filmy pattern of cobwebs. Perdita crept across the floor to the window, which looked out onto the loch. The water was rippling with the wind and the wind pump was rattling round like a child’s paper windmill. Across the loch, the sun had gone behind the hills, turning them into sombre shadows, etched with dazzling light.
Perdita blinked her eyes, which felt hot and sore. She turned from the window and looked at the suitcase.
There was nothing remarkable about it. Just an old suitcase with a pair of shoes that needed mending, a few, crumpled magazines, newspapers … Newspapers. Suddenly interested, Perdita squatted down to see if there was anything she could read. But none of the letters seemed much like the wobbly ones Janey had drawn in the sand.
She began to turn the newspapers over. The paper felt brittle, like dry leaves, and smelt musty. She wrinkled her nose and was about to shut the case, when a picture caught her eye. A photograph . There was no mistaking that flat, froggy face. It was Mr Jones’s photograph, staring up at her from the front page.
There was some print underneath, in blacker type than the rest of the lettering, and easier to read. Mr. That was Mister. She muttered to herself. J should be the beginning of the next word, then. J for Janey and for Jam and for Jones. But it wasn’t. The first letter of the next word was a P.
P for Perdita. She breathed deeply, concentrating hard, and the letters stopped being just squiggles on the page and became meaningful. P for Perdita. R for Rat. A for Apple. T for Tomato. Then another T. P—she said the sound to herself. R—rolling the R. A. T.T. PRATT. Mr Pratt.
Exhausted, she sat back on her heels, smiling. She had read aprinted word. For a moment that was all it meant to her: a small triumph, the first step on the way to the school on Trull. Then puzzlement set in. Why should Mr Jones have a different name in the newspaper? She stared hard at the smaller print under the headline, but it told her nothing. Her mouth set in temper and she tore the page out, crumpling it in her hand to throw it away. Then, almost at once, her expression changed. Tim could read. He and Janey knew Mr Jones too. She smoothed the wrinkled page on the floor, folded it, and tucked it inside the neck of her dress.
*
At the hotel in Skuaphort, the telephone began to ring. Mr Tarbutt came out of the bar and went to answer it. Mrs Hoggart began to talk at the other end, her voice quick and excited. ‘Can’t hear you. Bad line,’ Mr Tarbutt said.
The voice at the other end slowed down.
Mr Tarbutt listened, scratching his head with his free hand in a bewildered fashion. ‘I don’t quite understand. Are you sure your husband is quite …’ he began, and then, hastily, ‘Oh, no, Mrs Hoggart, of course I believe you, it’s just that … No, he’s not here, we’ve not seen him all day, and, as a matter of fact my wife was quite worried but if what you say is …’ He cleared his throat loudly. ‘I mean, it looks as if he may have skipped off to avoid trouble … What … Oh, the children are fine, just had their tea … Yes, of course you can speak to Tim.’
He put the receiver down and went to the foot of the stairs. He called Tim and waited. When there was no answer, he ran up the stairs and opened the bedroom door. A piece of paper blew off the dressing table in the draught. Mr Tarbutt stooped for it, frowned, and went heavily down the stairs. He picked up the receiver and said, reluctantly, ‘I’m afraid they’re not here. Tim left a note. It just says they’ll be back before dark.’
He listened to Mrs Hoggart’s voice, which had begun to quack in a loud, alarmed way. Then he gave a brief, involuntary smile.
‘Oh, please don’t worry, Mrs Hoggart. I’m sure he is not a dangerous criminal. Even if he did attack your husband, I can’t believe he’d harm the children, even if he ran into them, which isn’t likely. Tim won’t have gone far, not with the
Perdita blinked her eyes, which felt hot and sore. She turned from the window and looked at the suitcase.
There was nothing remarkable about it. Just an old suitcase with a pair of shoes that needed mending, a few, crumpled magazines, newspapers … Newspapers. Suddenly interested, Perdita squatted down to see if there was anything she could read. But none of the letters seemed much like the wobbly ones Janey had drawn in the sand.
She began to turn the newspapers over. The paper felt brittle, like dry leaves, and smelt musty. She wrinkled her nose and was about to shut the case, when a picture caught her eye. A photograph . There was no mistaking that flat, froggy face. It was Mr Jones’s photograph, staring up at her from the front page.
There was some print underneath, in blacker type than the rest of the lettering, and easier to read. Mr. That was Mister. She muttered to herself. J should be the beginning of the next word, then. J for Janey and for Jam and for Jones. But it wasn’t. The first letter of the next word was a P.
P for Perdita. She breathed deeply, concentrating hard, and the letters stopped being just squiggles on the page and became meaningful. P for Perdita. R for Rat. A for Apple. T for Tomato. Then another T. P—she said the sound to herself. R—rolling the R. A. T.T. PRATT. Mr Pratt.
Exhausted, she sat back on her heels, smiling. She had read aprinted word. For a moment that was all it meant to her: a small triumph, the first step on the way to the school on Trull. Then puzzlement set in. Why should Mr Jones have a different name in the newspaper? She stared hard at the smaller print under the headline, but it told her nothing. Her mouth set in temper and she tore the page out, crumpling it in her hand to throw it away. Then, almost at once, her expression changed. Tim could read. He and Janey knew Mr Jones too. She smoothed the wrinkled page on the floor, folded it, and tucked it inside the neck of her dress.
*
At the hotel in Skuaphort, the telephone began to ring. Mr Tarbutt came out of the bar and went to answer it. Mrs Hoggart began to talk at the other end, her voice quick and excited. ‘Can’t hear you. Bad line,’ Mr Tarbutt said.
The voice at the other end slowed down.
Mr Tarbutt listened, scratching his head with his free hand in a bewildered fashion. ‘I don’t quite understand. Are you sure your husband is quite …’ he began, and then, hastily, ‘Oh, no, Mrs Hoggart, of course I believe you, it’s just that … No, he’s not here, we’ve not seen him all day, and, as a matter of fact my wife was quite worried but if what you say is …’ He cleared his throat loudly. ‘I mean, it looks as if he may have skipped off to avoid trouble … What … Oh, the children are fine, just had their tea … Yes, of course you can speak to Tim.’
He put the receiver down and went to the foot of the stairs. He called Tim and waited. When there was no answer, he ran up the stairs and opened the bedroom door. A piece of paper blew off the dressing table in the draught. Mr Tarbutt stooped for it, frowned, and went heavily down the stairs. He picked up the receiver and said, reluctantly, ‘I’m afraid they’re not here. Tim left a note. It just says they’ll be back before dark.’
He listened to Mrs Hoggart’s voice, which had begun to quack in a loud, alarmed way. Then he gave a brief, involuntary smile.
‘Oh, please don’t worry, Mrs Hoggart. I’m sure he is not a dangerous criminal. Even if he did attack your husband, I can’t believe he’d harm the children, even if he ran into them, which isn’t likely. Tim won’t have gone far, not with the
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