Journey to the River Sea

  The children looked at each other. Those that spoke English translated what the crows had said into other languages, and everybody shook their heads.

  ‘What does he look like?’ asked a tall girl.

  ‘We don’t know. Nor do we know his first name. But he must be found.’

  Mr Low was getting agitated; his voice had risen to an even higher squeak.

  Still the children shook their heads.

  ‘Well, if you see anything unusual, anything at all – or if anything occurs to you later that makes you think you know where he might be found, you must go at once to the police station. Do you understand me?’ said Mr Trapwood, who seemed to think that the children had lost their wits. ‘Or you can come to the Pension Maria and ask for Mr Trapwood and Mr Low.’

  ‘What has he done?’ asked a brave child, the son of the customs officer.

  ‘That is neither here nor there,’ said the taller crow. ‘But he must be found and he must be taken back to England. There might be good news – if it is the right boy,’ he said. He tried to smile but could only manage a sinister leer. ‘We will be offering a reward,’ he added in an oily voice. ‘And remember, anyone hiding such a boy would be guilty of interfering with the law.’

  ‘Which means he could be locked up. Or she. They could be put in prison,’ squeaked Mr Low.

  They left then, and Madame Duchamp called for a final polka, but the lightness had gone out of the day.

  Sergei knew about the crows. ‘They arrived yesterday on the mail boat and they’ve been prowling round ever since, asking questions,’ he said.

  ‘I ’ope they do not catch ’im,’ said Netta.

  Maia hoped so too, she hoped so very much indeed. To be found by Mr Low and Mr Trapwood and be dragged back to England seemed to her a most horrible fate.

  After the dancing class, the twins and Mrs Carter went off to shop and have lunch before their piano lessons in the afternoon. Since the time for Maia’s lesson had not yet been fixed, Mrs Carter gave permission for Miss Minton and Maia to wander around Manaus on their own.

  ‘You will of course not go into any place where they serve Native Food,’ she told Miss Minton, and Miss Minton said, ‘No, Mrs Carter’, and did not bother to point out that since the Carters had not paid her yet, she could hardly afford to buy Maia a banana, let alone give her lunch in a restaurant.

  But they had a lovely time. It had rained earlier, but now a fresh breeze blew from the river and wherever they looked there was something to interest them: a howler monkey sitting on a telegraph pole outside the post office; a cluster of brilliant yellow butterflies drinking from the water troughs put out for the horses, a pint-sized child lugging a mule on a rope. Maia bought some postcards to send to her friends, and asked Miss Minton if she would like one to send to her sister, but Miss Minton said her sister thought postcards were vulgar so she could do without.

  ‘I think we might have a look in the museum,’ she said. ‘It’s probably free. Perhaps I could offer them my necklace.’

  ‘What necklace is that?’ said Maia, surprised. She had never seen her governess wearing jewellery.

  ‘It is made up of all the milk teeth of my sister’s children. She gave it to me as a farewell present. She has six children so there are a lot of teeth,’ said Miss Minton in an expressionless voice.

  The museum was behind the customs house, not far from the river and the docks. It was a yellow building with a domed roof and the words Museum of Natural History painted on the door. Inside, it was a marvellous jumble of stuffed animals in glass cases, skeletons hanging from wires, drawers full of rocks and insects and feathers. There were three rooms downstairs and two more upstairs which housed tools and carvings made by Indians from all over Amazonia.

  Maia and Miss Minton wandered about happily. Some of the stuffed animals were unusual; a manatee, a kind of sea cow, which looked like a great grey potato with little bumps and knobs on its skin, and a forest tarsola. But some were just ordinary animals that people had brought in from the jungle. And in one glass case there was a stuffed Pekinese labelled: Billy: the faithful friend of Mrs Arthur Winterbotham.

  Museums do not usually show stuffed lapdogs, but the curator was an Englishman with a kind heart and Mrs Winterbotham, who had raised a lot of money for the museum, had really loved her dog.

  Maia was admiring a shrunken head, when she heard a small exclamation and turned to find that Miss Minton was standing in front of a display case showing specimens of dried plants. The plants did not seem to be particularly exciting, but Miss Minton was so absorbed that Maia came over to stand beside her.

  ‘The Bernard Taverner Collection of Medicinal Plants from the Tajupi Valley,’ she read.

  The plants were carefully labelled with their names and what they were used for. A few Maia had heard of – quinine bark to treat malaria, morning glory seeds to bring on sleep – but most were strange to her.

  ‘This is one of the most important collections in the museum,’ said a voice behind them, and they found that Professor Glastonberry, the curator, had come out of his office. ‘He was a fine naturalist, Taverner.’

  The professor was a big, portly man with a fringe of white hair framing a pink skull, very blue eyes and an old linen jacket from which a handkerchief protruded. The handkerchief did not have much to do with the professor’s nose; it was used to mop up dye or formalin, wrap up a delicate specimen, or wedge a rickety stand. He had been putting together the skeleton of a giant sloth and was still carrying one of its claws in his hand.

  ‘When did Mr Taverner present the collection?’ asked Miss Minton.

  ‘Five years ago when he came back from the Tajupi. But he often brought things in – that banded armadillo came from Taverner. He never killed more than he needed though; once he had a specimen, he left the rest alone.’

  He sighed, remembering the man who had been his friend. Then the door was flung open, loud footsteps sounded on the wooden floor, and they found Mr Trapwood and Mr Low making their way towards them.

  ‘Oh no, not the crows again,’ whispered Maia, and was frowned into silence by Miss Minton, who pulled her away from the display case and led her out of sight behind the manatee.

  ‘Professor Glastonberry?’ asked Mr Trapwood, wiping his face. Black suits are not the best things to wear in the tropics and he was sweating heavily.

  The professor nodded.

  ‘We understand that you knew Bernard Taverner? That he gave a collection to the museum?’

  The professor nodded again. ‘Medicinal herbs, very interesting; over there.’

  The crows looked disappointed; they had probably expected stuffed jaguars and enormous throwing spears.

  ‘We would like to ask you some questions about Mr Taverner,’ said Mr Trapwood. ‘Trapwood and Low: Private Investigators.’ He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to the professor.

  The professor looked at it and gave it back. ‘I’m afraid I’m very busy.’

  ‘It won’t take long. We know that Bernard Taverner died about four months ago. What we want to know is the whereabouts of Taverner’s son.’

  ‘What we must know,’ squeaked Mr Low. ‘He is to be brought back to Westwood without delay.’

  The professor blinked at him.

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ he said.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because Bernard Taverner didn’t have a son,’ said the professor. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Maia, as they left the museum. ‘I’m glad he hasn’t got a son. I don’t know what Westwood is, but it sounds horrid. I suppose it’s a prison, like Wormwood Scrubs or Pentonville?’

  And Miss Minton said, ‘Yes.’

  They were to meet the Carters at the theatre box office at four o’clock. As they crossed the square with its tall brass lamps and flowering trees, Maia was more and more awed.

  ‘Imagine Clovis acting there . . .’ she said. ‘It’s a really famous pl
ace, isn’t it?’

  Miss Minton nodded. ‘Caruso sang there,’ she said. ‘And Sarah Bernhardt came to act; she was seventy years old, but she played Napoleon’s young son and she was a sensation!’

  ‘Goodness!’ Maia was impressed. If a woman of seventy could act Napoleon’s son, then surely Clovis could manage Little Lord Fauntleroy. ‘I’m really looking forward to seeing him again,’ she said. ‘It’s only a week now before they come.’

  The twins and their mother were waiting.

  ‘We’ve got our tickets,’ said Beatrice. ‘We’re going to Little Lord Fauntleroy on Monday afternoon, and on Saturday we’re going to see Twelfth Night. That will be boring because it’s Shakespeare. But Little Lord Fauntleroy will be good.’

  ‘Yes it is. We saw Clovis rehearsing. He was splendid.’

  The twins stared at Maia. ‘Oh, you aren’t going! We got the tickets weeks ago, before we knew you were coming. They’re all sold out, aren’t they, Mummy?’

  Mrs Carter nodded absently. She was sending the doorman out for a cab.

  ‘I promised Clovis I would be there,’ said Maia, fighting off tears. ‘I promised.’

  ‘He’ll have forgotten,’ said Gwendolyn. ‘Actors don’t remember people. He’ll have forgotten that he ever met you.’

  And they followed their mother to the waiting cab.

  The twins were wrong about Clovis. He wasn’t clever, but he was faithful and as soon as the Pilgrim Players arrived in Manaus, he asked where he could find a place called Tapherini or House of Rest, and a family called Carter.

  No one seemed to know about the House of Rest, but he was told that the Carters lived in a bungalow an hour’s journey from Manaus and could only be reached by boat.

  ‘You can’t go gallivanting off now,’ said Mrs Goodley. ‘We’ve got the dress rehearsal this afternoon. And when you see the theatre you won’t want to. It’s twice the size of anything you’ve played in before.’

  This did nothing to cheer up Clovis, who said he felt sick.

  ‘Everyone feels sick in this dump,’ said Nancy Goodley.

  The company had taken the top floor of the Hotel Paradiso, which was the cheapest hotel in Manaus. It was also the worst. Grey slugs crawled over the wooden floors of the showers, the lavatories were filthy and the smell of bean stew being tortured to death in rancid cooking oil stole through the rooms and corridors all day.

  ‘It’s no good having the vapours now,’ said Mrs Goodley sharply. ‘Remember, everything depends on you. If Fauntleroy’s a sell-out we can pay off the sharks and get a passage to the next place but if not, God help us all.’

  They had left Belem at night and in a hurry without paying the hotel bill. The scenery had only just been saved; the hotel manager had tried to get hold of it to sell, but they had managed to get it loaded onto the boat in the nick of time.

  Clovis sighed. He knew his lines, he knew his movements, the part was not difficult, and his voice seemed to be all right. It was all right most of the time, but sometimes . . .

  If only he could have seen Maia before the first performance. Maia and Miss Minton always made him feel safe.

  But Maia was coming. She had promised.

  Clovis stamped on a large cockroach making its way across the floor, and decided to be brave.

  Chapter Five

  ‘I know exactly what Cinderella felt like,’ said Maia to Miss Minton.

  It was the night before the twins and Mrs Carter were going to Manaus to see the opening of Little Lord Fauntleroy. They had bought dresses at Fleurette’s – white and frilled, with pink curly embroidery so that they looked rather like wedding cakes. The little maid, Tapi’s sister, had been sent back three times to the steamy laundry to iron the flounces to perfection, hair ribbons were chosen and tossed to one side, bracelets slipped on and off.

  ‘We need some proper jewellery,’ said Beatrice crossly. ‘Maia could lend me her mother’s pearls.’

  ‘And what about me?’ complained Gwendolyn. ‘I’m not going to sit there while you wear Maia’s pearls and not me.’

  They weren’t satisfied with the way their white shoes had been cleaned – they wriggled and complained as the hot curling tongs crimped their ringlets into shape . . .

  In the morning, as the boat waited, it was even worse.

  ‘Where’s my purse? Maia, you find it; it was on my bed.’

  ‘We must have some scent, Mama. Proper scent – not lavender water, that’s for babies.’

  As Maia helped them she felt completely unreal; she was so certain that at the last minute Mrs Carter would relent and let her at least come to Manaus with them.

  ‘I know I can’t come to the play, but I could wait and see Clovis afterwards,’ she had begged.

  ‘Now, Maia, don’t be foolish; as though I would allow you to hang about the theatre like a common beggar.’

  But at last the girls’ hair was safely netted against the breeze, and the maids, looking as sullen as Maia had ever seen them, fetched their shoe bags and their cloaks.

  As the boat drew away, Tapi standing beside Maia said clearly, ‘As Pestinhas.’

  Maia looked at her, startled. She must have heard wrong, but when she looked the words up in the dictionary they meant what she had thought they meant.

  ‘Pigs’, Tapi had called the twins. ‘Nasty little pigs.’

  It was very quiet when the noise of the boat had died away, and Maia no longer tried to hide her misery.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Miss Minton had said the night before. ‘We’ll have a good day exploring. They can’t lock us in the house.’

  But when Maia went to find her, she found the governess still in her room sitting in her one upright chair. She was very pale and her eyes were closed.

  ‘I’m just coming. I’ve got a little headache, but it will be gone in a minute.’

  ‘No, you haven’t,’ said Maia. ‘You’ve got a proper migraine. My mother had them and they’re awful. You just have to lie down till they’re over. Have you got aspirin?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no need to make a fuss.’

  But when Miss Minton tried to get up there was a blind look in her eyes, and she gave up and let Maia turn down the bed.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Maia. ‘I’ll go and read on the veranda.’

  But though the book was David Copperfield and she’d got to the part where Betsy Trotwood was chasing the donkeys out of her garden, she couldn’t concentrate. She kept seeing Clovis’ face and hearing him say, ‘You will come, Maia, won’t you? You will be there?’

  After a while she went along to Minty’s room and very quietly opened the door. Miss Minton was fast asleep in the darkened room, and Maia knew she would not wake for a long time.

  She went into her own room. On her work table was the map she had got from Mr Carter. She picked it up and studied it. She had managed to push back the heavy bolt on the door to the compound at the back several days ago. According to the map there was a path running from the back of the house along the water channels which eventually came out behind the docks in Manaus. The channels themselves were as tangled as boa constrictors, but if she kept the sun on her right . . . Today there really was some sun, not only the dark rain that fell so often.

  It was only ten o’clock. The play didn’t begin till two o’clock. Even if it took her a long time, she should still get there – and at least she would have tried.

  She changed into walking shoes and buttoned her purse into the pocket of her dress.

  Then slowly, carefully, she pulled back the bolt.

  She had looked at the Indian huts so often from her window that it was strange to be walking past them. The little rootling pig was there, tethered, and a few chickens, but the Indians were all away, working in the forest or the house.

  The beginning of the path was exactly where it should have been, with a narrow plank over the stream it followed. Maia plunged into the forest.

  Away from the compound, the great trees grew mo
re thickly; dappled creepers wound round the trunks searching for the light; a scarlet orchid, hanging from a branch, glowed like a jewel in a shaft of sun.

  ‘Oh, but it is beautiful!’ she said aloud, and drew the damp, earthy, slightly rotten smell into her lungs.

  But it was a mistake to be so rapt about the beauty of nature because the path was not quite as simple as it had appeared on the map. She knew she had to keep the sun on her right; but the sun could not be relied upon: sometimes the canopy of leaves was so dense that she seemed to be walking in twilight. And the streams kept branching . . . She stayed beside the widest of them, but the path made by the rubber-gatherers was overgrown; she stumbled over roots of trees, trod on strange fungi, orange and mauve . . . Sometimes a smaller stream cut across her path and she had to jump it or paddle. Once something ran through the trees ahead of her, a grey snuffling creature . . .

  She couldn’t have told the exact moment at which she knew she was lost. First there was just doubt, as she took one path rather than another. Then doubt became fear and fear became panic, and she had to take deep breaths to stop herself from crying out. At the same time the clouds began to cover the sun. Even those rays of light she had had to steer by had gone.

  They’re right, the beastly Carters; the jungle is our enemy, she thought. Why didn’t I listen?

  She would have done anything to be back in the gloomy bungalow eating tinned beetroot and being glared at by the twins. Trying to pull herself together, she walked faster. The stream she was following was quite big; a river really and the current was fast: it must lead to Manaus.

  Blinking away tears, she trudged on. Then her foot caught in a liana, a long branch hanging like a rope from the top of a tree, and she fell.

  It was a heavy fall; her foot was trapped – and in putting out her hand to save herself she had clutched a branch of thorns. Furious with herself, hurt, lost, she lay for a few moments helpless.

  When she sat up again something strange had happened. The stream by which she had fallen disappeared behind her in a curtain of green; more than a curtain, a wall of reeds and creepers and half-submerged trees. Yet from this green barrier there had appeared a canoe, coming towards her silently like a boat in a dream.