Charlie Bone and the Time Twister. Jenny Nimmo

a right to expect.

Grandma slams a door

      Winter held the city in an iron fist. Roofs, trees, chimneys and even things that moved, were covered in a thick crust of frozen snow.

      Charlie Bone had been looking forward to an extra day of Christmas holiday. The new term surely couldn’t start in this weather? But Grandma Bone had dashed his hopes.

      ‘No shirking for you,’ she said in her usual sneering way. ‘Bloor’s Academy opens come rain, wind or snow. The snowploughs have cleared the main road, and the school bus will stop at the top of Filbert Street on Monday morning at eight o’clock sharp.’ Her lips made a nasty backfiring noise as she said the last word.

      Charlie was a weekly boarder at Bloor’s Academy and on Sunday nights he had to pack a bag for five days away from home. On this particular Sunday, Charlie was paying more attention to the snowflakes brushing his window than his packing.

      ‘Pyjamas, toothbrush, pants,’ Charlie muttered to himself. ‘Socks, clean shirts . . .’ He scratched his head. He was supposed to wear a blue cape to school but he hated putting it on before he got to the academy. The other children in Filbert Street sniggered at him. Bloor’s was a rather unusual school. Only children who were talented in music, art or drama could get in. Charlie had none of these talents. He was one of the twelve endowed children who were there because of unique other gifts. In his case, it was a gift he often thought he would rather be without. He could hear photographs, or rather the people in them. As soon as Grandma Bone and her three nasty sisters found out they had packed him off to Bloor’s. Theirs was a family of clairvoyants, hypnotisers, werewolves, witches and worse. They were descended from a mysterious red king, a magician of amazing powers and, like all endowed children, Charlie must be watched, his talent nurtured.

      The doorbell rang and Charlie ran downstairs, eager to escape the dreary packing. As soon as he opened the door, his friend Benjamin’s dog, Runner Bean, pushed past Charlie and began to shake wet snow off his back. His feathery tail sent sprays of water flying across the hall, straight into the path of Charlie’s other grandma, Maisie Jones.

      ‘You’d better dry that dog in here,’ said Maisie cheerfully, as she stepped back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll fetch his towel.’ She kept a special towel for Runner Bean, who was a frequent visitor.

      The big yellow dog bounded after her while Charlie took Benjamin’s coat and hung it on the hall stand.

      ‘Are you on for building a snowman tomorrow?’ Benjamin asked Charlie. ‘Our school definitely won’t open.’

      ‘Mine will,’ said Charlie gloomily. ‘Sorry, Ben.’

      ‘Aw!’ Benjamin’s face fell. He was a small straw-haired boy with a permanently anxious expression. ‘Couldn’t you pretend to be ill or something?’

      ‘No chance,’ said Charlie. ‘You know what Grandma and the aunts are like.’

      Benjamin knew only too well. Charlie’s aunt, Eustacia, had once been Benjamin’s minder. It was the worst two days of his life: disgusting food, early bedtimes and no dogs in bedrooms. Benjamin shuddered at the memory. ‘OK,’ he said sadly. ‘I guess I can make a snowman on my own.’

      A door opened on the landing above them and a voice called out, ‘Is that you, Benjamin Brown? I can smell dog.’

      ‘Yes, it’s me, Mrs Bone,’ said Benjamin with a sigh.

      Grandma Bone appeared at the top of the stairs. Dressed all in black and with her white hair piled high on her head, she looked more like the wicked queen from a legend than someone’s grandmother.

      ‘I hope you don’t intend to stay more than ten minutes,’ said Grandma Bone. ‘Charlie has to have an early night. It’s school tomorrow.’

      ‘Mum says I can have another hour,’ Charlie shouted up to his grandmother.

      ‘Oh? Oh, well, if that’s the case, why should I bother to take an interest in your welfare. I’m clearly wasting my time.’ Grandma Bone swept back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

      Whether it was this door-slamming or a minor earth tremor, Charlie would never know, but something caused a small picture to fall from its hook in the hall.

      Charlie had never studied the faded old photographs that adorned the walls of the dark hallway. In fact, since he had discovered his unwelcome talent, he had positively avoided them; he didn’t want to hear what a group of crusty-looking forebears had to say.

      ‘Well!’ exclaimed Benjamin. ‘How did that happen?’

      Charlie realised this was a photograph he wouldn’t be able to avoid. As he picked it up and turned it over, he felt a strange fluttering in his stomach.

      ‘Let’s see!’ said Benjamin.

      Charlie held out the black-framed picture. It was one of those faded sepia-coloured photographs. The glass was cracked but hadn’t fallen out, and through the cracks the boys could make out a family of five, grouped together in a garden. Behind them, the yellowed wall of a cottage could be glimpsed, and on the other side of the photo, beyond a stone wall, a small sailing boat sat on a velvety sea.

      ‘Are you OK?’ Benjamin glanced at Charlie.

      ‘No,’ muttered Charlie. ‘You know why. Oops, here we go.’ Already a thin buzz of voices was coming through to him.

      It was the mother who spoke first. Henry, stand still. You’ll spoil the picture. She was a pretty woman in a lacy frock with a high collar. A brooch, like a star, was pinned just beneath her chin. A boy of about four sat on her lap, and a girl of perhaps six or seven leaned against her knee.

      Beside the woman stood a man in a soldier’s uniform. He had such a merry face Charlie couldn’t imagine him with the fierce and solemn look a soldier was supposed to have. But it was the boy, standing in front of the soldier, who held Charlie’s gaze.

      I can’t breathe, muttered the boy.

      ‘Hey, Charlie, he looks a bit like you!’ Benjamin pointed a grubby finger at the older boy.

      ‘Mm!’ Charlie agreed. ‘Same age as me too.’

      A stiff white collar seemed to be giving the boy called Henry some trouble. It was clamped round his neck above a tightly-buttoned jacket, and almost brushed his chin. He wore knee-length breeches, long, black socks and shiny black boots.

      Ouch! muttered Henry.

      His mother sighed. Is it too much to ask you to stand still?

      I think there’s a fly under my collar, said Henry.

      At this, the soldier burst out laughing, and Henry’s brother and sister dissolved into helpless giggles.

      Really, said the serious mother. I’m sure our poor photographer doesn’t find it amusing. Are you all right, Mr Caldicott?

      There was a mumbled, Yes, thank you, madam, and then something fell over. Charlie couldn’t be sure if it was Mr Caldicott or the camera. The figures in the photograph swung all over the place, making Charlie feel quite dizzy.

      ‘You look green,’ Benjamin remarked. He led the rather shaken Charlie into the kitchen, where Maisie was rubbing Runner Bean with a towel.

      ‘Oh dear,’ said Maisie, taking in the situation at a glance. ‘Have you had one of your thingies, Charlie?’

      ‘He has,’ said Benjamin.

      There was a loud sizzle as Charlie’s mother, Amy, dropped an exotic-looking vegetable into a frying pan. ‘What was it this time, love?’ she asked.

      Charlie put the photograph on the kitchen table. ‘This fell off the wall when Grandma Bone slammed her door.’

      ‘It’s a wonder there are any doors left hanging in this house, the way that woman slams them,’ said Maisie, emptying