The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

she’s waiting for us outside in her car.’

      They trudged up to the barrier and Jennet began to rummage in her pockets for the tickets. The ticket collector cast a weary glance their way and held his hand out impatiently. Ben stared up at him and pretended to pick his nose. The man set his jaw and glared down icily. Jennet, meanwhile, was still rifling through her pockets.

      ‘Come on now, miss,’ said the man.

      Jennet was flustered; she could not think what had happened to the tickets.

      ‘Has it arrived, George?’ came a brisk female voice.

      The ticket collector turned and nodded to the newcomer. ‘Aye, an’ three minutes early, Miss Boston.’

      Jennet looked up sharply. There, with her hands clasped firmly behind her back, stood a stout, white-haired woman. She wore a jacket of sage-green tweed with a matching skirt, and on her head sat a shapeless velvet hat. The cobweb lines around her grey, bird-like eyes suggested the old lady’s age to be about seventy but her stance was like someone much younger.

      ‘Ah, three minutes, is that so?’ Miss Boston spoke challengingly and raised her eyebrows at the ticket collector. ‘Well, well, what a day for wonders, to be sure.’

      Then the old woman saw the children and her face lit up. The eyes blinked and disappeared and the rolls of skin beneath the chin shook like jelly. ‘Oh, these must be mine,’ she cried, clapping her hands together like an eager child.

      ‘Yours, Miss Boston?’ asked the ticket collector, baffled.

      ‘Yes, yes, George. Now let them through that wretched thing.’

      ‘But they an’t give me their tickets.’

      ‘Oh stuff !’ she exclaimed in exasperation. ‘Let them through at once, they’re with me.’ And she stamped her foot and gave the man a look which no one would have dared to disobey.

      ‘This is most irreg’lar,’ he said as the children squeezed past him, ‘most irreg’lar.’

      Miss Boston clucked gleefully as she ran her keen eyes over Jennet and Ben. ‘Let me have a good look at you,’ she demanded. ‘So, you’re Jennet.’

      ‘Yes,’ the girl replied, returning the interested stare.

      ‘Pretty name – far better than Janet or Jeanette. Now I believe you are twelve, is that correct?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Mmm. You look older – act it too. Not surprising, really.’ Miss Boston nodded as though satisfied with the girl and turned her attention to the boy.

      ‘And this is Benjamin, I presume.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

      The child stared back and said nothing.

      ‘He’s shy with strangers,’ put in Jennet.

      ‘Of course he is,’ the woman returned. ‘All sensitive children are timid.’

      ‘Ben’s not sensitive, just shy,’ corrected Jennet firmly.

      ‘Ah, yes – you must forgive me.’ Miss Boston’s face looked like someone guiltily sucking a boiled sweet. ‘Well,’ she went on, ‘I trust I shan’t be considered a stranger for very much longer – by either of you.’ Her smile was warm and genuine. ‘Now, come,’ she cried, waving them out of the station, ‘let us retire to my home and have a bite to eat before you unpack.’

      As they left the station Jennet saw for the first time the town of Whitby. The girl stood stock still and absorbed the sight breathlessly. The station was close to the quayside and the harbour was filled with fishing boats, from large fat vessels with wide hulls and tall radio masts down to the simplest coble, painted red and white. Close by there was a long red boat which ran fishing trips for the tourists.

      On the far side of the harbour was a jumble of buildings with roofs of terracotta tiles, nestling snugly alongside each other like a queue of nervous bathers waiting for someone to take the first leap into the water. They were built on a steep cliffside and the hotch-potch of sandstone and whitewash somehow seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape. They felt right, as though they had been there from earliest times and without them the land would be naked and ugly.

      Jennet’s eyes scanned up beyond the houses, to where the high plain of the cliff reached out to the sea. She gasped and stared. For there, surmounting everything, was a ragged crown of grey stone – the abbey.

      The building was in ruins, but that did not diminish its power. The abbey had dominated Whitby for centuries and waves of invisible force flowed down from it. The ruin was a guardian, watching and waiting, caring for the little town that huddled beneath the cliff. It was a worshipful thing.

      Miss Boston nodded. ‘Yes,’ she sighed dreamily, ‘the abbey. It is indeed lovely. There has been a church on that site for at least fourteen hundred years. One gets a marvellous sense of permanence, living under such an enduring symbol of faith. If one believes in the genius loci – the spirit of place – then surely therein dwells something divine. The Vikings came, Henry did his best to destroy the abbey with the Dissolution of the Monasteries and in the Great War German ships bombarded it. Yet still it stands – stubborn and wonderful. They say a true inhabitant of Whitby is lost if he cannot see the abbey.’ She paused and looked at the ground. ‘Well,’ she went on again breezily, ‘there I go, off at tangents again. You two may have eaten but I have not. Come, tea awaits.’

      Jennet dragged her eyes from the cliff and glanced about the road. ‘Where’s your car?’ she asked curiously.

      Miss Boston puffed herself up indignantly. ‘A car?’ she cried, her chins wobbling. ‘I don’t need a car. Whitby is not big enough to warrant the use of an automobile, child. However, I do have transport, now you mention it.’ She strode round to where an old black bicycle was leaning against the station wall.

      Jennet bit her lip to stop herself cracking up with laughter at the thought of the old woman riding round on that. Had she and Ben come to stay with the local nutter?

      Miss Boston announced that she would not ride but walk, for the sake of the children. ‘Now, this way,’ she declared, setting off. The bicycle clattered and whirred beside her.

      Ben had been silent since they had met but by now he had decided that the old woman was harmless and much friendlier than the Rodice. There were none of those phoney smiles and patronising looks which were a feature of the Rodice’s way with children. He was also relieved that this adult had not tried to pat him on the head or ruffle his hair, like some others had done.

      Now his excited eyes saw the fishing boats with their gleaming paintwork, orange nets and lobster pots. A twinge of pleasure tugged at his insides when he thought of actually sailing in one of them. It was not impossible. If the old woman liked him and Jennet and if he kept quiet about certain things, they might stay here just long enough.

      Ben was already beginning to find Whitby a thrilling place, full of possibilities. Suddenly he remembered again what Mr Glennister had told him. As he walked behind his sister along the New Quay Road a determined expression crossed his face and, forgetting his bashfulness, he pulled at the old woman’s sleeve.

      ‘Where’s Peter Pan?’ he demanded.

      Miss Boston stopped and blinked. ‘Whatever does the dear boy mean?’ she asked Jennet in surprise.

      ‘He was told Captain Hook lived here,’ explained the girl in an apologetic tone.

      Miss Boston hooted loudly and frightened some gulls on the quayside. ‘Bless me, Benjamin,’ she chuckled, ‘it’s Cook, not Hook. Captain Cook lived here.’

      ‘Oh,’ murmured Ben. He felt babyish and all the shyness returned in a great flood. He waited for the old woman to call him stupid, but instead she said something quite unexpected.

      ‘Peter Pan, eh?’ Miss Boston mused to herself. ‘Do you know, young man, you have crystallised