The Whitby Witches. Robin Jarvis

yes, we have motor cars passing through and amusement arcades on the West Cliff, which scream of the twentieth century, plus of course the summer visitors snapping their cameras, yet . . . there is an aspect of the town which belongs to the past. Never-Never Land is a good comparison . . . yes, most interesting. How perceptive you are.’

      She wheeled her bicycle on once more. Ben looked up at Jennet, who gave him a frosty stare.

      ‘Just don’t be too perceptive,’ she whispered harshly.

      ‘Captain James Cook was a very famous mariner,’ Miss Boston called to them over her shoulder. ‘He lived for some time in Grape Lane on the East Cliff – we shall pass by there on the way to my cottage. He discovered Australia, you know. Still, we must not hold that against the man.’

      They came to a bridge spanning the river. It was only wide enough to take one line of traffic at a time and was jammed with pedestrians, swarming everywhere.

      ‘Our busiest time of year,’ Miss Boston explained as she ploughed her way through. ‘We’ve just got over our regatta and the folk week starts in two days.’

      ‘Folk week?’ queried Jennet.

      ‘Yes, with lots of morris dancing – people come from miles. The town is always packed with bearded men who black their faces and walk about in clogs – such fun.’

      When they were halfway across the bridge, Ben glanced back. The road they had left was just beginning to get interesting. He heard the crackle of electronic guns and the amplified voice of the bingo caller. A row of glittering arcades stretched out towards the sea beneath another cliff.

      ‘That is the West Cliff,’ said Miss Boston as she negotiated her way through a crowd of giggling girls. ‘Traditionally the East Cliff was for the fishermen and the West for the holidaymakers. Of course it’s got a little mixed up over the years; most of the fishermen can’t afford to live here any more so they have to travel in.’

      They reached the far side of the river. ‘Down there is Grape Lane,’ indicated Miss Boston, waving her hand.

      The buildings of the East Cliff were more densely bunched together than Jennet had at first thought. They had been built in the days before planning permission was heard of and their higgledy-piggledy clusters formed a vast number of dark alleys, lanes and yards. The Whitby of the East Cliff was gazing at the world from an earlier time all its own.

      Miss Boston led them up a narrow cobbled road called Church Street. It was the main thoroughfare of the East Cliff, yet still cars had difficulty making their way down it. Old buildings hunched over on either side in a forbidding manner and tiny lanes led off through sudden openings to unseen doorways.

      ‘Afternoon, Alice.’ A thin, elderly woman greeted Miss Boston courteously. She had the palest blue eyes that Jennet had ever seen and her silvery hair was scraped tightly over her head, to be bound in a fist-sized bun at the back. She wore a grey cardigan over a lemon yellow blouse, fastened at the neck by a cameo brooch, and clasped a brown handbag primly in front of her.

      ‘Oh, Prudence,’ returned Miss Boston hastily. ‘Did you manage to come across that book?’

      The other shook her head and sniffed. ‘Sorry, Alice – must have thrown it out with Howard’s things after all. Never kept much of his stuff you know.’ Her voice was clipped and precise. Then she regarded the children and waited for an explanation.

      ‘My guests, Prudence: Jennet and Benjamin.’

      ‘Yes, well. They’re younger than I thought. I hope you know what you’re doing.’ She then continued the conversation, ignoring the children completely. ‘Actually, Alice, I have just come from your cottage. That Gregson woman told me you were not at home.’ She shook herself and adjusted the cameo. ‘So I was about to take myself off to call on Tilly. Haven’t seen her for over a week – more kittens I imagine. It’s all getting too ridiculous. Well, must cut along. Goodbye.’ And with that, she walked briskly away.

      ‘Don’t forget Sunday,’ Miss Boston called after her.

      Without slowing her brisk stride the woman raised her hand dismissively and called back, ‘Naturally.’ Then she was lost in the crowds.

      Miss Boston turned back to the children and sucked her breath in sharply. ‘That was Mrs Joyster,’ she informed them. ‘Rather a cold woman, I’m afraid – husband was army and it rubbed off on her. Sometimes I feel as though I’m being drilled when she talks to me. Mind you,’ she added, ‘she can be very pleasant at times.’

      The bicycle began to clatter once more. ‘I recall how I used to hate it when adults pretended I wasn’t there; dear me, that was a long time ago now. Do you prefer blackberry or raspberry jam? I confess I have a passion for both – especially on hot scones. My cottage is not far now.’

      Jennet and Ben were beginning to find Miss Boston’s abrupt changes of thought bewildering. It did, however, occur to them that they would have no difficulty polishing off a plate of jammy scones.

      An odd, square building on the left caught their attention. It was set a little apart for one thing. Pillars supported the upper storey and right at the top, in the middle of the roof, was a clock tower and a weather vane shaped like a fish.

      ‘This is Market Place,’ said Miss Boston, waving a proud hand. ‘If you’re keen, you could go on this.’ She pointed to a black sign with white letters advertising a Ghost Tour.

      Ben’s eyes widened and he swallowed nervously. The sign drew him like a powerful magnet. Jennet pulled him roughly away as if from a fire.

      ‘No!’ she told the old woman. ‘We don’t like that sort of thing at all.’

      If Miss Boston was surprised by the severity of Jennet’s outburst then she did not show it. ‘Really, dear?’ she said mildly. ‘Then I’m afraid you have come to the wrong place entirely. You know I sometimes think Whitby has more ghosts than living residents.’ She waggled her chins at the sign and muttered. ‘Just as well, really – I’ve been banned from going on the tours anyway. Well, the young man who runs them seemed to resent my chipping in. Got quite irate once when I corrected him. He gave me my money back on the proviso I never bothered him again. Astounding state of affairs.’

      They had come to another of those sudden openings and Miss Boston wheeled her bicycle through it. After about five metres the alley opened out into a spacious yard. She walked up to a flight of steps, rested her bicycle against a rail, opened a green door and said, ‘Well, come in then.’

      Jennet was downstairs, talking to Miss Boston. Ben lay on an embroidered quilt and stared at the primroses in the wallpaper. It was a small room but just big enough for him, and for a change, he had it all to himself. There was a bed, a chest of drawers next to it with a lamp on top and a small wardrobe. He licked the jam from his chin and rolled over to gaze at the sloping ceiling.

      It was a funny house. There were lots of weird prints on the walls and old sepia photographs of Victorian Whitby. There were also a good many corn dollies hanging up all over the place. A table in the hall was reserved for things Miss Boston had found while out walking: pine cones, bright orange rosehips, a bunch of heather, sheep’s wool found in a hedge, complete with twigs and fragments of leaf, the broken shell of a blackbird’s egg, several interesting pebbles, a gnarled piece of driftwood and a white gull’s feather.

      This was not what he or Jennet had expected, and it certainly disproved the idea that Miss Boston was rich – unless she kept a secret stash of tenners under the mattress. It was not the sort of house you would expect an old lady to live in, whether she was rich or not. There were no china shepherdesses or rows of dainty cups, no bits of fussy lace, no piles of women’s magazines heaped in the corner, no obvious signs of knitting, no fat lazy cat sprawled on the sofa clawing away at the cushions and – best of all to Ben – the place did not smell of lavender. He thought he would like it here. Miss Boston was not the average old lady; there was something vital and a little bit eccentric about her.

      An idea came to him as he lolled on the bed. Gingerly, he crept