The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

smiled again. The woman was a terrible ditherer; how had she ever got the job?

      ‘Ah,’ came a grateful sigh, ‘there you are, you terrible thing.’ She pulled a large book of stamps towards her and put on her glasses before wading through it.

      ‘There you are, dear,’ the woman breathed wearily. ‘That’s forty-five pence, please.’

      Jennet counted out her change and while the woman waited, the tissue flashed out and dabbed at her nose, then was just as speedily consigned to the sleeve once more.

      Jennet took her stamp and postcard, thanked her and looked round for Ben. He was not there. Then from the street came a terrible commotion; a car horn was blowing harshly and voices were raised in anger. Jennet put her hand to her mouth and ran outside, thinking the worst.

      A large old Bentley was attempting to plough down Church Street and the driver was being none too gentle. Jennet found Ben on the pavement, laughing at the surprised and angry looks of the people who were thrust aside. A girl in a bright orange and purple dress that had little mirrors sewn around the hem shouted equally colourful abuse at the occupants of the car and shook her tambourine at them furiously.

      Once Jennet had got over the relief of finding her brother in one piece she shook him roughly and angrily told him, ‘Don’t you ever, ever do that again! Do you understand?’

      But Ben was not really listening. He was still staring at the car, which had pulled up outside the post office. The driver was a bluff Yorkshire man in grubby gardening clothes, but on his head he wore a chauffeur’s cap. He got out and walked to one of the rear doors.

      ‘’Ere we are, madam,’ he said gruffly as he opened it. Both Ben and Jennet peered inside to see who his passenger might be.

      A large, flabby lady in a silk print dress and a fur stole stepped heavily on to the pavement. Her hair was a pale peach colour and there seemed to be an inch-thick layer of make-up covering her face. Her lips were smeared a sickly orange to match her rinse, but it just made her look ill. She wore a necklace of pearls and her podgy hands were bejewelled with rings.

      Jennet thought she looked like a fat pantomime fairy. Ben began to giggle as the apparition waddled gracelessly towards the post office and brushed past them. Her perfume was incredibly pungent – he could almost taste it.

      The woman peered down her nose at the children and gave a peculiar excuse for a smile. Ben scowled. This was one of those phoney acknowledgements, the sort the Rodice used to dole out. Jennet nodded at her and shuddered as she wobbled into the post office; there had been lipstick all over her teeth.

      ‘Come on,’ she said to her brother, ‘let’s go and have lunch.’

      They found Miss Boston already in the kitchen making ham sandwiches for them and, as they sat down to eat, they told her what they had done that morning. The old lady listened attentively, clucking now and then in wonder or approval. She laughed as they described the morris dancers and sucked in her cheeks at the disgraceful behaviour of the Bentley.

      ‘That Banbury-Scott woman really is too much!’ she snorted. ‘Thinks she owns the town, she does.’

      ‘You know that fat lady with all the kak on her face, then?’ asked Ben, forgetting his manners.

      Aunt Alice spluttered at this description, pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows to disassociate herself from it. ‘Yes, I know her,’ she said. ‘She just happens to be one of the wealthiest women in the town. Married well, you see – married twice, actually, but both her husbands are dead now. Mrs Banbury-Scott is a very important person; her home is one of the largest and probably the oldest around here.’ Miss Boston sighed wistfully and took another bite of her sandwich.

      ‘She’s very fat,’ Ben said again.

      Jennet kicked him under the table but Aunt Alice nodded in agreement. ‘Yes, she is a bit of a pig,’ she admitted. ‘Far too greedy, I’m afraid.’

      Ben chuckled with surprise and appreciation – he had not expected her to agree with him.

      ‘I didn’t like her,’ said Jennet flatly.

      ‘Not many do,’ confided Aunt Alice, ‘but because she’s rich they put up with her. Very useful to have her on the board of this and that if she makes a contribution to the funds now and again. Of course she’s got terribly above herself – putting on airs and graces. She might be able to fool some of them round here with her fancy ways but I remember what she was like before she got married. Plain Dora Blatchet she was then, father lived in the yard opposite – simple fisherman.’ She leaned back and stared into space for a moment. ‘Oh, but she was a lovely creature then – prettiest little thing in Whitby. Another cruel trick of age.’

      Ben licked the crumbs off the plate and looked round for something else. Miss Boston gave him an apple but he looked at it woefully; he had been hoping for some chocolate biscuits.

      ‘She can’t have any real friends, then,’ said Jennet thoughtfully. ‘How awful to be liked just because you have money.’

      ‘Oh, but she does have friends, dear,’ Aunt Alice quickly put in. ‘There’s Edith Wethers, the postmistress, Mrs Joyster, Tilly Droon and . . .’ here she paused, then added guiltily, ‘. . . and there’s me. In fact Mrs Banbury-Scott will be coming here tomorrow evening. Our ladies’ circle meets once a month.’

      She cleared the plates away while Jennet puzzled over her words. The way Aunt Alice had mentioned the ladies’ circle was strange, as if she was embarrassed and did not want to talk about it.

      ‘Is it a party?’ Ben asked with interest.

      Miss Boston gave a nervous laugh and shook her head quickly. ‘Oh no, Benjamin,’ she said. ‘Just a collection of dreary old women like me – extremely dull, I’m afraid.’

      Jennet looked across at her brother. It was obvious they were not wanted at this meeting and she wondered what they were supposed to do during it.

      By a strange coincidence, Aunt Alice was thinking exactly the same thing. The old lady stuck out her chins and chewed the problem over in her mind. It would never do for the children to find out what happened at these meetings and discover her little secret, she told herself. Jennet watched her and suspicion began to form in the back of her mind, but for the moment she said nothing.

      The rest of the afternoon was spent listening to the various little pockets of folk music that sprang up wherever a clear space could be found. Ben enjoyed this immensely and joined in the clapping and cheering. There was so much to see that the time passed very quickly and the children were exhausted by the time they eventually clambered into their beds.

      Another loud chorus of screeching gulls startled Jennet out of her sleep the next morning. She glanced at her watch: it was half past six. With an exasperated groan she turned on her side and lifted the edge of her bedroom curtain.

      The day was wet and windy, with gulls riding the gusts and circling overhead. Jennet’s room looked out on to the yard but nothing stirred there. She fumbled with the catch and opened the window.

      At once the drizzly Sunday morning crowded into her bedroom. The clamour of the sea birds rang in her ears and the warm wind blew salt and rain into her face. From somewhere, the delicious and enviable smell of frying bacon tantalised her senses. Quickly pulling her clothes on, Jennet stumbled downstairs to make her breakfast.

      In the kitchen she found that Miss Boston was already up and about. She had evidently just returned from her morning walk, as her white hair resembled the collection of sheep’s wool and twigs on the hall table.

      ‘Hello, dear,’ she said, looking up from the kipper on the plate before her. ‘Sleep well?’

      Jennet nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’ She slotted a piece of bread into the toaster and decided it was time to ask what had been preying on her mind. ‘Aunt Alice,’ she began casually.

      The old lady pulled a fishbone from her lips and glanced