a few inches away. ‘Can I look or isn’t one allowed to touch?’
‘Not if your hands are wet,’ Maddy said quickly. ‘It’s a – a first edition and very valuable, or so Mr Thwaite says, but if you dry your hands on your shirt I suppose you could take a peek.’
The boy rubbed his hands vigorously on his much patched shirt and gingerly pulled the book towards him, opening it at random. ‘Fairy stories, I suppose; kids’ stuff.’ He flicked over a page to reveal one of the illustrations, and let out his breath in a low whistle. ‘I say, this chap can certainly draw! Oh, and it’s not fairy stories; I know what it is, though I’ve never seen an illustrated copy before.’ He closed his eyes and screwed up his mouth for a moment, then his eyes shot open. ‘It’s
The Water Babies
, by Charles Kingsley,’ he said triumphantly. He turned to Maddy. ‘Did you know Mr Kingsley wrote it when he was staying with friends here in the Yorkshire Dales? He was a vicar and a professor, a very learned man. My father told me that one day, when he’s not too busy, he will take me to Cumming Cove, which is where . . .’ The boy began to leaf through the pages, then gave an exclamation and returned to the beginning. ‘Of course! How stupid I am to forget! Tom climbs down to sea level in the early part of the book, so if there’s a picture it must be somewhere in the first couple of dozen pages . . . ah, here it is!’ He tapped the illustration with a finger. ‘You can just imagine how poor Tom must have felt after clambering down that, can’t you?’
He was swivelling the book to face Maddy but she stopped him with a gesture. ‘Don’t bother; Alice and I know every picture by heart, pretty well. But I’m glad you don’t think it’s just a fairy story, because I think there really are strange creatures in the sea, and I mean to find them.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’ the boy said rather mockingly. ‘Well, I bet you five bob you don’t find a water baby. Not that you could, of course; water babies can’t possibly exist. Tell you what, though, it might be quite a laugh to follow Mr Kingsley’s wanderings and see if we can identify Vendale. What do you say to having a try? The summer hols have another couple of weeks to go and it would give us something to do.’
Maddy stared at him, two thoughts jostling in her mind. One was that it would be both fun and interesting to use the stories in the book as a sort of guide, for the Reverend Mr Kingsley – he was a clergyman, if this strange boy was to be believed – had said right at the start of the book that Vendale was a made-up name, invented deliberately so that inquisitive little girls might not flock to it and ruin the peace and beauty of the tiny dale and its becks and rivers, where he had found not only water babies but also many other strange underwater creatures.
The second thought, coming out of the blue, so to speak, was rather more disturbing. Maddy had assumed that Alice had not visited Larkspur again after that first time because she was nervous of Gran and did not want to be involved in looking after her. Now, however, she faced the unpleasant thought that Alice had not come because she had found herself another friend, this Tom Browning, son of the new chauffeur. It was disappointing to realise that Alice, her idol, might have feet of clay, but perhaps she should not be blamed for her defection. After all, just because Maddy herself had lost several weeks of the summer holiday was no reason why Alice, also, should miss out. It was not as if Alice had other friends in the village, and if this boy was serious when he suggested trying to find Vendale then she could scarcely blame Alice for jumping joyfully at the thought of such a companion whilst Maddy herself was more or less housebound.
But Tom was staring at her, his brows still raised. Maddy pulled herself together. ‘It’s a champion idea, especially since my gran’s agreed that I can
‘Not if your hands are wet,’ Maddy said quickly. ‘It’s a – a first edition and very valuable, or so Mr Thwaite says, but if you dry your hands on your shirt I suppose you could take a peek.’
The boy rubbed his hands vigorously on his much patched shirt and gingerly pulled the book towards him, opening it at random. ‘Fairy stories, I suppose; kids’ stuff.’ He flicked over a page to reveal one of the illustrations, and let out his breath in a low whistle. ‘I say, this chap can certainly draw! Oh, and it’s not fairy stories; I know what it is, though I’ve never seen an illustrated copy before.’ He closed his eyes and screwed up his mouth for a moment, then his eyes shot open. ‘It’s
The Water Babies
, by Charles Kingsley,’ he said triumphantly. He turned to Maddy. ‘Did you know Mr Kingsley wrote it when he was staying with friends here in the Yorkshire Dales? He was a vicar and a professor, a very learned man. My father told me that one day, when he’s not too busy, he will take me to Cumming Cove, which is where . . .’ The boy began to leaf through the pages, then gave an exclamation and returned to the beginning. ‘Of course! How stupid I am to forget! Tom climbs down to sea level in the early part of the book, so if there’s a picture it must be somewhere in the first couple of dozen pages . . . ah, here it is!’ He tapped the illustration with a finger. ‘You can just imagine how poor Tom must have felt after clambering down that, can’t you?’
He was swivelling the book to face Maddy but she stopped him with a gesture. ‘Don’t bother; Alice and I know every picture by heart, pretty well. But I’m glad you don’t think it’s just a fairy story, because I think there really are strange creatures in the sea, and I mean to find them.’
‘Oh you do, do you?’ the boy said rather mockingly. ‘Well, I bet you five bob you don’t find a water baby. Not that you could, of course; water babies can’t possibly exist. Tell you what, though, it might be quite a laugh to follow Mr Kingsley’s wanderings and see if we can identify Vendale. What do you say to having a try? The summer hols have another couple of weeks to go and it would give us something to do.’
Maddy stared at him, two thoughts jostling in her mind. One was that it would be both fun and interesting to use the stories in the book as a sort of guide, for the Reverend Mr Kingsley – he was a clergyman, if this strange boy was to be believed – had said right at the start of the book that Vendale was a made-up name, invented deliberately so that inquisitive little girls might not flock to it and ruin the peace and beauty of the tiny dale and its becks and rivers, where he had found not only water babies but also many other strange underwater creatures.
The second thought, coming out of the blue, so to speak, was rather more disturbing. Maddy had assumed that Alice had not visited Larkspur again after that first time because she was nervous of Gran and did not want to be involved in looking after her. Now, however, she faced the unpleasant thought that Alice had not come because she had found herself another friend, this Tom Browning, son of the new chauffeur. It was disappointing to realise that Alice, her idol, might have feet of clay, but perhaps she should not be blamed for her defection. After all, just because Maddy herself had lost several weeks of the summer holiday was no reason why Alice, also, should miss out. It was not as if Alice had other friends in the village, and if this boy was serious when he suggested trying to find Vendale then she could scarcely blame Alice for jumping joyfully at the thought of such a companion whilst Maddy herself was more or less housebound.
But Tom was staring at her, his brows still raised. Maddy pulled herself together. ‘It’s a champion idea, especially since my gran’s agreed that I can
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