Journey to the River Sea

‘Well, Miss Minton really, but I was so upset that she told me what she’d done. I thought I’d get Mr Murray to pay his fare but he hasn’t. Then the crows came and they made us open the door – they thought it was you we were hiding – and he’d gone. Vanished.’

‘He’ll be all right,’ said Finn.

His casual tone annoyed Maia. ‘That’s what Miss Minton says, but why will he be all right? He’s got nowhere to sleep and no money.’

Thinking about Clovis and how she had let him down had brought tears to her eyes, and she brushed them away angrily. Clovis was her responsibility, not Finn’s. Finn had troubles enough of his own.

But Finn had seen her distress. ‘Come and see the Arabella,’ he said. ‘I’ve cleaned the funnel. Walk carefully; there’s some wet paint.’

She followed him onto the little launch.

‘Have a look under the awning,’ said Finn. ‘But don’t make a noise.’

She moved quietly forward. What strange animal had Finn brought aboard and tamed?

Someone lay sprawled out on the deck. He lay on his back, his limbs were thrown out loosely; he was so still that he might have been dead.

But he wasn’t. He was deeply asleep. So asleep that even when Maia bent over him he did not stir.

‘He’ll sleep for a bit,’ said Finn. ‘I gave him something. He’s a nice boy but you’re right; he does cry a lot.’

‘You mean you’ve drugged him?’ Maia was shocked.

‘It’s only mashohara leaves,’ said Finn. ‘Old Lila used to give them to me in a drink. It’s quite harmless.’

But Maia was not altogether pleased. ‘You seem to know a lot about herbs and medicines – and dyes,’ she added, looking at Finn’s hair.

‘The Indians taught my father, and he taught me. It’s how we lived partly, finding new medicines.’

They went back and sat on the jetty, and he explained what he had done. ‘Furo told me that the crows were on their way, and he told me about Clovis being in the hut. He thought you’d get into awful trouble from the Carters. So I fetched him away in the night.’

The dog lay quietly between them; two swallowtail butterflies chased each other over the lotus leaves.

‘Actually,’ Finn went on, ‘I’ve got an idea – I told you. I’ll explain when I’ve woken Clovis.’ He looked up at the sun. ‘He’ll be awake in half an hour. Better make some tea and serve it nicely. Clovis likes things properly done. Teacups with saucers and no bugs on the bread and butter.’

Finn was right. Clovis woke up in exactly half an hour looking refreshed and well. He too liked the hut.

‘I wouldn’t mind living in a place like this,’ he said, helping himself to a biscuit.

‘Well that’s a good thing,’ said Finn. ‘Because you’re going to. For a few days. Till just before the Bishop sails.’

Clovis looked up; his eyes full of bewilderment.

‘I’ll explain,’ said Finn. ‘I thought, you see, that you could take my place. The crows don’t know what you look like – and they don’t know what I look like. If Maia will do what I ask her, I think it could be done. Then you’ll get safely to England and I’ll get away.’

Maia stared at him.

‘But you can’t! You can’t send Clovis back to a prison!’

Finn was bent over the dog, steadily scratching the space between his ears.

‘I think it’s time I told you about Westwood,’ he said.

Chapter Nine

‘It might easily have been a prison,’ began Finn. ‘It had towers and a moat and battlements and it stood in acres of land ringed by a high stone wall stuck full of spikes.’

But it wasn’t. Westwood was a large country house – a stately home – which had belonged to the Taverners since the time of the crusades. The head of the family was a stiff-necked, snooty landowner, Sir Aubrey Taverner, who brayed at people and spoke to the servants as if they were deaf.

Sir Aubrey’s eldest son was called Dudley and he was exactly like his father: arrogant and snooty and certain that the Taverners were the most important people on earth. Dudley too shouted at the servants; he went off to his prep school without a murmur; he rode horses with large behinds, he shot things – and of course he was the apple of his father’s eye.

The next child born to the Taverners was a girl whom they called Joan. She wasn’t much good in some ways because only males were allowed to inherit Westwood, but all the same she was a true Taverner with a voice like a foghorn. Joan bullied other children who had the bad luck not to be Taverners, and she too rode about on horses with large behinds, and Sir Aubrey liked her well enough.

But then came Bernard.

Bernard was the last of Sir Aubrey’s children. His mother died soon after he was born and he was a disaster. Bernard was afraid of loud voices. He was afraid of the dark. He was afraid of his brother Dudley who tried to make a man of him, and he was afraid of his sister Joan who threw him in the lake and held his head under the water to make him swim. When Bernard spoke to the maids he did it quietly and he said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ – and sometimes, though he was a boy and a Taverner, he cried.