Tales From The Wyrd Museum 1: The Woven Path Read online

  ‘But that's five days away!’ Neil protested. ‘What are we supposed to do until then? We can't stay here all that time!’

  Ted shrugged. 'We don't have much option,’ he admitted. ‘Believe me, kid, I ain't lookin’ forward to it one iota but it looks like this is where we're supposed to be and I sure wish I'd been briefed a whole lot better on the whys and wherefores myself.

  'The next few days ain't gonna be no picnic, fer you or me. This house has seen a whole lot of grief and it's gonna know a helluva lot more before the end, if'n we fail in what we have to do.

  ‘All you gotta remember is that, if you ever wanna see Joshy again, you better stick with me. I'm your only ticket outta this situation. I'm the only one who knows exactly when and where the gate'll appear to take you home.

  ‘Face facts, kid, you need me like Samson needs his crowning glory. So you better take good care of yours truly, ‘cos if anything happens to this cuddly critter, then you can whistle goodbye to your brother and you can bet your boots you won't never see your own time again. Well, not till you're sixty. Hey, that might not be such a bad idea, you could take one of them screwball dames to the movies—maybe all three if you take your vitamins.’

  ‘But I still don't know why you did it,’ Neil said. ‘I mean, why make Josh enter the gateway in the first place?’

  ‘I hadda get you in there somehow,’ Ted groaned apologetically. ‘You wouldn't help me any other way, you sure made that plain enough.’

  ‘But why?’ the boy insisted. 'What do you want me in the past for? What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘Just do your best,’ Ted murmured, ‘that's all we ask, you can't do more than that.’

  ‘Who's we?’

  Ted ignored the question and jabbed a paw at the pillows. ‘Didn't that Stokes guy tell you to get some shuteye before?’ he asked. That ain't such a bad idea, kid. ‘Sides, you don't know what an honour it is for him to let you into this room.’

  With his mind spinning from all he had witnessed in the few hours since he had emerged from the gateway, Neil lay back on the bed and in a matter of moments was snoring soundly.

  Ted waited until he was certain the boy was really asleep. Then, quietly, he hopped from the bed, crept towards the door and slipped out of the room.

  Jean Evans lifted her arms to the early sunshine and stretched thankfully. Yawning, the young woman shook her auburn hair and gazed about the garden which, before the war, had been one of the most beautiful in the district. But now, the flowerbeds were filled with the woody remains of last year's vegetables. Dead stalks of runner beans climbed the side wall of the outside toilet, behind which two chickens clucked in a homemade run, and most of the lawn had been given over to potatoes and turnips.

  The only daughter of Peter Stokes, the warden, was a lovely creature, even dressed in the plain, blue siren suit, her beauty was not (diminished. Her eyes were as green as a cat's and sparkled in the sunlight, contrasting strongly with the red glints that danced and gleamed in her shoulder-length hair.

  A whinging cry made her spin on her heel and she stepped back into the trench that her father had dug by the far wall and stooped through the low door of the Anderson shelter.

  Wrapped in blankets, upon one of the bunks, was a small child and she picked him up in her arms to stop his tears.

  There, there,’ she said, lovingly, ‘come on, Daniel, Mummy's here. Don't cry, angel. Did you think I'd gone and left you? Silly boy, I won't never leave you. Let's go out in the fresh air, shall we? See if Grandad's come back yet.’

  Peter Stokes was stripped to his vest and braces and washing his face in the sink when his daughter entered the kitchen.

  He was a tall, middle-aged man, whose most striking feature was his shining, bald head. In fact most of the locals joked that his ARP helmet had more hair on it. Set beneath a care-lined and bony forehead were a pair of steely blue eyes that were both piercing and gentle and situated on either side of a beaky nose which he had inherited from his mother. Beneath this, as if to compensate for the deficiencies of his scalp, Mr Stokes wore a grey moustache which was kept neatly trimmed at all times.

  ‘Mornin’, Dad,’ Jean said as she laid her son into a great black tank of a pram that dominated the small kitchen. ‘Heavy last night, weren't it? Much damage done?’

  Before he replied, Peter wiped a towel over his bald head and screwed the corners into his ears.

  ‘A tidy bit,’ he answered, ‘five dead two streets away an’ I don't know what happened to Arnold Porter—didn't report back this morning.’

  ‘Fat Arnold prob'ly went home for his breakfast,’ Jean laughed and the sound of her fluting voice rang into the hallway and up the stairs to where Ted was standing with his head pushed between the rods of the bannisters.

  A dreamy, yearning expression haunted the bear's face as he listened to the snatches of conversation which drifted up to him.

  ‘Nearly caught that Dorkins girl, too,’ Peter said, ‘only the perisher bit me.’

  ‘I’ll put some iodine on it for you, Dad.’

  “No, it looks worse than it is. We got a guest stayin’ with us as well. A young lad—found him wanderin’ round last night. I reckon he was bombed out. Can't remember a thing, poor kid. Thought I'd try an’ find out who his folks are today. I. . . er, I've put him in Billy's room.’

  ‘You put him in there?’ came the girl's astonished voice. Well there's a turn-up.’

  ‘A shrine's no use to no one, is it? ‘Sides, the poor lad was all in and sufferin’ from shock.’

  ‘You're an honest-to-goodness saint, Dad, I reckon Bill'd be glad.’

  Peering through the bannisters, Ted stretched his neck out a little further until he could glimpse the figure of the young woman in the kitchen, and his glass eyes seemed to blaze with a light all their own when his gaze fell upon her.

  ‘I better get off to the factory,’ she said, making for the hallway. ‘I don't want to be around here when Gran gets back and finds out she's got another mouth to feed.’

  Peter's weary chuckle floated up from the kitchen and Ted swiftly withdrew his head from the bannisters as Jean strode into the hall and glanced upstairs. Scrambling over the landing with only seconds to spare, the bear shot nimbly into the box-room once more, just as the woman came climbing up to her own room.

  Leaning against the bedroom door, Ted puffed and panted—moaning woefully. ‘Fifty years I been wishin’ fer this,’ he breathed in despair, ‘fifty years of waitin’ and hopin’ I'd see that face one more time; she's twice as beautiful than I ever remembered. This is more torture than a soul can take—after all the lonely years of prayin’, it sure is strange to learn that right here is the last place I wanna be.’

  Staring across at Neil's sleeping form, the bear rubbed his woolly chin and his ears drooped sadly. This is a real mess I've dumped you in, kid,’ he whispered, guiltily, ‘but it's too late to turn back now. I just gotta pull this stunt off, I gotta!’

  Later that morning, Neil was awoken by a pernicious dig in the back from the tips of two bony fingers. ‘Stir yourself, boy!’ barked a gruff female voice. ‘I haven't got all day to hang around while you dream. Get up, I'm warning you, I won't tell you again!’

  Neil blinked the drowsiness from his eyes and stared up at the wizened creature hunched over the bed. At his side, Ted was also gazing at the old woman and a look of disgust spread over his face.

  Irene Stokes was an elderly, bird-like woman, who squinted suspiciously through a pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles. The lenses of her glasses were very thick and magnified her roving, distrustful eyes to a startling degree, whilst casting generous pools of light over her shrivelled features. Yet that was the only generous quality about her and to have those ocular-enhanced points fix accusingly on you was a disconcerting and unpleasant experience. ‘Old Mother Stokes’ or ‘Ma Stokes’ as she was unpopularly known, enjoyed spreading such discomfort.

  Now, those exaggerated eyes were trained and focused spiteful
ly upon Neil and the boy blinked under their baleful scrutiny as though they were harsh spotlights.

  “Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘You might well ask,’ rapped the reply as her long, beaky nose twitched as though she detested the very smell of him. ‘I’m only the one whose roof you're sleeping under, only the one who'll have to cook and wash for you as long as you're here.’

  Ted eyed her warily. She was dressed from head to toe in black and sitting squarely upon her wiry hair was a voluminous hat of the same shade. From this, two long feathers pranced and jiggled as she huffed and drew herself up to her full height which, as she was rather small, wasn't very much.

  The bear disliked her intensely. The old woman's very voice, which was cracked and squeaky, was filled with enmity and he shuddered involuntarily, hoping that she wouldn't notice.

  Thankfully, her attention was entirely taken up with Neil.

  ‘I—I thought this was the warden's house,’ he mumbled, also taken aback by the old woman's venom.

  'That's my son you're talking about,’ she rattled back, ‘though most times I despair of it! I warn you, boy, this is my house, not his, so you'd better be on your best behaviour. I'm old enough to speak my mind and I don't like strangers under this roof. It was bad enough Peter bringing Jean back when the babby was born. At least she's family. Though I can't stand her... No, he's really gone and done it this time.’

  With her pinched features brimming with malice, she peered long and hard at him, then moistened her lips. 'Who are you?’ she commanded bitterly. ‘Out with it, you can't pull the wool over my eyes. You can say what you like to Peter, he's always been too soft, well I'm not.’

  ‘My name's Neil.’

  ‘He told me that much!’ she spat, carefully prodding the boy as if to check how much meat there was on him. Well, I've got my eye on you, so watch out! Now, get ready. Shopping doesn't get itself, you know, and I won't leave you here in the house. You look as though thievery comes natural—I ain't leavin’ no robber in my house to pinch my valuables.’

  Neil realised it was useless to protest to this flinty old crone, but he looked down at his pyjamas and said, ‘I haven't got any clothes.’

  Mrs Stokes made a peculiar, low, bleating sound, then turned to the chest of drawers where some garments had been placed on top of the magazines.

  ‘You can borrow these for the time being,’ she grudgingly consented, ‘though if you dare get them dirty, or should you so much as fray the cuffs, it'll be the worse for you.’

  Mumbling unpleasantly to herself, she handed over a large white shirt and a pair of short grey trousers.

  'That shirt's Peter's second best,’ she told him, ‘and the trousers belonged to his son, William.’

  ‘I'll be sure to thank them.’

  ‘Can't thank Billy,’ Mrs Stokes snorted with a matter-of-fact shrug of her narrow shoulders, ‘he joined up and was killed in North Africa four months back, there's the telegram down there.’

  ‘I'm sorry.’

  ‘Billy was as stupid as his father,’ came the cold reply. ‘Hurry up and get dressed, boy, I heard there might be some sausages going today and if I don't get in the queue, well, you'll be sorry.’

  When Neil was dressed he was far from comfortable. The shirt was stiff and full of starch and the fabric that the shorts were made of was coarse and scratched his legs. He tried not to dwell on the macabre fact that he had slept in a dead person's bed and was now wearing his cast-off trousers. It was just another grisly detail on the growing list of horrible events that had happened to him since he and his family had first entered the Wyrd Museum. But the one thing Neil was certain of was that the list would undoubtedly have grown by the time he saw Josh again and he wished he was back home with him and their father.

  As neither shoes nor socks had been offered to him, the boy pulled on his slippers once more and Mrs Stokes opened the door for him to go down the stairs before her.

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Neil cried, running back into the room. ‘I can't go without Ted.’

  ‘You put that back, you little burglar!’ she squawked, when he came back clutching the bear. ‘Rob from babbies, would you? I told Peter this would happen, robbed blind, that's what we'll be.’

  ‘I haven't robbed anything,’ Neil shouted, ‘this is mine!’

  Mrs Stokes leered down at the bear in his hands and pinched it between her twig-like fingers.

  ‘Hmm,’ she relented, ‘Daniel's got a teddy like this, only his is much nicer,’ she hissed, trundling down the stairs and trotting over to the pram that was already in the hallway, peeking in at the two-year-old to make sure that he really did have his own teddy bear.

  ‘You better keep quiet today, as well!’ she told the baby, jabbing a warning finger at him before placing a folding stool across the top of the pram, along with a large umbrella.

  Before joining her, Neil looked down at Ted. The bear was rubbing his fur where she had pinched him.

  ‘Do we have to stay here?’ Neil asked. ‘Why can't we just hide until Josh appears?’

  ‘We're stayin’ put,’ the bear growled softly. ‘It's meant to be!’

  ‘What are you doing up there?’ Mrs Stokes squealed up at Neil. ‘You keep your thieving hands off, do you hear?’

  ‘Off what?’ Neil cried, trailing down the stairs.

  ‘Off everything!’ she snapped.

  The old woman finished buttoning herself into a fur-collared black coat that reached down to her ankles and took a key from the pocket as she opened the front door.

  ‘Bring the pram out here,’ she ordered.

  Neil obeyed and she immediately locked the door behind him before wrenching the handle of the pram from his hands.

  ‘Don't you think you can push my grandson,’ she warned him, ‘you might run off and sell him to the Nazzies, I heard they eat babbies.’

  ‘No, they didn't,’ Neil said with assured certainty.

  A bony hand cuffed his head. ‘Don't you sauce your elders,’ she snarled. ‘I know what them German beggars can do! You know nowt so shut up.’

  Delving into her pockets a second time she brought out a quantity of small pamphlets and flicked them through her fingers. That's mine, Peter's and Jean's. You ‘aven't got no ration books, I suppose. Didn't think about findin’ them when your house was blowed up?’

  ‘Er... no.’

  ‘Useless!’ she exclaimed in disgust. 'Well, if that butcher doesn't have no bangers left, he'll rue this day. Come on!’

  And so they set off. Down Barker's Row they went—and a bizarre spectacle they made. Mrs Stokes seemed to waddle relentlessly along like a clockwork toy and the seemingly immovable bulk of her thick overcoat added greatly to the illusion. With her face set and stern and her hands glued to the pram handle, her only movement was the trundling rotation of her feet as they flicked in and out beneath the hem of her coat.

  Behind her came Neil, with Ted under one arm and his hands lost in the long sleeves of the white shirt, the tail of which had worked free of the trousers and was now flapping after him as the soles of his slippers made slapping noises on the pavement.

  Bouncing the pram over the cobbles, Mrs Stokes turned towards the high street, pushing the tank-like vehicle down a narrow lane, where a group of three boys sat slouched on a low wall. They must have been a couple of years younger than Neil, but they possessed old and hardened faces, as if their childhood had been stolen from them because they had seen and experienced too much.

  One of them had lit the stub of a cigarette and the precious item was dutifully passed around the trio for everyone to have a puff of it. When they heard the rattle of the pram wheels, they turned their dirty faces towards the comical sight and cupped their hands over their mouths as they began to jeer.

  ‘Look at him!’ one of them bawled. “What do he think he is? Ah diddums—he's got a teddy.’

  ‘You got a nappy on as well under there?’ shouted a second.

  The third boy said nothing—he wa
s taking full advantage of the cigarette before the others realised.

  Mrs Stokes turned her shrewish gaze full on them and the boys were silenced immediately.

  ‘I know who you are, Reginald Gimble—you too, Johnny and Dennis Fletcher. I know your mothers—and what they are. I know where your father spends his nights and who he spends his money on. Your father ain't no better, always out of work and too much of a coward to join up. He ought to be ashamed—boozing what little he does get and falling behind with the rent man. I know all about it.

  ‘Don't you dare go shoutin’ at decent folk. I'll be havin’ words with your scummy mothers about this, you see if I don't! Why aren't you at school, this ain't no holiday! You'll all end up the same as your dads, you mark my words. Bad ends, that's what you'll come to. So keep your tongues quiet and stop disgracin’ honest bodies in the street. I never heard such disgraceful, filthy cheek. I'd take a bar o’ soap to the mouth of each one of you if it weren't on the ration!’

  Stung by her lashing, viperish tongue, the boys jumped off the wall and shuffled away, mumbling unhappily.

  Mrs Stokes glowered after them. ‘Should've been evacuated,’ she complained, ‘leastways then they might never have come back. They might’ve been eated by wild animals or trampled to death by cows. Hope the next bombing finds their houses.’

  Neil was too astonished by her outburst to say anything; the woman was horrendous and the exact opposite of her kind son.

  Taking hold of the pram once more, she continued on her way to the high street.

  At that moment, a slim woman in her late fifties and dressed rather more smartly than anyone Neil had yet seen, appeared at the end of an alleyway and sauntered airily towards them with a superior smirk on her face.

  Her face was rather spoon-shaped and her delicate features were lightly dusted with make-up. A dainty felt hat nestled on top of her meticulously set hair and her spotless clothes looked as though she had just bought them that morning. Under one arm she carried a plump dachshund and in her other hand she held a parcel of newspaper that contained her purchase from the butcher.