Eglantine by Catherine Jinks Page B

with a particularly yummy piece of chocolate cake, and patted Richard’s cheek. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said. ‘I love him. I want to take him home in my purse.’ Then she sat down to polish off a bowl of spaghetti, and I went away to do my homework.
    For the rest of that evening, until I went to bed, I could hear Delora chattering away downstairs in the kitchen. She was still down there when I drifted off to sleep.
    I have to admit that I just couldn’t picture Eglantine Higgins getting on with Delora Star-burn. By this time, I had a very strong impression of Eglantine Higgins – I thought that she must have been quite serious, and fierce, and clever and poetic – and Delora didn’t seem to be any of those things. What’s more, Delora never stopped talking. How was she going to hear Eglantine if she never stopped talking?
    I was expecting to be awakened as soon as Delora came upstairs. I didn’t see how she could sit in the next room with Richard Boyer and not start talking in her cockatoo voice about motorway tolls, or her ex-husband, or renovating old houses. So I was very surprised when I woke up the next morning at about half past five and realised I had slept all night through.
    Outside, the light was pearly and dim. Bethan was snoring. Quietly, I got out of bed and slipped onto the landing, which was deserted. The door of Bethan’s bedroom stood open, but there was no one inside. An empty cup stood on the card table, and Richard’s video camera was turned off.
    I looked around at the white walls. Ray had painted over them, the day before, and they didn’t appear to have been touched since then. At a glance, I couldn’t see any new lines of script. But I didn’t linger, because at that moment I heard the faint sound of voices from downstairs.
    I don’t think I’ve ever made it from the upstairs landing down to the kitchen so quickly.
    ‘Well?’ I gasped, throwing myself through the kitchen door. ‘What happened?’ Even as I spoke, I realised that something must have happened. I could tell, just from the atmosphere in that room. It wasn’t tense or excited, though – don’t get me wrong. On the contrary, it was incredibly peaceful. Pale sunlight slanted through the window. Cups of coffee steamed gently on the table. Delora and Richard were sitting opposite Mum and Ray, and they all looked terribly tired, but not distressed. They looked tired in a good way.
    Mum reached for me.
    ‘Hello, darling,’ she said, putting her arm around my waist.
    ‘What happened? Oh!’ I had spotted the exercise book lying open in front of her. ‘Is that -?’
    ‘Yes.’ Mum smiled. ‘It’s the story. The whole story.’
    ‘You mean, from beginning to end?’
    ‘Yes.’
    I dragged the book towards me. The writing wasn’t familiar – it must have been Delora’s. But the words were certainly familiar. Once there lived in a bleak clime a white-bearded king .
    Hurriedly, I flicked through the pages until I reached the last one. Morning came , I read, and still the princess stood on the lofty cliff. She saw spars and pieces of the wreck in the sea below. She climbed, by a winding path, down the cliff-side to the beach. She saw Osric lying dead. She saw the men dead around her – in each eye a reproach, and each clammy mouth seeming to say, It is thou!
    She cast herself into the pounding waves, and was never seen again .
    ‘Oh, dear,’ I murmured, as my eyes filled with tears. ‘So it was like Romeo and Juliet.’
    ‘I was only a conduit,’ Delora replied dreamily. ‘I allowed her inspiration to break through from the spirit realm. It was blocked there. The last lines couldn’t push through, because they hadn’t manifested themselves here before.’
    ‘It was like Frederick Thompson,’ Richard added. ‘Like Mrs Curran. I got it all on film. She was amazing, absolutely amazing. The room was pitch black.’ He and Delora beamed at each other.
    I read the last paragraph. But now , it said, if I should relate