a hand and called the boy to them. ‘Do you know it gets so violent sometimes that it actually lifts the lead off the church roof ? Last winter the vicar had to cancel the service because of the noise.’
Ben began to make his roundabout way towards them. Miss Boston cleared her throat and said to Jennet, ‘I think I ought to tell you something before he rejoins us. It’s only fair you should know. You’ve a sensible head on your shoulders, too sensible perhaps at times.’
‘What should I know?’
‘I received a letter from Mrs Rodice.’ Miss Boston pulled a sour expression. ‘Nasty, spiteful letter it was too. It concerned Benjamin. What an unpleasant creature she must be.’
The colour drained out of Jennet’s face and she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. ‘What did the letter say?’ she asked shakily.
Miss Boston snorted her contempt. ‘She is obviously an ignorant woman – unbalanced too, I shouldn’t wonder. She accused Benjamin of certain things which I refuse to believe. I threw the wretched piece of paper on the fire – wish I could do the same to her.’
The girl glanced up and found Miss Boston looking at her steadily. Now was the time to tell her everything. If that was the end of their stay in Whitby, then so be it; at least she could put the old woman straight. Lord knows what the Rodice had put in that letter.
‘Ben has dreams,’ she stammered. ‘Sometimes he has them in the daytime and he gets muddled up. He used to think Mum and Dad came to see him after the accident. That – that’s not all. He used to tell some of the other kids at the hostel funny stuff that frightened them. We had a new girl come who used to live with her gran before she died and Ben told her that he could see an old woman sitting next to her when she was in the TV room, stroking her hair. Apparently that’s what this grandmother used to do. Yvonne started to wet the bed after that and the other kids used to look at Ben like he was some kind of freak.’
‘Go on,’ Miss Boston prompted her gently.
‘Well, that’s why we never settled down with the foster families. With Aunt Pat, the last straw came during one of her posh dinner parties. Ben came running downstairs saying he’d seen Mum. Aunt Pat went dead red; she hated the embarrassment of it, she didn’t want anyone to think she had a retarded relative in the house. I heard her and Uncle Peter talking one night – their room was next to mine and the walls were thin. She said she couldn’t stand it any more, and Uncle Peter had to go along with her. It was horrible listening to them discussing us like that. I wanted to shout out that I could hear them but I never did.
‘The other families were the same. One lot were really religious and thought Ben was possessed or something and the others just looked at us funny.’
Miss Boston frowned. ‘Yes, I can see that some people might not feel comfortable with that sort of thing – it unnerves them and upsets their established ideas of the universe.’
‘It got really bad, though, at the hostel,’ Jennet continued. ‘About three weeks ago Ben goes and tells the Rodice he’s seen a man on the stairs. Course, there was nobody there but Ben describes the man to her and says he told him his name was Donald. She got all angry and shook Ben, calling him a liar. He had bruises on his arms where she’d grabbed him. That frightened her, that did – they’re not supposed to hit us, see. Well, after that she had as little to do with us as possible and I actually saw her shudder when Ben pushed past her once.’
Miss Boston put her arm around the girl and tried to comfort her. ‘Well, it won’t bother me, I assure you, dear. Benjamin can natter to an army of ghosts and I shan’t mind – I’m nearly one myself, after all. Tell me, do you ever see anything like that?’
Jennet shook her head. ‘No. At first I thought Ben was making it all up to annoy Aunt Pat, but he wouldn’t have kept it up this long, would he? I’ve told him to stop but he won’t.’
‘Of course not, dear – he cannot. It is the most natural thing in the world for him to see these things. I believe Benjamin is a very special child. He has “the sight”, a marvellous gift which should be encouraged. He must not feel that it is something to be ashamed of or he will lose it. Yes, he is special – and so too are you, Jennet. Throughout all this you have stood by him and protected him, even though you did not fully understand yourself. You are a very brave girl.’
At this point Ben sauntered up to them. ‘Come here, Benjamin,’ said Miss Boston. ‘Get under my cloak and I shall tell you a tale. You, too, Jennet.’
The children huddled up to the old woman and sheltered from the bitter wind like chicks under their mother’s wings.
‘Do you see that?’ she asked them, nodding to a tall, thin cross. ‘That is Caedmon’s cross.’
‘Who’s he, then?’ Ben wanted to know.
‘Ah,’ Miss Boston explained, ‘Caedmon was a cowherd, long before the Normans came. He used to tend the cattle on the plain back there when the abbey was just a monastery. He was painfully shy and awkward, poor fellow. In the winter when fires were lit and songs were sung around them, all the other servants of the monastery would do their party pieces, except Caedmon. He felt so unhappy because he could not sing that he would retire early and his friends would shake their heads and feel sorry for him.
‘Then, one night, a vision came to him in a dream. It was an angel, which bade Caedmon sing of the glories of God the Maker. Do you know, when he awoke he felt confident as never before and began composing his own verse. Caedmon is recognised as the first English poet.’ And Miss Boston ended her tale with a satisfied sigh.
‘That’s soppy,’ sneered Ben, greatly disappointed.
‘You impudent rascal,’ cried Miss Boston with mock severity. ‘And what kind of stories do you like, may I ask?’
‘Scary ones – with monsters,’ he whispered conspiratorially.
Miss Boston’s face became grim as she shook her head and gasped, ‘You mean you don’t know? Have you come here unprepared? Did you not pack your garlic?’
Ben squirmed happily on the tomb, shaking his head. ‘Why?’ he giggled.
‘Because, child,’ she moaned in a horrified voice, ‘the most dreadful monster ever created came ashore at Whitby – Dracula himself, King of Vampires!’
‘He didn’t!’
‘Oh yes he did, young man – he changed himself into a great black dog and jumped from the doomed ship Demeter as she ran aground, just down there.’ Miss Boston paused for dramatic effect and they all stared down at the rough sea. ‘Now,’ she said in a bright, cheerful manner, ‘it’s getting colder – let us return home. Don’t pretend to be a vampire, Benjamin, you haven’t got the cloak for it.’ And she flapped her own, although she resembled a large green chicken more than a bat. Benjamin, however, was still staring down at the rocks below. He seemed to be watching something.
The old woman squinted down and saw a blurred shape move quickly over the stones. ‘So,’ she whispered to herself, ‘he sees the fisher folk also.’ A slow smile spread over her face.
Jennet waited for them at the top of the steep flight of steps. ‘Did Dracula really live here?’ she asked nervously.
Miss Boston chuckled. ‘Dracula is but a character of fiction. His creator, Bram Stoker, came here in 1890, a dozen or so years before I was born. Mind you, the black dog was a grisly creature of legend he borrowed from the locals – the Barguest. As big as a calf with fiery red eyes, it was supposed to stalk through the streets of Whitby in the dead of night. Anyone who heard it howling was doomed.’
Jennet shivered. ‘That’s horrible, Miss Boston.’
The old lady sighed. ‘Really, Jennet, you must stop calling me Miss Boston; I gave up lecturing a long time ago. My name is Alice.’
‘I can’t call you that. It doesn’t sound right.’
‘Then