The Secret of Platform 13 Page 6

  He then glided off to watch Albert Fisher eat bangers and mash in his old house and make himself miserable, but first he promised the help of all the ghosts in the city if it was needed. ‘And not just ghosts – there’s all sorts would like to see things come right on the Island,’ he said.

  He had no sooner gone than Ben came hurrying out of the house towards them, and Odge – who had been exercising her present in the shrubbery – crawled out with her suitcase and said ‘hello’.

  ‘How was your grandmother?’ Gurkie asked.

  A shadow crossed Ben’s face. ‘She says she’s all right but she doesn’t look very well to me.’ And then: ‘How did it go at lunch?’

  ‘Raymond was awful,’ said Odge. ‘I think he’s disgusting. I think we should have a republic on the Island and not bother with a prince once the King and Queen are dead.’

  ‘Odge!’ said Gurkie in a warning voice.

  Odge hung her head. She had not meant to betray the reason for their journey any more than she had meant to ill-wish the Knickerbocker Glory, but she was a girl with strong feelings.

  But Cor had come to a decision.

  ‘I think, Ben,’ he said, ‘that you are a boy who can keep a secret?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Ben without hesitation.

  ‘You see, we shall need your help. You know Raymond’s movements and where he sleeps and so on. So we had better explain why we are here.’

  He then told him about the Island, about the sorrow of the King and Queen, about their quest.

  Ben listened in silence and when they had finished his eyes were bright with wonder. ‘I always knew there had to be a place like that. I knew it!’ But he was amazed that Raymond had been stolen. ‘Mrs Trottle’s got his birth certificate framed in her room.’

  ‘Well, that just shows she’s a cheat, doesn’t it?’ said Odge. ‘Who’d want to frame a crummy birth certificate unless they had something to hide?’

  ‘Now, listen, Ben,’ the wizard went on, ‘we want you to take us to see Raymond when he’s alone. Do you know when that might be?’

  ‘Tonight would be good. The Trottles are going out and Mrs Flint’s meant to listen for him – that’s the cook – but all she does is switch the telly on full blast and stay in her sitting room.’

  ‘That will do then. And now we must think how to win Raymond’s trust and make him come with us. What sort of things does he like?’

  This was difficult. Ben could think of a lot of things Raymond didn’t like. After a pause he said: ‘Presents. He likes getting things.’

  ‘Ah, in that case—’

  ‘No!’ Odge broke in most rudely. S he was clutching the suitcase and her green eye gave off beams of fury. ‘I won’t give this present to that pig of a boy.’

  Cornelius rose. ‘How dare you speak like that to your superiors?’

  But Odge stood her ground. ‘This present is special. I brought it up from when it was tiny and it’s still a baby and I’m not going to give it to Raymond because he’s horrible. I’m going to give it to Ben.’

  Gurkintrude now knelt down beside the hag. ‘Look, Odge, I know how you feel. But it’s our duty to bring back the Prince. The Queen trusted you as much as she trusted us and it was because you thought of such a lovely present for her son that she said you could come. You can’t let her down now.’

  But it was Ben who changed her mind. ‘If you promise to do something, Odge, then you have to do it, you know that. And if giving Raymond . . . whatever it is . . . will help, then that’s part of the deal.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Odge sulkily . ‘ But if he doesn’t treat it properly I’ll let my sisters loose on him, and that’s a promise.’

  It was nine o’clock before the servants were settled in front of the telly and Ben could creep upstairs with his new friends.

  Raymond was sitting up in bed with his ghetto-blaster going full tilt, wriggling in time to the music.

  ‘What do you want?’ he said to Ben. ‘I don’t need you. I haven’t got any homework to do today because tomorrow’s Saturday and anyway you’re supposed to stay in the kitchen.’

  ‘I’ve brought some people to see you,’ said Ben. ‘Visitors.’

  The rescuers entered, and Ben introduced them – all except Hans who had to crawl through the door on his hands and knees and settled himself down with his eye shut.

  Raymond stared at them. ‘They look funny , ’ he said. ‘Are they in fancy dress?’

  ‘No, Your Roy—’ began Cor and broke off. He had been about to call Raymond Your Royal Highness but it was too early to reveal the full truth. ‘We come from another place.’

  ‘What place?’ asked Raymond suspiciously .

  ‘It’s called the Island,’ said Gurkintrude. Feys are used to kissing children and being godmother to almost everyone, but Raymond, bulging out of his yellow silk pyjamas, looked so uninviting that she had to pretend he was a vegetable marrow before she could settle down beside him on the bed. ‘It’s a most beautiful place, Raymond. There are green fields with wild flowers growing in the grass and groves of ancient trees and rivers where the water is so clear that you can see all the stones on the bottom as if they were jewels.’

  Raymond didn’t say anything, but at least he’d switched off his radio.

  ‘And all round the Island are beaches of white sand and rock pools and cliffs where the sea birds come to nest each spring.’

  ‘And there are seals and buzzards and rabbits and crabs,’ said Odge.

  ‘I don’t like crabs,’ said Raymond. ‘They pinch you. Is there a pier with slot machines and an amusement arcade?’

  ‘No. But you don’t need an amusement arcade – the dolphins will come and talk to you and the kelpies will take you on their backs and gallop through the waves.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Raymond. ‘You’re telling fibs.’

  ‘No, Raymond, it’s all true,’ said Gurkie, ‘and if you come with us we’ll show you.’

  Cor opened his briefcase and took out a cardboard folder. ‘Perhaps you would like to see a picture of our King and Queen?’

  He handed the photograph to Raymond. It wasn’t one of the official palace portraits with the royal family in their robes. The Queen was sitting on a rock by the sea with one hand trailing in the water. Her long hair was loose and she was smiling up at the King who looked down at her, his face full of pride. The picture had been taken before the Prince was stolen and what came out of it most was – happiness.

  ‘They look all right,’ said Raymond. ‘But they don’t look royal. They’re dressed like ordinary people. If I was royal I’d wear a gold uniform and medals.’

  ‘Then you’d look pretty silly by the sea,’ said Odge, ‘because the salt spray would make the gold braid go all green and nasty and your medals would clank and frighten away—’

  ‘Now, Odge!’ said Gurkie warningly .

  ‘Could I look?’ asked Ben – and Cor took the picture from Raymond and handed it to him.

  Ben said nothing. He just stood looking at the photograph – looking and looking as if he could make himself part of it . . . as if he could vanish into the picture and stay there.

  But now Raymond sat up very straight and pointed to the door. ‘Eeek!’ he shouted. ‘There’s a horrible thing there! An eye! It’s disgusting; it’s creepy. I want my Mummy!’

  The others turned their heads in dismay. They knew how sensitive the ogre was and to call such a clean-living person ‘creepy’ is about as hurtful as it is possible to be. And sure enough, a tear welled up in Hans’ clear blue eye, trembled there . . . and fell. Then the eye vanished and from the space where the giant sat, there came a deep, unhappy sigh.

  But Odge now came to the rescue. She had promised to behave like the girls of St Agnes who said: ‘Play Up and Play the Game’ and she said: ‘Raymond, I’ve brought you a present, a really special one. I brought it all the way from the Island. Look!’

  The word ‘present’ cheered Raymond up at onc
e and he watched as she lifted her suitcase on to the bed and opened it.

  ‘What is it?’ Raymond asked.

  But he didn’t shudder this time; he looked quite pleased. And the person who wasn’t pleased with what lay inside, cradled in layers of moss, would have been made of stone. A very small animal covered in soft, snow-white fur, with big paws lightly tipped with black. His eyes, as he woke from sleep, were huge and very dark, his blob of a nose was moist and whiskery and cool, and as he looked up at Raymond and yawned you could see his strawberry pink tongue and smell his clean milky breath.

  ‘I’ve never seen one of them,’ said Raymond. ‘It’s a funny looking thing. What is it?’

  Odge told him. ‘It’s a mistmaker. We have hundreds of them on the Island; they get very tame. I got this one because his mother got muddled and rolled on him. She didn’t mean to, she just got mixed up.’

  She lifted the little animal out and laid him on the satin quilt. The mistmaker’s forehead was wrinkled like a bloodhound’s; he had a small, soft moustache and his pink, almost human-looking ears had big lobes like you find on the ears of poets or musicians.

  ‘Why is it called a mistmaker?’ asked Raymond.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Odge. ‘Can you sing?’

  ‘Of course I can sing,’ said Raymond. ‘Everyone can sing.’

  ‘Well, then, do it. Sing something to it. Put your head quite close.’

  Raymond cleared his throat. ‘I can’t remember any words,’ he said. ‘I’ll play it something on my radio.’ He turned the knob and the room was filled with the sound of cackling studio laughter.

  ‘You try , Ben,’ ordered Odge. ‘You sing to it.’

  But Ben didn’t sing. He whistled. None of them had heard whistling quite like that; it was like bird-song, but it wasn’t just chirruping – it had a proper tune: a soaring tune that made them think of spring and young trees and life beginning everywhere. And as Ben whistled, the little animal drew closer . . . and closer still . . . he pressed his moist nose against Ben’s hands; the wrinkles on his worried-looking forehead grew smoother . . .

  ‘Aaah,’ sighed the mistmaker. ‘Aaah . . .’

  Then it began. At first there was only a little mist; he was after all very young . . . and then there came more . . . and more . . . Even from this animal only a few weeks old there came enough cool, swirling mist to wreathe Raymond’s bed in whiteness. The room became beautiful and mysterious; the piles of neglected toys disappeared, and the fussy furniture . . . and the Islanders drank in the well-remembered freshness of early morning and of grass still moist with dew.

  Raymond’s mouth dropped open. ‘It’s weird. I’ve never seen that. It isn’t natural.’

  ‘Why isn’t it natural?’ asked Odge crossly . ‘Skunks make stinks and slugs make slime and people make sweat so why shouldn’t a mistmaker make mist?’

  Raymond was still staring at the little creature. No one at school had anything like that. He’d be able to show it off to everyone. Paul had a tree frog and Derek had a grass snake but this would beat them all.

  ‘You’d be able to play with mistmakers all day long if you came to the Island,’ said Gurkie. ‘You will come, won’t you?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Raymond. ‘I’d miss my telly and my computer games and my Scalextric set. But I’ll keep him.’

  He made a grab for the mistmaker but the animal had given off so much mist that he was less pillow-shaped now, and nimbler. Jumping off the bed he landed with a thud on his nose and began to explore the room.

  They watched him as he ran his whiskery moustache along Raymond’s toy boxes, rolled over on the rug, rubbed himself against a chest of drawers. Sometimes he disappeared into patches of mist, then reappeared with one ear turned inside out which is what happens to mistmakers who are busy.

  The wizard cleared his throat. Now was the time to come out with the truth. Such a snobby boy would surely come to the Island if he knew he would live there as a prince.

  ‘Perhaps we should tell you, Raymond, that you are really of noble—’

  He was interrupted by another and even louder shriek from Raymond.

  ‘Look! It’s lifted its leg! It’s made a puddle on the carpet. It’s dirty!’

  Odge looked at him with loathing. ‘This mist-maker is six weeks old! They can be housetrained perfectly well but not when they are infants. You made enough puddles when you were that age and it’s a clean puddle. It isn’t the puddle of someone who guzzles shrimps and roast pork and greasy potatoes.’

  Ben had already been to the bathroom for a cloth and was mopping up. Mopping up after Raymond was something he had been doing ever since he could remember. Then he gathered up the mist-maker who was trembling all over and trying to cover his ears with his paws. You cannot be as musical as these animals are without suffering terribly from the kind of stuck-pig noises that Raymond made.

  ‘You keep him downstairs, Ben,’ ordered Raymond. ‘You can feed him and see he doesn’t mess up my room. But remember, he’s mine!’

  Eight

  Odge and Gurkie spent the night curled up on the floor of the little summer house. It was a pretty place with a fretwork verandah and wooden steps but no one used it now. Years ago the roof had begun to leak and instead of mending it, the head keeper had put up a notice saying: private. no admittance. Dark privet bushes and clumps of laurel hid it from passers by. Only the animals came to it now: sparrows to preen in the lop-sided bird bath; squirrels to chatter on the roof.

  Near by, a patch of snoring grass showed where the ogre rested. Ben had smuggled the mistmaker into his cupboard of a room.

  But Cornelius could not sleep. He longed to conjure up a fire to keep his old bones warm, but he thought it might be noticed and after a while he took his stick and wandered off towards the lake. The Serpentine it was called because it was wiggly and shaped like a serpent, and he remembered it from when he had lived Up Here. Londoners were fond of it; people went boating there and caught tiddlers and brave old gentlemen broke the ice with their toes in winter and swam in it, getting goose pimples but being healthy.

  But it wasn’t just old men with goose pimples or lovers canoodling or children sailing their boats that came here. There were . . . others. There had been mermaids in the lake when Cor was a little boy, each tree had had its spirit, banshees had wailed in the bushes. And on Midsummer’s Eve they had gathered together and had a great party.

  Midsummer’s Eve was in two days’ time. Did they still come, the boggarts and the brownies, the nymphs and the nixies, the sproggans and the witches and the trolls? And if so was there an idea there? If Raymond saw real magic – saw the exciting things that happened on the Island, would that persuade him to come?

  Cor’s ancient forehead wrinkled up in thought. Then he raised his stick in the air and said some poetry – and seconds later Ernie Hobbs, who had been sleeping on a mail bag on platform thirteen of King’s Cross Station, woke up and said: ‘Ouch!’ Looking about him, he saw that Mrs Partridge, who’d been flat out on a luggage trolley, was sitting up and looking puzzled.

  ‘I’ve got a tingle in my elbow,’ she said. ‘Real fierce it is.’

  At the same time, Miriam Hughes-Hughes, the ghost of the apologizing lady , rolled off the bench outside the Left Luggage Office and lay blinking on the ground.

  It was Ernie who realized what had happened.

  ‘We’re being summoned! We’re being sent for!’

  ‘It’ll be the wizard,’ said Mrs Partridge excitedly . ‘There isn’t no one else can do tricks like that!’

  Wasting no more time, they glided down the platform and made their way to the park. They found Cornelius sitting on a tree stump and staring into the water.

  ‘Did you call us, Your Honour?’ asked Ernie.

  ‘I did,’ said Cor. He then told them what had happened earlier in Raymond’s room: ‘We went to tell him who he was, but the noise he made was more than anyone could bear. We had to leave.’

  The ghosts lo
oked troubled. ‘We should have warned you, maybe,’ said Ernie, ‘but we thought he might be better with you.’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t.’ Cor rubbed his aching knees. ‘Hans wants to bop the Prince on the head and carry him through the gump in a sack, but I think we must have another go at persuading him to come willingly. So I want you to call up all the . . . unusual people who are left Up Here and ask them to put on a special show for Raymond. Wizards, will o’ the wisps . . . everyone you can find. Ask them to do the best tricks they can and we’ll build a throne for Raymond and hail him as a prince.’

  ‘A sort of Raymond Trottle Magic Show?’ said Mrs Partridge eagerly .

  Ernie, though, was looking worried. ‘There’s always a bit of a do on Midsummer’s Eve, that’s true enough. But . . . well, Your Honour, I don’t want to throw a damper but magic isn’t what it was up here. It’s what you might call the Tinkerbell Factor.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said the wizard.

  ‘Well, there’s this fairy . . . she’s in a book called Peter Pan. Tinkerbell, she’s called. When people say they don’t believe in her she goes all woozy and feeble. It’s like that up here with the wizards and the witches and all. People haven’t believed in them so long they’ve lost heart a bit.’

  ‘We can only do our best,’ said Cornelius. ‘Now, tell me, what’s the situation about . . . you know . . .’ He spoke quietly , not knowing who might be listening in the depths of the lake. ‘Him. The monster? Is he still there?’

  ‘Old Nuckel? They say so,’ said Ernie. ‘But no one’s seen him for donkey’s years. Have you thought of calling him up?’

  ‘I was wondering,’ said Cor. ‘I happen to have my book of spells with me. It would make a splendid ending to the show.’

  The ghosts looked respectful. Raising monsters from the deep is very difficult magic indeed.

  ‘Well, if that doesn’t fetch the little perisher, nothing will,’ said Mrs Partridge – and blushed, because nasty or not, Raymond Trottle was, after all, a prince.