An Island of Our Own
When Mum died, Jonathan stopped going for a bit, because he had us to look after, and things got complicated. But then Alex and Jen, who are mates of his, told him he should still come, and it didn’t matter about Davy and me, because we could come too.
“Little people!” Jen said. “Baby geeks! Bring them along! We’ll teach them to take over the world!”
Which is sort of what happened.
There are lots and lots of people who belong to the Maker Space. Some of them are grumpy and unfriendly, and some of them are weird, and some of them are busy and important, so I don’t know everyone. But most of them are totally friendly and totally clever and totally lovely.
They all know us, of course, because there aren’t many teenagers who turn up with a six- and eleven-year-old brother and sister, who they look after full time, and want to know if they’re allowed to let them play with saws. We were kind of noticeable.
The thing about the Maker Space is that the whole point is helping. People come in all the time and go, “I’m trying to make a rocket, but I’ve gone wrong,” and everyone just wanders over and pokes at it and makes suggestions until they’ve got it working. So when people cottoned on to the fact that what Jonathan really needed was someone to look after us so he could go and build things in peace, they were totally cool with that.
Davy and I have loads of friends at the Maker Space now. Grown-up friends, obviously. There’s Alex and Jen, who are married and come from Canada. There’s Peter, who’s about fifty, and has a big red bushy beard, and is building a spaceship. A very small one. It’s a tiny cube, and he’s going to send it up into space and programme it to take pictures and go and say hello to the International Space Station. And… oh, lots of people.
There really are lock-picking classes too. Every month on a Wednesday.
FIND A PICTURE, PICK IT UP
The other reason I knew the Maker Space would be able to help me with Auntie Irene’s photographs is because they’re all about solving stuff. Nobody ever says, “That’s impossible.” They all go, “Ooh, interesting problem,” and then spend half an hour debating all the different possible ways of solving it. It gets a bit boring when they’re talking on and on and on and on about code, but then they go off and type, and mix stuff together, and a couple of months later, the problem is solved.
As soon as we got there on Sunday, I ran over to Jen. Jen is awesome. Her job is designing computer games for real. She has bright pink hair and purple Doc Martens, and she’s really smart and kind as well.
“Jen!” I said when I saw her. I told her all about Auntie Irene, and the photographs and the money. “There has to be a way to find out where photos are taken, hasn’t there? There has to be!”
Jen was a much better listener than Jonathan. “Hmm,” she said. “I’m not sure, Holly. I think Jonathan has a point. I mean… I guess you could put them on the internet and see if anyone can recognize them. I dunno – hope it goes viral. It might. I mean, that’s a cool story, you guys looking after one another. But I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”
“How do you mean?” I asked. “You mean like those people on Facebook who share pictures of lost cats?”
“That’s right,” said Jen. “It’s called ‘crowdsourcing’. You make a website with your information on it, then you get everyone you know to share it, and you see if anyone who sees it knows where the pictures are. It’s worth a try, anyway.”
“OK,” I said. “Cool.”
And then I went off to help Peter finish his spaceship.
You can make websites anytime.
IN WHICH I START TRYING TO FIND THE TREASURE
I told my friend Sizwe about the website idea at school on Monday. I have lots of friends – that sounds show-offy, but it isn’t. In fact it’s sort of the opposite of show-offy, because what I mean is, there’s a whole gang of us at school who hang around together at break time, and I’m one of them. But that doesn’t mean I’m exactly friends with all of them. I mean, I sit with Sufiya and Kali in history, and I went to Kali’s birthday party, but that doesn’t mean I’d call either of them up if I had a big life problem or anything.
The person I’d probably call up if I had a big life problem – I don’t normally call up any of my friends if I have a big life problem, I don’t normally tell anybody – but if I did, the person I’d call up would be Sizwe. Sizwe’s great. He’s little and happy, he’s like a rubber ball – he’s always bouncing. He never laughs at me, like Sufiya and Kali do sometimes. I don’t have a best friend, but if I did it would be Sizwe. Sizwe, then Neema, then Issy.
Sizwe’s the only friend I told about Auntie Irene’s treasure, and how I wanted to make a website to help us find it. But Neema was listening and when she heard about it, she got all excited and wanted to help too.
I know how to make websites. That was one of the first bits of programming I learnt. I didn’t bother making one for the pictures, though. I just set up a blog on one of those sites that lets you set up blogs. This is what my blog said:
PLEASE CAN YOU HELP US?
We are a sister and two brothers, Jonathan, Holly and Davy. Jonathan is nineteen, Holly is twelve and Davy is seven. We have been looking after ourselves since our mum died last year.
Last week we got left some jewellery in our Auntie Irene’s will. But Auntie Irene was kind of weird and she hid the jewellery, along with lots of other stuff which belongs to Uncle Evan and her daughter, Jo.
BUT, WE THINK WE KNOW WHERE THE TREASURE IS! Auntie Irene gave me these photographs, and I think that’s where she hid the boxes. Which is where you all come in! Do you know any of the places in these pictures?
PLEASE TELL ALL YOUR FRIENDS TO LOOK AT THIS WEBSITE AND HELP, AND PLEASE TELL US IN THE COMMENTS IF YOU KNOW WHERE ANY OF THESE PLACES ARE! THANK YOU! I LOVE YOU!
Holly Kennet
And then I scanned in the photos on the school scanner and put the pictures on the blog.
“That is so awesome,” said Neema. “Now what do we do?”
“Now we have to tell everyone about it,” I said. “You have to send it to everyone you know.”
“And then it goes viral!” said Sizwe. “And you become internet superheroes, and celebrities get involved, and everyone shares it, and you find out where the treasure is hidden, and become millionaires, and move to a Caribbean island somewhere and live happily ever after.”
This is why I like Sizwe. He’s the anti-Jonathan.
We put the website up on our Facebook pages and emailed it to everyone in our address books, and I sent it to everyone on the London Maker Space email list, and Sizwe sent it to the football team, and Neema put it up on the London Parkour Network site, and then Sizwe got his mum to send it to all the people whose offices her cleaning company cleaned, and Neema got her dad to send it to everyone on the London Edible Gardens email list, which was huge.
And then we waited.
People went and looked at the website all day and all evening. Some of them left comments. Every time there was a new comment, I got hopeful that it would be someone who recognized the pictures, but it never was. It was always people saying things like “No idea, sorry.” Or “Great website – good luck, Holly.” Which was nice, but not very helpful. A couple of people must have sent it to their friends, or at least shared it on Facebook, and at first I was really hopeful that it was going to go viral and half the internet would see it, but it didn’t. The day after that, we only got a couple of new comments. And there were none the next day, or the day after that.
I sent Jen an email and asked her to tell everyone to share the website with their friends, but she wouldn’t.
“People will only share it if they want to. You’ve already asked them once, Holl.”
Which was a typical grown-up non-answer. This mattered! It really mattered. It mattered too much to be polite about.
We went to the Maker Space
again on Sunday. Several people wanted to talk to me about my website. Even people who normally never spoke to me. We were sitting having lunch when some guy I sort of half knew came up to us and said, “Are you the kid who’s looking for treasure?” Which was a bit of a stupid question, since we were the only kids who ever came there.
“Yeah,” I said. “Did you share my website with your friends? Did you? If you didn’t, do it now.”
“Holly,” said Jonathan. In an I’m so fed up of looking after my brother and sister voice.
“We were supposed to share it?” said the guy. His name was Keith, I was fairly sure. He was older than most of Jonathan’s friends – proper grown-up old, older than Mum. He had thick grey hair, and a beer belly. He was eating a sausage roll in a paper bag and dropping flaky pastry all over the table.
“Yes,” I said, ignoring Jonathan. “Look, I’ll show you.” And I showed him the website on his phone. I made him read it all the way through, and I explained about Auntie Irene again. “You’re supposed to tell everyone in your address book about it, and then it’ll become a virus.”
“I can do better than that,” said Keith. He scrolled the page up until it showed the most boring picture of the lot, the one of the railway siding. “I know some people who’ll be able to tell you where that’s taken,” he said.
“How?” I asked.
“Well,” Keith said. “There are all sorts of identifying marks. The signal box. The rails. The carriages – they give you a date for the photograph, and that’s Network South East stock, so that narrows the field some more.”
Keith was into trains. I knew that. He was always building trees and houses and miniature nuclear reactors for his model train sets.
“There are a couple of online forums I could post that picture on if you want me to,” he said.
“Yes!” I said. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”
At last!
THE AWESOME POWER OF THE INTERNET
All that next day at school, I couldn’t stop thinking about Keith and his train-loving friends. Had they found out where our treasure was? Keith had sounded so confident. Surely he must have found something? He must have, mustn’t he?
I didn’t have the sort of mobile you could check the internet on. I was pretty much the only kid in my year group who didn’t. I had Mum’s old mobile phone, which was about a hundred years old and couldn’t even take photographs. So I had to wait until me and Davy got home to check my email.
I’m allowed to use Jonathan’s laptop while he’s at work. I turned it on, while Davy ran over to play with his Lego. There was an email from Keith.
Dear Holly,
I posted your picture on a couple of railway sites I belong to. Everyone was very interested in your photograph. From the size of the tracks, the type of signal box, the livery of the train in shot, and what we could see of the rest of the sidings, we believe we’ve identified the track shown in the photograph as part of a disused goods yard on a track about forty minutes out of Victoria.
A friend of mine, Neil Carter, lives not far from where your photograph was taken, and would be happy to show you the exact location of the signal box. His email address is below.
I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Keith
I shrieked.
“Davy! We’ve found where one of Auntie Irene’s photos was taken!” I grabbed Davy’s hands and danced him round. Davy, who had no idea what I was talking about, danced along anyway.
“We found it, we found it!” he said. Of course, we hadn’t actually found the treasure, but I’m not sure he realized that. Davy likes it when the people he loves are happy.
I went straight online, before Jonathan could stop me, and put a new post on my blog.
WE FOUND WHERE ONE OF THE BOXES IS!
THANK YOU, KEITH APPLEBY. WE HAVEN’T BEEN TO DIG UP THE TREASURE YET BUT WE WILL.
I got loads of comments. Loads of people going “Wow!” and “Good luck!” and “OMG Holly THAT IS SO COOL, YOU HAVE TO TELL US WHAT HAPPENS!” Everyone at school thought it was awesome. Well, Issy and Neema and Sizwe did, anyway. Sizwe especially.
“Oh my God,” he kept saying. “How loaded was your Auntie Irene? Could she have diamonds and emeralds and stuff in there? Will you go and live in a beach house in Los Angeles with your own swimming pool? Will you ever talk to us again?”
I showed Jonathan the comments on my website when he came home, but he just grunted. He is such a pessimist. Honestly! I have to do all the work around here. If it was up to Jonathan, we’d just quietly starve to death.
In shoes that didn’t fit.
He couldn’t ignore all the people who wanted to talk to him at the Maker Space, though. Actually, most of the grown-ups weren’t that interested either. But Jen was, of course, and Alex, and Keith was proud as Punch. (Or is Punch pleased? I can’t remember.) He was full of practical advice for the best way to get onto railway land without being arrested or getting stuck in a hedge, and how important it was not to walk on the tracks and get electrocuted. (Like we would.) He brought some fluorescent jackets we could wear, so we would look like line workers and not attract attention.
“Keith,” I said, impressed, “you are a secret master criminal.” Keith chuckled and looked a bit embarrassed. “Got me the best collection of amateur railway photography in greater London, those did,” he said. And then he went over all shy and went off to talk rockets with Alex.
Jen came over and gave me a hug. “Well done!” she said. “When are you going to go and dig the treasure up?”
“We’re not,” I told her. “Jonathan thinks it’s all a load of rubbish. He won’t even let us go and see!”
“Oh, Jonathan,” said Jen. “Aren’t you even a little bit curious?”
Jonathan threw up his hands. “Look!” he said. “Just look!” He took the photograph album from the table, where I’d left it after showing Keith the other photographs. “Look at this. Look how much grass there is in that picture. Let’s say we don’t get arrested for trespassing, or run over by a train. How are we even going to know where to dig? We don’t even own spades!”
At that, everyone suddenly got very helpful. Keith and Jen both offered to lend us spades, and Alex went to look up how to make a metal detector online.
“No! Wait! We’re fine!” Jonathan said, but it was too late. Me and Alex and Davy spent the whole morning making a metal detector out of a radio and a broom handle sawn off a broom from the cleaning cupboard and a piece of wood and some wire. It worked too. We practised with it all the way home, and we detected three sets of railings, five bins, two Coke cans, a penny, and the number 47 bus.
“We have to go now!” I said, and Jonathan groaned.
“All right!” he said. “Fine! But if we get arrested, you’re taking the fall. OK? Davy and me are counting on you to distract the cops while we make a run for it.”
THE JOURNEY BEGINS
We went to find the treasure the next weekend. Jonathan, Davy and I.
As the train moved out of the station, I started to get excited. I hardly ever go anywhere any more. Not on an adventure like this. When Mum was alive, we used to do adventures – to Kew Gardens, or the National History Museum, or to the pantomime. Jonathan’s idea of a good time is watching telly or messing about on the internet. Mostly, when Mum was alive, I used to moan about being dragged round Kew Gardens. But now we never go anywhere, I kind of miss it.
“Say goodbye to Victoria,” a mother on the train was saying to her little girl.
“Goodbye, Victoria!” the girl said, like she was talking to a friend, not a railway station. “Goodbye, London!”
“I missed the train,” a woman was saying into her mobile phone. “Just by a minute. Still, they’re every hour, aren’t they?” I wondered if she was lying, and if so, why?
There wasn’t much to see out of the windo
w. The railway track was closed in with tall brick walls. The bricks were small and old and stained black. Thick, heavy plants hung down over the tops, like jungle vines.
BEWARE OF TRAINS read a sign on the wall, like the trains were wild animals. Too late! I thought. We’ve been swallowed by a train, and who knows what will happen next?
The train chugged out of Victoria and over the river. Davy was fascinated. He pressed his nose up against the window. “Look!” he said. “Look, Holly!”
“Look at what?” I said.
“At…” Davy thought. Then he beamed. “At everything!”
There was lots to see. Building sites, office buildings, factories, tips, blocks of flats and Battersea Power Station. Joggers running down a street, all in a pack. A railway siding clogged with old, dead buddleia. Expensive-looking villas with conservatories and big leafy gardens, and terraced houses all in neat little rows. A SANITARY STEAM LAUNDRY like Mrs Ruggles had in The Family from One End Street, and old abandoned gasworks looming over the city like spider-monsters from Mars.
We passed a big park, and a posh-looking school with playing fields. The railway cutting grew bigger, with more trees and longer grass. The houses became more suburban. We passed a church spire, shaggy-looking allotments and a red digger.
“I can see why Keith likes railways,” I said.
And then we were in the country. There were fields, and little woodland copses, birch trees and rowans with flashes of red rowanberries amongst the shiny green leaves. I was amazed. When did London stop? I must have missed it. I thought the end of London would be a sudden thing. One moment you’d be surrounded by shops and houses and advertising hoardings and tube trains, and the next it would be cows and fields and buttercups. But no. Here we were, and I’d never noticed it happening.