Journey to the River Sea

But she must have dozed off. When she looked again it was nearly ten o’clock. She hadn’t heard anyone come in but Minty could move very quietly when she chose.

Maia got out of bed. The house was silent and dark. She took her candle and knocked on Miss Minton’s door.

No reply. She knocked again. Then she pushed open the door and went in.

The room was empty. Miss Minton’s bed had not been slept in. But there was something else – something that frightened Maia badly.

Miss Minton’s trunk had gone.

Back in her room, Maia told herself not to be silly – but the fear would not go away. Miss Minton’s trunk was like ... well, it was part of her. Hardly a day passed when she did not pick a book out and read Maia a passage or showed her a picture. If the trunk had gone, then surely it meant that the twins were right and Minty had left her?

The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed. Miss Minton being angry with the twins, standing up to Mrs Carter, going off when she was told not to.

Minty no longer cared what the Carters thought of her because she was going away.

Not since the news of her parents’ death had Maia felt so wretched and alone. She tried to tell herself that Minty would not leave her, but lying there in the darkness, she failed. After all, Finn had left her – people did go away. Her parents had done it too. They had gone to Egypt and left her at school.

And now Minty ...

After another hour of tossing and turning, Maia went to the washstand and took two aspirins. Then she took a third for good measure, and at last she slept.

And slept deeply ...

An hour later, Beatrice woke and felt under her pillow for the pouch with the money in it. Then she remembered what her mother had said. Tomorrow the money would go to the bank.

But Beatrice wouldn’t allow that. It was her money. Once it was in the bank, her mother could probably get hold of it, or her father ... or anyone. And banks got robbed, everyone knew that.

Half-asleep still, she put a match to her lamp which flared up, leaving a stench of paraffin. She was going to find a safer hiding place. Blundering about, she took her pouch and opened her underclothes drawer. If she hid the money under her pile of vests it should be safe for a while. The drawer squeaked; she would hear it if anyone tried to open it.

But just as she was getting back into bed, Gwendolyn woke. She too felt under her pillow – and gave a little shriek. ‘It’s gone! My money’s gone! You’ve stolen it!’

Beatrice opened her eyes again.

‘Don’t be silly.’

Beatrice’s lamp was still alight. Now Gwendolyn lit the one they had taken from Maia and got out of bed.

‘I remember now,’ said Gwendolyn. ‘I put it under the clock. At least I think I did.’

Meanwhile, Beatrice had decided that her underclothes drawer wasn’t safe after all. She got up again and both girls blundered about, still half-asleep, looking for safer hiding places and bumping into things.

But now, in her room down the corridor, Mrs Carter woke up. She could hear the girls. What on earth were they up to? She put on her slippers and made her way to her daughters’ room. On the way she saw two large, brown beetles which narrowly missed her foot.

‘Cockroaches,’ shrieked Mrs Carter, and ran to her ‘larder’ to take down the can of Cockroach Killer.

She sluiced it over the tiles where she had seen the beetles, and hurried on to the twins’ room, the can dribbling in her hand.

‘What on earth is it? What’s the matter?’

‘I can’t find my money,’ wailed Gwendolyn. ‘It’s not under the clock. Beatrice has stolen it.’

‘I haven’t, you lying little grub. You put it in your shoe bag.’

‘Mind the lamp!’ shouted Mrs Carter as the girls began to fight. She grabbed for the lamp by Beatrice’s bed and as she did so, the top came off the can of Cockroach Killer and a sticky stream of black liquid poured out over the burning wick.

There was a loud whooshing noise and a tongue of flame shot up. Mrs Carter tried to put out the lamp and knocked it over. It was already too hot to touch. A curl of flame licked the sheets on Beatrice’s bed. The stream of Cockroach Killer was like a channel of fire which moved to the second bed.

Beatrice screamed as her nightdress caught at the hem, and Mrs Carter tried to beat out the flames with a pillow.

‘Out, girls ... out. Not the window, the door. Hurry, hurry.’

But they could hardly see now for smoke. The second lamp, in the path of the fire, had exploded. And now the curtains were alight!

‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’

Mr Carter had come running down the corridor, coughing. Now he opened the door, and the draught sent the flames up to ceiling height.

‘Push them out at the front,’ he yelled. ‘I’ll go back for Maia.’

He turned and stumbled back down the smoke-filled corridor. But he did not go to Maia’s room. He did not even try to. Instead, he groped his way in to his study and began to tear open his cabinets.

‘My collection,’ he muttered. ‘My collection ...’