Henry and the Guardians of the Lost. Jenny Nimmo
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Pearl had come in. It still did. He looked at his watch: half-past twelve.
‘The clock’s stopped,’ Henry remarked. ‘So has my watch.’
‘No time here,’ said Penny. ‘Not in Timeless.’
‘No time like the present,’ Peter said with a grin.
‘Time flies,’ trilled Penny. ‘Time stands still.’
Henry had an urge to tell them both to shut up. He felt angry and confused.
‘You’d better come home with us,’ said Peter. ‘Our parents will help you.’
Henry didn’t like being bossed. ‘I think I should stay and wait for my aunt,’ he said, biting in to his doughnut.
‘Leave a note for your aunt with Martha,’ Penny suggested. ‘Tell her you’ve gone to Number Five, Ruby Drive. You can’t stay here all day.’
Henry could see that she had a point. The cafe was filling up and people were searching for spare tables. When the doughnuts were eaten, he went to the counter and left a note with the friendly woman called Martha. The note said:
Dear Auntie Pearl,
You didn’t come back, so I’ve gone to Number Five, Ruby Drive. I’ll wait for you there.
Love from Henry
When they stepped outside a large black and white cat came running up to them.
‘Enkidu!’ Henry knelt and flung his arms around the cat, burying his face in the long, soft fur. ‘Did Pearl throw you out?’
‘He was already out when the car left,’ said Peter. ‘I noticed him sitting behind the bins.’
‘Hiding,’ said Penny. ‘He wanted to stay.’
Henry gathered Enkidu into his arms. ‘Thank you! Thank you, Enkidu,’ he whispered in the cat’s hairy ear.
Number Five, Ruby Drive was only a few minutes away. It was a red brick, modern-looking house with a small front garden and a path paved with red and black tiles.
Peter unlocked the front door and Penny followed him into the house. Henry hesitated on the doorstep.
‘Come on,’ said the Reeds.
Henry carried Enkidu into Number Five. It seemed welcoming. There were red tiles on the floor and the wall was covered with framed photos of Peter and Penny holding silver cups, bronze medals and official-looking certificates. Henry had never won anything.
Peter and Penny led Henry past a red-carpeted staircase to a room at the back of the house.
‘Look, Mum,’ said Peter, opening the door with a bit of a flourish, ‘another one. Ta da!’ He shoved Henry into a room that seemed to be crammed with children; three small ones to be precise.
Two toddlers and a baby were playing on the floor. A woman with short brown hair and spectacles stood at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes. She turned to Henry and said, ‘Ah! I see. What’s your name, dear?’ Her eyebrows were raised in an interested but not exactly friendly way.
Henry didn’t reply. He was wondering what they meant by ‘another one’.
‘His name is Henry Yewbeam,’ Peter told his mother.
‘Come in, dear, and have a cup of something,’ said Mrs Reed.
‘Tea,’ said Penny firmly. She filled a kettle and put it on the gas stove.
Peter pulled out a chair, saying, ‘Sit down, Henry. You’ll be OK. We’ll try to make sure of that.’
Try? thought Henry. He sat down and put Enkidu on his lap.
‘That’s a very fine animal,’ Mrs Reed remarked.
‘His name’s Enkidu,’ said Henry. ‘I hope you don’t mind cats.’
‘Not at all.’ Mrs Reed smiled. ‘Our old tabby died a month ago, and we’ve been looking for a replacement. Your cat can use Tibby’s cat-flap.’
Henry’s grip on Enkidu tightened. ‘What did you mean when you said you’d found another one?’ he asked Peter.
Penny put a cup of tea in front of Henry. ‘There was a girl,’ she explained. ‘Just like you, left in Martha’s cafe, all alone, no mum or dad, just a suitcase. Mum brought her home, didn’t you, Mum?’
Henry stared at Mrs Reed. ‘What happened to her?’
‘She disappeared,’ said Mrs Reed in a matter-of-fact way.
‘Disappeared?’ Henry’s voice was tight and dry. ‘Did you phone the police?’
There was a troubling silence while Mrs Reed took off her apron and sat at the table. ‘There are no police here, dear,’ she said, patting Henry’s hand.
‘No police,’ Henry croaked. ‘None at all? Not even one?’
‘We have the mayor and his councillors,’ Mrs Reed told him in a firm voice. ‘They uphold the law. And then there are the henchmen, of course. Even they couldn’t find the girl.’
‘Oh.’ Henry felt weighed down by all this unwelcome news. The faces round the table were friendly enough, and the noise of chortling toddlers and boiling potatoes, and the sunshine outside the window should have made him feel cheerful, but he couldn’t rid himself of the thought that if someone else had been left in Martha’s Cafe, and then disappeared, he might disappear too.
Mrs Reed suggested that the children should go into the garden until lunchtime. Henry refused. So Peter took him up to his bedroom. Enkidu followed. He was keen on bedrooms.
There was a spare bed in Peter’s room, already made up for his friend, Bill, who often slept over. ‘So we’re always prepared, you see,’ said Peter.
Enkidu jumped on the bed, curled up and closed his eyes.
Lunch wasn’t tasty but it was very filling. In the afternoon Peter and Penny persuaded Henry to walk between them a little way up the road. Timeless looked like any other small town. A few of the neighbours waved, and a friend cycling past cried, ‘Hi, Peter!’
Henry noticed that there were very few cars, and several people were pale and dishevelled. Peter saw Henry staring at a woman whose face was so white she looked like a ghost. She appeared to be exhausted and could barely put one foot in front of the other.
‘She tried to get through,’ Peter said with a grin.
‘Through?’ said Henry. ‘Through what?’
‘You’ll find out.’ Penny gave a giggle. ‘You’d think they’d know better by now.’
Henry felt very uneasy. He wanted to ask more, but guessed that no one would tell him anything – yet. He’d have to find out for himself.
At the end of the road a sharp rise led to a grand house standing behind ornate iron railings. It was four storeys high, with a steep slate roof and many sparkling windows. Shiny brass studs decorated the tall front door, and there were two door knockers. One a plain ring, the other a large hand.
‘The mayor’s house,’ Polly told Henry.
As she spoke the door opened and two men walked out. They wore midnight-blue suits, the jackets covered in gleaming insignia and the breeches tucked into tall polished boots. Each man carried an iron club and wore a steel helmet.
‘Henchmen,’ Peter said, almost reverently. ‘They keep the law very efficiently.’
I bet they do, thought Henry, observing the long, thick clubs.
The children turned and walked back to Number Five. A cold wind had sprung up and Henry put his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. His fingers curled around a scrap of paper.
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