look. But, believe me, even if they don’t know it yet, these five have something in common.’

  And just as the lights came on again all over the house, she shut the tower door, leaving in breath-holding silence five ill-assorted eavesdroppers who, like Mr Plumley, found that rather hard to believe.

  As soon as Pixie and Claudia had crept back in the room, Ralph slid the album out from under his pillow.

  ‘Who’s going to read it, then?’

  Before Claudia could suggest something fair, like tossing a coin, or taking turns, Pixie had stretched out her hands.

  ‘Give it to me. I’m brilliant at reading.’

  Ralph rolled his eyes at her as she snatched the album.

  ‘It can’t be modesty we have in common,’ he teased.

  Everyone laughed except Pixie. Pixie just glowered.

  ‘Or finding the same things funny,’ added Ralph.

  Pixie ignored him. She was already opening the book.

  ‘Ssh!’ she said, settling herself on the nearest spare bed. ‘Are you listening?’

  And since she was brilliant at reading, they soon were.

  Richard Clayton Harwich – My Story.

  Read and weep.

  When I was young, my father took a fever. Day by day, everything changed. A dreadful silence fell upon our house. The maids wept in corners. My mother’s dark dresses billowed as she hurried across landings, impatiently snatching from the servants’ hands the things she begged my father to lift his head from the pillows and try: poor things indeed! a sip of water, a slice of peach, the tiniest fragment of dry toast. But it was of no use. Nobody said a word to me–what should they say? Everyone loved him so, they would have fallen into fits of weeping saying it! – but early one evening I came across George the gardener leaning heavily on his spade, and took the courage to ask him.

  ‘Mr Digby. Is my father dying?’

  He lifted his head and stared.

  ‘Oh, Master Richard!’ he said, pushing the spade aside and crushing me to his breast.

  And then I knew.

  That night, Lucy the maid came in my mother’s place to hear my prayers and say ‘Goodnight, God bless’. The frills round her apron were damp, and even as she sat at my bedside, her thoughts were far from this little tower room, and she kept dabbing at her eyes.

  ‘Lucy,’ I asked her. ‘Will it be tonight?’

  At once she laid a finger on my lips.

  ‘Hush! Don’t even speak of it.’

  Before I could ask her more, she had jumped to her feet, and hurried away, weeping.

  But early next morning, when I had chased the dogs up and down the avenue of limes till I, at least, was tired, then hidden myself deep in the shrubbery to be alone with my dark fears, I heard a frantic rustling in the undergrowth, and saw a puff-ball of white frills pushing its way between bushes, and slapping its dainty hands crossly at all the cold dewdrops flying from the leaves. And there in front of me stood Little Charlotte.

  ‘Dickie! Mama has set the whole house a-searching. Papa has hugged and kissed me, and now he is asking to see you.’

  I know my duty to my sister. But I confess I left her rescue to the mercy of the under-gardeners. Without a word of thanks to her for her message, so hard-delivered, I crashed my way out of the shrubbery, sped across the lawns, and took a shortcut through the open french windows.

  As I leaped over the rugs, a heavy, black-sleeved hand fell on my arm, swinging me round.

  ‘Stay, boy!’

  It was the Reverend Coldstone. It was not Sunday, but still I wished him back in his dark, ivy-smothered chapel.

  ‘Sir, I am in a hurry.’

  He gripped my arm tighter, and loomed over me. His pale face peered in mine. He was dressed black as a bat, and (I’ll say it fearlessly, now he has done his best to beat fear out of me) he was no more welcome than one of those sinister, misbegotten creatures in my mother’s pretty morning room.

  ‘Please, sir! I beg you. My father wishes to see me. I must go.’

  He pinched my elbow.

  ‘Are these your best manners?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said sharply. ‘When I know that my mother has sent for me.’

  Then he stepped back. There was a flash of anger in those ice-blue eyes. And, when he spoke, his voice was even sharper than mine, with, I sensed, far more practice.

  ‘Trust me,’ he warned. ‘I shall take time to mend your manners soon.’

  On any other day, I might have taken time to disbelieve him. But I just ran – up the stairs and over the landing, to where my mother watched for me in the doorway.

  ‘Richard,’ she said to me sternly, brushing the unruly hair back from my forehead. ‘Now you must be brave for me. I will not have your father go troubled to his grave.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  ‘And, Richard –’

  I turned back.

  ‘Yes, Mama?’

  She took my hands in hers, and squeezed them. ‘No tears, my dearest. Your poor father has seen enough of tears.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’

  No tears! I would have found obedience easier that morning if I had known how many tears I was to shed after that day. How many nights my pillow would become a flood. How many cloudless afternoons I was to water with my private showers. Show me the child who reaches for the hand of father or mother and says ‘Farewell’, and I will show you a storm of weeping under a face of stone.

  ‘There’s my strong lad,’ he said. ‘No tears. I’m glad to see it.’

  His voice was so weak, so rasping, that I could barely make out his words.

  ‘You must be good to your mother and sister. You are the man of the house now. They will depend on you.’

 
I bent my head nearer the pillow. He took my hand with a grip so feeble that Charlotte could have squeezed my fingers harder.

  ‘Obey your mother’s wishes to the letter.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  How selfish it would have seemed if I had cried out then: ‘Mother and Charlotte, yes! But what of me?’ Then selfish I must be, for I have sat in this cold and lonely tower room for hour after hour, and the thought has come again and again: ‘But what of me?’ I wish my mother well. Of course I do. And I would not harm Charlotte for the world, nor let another try it. But why did my father forget to mention me? Does my happiness not matter? Do I count for less? Am I supposed to nod and smile and be a brave lad for ever, while everything changes around me, and everything I loved is different? No, not just different! I will say it: worse!

  For things are worse. Far worse. Sometimes I sit beside my father’s grave and run my fingers over the letters of his name cut deep in stone. And suddenly I fear I will go mad and scramble to my feet and stamp and stamp to wake him and tell him all the things that have gone wrong since he was taken from us. Why should he rest in peace while I become practically a stranger in my own house? Guess who makes all rules now! That black, black bat crept up on my mother while she was busy weeping, and trapped her as surely as if he’d thrown a net on her. ‘Now, Mrs Harwick, you cannot see the holes in the chapel path for tears. Please take my arm. I’ll see you safely home.’ ‘Come, my dear Mrs Harwick. Together we shall pray.’ Even while Charlotte could still count on her stubby pink fingers the months that had passed since her last fond farewell to her father, Mr Coldstone was pulling his net tighter. ‘Lilith, your grief lasts longer than the Lord would ask.’ And, only weeks later, hiding my own tears deep in the shrubbery, I overheard the words that turned this heart of mine to stone:

  ‘Lily, dear. When you are mine…’

  When you are mine… And, yes! Now you would think he really does own my mother. And everything of hers is his as well. It seems that I am his. And so is Charlotte.

  ‘That boy runs wild. I have a mind to tame him. He must in any case be sent to school. And then perhaps his sister, free from his influence, will be less giddy herself.’

  And what did my mother say? Did she rise to her feet and flash her eyes, and tell him: ‘Mr Coldstone, you go too far! My Richard may wander freely around the home and gardens in which he has known happier times, but I’ll not have him called “wild”. And as for little Charlotte, her father and myself were proud to raise a child so fond and loving. We did not call her “giddy”, and I know he would join with me in being grateful if her new father did not do so either.’

  Is this how my mother defended us? No, it is not. All that my mother did was lower her eyes, or look away, or press her fingers to the throbbing in her temples and beg Lucy for yet another powder ‘for my poor, aching head’. As weeks went by, the rules grew stricter and stricter, till there were days when (but for the kindness of Mr Digby showing me how to whittle wood to little animals, and Lucy spoiling me with stolen buns) I would have thought my own home more of a prison, even, than that cold corner of hell to which I was sent four days after Christmas.

  Mordanger School. If there’s a meaner place on earth, I wish it burnt to ashes. In four long years at this Mordanger School, I have learned nothing except how to freeze, and how to starve, and how to be bullied and beaten. I have been robbed of all my precious little tokens from home. And, in its cold corridors, I have learned how to wait for hour after hour for nothing worth the waiting. Truly, I believe that the entire herd of little wooden cows on Charlotte’s toy farm owe their existence to all my teachers’ gruesome training. After so many cries of ‘Sit still, boy!’ and ‘Stop that fidgeting!’ now, on my short visits home, I cannot sit for a moment with idle fingers.

  ‘Here, Charlotte. Here’s another cow.’

  She took it and blew it hard, to watch the sawdust fly. And then she marched it over the brow of the huge glossy globe my stepfather has kindly bought me for my birthday, so he can better torment me with cuffs and blows for not being able to point to China in a moment, or tell him instantly whether the Indian Ocean is larger or smaller than the Pacific Sea.

  ‘Charlotte,’ I begged her. ‘Give over spinning the globe. Its very rumble turns my stomach to knots.’

  Her face went wistful.

  ‘Oh, Dickie,’ she said. ‘Why must you hate him so?’

  ‘Perhaps,’I said to Charlotte, ‘you would get closer to an answer if you were to ask him why he so hates me.’

  Charlotte sighed deeply.

  ‘Mama says that everything he does is for your own good, so you will grow up strong and manly, and be a son of whom they can be proud.’

  ‘I’ll be no son of his! Not ever!’

  Charlotte turned the cow upside down, and inspected its tiny hooves.

  ‘He has been kind enough to me,’ she whispered.

  Now this was brave of Charlotte! In all the time this man has been in our house, she’s picked her way between the two of us like someone stepping on stones over a river with water raging on both sides. While I am near, she takes a care never to slip her hand too willingly in his, or chuckle at his poor jokes, or settle at his feet while he is reading by the fire. But I know well enough, from stepping silently past doorways, and moving like a shadow through the house, that when she thinks that I am far away, watching Mr Digby prune the roses, or helping Lucy shell beans, then she will nestle to his side, and he will stroke her hair, and pet her, call her his ‘good, dear Charlie’ and beg her to run and fetch his pipe, or slippers, or his London Magazine.

  I could not help myself. I spat the words at Charlotte.

  ‘Easy for you to like him. You have forgotten how things used to be. You have forgotten our father!’

  Her little mouth trembled.

  ‘Dickie! I have not!’

  ‘I think you must, if you can stand without a shudder beside the black bat who seeks to take his place.’

  ‘Dickie,’ she wailed at me. ‘Papa is dead and gone. Why should I treat Mr Coldstone as if he were a murderer when I know it was not him, but a fever, that carried Papa away? Just because life has dealt us one hard blow, there is no reason for us to be unhappy for ever.’

  ‘Perhaps you would all live out your fairy-tale more happily without the black clouds I bring!’

  The tears sprang to her eyes.

  ‘Don’t say so, Dickie!’

  ‘And if it should be true?’

  She hurled the little cow in my direction.

  ‘It isn’t true! Say it’s not true!’

  I said it wasn’t true. I took her hand in mine, and dried her tears, and begged her pardon. But, deep inside, I know that it is true. That, without me, the three of them would get on well enough. Mother, I think, would find life much more pleasant without my dark looks and scowling face reminding her each day that I believe she is a traitor to my father’s memory. Mr Coldstone would greet my disappearance with pleasure. And as for Charlotte, she would, I am sure, learn to live without me as promptly and easily as she has learned to live without our dear father.

  So here I am, ready to lay down my pen and lift my bag. It seems so strange that, in the instant of bending to the floor to pick up a little wooden cow whose leg has snapped, a boy as young as I could make a decision that will change three lives.

  But I have done so.

  I am leaving home.

  Pixie broke off her reading and lifted her head. From Colin’s bed had come a sharp intake of breath, and Claudia was blowing her nose on a tissue.

  ‘Go on,’ said Ralph impatiently. ‘Carry on with the story.’

  But Pixie ignored him.

  ‘Are you two all right?’

  Colin pretended that she wasn’t speaking to him, but Claudia openly wiped away her tears.

  ‘Yes, carry on. It’s just…’

  Pixie gave her a look.

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Claudia shook her head. ‘Go o
n.’

  As Pixie was finding her place again, Robbo spoke up.

  ‘I wish my sister could be here to listen to this. She’s hated The Beard from the day he moved in with us.’

  ‘The Beard?’

  Pixie wasn’t the only one to glance at him curiously. But she was certainly the only one suddenly to turn back to Colin and Claudia.

  ‘I see!’ she said suddenly.

  She turned on Ralph.

  ‘What about you?’ she demanded. ‘Tell us how you fit in.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Pixie was grinning now.

  ‘Come on, Ralph.’ Just as he’d teased her earlier, she teased him back. ‘You’re supposed to be clever. Isn’t it obvious? Colin’s been listening for once, instead of daydreaming. Claudia’s tissue is soaking. And Robbo’s sister knows exactly how Richard Harwick feels…’ She made little beckoning gestures with both hands, like Miss O’Dell coaxing the answer out of someone in a maths class.

  Ralph shook his head, mystified.

  ‘I’ll give you another clue.’ Pixie’s eyes were bright. ‘I had to put two home addresses on my permission form.’ Again she imitated Miss O’Dell. ‘Just think it through, step by step.’ She grinned. ‘Step by wicked step, maybe…’

  ‘Of course!’ Ralph brought his fist down triumphantly on the bed. ‘It’s just that I didn’t think, because none of my stepmothers have ever been wicked.’

  ‘None of them?’

  Everybody stared. But Ralph didn’t even notice. He kept on:

  ‘But, yes. You’re right. I did write two addresses on the form.’

  Now it was Claudia’s turn to be confused.

  ‘Which form?’

  ‘The permission form,’ Ralph told her. ‘I bet Pixie is right. I bet what we have in common is that we all wrote down a second home address.’

  ‘And that’s the column Miss O’Dell was looking at when she read out our names to take us off the bus?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Now Claudia pointed to the album in Pixie’s hand.

  ‘Does that mean we all have something in common with him as well?’

  Ralph shuddered.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘We all have two homes. Richard Harwick only had one.’