The Boy in the Biscuit Tin Read online

  “Uncle Godfrey!” cried the others.

  “Who?”

  “The man in the black top hat,” said Alex. “The one in the photo.”

  “What photo?”

  “The one on the dresser downstairs.”

  “Oh, him,” said Francis vaguely.

  Their Uncle Godfrey had been a professional magician. He had disappeared several years ago in mysterious circumstances. Francis had only been two at the time, so he couldn’t remember his uncle at all – but Ibby remembered a tall man in a black top hat, with limp wrists and long, slender fingers, perfect for performing fiddly magic tricks. One Christmas he had startled Ibby by reaching behind her ear and producing a coin. When Ibby had asked him how the trick was done, he had winked at her and said, “Magic!” and Ibby’s mother had said, “Don’t tease, Godfrey. It’s sleight of hand and false bottoms, Ibby – that’s all.”

  But could her mother have been mistaken? Could Uncle Godfrey have been a real magician after all?

  Francis picked up the instruction booklet. “What’s ‘levitation’?” he asked.

  “Floating,” said Alex. “We’ll do that one next.”

  “Next?” cried Ibby. “You aren’t going to do another one, are you?”

  “Of course we are,” said Alex. “Aren’t we, Francis?” Then the two of them went through the rest of the booklet, arguing excitedly.

  Ibby frowned. She didn’t like the sound of this at all. But fortunately, before the boys could start another trick, Aunt Carole called up the stairs to remind them it was Saturday.

  “What’s Saturday?” asked Ibby.

  “Bath night,” said Francis, gloomily.

  “Never mind,” said Alex, packing up the magic set. “We’ll try it again in the morning.”

  That night, Ibby didn’t sleep well. She dreamed that she was lying in a long black box, like a coffin, with her head sticking out one end. An audience was cheering and applauding, and when Ibby looked round she saw a tall man in a black top hat and satin cloak approaching with a saw.

  No good was going to come of this magic set, she was sure of it.

  Things often look different in the morning, however. The sun shining through her curtains filled Ibby’s bedroom with a yellow light, and for a moment she didn’t know where she was. Then she looked around and saw the sloping ceiling and the wardrobe full of jangly wire hangers, and it all came back to her in a rush: Aunt Carole’s house, the magic set, and Francis running round and round inside the biscuit tin.

  Ibby lay still for a moment, listening to Aunt Carole moving about downstairs. Then she jumped out of bed, put on her dressing gown and rabbit slippers and padded down the corridor to Francis’s room. It was empty. Perhaps he was already downstairs having breakfast? But when Ibby got to the kitchen she found that Alex and Francis had already been and gone. Only Aunt Carole was there, in her dressing gown, clearing away their breakfast things.

  “Good morning,” said Aunt Carole. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Yes, thanks,” said Ibby.

  “Would you like a boiled egg?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Aunt Carole set a brown boiled egg in front of Ibby, then sat down opposite, warming her hands round a mug of tea. While Ibby cut toast fingers for dipping in her yolk, Aunt Carole told her that it had rained during the night but it was going to be a lovely day, and that Ibby could help her pick the last of the raspberries, if she liked.

  Ibby nodded absently. In Aunt Carole’s kitchen, with Francis’s school paintings on the fridge, and jars of cress sprouting on the windowsill, everything seemed so ordinary, so unmagic. It was hard to believe that Francis had really shrunk himself. And yet …

  “Aunt Carole,” said Ibby cautiously. “Do you believe in magic?”

  Aunt Carole, who had just taken a sip of tea, spluttered and choked. She put her mug down suddenly and pushed her chair back.

  “Are you all right?” said Ibby.

  Aunt Carole was unable to reply. She had gone very red and was bent double, coughing. Ibby’s question seemed to have taken her by surprise.

  Ibby jumped out of her chair and thumped Aunt Carole on the back. Gradually Aunt Carole’s coughs subsided and her face returned to normal. “Phew!” she said. She took a deep breath, and was just about to speak again when there came a heavy thud from above, which made the ceiling shake. Both Aunt Carole and Ibby glanced upwards. “Goodness me,” said Aunt Carole. “What are those two doing now?”

  The thud was followed by muffled shouts, laughter, and a crash. What was going on up there?

  “I’d better go and see,” said Ibby anxiously.

  “Aren’t you going to finish your egg?”

  “No, thanks!” And before Aunt Carole could protest, Ibby had hurried out the door and up the stairs.

  Alex had his own room at the end of the corridor. There was a sign on his door that said KEEP OUT and from within there came shouts and laughter. Ibby knocked loudly. The laughter stopped. There was lots of whispering. Then, in a loud voice, Francis said, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me,” said Ibby.

  The door opened a crack and Francis looked out. He was wearing the top hat and the cloak. “Are you alone?” he said.

  “Of course I’m alone.”

  The door opened just enough to allow Ibby through. “What’s going on?” she said. “What are you—” She stopped in astonishment. Bobbing gently just below the ceiling was Alex.

  CHAPTER 5

  Alex Goes Out Of The Window

  “THIS TRICK IS PERFECT FOR CONFINED SPACES.”

  “He’s levitating,” said Francis proudly. “I can see that,” said Ibby. Alex was floating just below the ceiling in his dressing gown. His face was flushed with triumph and his hair was flopping forwards.

  “Watch!” he said, and he pushed off against the ceiling and went swooping over their heads.

  “Careful!” said Ibby, ducking.

  “And look!” said Alex. “I can do somersaults, too!” He pushed off again into a forward roll, and his slipper knocked against the lampshade and sent a pattern of light careering round the walls.

  “Stop it!” said Ibby crossly. “You’re going to break something.”

  “No, I’m not,” said Alex. He shot across the room, crashing into the shelving unit on the opposite wall and sending his swimming trophies and his collection of Napoleonic figurines thudding to the floor.

  “See?” said Ibby. “Now look what you’ve done.”

  Alex steadied himself. “You’re right,” he said. “This room is far too small. I need more space …”

  “No! Alex – wait!”

  But Alex was already going hand over hand along the shelves towards the open window.

  “What are you doing?” cried Ibby. “You can’t go out! You’ll float away!”

  “Francis!” said Alex. “Get my lasso.”

  Francis hurried to the wardrobe and returned with a coil of rope, and Alex took one end of it and tied it round his waist.

  “Don’t do it, Alex,” begged Ibby. “It isn’t safe!”

  “Of course it’s safe. This is what astronauts do when they repair their ship. You don’t see them floating away, do you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Hold the end, Francis,” instructed Alex. “And whatever happens, DON’T let go.” Then out he went, head first, and when the others looked out, there he was, bobbing at the end of the rope in his dressing gown. “Weh-hay!” he shouted.

  Francis gave the rope a tug, and Alex rotated slowly.

  “Don’t!” said Alex.

  Francis tugged the rope again, and Alex turned the other way.

  “Cut it OUT!” yelled Alex.

  Francis laughed, and was about to give the rope another yank when there came a knock at the door that made him jump.

  Ibby turned to Francis in alarm. “It’s your mother!”

  Francis dithered. If Aunt Carole came in now she would wonder why he was standing at the window h
olding the end of a rope. But if he hauled Alex in, she would see him floating on the ceiling. What was he to do?

  “Here,” he said. “Take this!” And he shoved the end of the rope into Ibby’s hands.

  “I don’t want it,” cried Ibby. She shoved it back at him and there followed a brief flurry of hands as they passed the end of the rope back and forth between them. And then, somehow, it slithered out across the windowsill and was gone.

  When Aunt Carole came into the room she found Francis and Ibby both standing with their backs to the window, wearing fixed smiles. There was no sign of the rope, nor of the black top hat and satin cloak. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  “Fine!” they answered.

  “What was all that noise?”

  “What noise?” said Francis.

  “It sounded like things falling.”

  “Oh, that was just the trophies.”

  Aunt Carole looked around suspiciously. “Where’s Alex?”

  “He’s gone out.”

  “Out? Out where?”

  “Just out.”

  Aunt Carole looked at Francis thoughtfully, then she went to the window and looked out. The children held their breath. But there was nothing unusual down there – just an empty rabbit hutch among the nettles. Aunt Carole brought her head back in and said, “I’ve made some scones. Come down when you want one, won’t you?” And out she went again.

  As soon as she had gone, Ibby and Francis looked out of the window. To their dismay, Alex had already risen high above the pine trees and was drifting in a northerly direction with the rope trailing uselessly below him.

  “Alex!” yelled Francis, through cupped hands.

  Alex gave a faint but furious reply. Then, with his arms and legs paddling pathetically, he disappeared beyond the pines.

  CHAPTER 6

  Alex Goes To Church

  “THE PROFESSIONAL MAGICIAN REMAINS IN CONTROL AT ALL TIMES.”

  Air is thinner than water and therefore much more difficult to swim in, so despite winning his swimming club trophy for the 100 metres, Alex’s breaststroke was not proving very effective. Within seconds he had cleared the pine trees, crossed the lane, and found himself drifting over a field of sheep.

  “Help!” he yelled.

  The sheep raised their heads and scattered in all directions, bleating.

  A little further on Alex floated over a spinney of birch trees. Crows took to the air, cawing, as he approached. And now the wind was getting stronger. He was climbing steadily. Soon he could see cars moving along distant roads and, in the distance, the slate-grey rooftops and the tall church steeple of Little Wittering. Beyond was just the hazy blue horizon of the sea.

  “Help!” cried Alex.

  As he approached Little Wittering, the sounds of the town rose up to greet him: car doors slammed and people called to one another in the street. And chiming out above it all were the church bells, calling people to morning service.

  This gave Alex an idea. With the concerted effort of a one-time swimming champion, he struck out towards the steeple. At the top of the spire there was a gilded weathervane in the shape of a cockerel, with the letters N, S, W and E. Alex was lucky; the breeze was with him. As he neared the weathervane he drew up his rope and made a noose at one end. He waited until he was just within reach, then threw it.

  The first throw glanced off the letter S.

  Alex coiled his lasso and got ready to try again. This was his last chance. If he missed this time there was nothing to stop him drifting onwards, out to sea. But as luck would have it the noose fell neatly over the letter W. Quickly, Alex reeled himself in, hand over hand, and wrapped his arms and legs around the steeple.

  “HELP!” he bellowed.

  Several miles away, Ibby and Francis were squeezing through a gap in a hedge. Ibby came through first, in her dressing gown and rabbit slippers. Her hair was standing out all around her head. Next came Francis, in his pyjamas and wellington boots. They had climbed over gates, waded through stinging nettles and crossed fields of cows. They staggered out into the lane and looked left, then right. “Where are we?” said Ibby.

  Francis didn’t know.

  “So now what do we do?”

  Francis didn’t know that either.

  Ibby made an exasperated sound. “We’ll never find him,” she said. “He’s probably miles away.” She looked at the sky, in which nothing but a couple of seagulls wheeled high up against the underbelly of the clouds. What if Alex floated higher and higher, up to where the air was too thin to breathe? What if he rose out of the Earth’s atmosphere altogether and ended up a dried-out husk of a boy, circling Earth for all eternity with the rest of the space junk?

  “I knew something like this would happen,” said Ibby tearfully, and she sat down on the grass verge with her head in her hands. “I wish you’d waited for me before you started levitating people.”

  “It’s not my fault,” said Francis, wiping his boot on the grass.

  “Yes, it is! If you hadn’t let go of the rope, this would never have happened.”

  “I didn’t let go of it! You did!”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “No, I didn’t!”

  They were so busy arguing that they didn’t hear the distant drone of an approaching vehicle – and they were still arguing when a small bus with “Coastal Express” written on the side appeared round the corner. On the front of the bus it said: “Little Wittering”.

  At once they both jumped up and down, waving their arms and shouting, “Stop! Stop!”

  The bus pulled up, its doors opened with a sigh, and they jumped in.

  “We haven’t any money!” announced Francis.

  “It’s an emergency,” said Ibby.

  The driver looked at Ibby’s wild hair and rabbit slippers, and at Francis (who was hitching up his pyjama bottoms), and said nothing. He pressed a little lever on the ticket machine, which spat out two tickets, then the hydraulic doors hissed shut and Ibby and Francis found themselves bumping along in the Coastal Express towards Little Wittering.

  Meanwhile, Alex was trying hard to concentrate on the slates right in front of his nose. Every time he looked down he began to feel dizzy. And he was getting heavier now – he could feel it. As every moment passed he had to hug the steeple a little tighter to keep himself from slipping.

  “Help!” he wailed.

  But nobody heard him. Inside the church there was a service taking place and the voices of the congregation, lifted in song, drowned out his shouts.

  Why had he ever let Francis hold the rope in the first place? He should have known that Francis would mess it up. Francis always messed things up. Alex tried to shift a little higher, and his foot dislodged a slate. It went slithering down the steeple like a tiny toboggan and smashed to smithereens on a gravestone below.

  “Help!” yelled Alex.

  Inside the church, the hymn had come to an end. The vicar had taken his place in the pulpit, and a hush had fallen over the congregation.

  “That hymn,” said the vicar, “reminds us that God is everywhere. He is in our homes, our places of work. He is in this church at this very moment, and if we listen He will speak to us. Now, will everyone please turn to hymn number three twenty-seven: ‘Raise Your Eyes to Heaven’.”

  The vicar waited until the rustling of pages had subsided and was just about to begin when there came a faint cry: “Hello?”

  The vicar hesitated, and cast a stern eye over his congregation. Was someone playing the fool? “As I was saying,” he said. “‘Raise Your Eyes to—’”

  “Up here!”

  Others heard it this time too. People began to mutter and look around. Were they hearing things, or was a voice from on high speaking to them?

  “Can anybody HEAR me?” came the plaintive cry.

  This time everyone had heard it. A murmur of voices broke out – then one man near the back stood up. “I hear you!” he shouted.

/>   “I hear you too!” cried a lady at the front.

  “And me!” said someone else.

  And then everyone began talking at once.

  “People, people!” cried the vicar. He gave the signal for the organist to start playing, in an attempt to restore order – but then the doors of the church flew open and a lady with a Yorkshire terrier rushed in. “Come quickly!” she shrieked. “There’s someone on the steeple!”

  It was a miracle that no one was crushed in the hurry to get outside and see Him for themselves. But He wasn’t quite what they’d expected.

  “Good Lord!” said the vicar, pushing to the front. “It’s a boy! And it looks like he’s wearing pyjamas!”

  CHAPTER 7

  What Goes Up Must Come Down

  “...A GREAT CROWD PLEASER.”

  Ibby and Francis were still churning down the narrow lanes in the Coastal Express. It wasn’t a very full bus. Near the front were two old ladies in rain hoods and a mother accompanied by a little boy sucking a green lollipop. Ibby and Francis took a seat near the back. They were both peering out of the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Alex in the sky, when the bus braked suddenly and everyone was flung forwards in their seats.

  “What’s going on?” asked one of the old ladies.

  Up ahead there was a long line of traffic. Horns were honking and people were getting out and going to the front.

  “I’ll go and have a look,” said the driver. So everybody waited while he climbed down and spoke to the driver in front. He returned shortly, shaking his head. “Sorry, folks,” he said. “There’s an incident in Church Street. You’ll have to walk from here.”

  Ibby groaned. “We’ll never find Alex now,” she said. But there was nothing they could do except continue their journey on foot. There were a lot of other people walking too, and when they got to the end of the street they saw that a huge crowd had gathered outside the church. A police officer was asking everyone to please stand back.

  “Has there been an accident?” said Francis to a lady with a Yorkshire terrier.

  “Not yet,” said the lady.