The Terror Time Spies

  At 7am that same morning Hal had carefully wound the delicate little gold winding screw and set it precisely by their Grandmother clock in the hall. He was so proud of his present, he even wanted to show it to pretty Juliette St Honoré.

  Henry blushed as he thought of it and felt very strange. Just the week before the pretty French aristocrat had come on his gang, while Henry was inventing another story about the Scarlet Pimpernel, and threatening loudly to bash some more Frenchies on the nose.

  Rather than enjoying the joke though, the serious minded French teenager had ticked them off for playing anything at all, when real families were dying abroad, and real children too.

  Henry Bonespair had reddened and insisted that he and Spike were only trying to help.

  “’elp?! And how could a game ‘elp, Monsieur? This Pampernelle’s a fable, but if real, an aristocrat, and a MAN, not a silly Land Agent’s boy. Grow up.”

  Monsieur! Henry was only fourteen. Even worse though, that afternoon Juliette St Honoré had then seen him and Spike trying to avoid a group of local roughs and called Henry a coward, to his face.

  “Havagal,” whispered Nellie suddenly.

  It was the most secret language of the Rat Catchers, called Avagum. To speak it meant you stuck an ‘avaga’ in the middle of words and hoped no one unwanted understood you. Especially not the enemy adults.

  Henry heard it, but felt water in his ear still and tried to ring it out with a finger. It irritated him as much as the scratchy rash on his neck.

  “Yavagess, Spavagike?”

  “Skavagip-avager.”

  Charlotte Bonespair had turned away to boil some water though and Spike resorted to plain English now.

  “Skipper,” she hissed, “When we get back again, Hal, can Skipper join too...take the ‘nitiation, I mean? Pleeease. Or we can ask him on the road. He’ll be a great Rat Catcher.”

  Henry Bonespair frowned, because he had not told Nellie that he thought it was time they formed a rather different gang.

  Besides, the boys had fought last summer, when he and Skipper had first met and big Skipper had made a joke about the size of Henry’s nose. He was a little jealous of this newly flourishing friendship with his sister too.

  “Not now, Spike. We’re about to leave. I can’t wait any longer.”

  Across the kitchen their mother was thinking grimly of their terrifying journey.

  At first Charlotte had opposed it frantically, but then, when she realised her complaints were useless, she had insisted that her husband draw up a very exact itinerary, that was sitting on the kitchen table now:

  Days One to Three – Coach from Peckham to Dover. First Eve Staying at NightWatch Inn. Next day, pick up Francis Simpkins. Second Night - King’s Head. Rooms Prepaid. Third Night. Dover – The Eagle. Payment owing. Day Four. Packet from Dover Docks. Spirit of Endeavour…

  So the carefully planned journey went on, all the way to revolting Paris and back again.

  Everything seemed set, but poor Charlotte was very flustered indeed now. It was already half past ten, but there was no sign of her husband Simon at all.

  “Francis,” she said suddenly, “I hope his aunt will have the poor boy ready. There must be no hiccups at all.”

  Henry suddenly looked delighted. Francis Simpkins was his best friend from their London school and the 2nd Rat Catcher too, but with the sickness in London, his nervous Quaker parents had sent Francis to stay with his aunt, in her home on the Dover road, in a village called Fule.

  Hal couldn’t wait to see him again and show Francis his new watch too. They were rather unlikely friends, Henry so confident and adventurous, Francis so shy and meticulous, but they shared a certain sensitivity and an interest in everything around them.

  “Ma,” said Spike though, “Inside your tummy, ma…. Do you think our new Bonespair will be a…”

  “Boy,” said Henry sharply and with that they heard hooves outside.

  Little Spike sprang up first and raced to the door, and outside came Mr Wickham’s second best coach, its great round wheels spinning beautifully, spitting out shards of mud and gravel. They were about to get underway.

  Arthur Holmwood and his son Horace, known as Skipper, were sitting on the pillion. Skipper was a huge lad, with large, flapping ears, almost as big as his father, a body too big for him, and a great mop of greasy brown hair tumbling about his ruddy face. He was the sort of boy who looks perpetually awkward.

  Skip was not too bright either and often jealous of the Bonespair children, running about the Master’s estate as freely as wild little hooligans.

  Well, he was jealous of Henry Bonespair, at least, although secretly Skipper wished that they could make friends too. Spike and he had met the summer before, but only this year become firm friends.

  Mr Wickham’s second coachman, Arthur Holmwood, was totally bald and with a neck like the bull. He reigned in the animals with a loud ‘WOW THERE’ then jumped down onto the gravel, giving a little bow to Mrs Bonespair.

  “Hello Skip,” cried Spike, who reached into his pocket and threw something down.

  “For you, Spikey,” he called, “Made it, meself, for the road.”

  “A catapult,” cried the little girl delightedly, “Wow, Skip. Thanks ever so.”

  Skipper beamed but Charlotte Bonespair looked at her daughter in horror.

  “All set then?” asked Skipper’s father, “We must be leaving soon, Maam.”

  Henry wanted to explode with excitement now.

  “Don’t I know it, Mr Holmwood?” sighed Charlotte, wondering if she should try to comb Spike’s messy hair, “but my husband rode off at dawn and he isn’t back yet.”

  The coachman frowned, as Skipper looked down at Henry loftily from his vantage point and raised an eyebrow. He suddenly hated being a servant.

  “Well, I’ll put the bags aboard, Maam? Come help your pa, Skip lad.”

  Skipper Holmwood jumped down too, heavily, and found himself right in front of Hal, rather smaller than Holmwood, but baring the way. The two boys glared, but Henry blushed slightly and stepped aside and Skipper followed his father into the house.

  “I wish I was coming with you, my terrors,” said Charlotte hotly, wishing no such thing, “as least to Dover. Children need their mother. Oh, heavens.”

  “Don’t call us children, mother,” said Henry sharply though, “I’m fourteen now, and we’ll be safe in Paris, with Granny and Pa.”

  “NON, Henri,” cried a sharp voice.

  They all swung round to see the old Comtesse St Honoré, a shaking, bird-like lady, in a deal of lavender finery, who had just appeared beside the carriage, in a billowing taffeta dress. Behind her stood her sixteen year old daughter Juliette St Honoré, in a plain cotton frock.

  Henry Bonespair blushed immediately and held his large nose. Juliette looked so charming, her straw blonde hair in a neat bob, on her high, intelligent forehead. She was looking rather suspiciously at the carriage though, because Juliette adored the open air and the countryside and it all looked horribly cramped and uncomfortable.

  “Madame Bonespair,” said the Constance St Honoré loftily, “We ‘ave stopped to plead with you NOT to take your poor children to murderous Paris, for however short a time.”

  Charlotte felt a sharp pain in her back, as Constance eyed her rather simple clothes, wondering if she should ask the Countess inside and thinking better of it.

  “Thank you, Countess,” said the English woman, agreeing completely, yet not wanting to frighten her children either, “But I don’t think it’s as bad as all…”

  “Bad?” snapped the Comtesse, “It is far worse. Peasants, murderers and thieves, woman, talking lies. ‘Liberté and Egalité’? As if such a thing could ever be as Equality, and now those murderers even abolish God! The Devil himself is loose in Paris, Madame, and all the evils of the world.”

  A little curl of wind seemed to breathe past the carriage, catching the gravel and licking it up into a swirl, that swept around Henry Bonesp
air and made him shiver furiously.

  Charlotte felt an awful lump in her throat.

  To the workaday, middle class Bonespairs, the Revolutionaries in France had at least opposed the tyranny of the old French monarchy. The aspiring couple had thought it all rather wonderful - at first.

  Now Charlotte and Simon Bonespair weren’t so sure at all, with everything that was happening there and a war looming too.

  “I assure you, Madame” said the Comtesse, “Paris is a city no one should wish to see now, with this TERREUR. A city I and my chicks shall never see again. Banished, while we rely on charity from Monsieur Weeck-ham. Sacré Bleu.”

  The old Comtesse burst into tears, giving Juliette St Honoré the impression she had just been orphaned, though only her poor father was gone. It was a terrible situation for such grand people to be in.

  “Now, Mamman, please don’t upset yourself again,” said Juliette consolingly, wondering what it was like to be a humble governess.

  “Hevagen-Revagy,” hissed Spike, wondering what all the fuss was about, “Stavagop Stavagare-avaging.”

  Henry Bonespair blushed and dropped his eyes.

  “Eleanor,” snapped Charlotte though, “please stop using that silly language now, and try to be a grown up, today at least. You’ll need your best French soon, and you have to be responsible.”

  Spike nearly stuck out her tongue at the enemy adult, as Juliette tried to console her own mother still.

  “It will be all right now, Mamman, I promise.”

  The poor Comtesse fumbled at her neck though and lifting a silver rosary, put it over Juliette’s own, as little Spike thought of how often she had knelt to say her prayers at her bed side, always wondering if someone was really up above, watching her.

  “No, ma Cherie. No one is safe now, not any of our dear friends. There, ma Cherie, that shall protect you from the Devil. We must have faith and be humble, and pray for our friends in France too. Though so many are lost.”

  As he stood there, thinking how frank Juliette’s large, blue eyes were, Henry felt a sharp pang for these Frenchie immigrants and stepped forwards warmly.

  “But people are working for them,” he cried, “Brave people.”

  “What people, Henry dear?” asked Charlotte in surprise and Hal straightened nobly.

  “The Scarlet Pimpernel, mother!”

  Henry Bonespair felt a noble glow in his cheeks, but Juliette St Honoré cast him such a withering look that he blanched immediately, as her own mother almost laughed in his face.

  “Absurde, Henri!,” she cried, “There’s no such man, mon pauvre innocent. Les fables. For les enfants.”

  Henry Bonespair suddenly felt awful and Charlotte tried to calm the situation, although upset enough herself.

  “Well, it’s true there are many sadnesses, Countess, but what did Mr Robespierre says about people’s duty now? To hate despotism, defend the oppressed, do all good to one's neighbour, and behave with justice to all men. So it’s not all bad.”

  Hal thought it sounded rather fine and brave.

  “Then you will NOT listen, Madame?” snorted the Countess, “Come then, Juliette, it’s time for your daily walk with Armande, although I shall not come today. I shall retire to bed, with smelling salts. For a week.”

  Constance swept back around the carriage, her daughter following meekly, completely unaware that from the shadow of the trees those two sinister French strangers had begun to follow them, in their long black clothes.

  “Oh I wish we could just get going,” said Henry bitterly.

  With that Charlotte Bonespair saw a horse galloping down the long drive. It was Simon’s Bonespair speckled stallion, Clive.

  “Here you are,” she cried, as he reached them and jumped down, “You must be setting out, husband. The Itinerary.”

  “At last,” cried Henry, “We’re off.”

  Simon Bonespair had a gentle, rather troubled face and his voice was high and breathless as he spoke.

  “It doesn’t matter now, my love,” he panted, “It’s all off.”

  “Off? But why, pa?” cried Henry desperately, feeling a strange ache inside, yet oddly relieved too. Sometimes France frightened Hal a great deal.

  “The post came from London, Hal, about a Court case of Mr Wickham’s, and I’ll have to go and tend to it myself. I’ll stay with your Godfather, Eleanor.”

  Henry felt rather jealous suddenly, because he did not have a Godfather, but Simon pulled out that morning’s edition of the London Times.

  “Besides,” said his father, “look at this.”

  “Oh not more bad news,” sighed Charlotte, “It’s always bad nowadays.”

  “Yes, my love. The Commune have revolted again and Mr Robespierre has ordered the house arrest of every Girondin. People are being denounced everywhere.”

  The children’s’ eyes opened, and Nellie wondered what denounced meant. It sounded very bad.

  “Now the Jacobin Clubs are taking control in France,” added Simon.

  Henry looked up. He had often wondered what Mr Wickham’s London Club was like. It was called The Travellers Club, in a place called Pall Mall. The sort of Club he should really join.

  “They’ve used the mob to stir everyone up against the Girondins,” Simon went on, “and even surrounded the French Convention in support. Dr Marat leads the new Committee of Public Security now, and they say Marat’s a monster.”

  Charlotte Bonespair had just gone as white as a sheet.

  “The whole country’s mobilising for war, Charlotte, but on the verge of civil war too. There are trials all over France. Special Tribunals. Our newspapers say with no chance of real justice, either. It’s murder there now.”

  “And your mother? Madame Geraldine.”

  Spike suddenly thought of the famous Madame Guilteen.

  “Oh, that’ll all have to wait until it’s safe again. I can go alone, perhaps, one day soon.”

  Charlotte suddenly wanted to kiss her husband.

  “Now I’ll try and catch up with Mr Wickham in London,” cried Simon, mounting Clive again, “I should be back in a few days. Henry and Nellie, promise me to look after your mother, now. Bonespair’s against the world, eh.”

  “Bonespair’s against the world,” they both cried, taking up the family motto, as Simon rode away, while Arthur Holmwood was already unloading the bags again, grumbling furiously to himself.

  “Well, I dunno. All this bother, and my boy so looking forward to a first sight of the sea, an’ all.”

  William Wickham’s second best carriage was soon turning again too, leaving the poor Rat Catchers shipwrecked outside their little Peckham lodge. The great trip was cancelled.

  “I’ll make us all some lunch,” cried Charlotte, as she ruffled Spike’s spikey hair and turned back inside. “And we’ll have some trifle, as a special treat.”

  The two Rat Catchers stood helplessly in the bright English sunlight, overcome by the enormous anti-climax, the prospect of the boring summer suddenly yawning in front of them.

  “Rats,” said Spike, as she flicked her new catapult. “No Revolution then. How ever can we cause some trouble now?”

  “I know, Nell,” sighed Hal miserably, wondering when he would ever get to do anything really adventurous in life, “It’s just not fair.”

  “Jirondins?” said Spike though, “are they the goodies, H?”

  “What? Oh, they were there before the Jacobins came along, I think,” answered Henry, frowning, “Francis would know. He knows everything. Still Frenchie Revolutionaries though.”

  Henry felt a little guilty, because of course he was of French origin too.

  “But it’s all right, Hal,” cried Spike suddenly, her sharp little green eyes lighting up again, “Now Skip can take the oath instead, can’t he, Hal?”

  Henry Bonespair could not have cared less and even the great estate suddenly felt like a prison to the gorwing boy.

  “Maybe, Spike. But if we’re letting Holmwood in, perhaps we shou
ld ask them to join too. Juliette, and her brother Armande.”

  “No fear,” said Spike, with a scowl. “Not those snooty Aristos.”

  ---

  That strange night a huge full moon hung over William Wickham’s great house in Peckham and the little lodge, its chimney smoking even more peacefully than before. It shone down into a large barn too, near the big pond, where three dark shapes stood in the half light now, among the roughly strewn straw.

  The two Rat Catchers stood side by side and Nellie had changed back into her scruffiest tomboy clothes. Skipper Holmwood was there too, clasping the Sacred Rat’s Tail now, as the burly lad waited in front of them both, blinking stupidly.

  “Right then, Holmwood,” whispered Henry Bonespair half heartedly.

  Spike had run up to the stables that same afternoon, to tell Skip the wonderful news that Hal had agreed he could join their gang, if he passed the ‘nitiation.

  Henry had gone in search of the St Honorés too, but strangely he hadn’t been able to find them anywhere.

  Skipper lifted his chin and Hal noticed one of his teeth was missing.

  “Well, Holmwood, we know you can slice off chickens’ heads, whittle catapults and know a new invisible ink, but what else?”

  Skipper’s not overly intelligent face looked suspicious, as he shifted awkwardly on his big feet. He wasn’t entirely sure that he did want to be a stupid Rat Catcher anyway. Skipper was really doing it for his new friend Spike.

  “Fight,” the large boy grunted, glaring at Henry’s nose, who remembered just how hard Skipper’s fists had hit last summer. “All spring I’ve ‘ad to fend off them local villages boys. Stop em filching things, or raiding this barn.”

  “Well, I’ll vouch for that,” conceded Henry resentfully, glancing sharply at his little sister, “and…?”

  “Er, tickle trout, throw me voice and steal magpie’s eggs.”

  Spike nodded admiringly at her new hero and Henry looked at her again. They were country skills, but not unimpressive. Skipper Holmwood was a big lad too and could be handy in a fight.