The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

fell between the children.

      The train slowed and pulled into Middlesborough. Ben twisted on his seat, his eyes following the people who got off. He was eight years old, a serious-looking boy with mousy hair and eyes which were set unusually deep below his frowning brows. His sister, Jennet, had the same oval face and unremarkable, blobby nose, but her long waving hair was darker and her eyes were less troubled.

      The guard strode by, slamming the doors of the carriages, and Ben kicked the seat impatiently with his heels. Jennet said nothing but looked at him disapprovingly. Ben considered himself scolded and the kicks subsided.

      ‘We nearly there?’ he asked suddenly.

      ‘I don’t think it’s far now,’ she answered.

      Ben abandoned the delights of the window and faced his sister. With one of his disconcerting stares, he asked her soberly, ‘Jen, what do you think it will be like this time? Will we be there long?’

      The girl shrugged. ‘Miss Boston’s old, that’s all I could get out of the Rodice.’

      At the mention of that name Ben screwed up his face. ‘I hated her,’ he said passionately. ‘I’m glad we’re not there now. She used to frighten me.’

      ‘Not as much as you frightened her,’ remarked his sister dryly. ‘Listen, remember what I said.’ A warning note crept into her voice. ‘You’re not to talk of that with this one, right?’

      Ben nodded and hastened to change the subject. ‘Will we really live near the sea, Jen?’

      ‘Yes, I think I heard Rodice say Whitby was on the coast – it’s the end of the line, anyway.’

      ‘And did Peter Pan live there too?’

      Jennet picked up his discarded comic and flicked through it herself. ‘Peter Pan?’ she asked, puzzled.

      ‘Yes. Mr Glennister who put them flags down last week told me Captain Hook came from there.’

      ‘He must have been pulling your leg, then,’ said Jennet flatly.

      ‘Oh.’ Ben was deflated and slouched back. ‘Didn’t like them flags anyway,’ he mumbled. ‘There’s no grass left now.’

      ‘Rodice said it would be cheaper in the long run,’ said Jennet distractedly. Then she raised her head and, imitating Mrs Rodice’s humourless nasal tones, added, ‘Grass needs regular mowing in the summer and in the winter the passages are covered in mud.’

      Ben chuckled; he approved of anything that made fun of the dreaded Rodice. He rubbed his eyes, then asked, ‘Don’t you know anything else about this place?’

      But Jennet was trying to concentrate on the comic, and ignored him. A year – perhaps eight months – before she would have been nervous and excited at the prospect of moving to somewhere new. She might even have looked the place up in the library to learn something about it beforehand. But that was four different foster homes ago.

      ‘I think I’ll like the sea,’ continued Ben. ‘Have I been to the seaside before, Jen?’

      ‘When you were five.’

      ‘Were they there too?’

      She coughed and stared at the comic intently. ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly.

      Ben frowned and put on his most serious face. ‘What I mean is . . .’ he struggled to choose the right words, ‘were they really there?’

      Jennet threw the comic down and snapped sharply, ‘You’ve seen that photo of us, haven’t you?’

      Ben’s eyes grew large and pleading. ‘Not for a long time, Jen – you won’t show me the photos any more. Couldn’t I see just one of them now?’

      ‘No, they’re at the bottom of the bag. Besides, you don’t need to see photos of Mum and Dad, do you?’ It was an accusation, spat out bitterly. She folded her arms crossly and stared down the carriage at a toddler sleeping in his mother’s arms. Ben began to kick the seat again and rested his head sulkily on the window.

      Jennet was tense. In the past they had always met the foster families before going to stay with them, but this time everything was different and rushed. Mrs Rodice was probably only too glad to get them off her hands and no doubt had hurried the procedures along. Still, it was very odd. The first Jennet had heard of this Miss Boston was two weeks ago, but presumably negotiations had been going on long before that. Jennet was curious. Why would an old woman go out of her way to foster two children she had never even seen, and why would the authorities let her? If only the Rodice had said more. But then Jennet had not bothered to probe into the matter very deeply. She and Ben had never had much say about where they were shunted off to, and now that they were categorised as ‘difficult cases’ they had none at all.

      Jennet was now beginning to regret her lack of interest. Miss Boston seemed such a mysterious figure. All she knew about her was that she was old. Would Miss Boston be there in person to meet them at Whitby station, she wondered, and just how old was she?

      Jennet allowed a smirk to spread over her face; perhaps some wizened hag in a bath chair would be waiting for them. A new thought struck her: maybe the old lady had money. That would explain the haste with which their fostering had gone through the system. The bath chair vanished abruptly from beneath the imaginary figure and was replaced by an ancient Rolls Royce, with a chauffeur in grey livery holding open the door. Inside was the same old woman, now swathed in furs, her wrinkled hands dripping with diamonds.

      If money was involved Jennet wondered whether she would be sent to a posh school. That’s what rich people did with children. It was an unwelcome thought and she mulled it over miserably. She and Ben had not been separated since the accident. Jennet could not imagine life without her brother, however much trouble he caused.

      The stations the train stopped at were becoming smaller, their names spelled out in whitewashed stones on well-mown slopes. Some even had hanging baskets dangling from the eaves. It was like taking a journey back to the age of steam and Jennet half-listened for the ‘chuff chuff ’ she had heard in old films.

      The scenery was beautiful. Wild expanses of rolling moorland dotted with sheep shot by, then a dense pine forest, some farm buildings with a gypsy caravan parked outside, and then more wide acres of heather, cut through by a little brook.

      The railway track became a single line. Just how far away was Whitby? It seemed as if they were going beyond the reaches of the civilised world. Jennet wondered how regularly the trains went there and wished she had thought to look at a timetable when they had changed at Darlington.

      ‘Look,’ said Ben excitedly, ‘there’s a river and there’s a boat, see!’

      A ribbon of water ran parallel to the track. For some moments it was obscured by dense trees, then was revealed once more, wider than before. Buildings clustered on the far bank and the river swelled into a marina, with yachts. Jennet caught a glimpse of a high cliff, then the vision was snatched from view and the train, wheezing with exhaustion, finally drew into Whitby station.

      ‘I saw the sea,’ declared Ben, jumping up and down on the seat. ‘And there were lots of fishing boats. Listen to the seagulls, Jen.’

      She grunted an acknowledgement and stuffed the wreckage of the journey into her large blue bag. She left the empty can of lemonade and two brown apple cores on the table and told Ben to put his coat on.

      ‘But it isn’t cold,’ he protested obstinately.

      ‘Put it on,’ she insisted.

      Ben mumbled a sentence, but the only word Jennet could catch was ‘bossy’. When he had fastened the top button of his coat, she guided him in front of her and swung the heavy bag over her shoulder.

      There were only a few other passengers on the train; they filed past the children with neat little suitcases and hold-alls, smiling as they gave their tickets to the man at the barrier. Ben stared at the sky. The rain had left behind