Emily's Penny Dreadful Read online

  lies?”

  And she couldn’t help it, but a few tears trickled down her cheeks.

  *

  Emily went back to her room – Sibbie’s room – and sat at her desk - Sibbie’s desk - an almost blank page of exercise book open in front of her. It was supposed to be the next chapter in her book - Chapter 15 - the one in which Miley was finally going to start working out how to escape from the match factory. But because Emily hadn’t worked it out, neither had Miley, so hardly anything had been written except a big fat question mark and, since then, a few sentences that weren’t going anywhere.

  It was all very upsetting.

  Uncle Raymond’s refusal to help her with ideas, or to tell Emily the truth, had been the last straw. The two last straws.

  *

  Someone knocked on the door.

  It couldn’t be Sibbie. Sibbie would never knock on the door of her own room.

  “Who is it?” said Emily.

  The door opened. It was Uncle Raymond. Emily thought he looked ashamed of himself. And so he should, she thought.

  “Hmm,” he said. “May I come in?”

  “I suppose so,” said Emily. “You can sit on Sibbie’s bed if you want to. Mine’s too low on the ground. Even lower than my chair. You might find it hard to stand up again.”

  “Thank you for that advice.” Uncle Raymond sat down on the corner of Sibbie’s bed.

  “Is that your writing book I see?” he asked.

  Emily nodded.

  “Hmm. I’ve come to apologize,” said Uncle Raymond. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke so sharply to you, and for lying.”

  “I know that all the best writers are liars,” said Emily. “It probably wasn’t fair to expect you to tell the truth.”

  “Hmm. Well. Nevertheless, those last questions you asked me were fair enough,” said Uncle Raymond. “I know you would be much happier if your Aunt and I weren’t taking up the space that rightly belongs to you. Believe me, we feel the same. But we have no money

  to live elsewhere, not with the cost involved in

  building ourselves a new home. Your mother and father have been very generous to let us stay in their house and you have been extra generous to vacate your room for the duration. I spoke out of order and I’m very sorry to have upset you.”

  Emily sniffed. “That’s okay,” she said. “I don’t really mind. Well, I do, a bit. Well, quite a lot really, but it’s still okay.”

  “Your aunt and your mother both think I should assist you with your story,” Uncle Raymond said. “The one you’re stuck on. I can see for myself that you’re stuck. An almost empty page looks very much like a blank computer screen.”

  “It has a question mark on it,” said Emily. “And a few sentences. But that’s as far as I can get.”

  “Perhaps if I don’t have any ideas for my own writing, I might still be able to concoct one or two for yours,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Could you? Would you? Really?” said Emily.

  “I can but try,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Well, this is Chapter 15, the chapter where Miley

  begins to work out how to escape from the match factory. But it’s mostly blank because I don’t know

  how she escapes.”

  “Let me read the rest of the story first,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “You mean read it now?” asked Emily. “Don’t you want to take it away with you? It doesn’t have to be wrapped in a freezer-storage bag.”

  “I’m a fast reader,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “I wish I was,” said Emily. “Can you teach me to read fast? I could teach what I already know about barking. It’s not that hard.”

  “Maybe. Later,” said Uncle Raymond. “Story, please.”

  Emily handed over the exercise book, together with Uncle Raymond’s Penny Dreadful.

  “You can have this back,” she said. “I’ve finished with it.”

  “Did you manage to read it all?” he asked.

  Emily nodded. “The printing was very, very small,” she said, “but I finished it. Twice. It was very

  inspirational. I even did some creative borrowing from

  it, for my story.”

  “I’m impressed. Were you very scared when you read it?” asked Uncle Raymond curiously.

  “No,” said Emily. “I mean I was, but not scared as in scared. It wasn’t real,” she said. “And the police got there in the end. I want the police to save Miley and the other kids in my story but I don’t know how she can get to them for that to happen.”

  Uncle Raymond began to read Emily's story.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Hmm,” he said.

  And, “hmm” he said again.

  And again. Several times.

  “This big-waisted man in chapter four,” he said. “The one who bumps into Miley. He reminds me of somebody.”

  “It’s Millie, not Mile-y,” said Emily. She turned a little red. She had sort of forgotten about the big-waisted man.

  Luckily Uncle Raymond didn’t wait for an answer.

  “Might he be Miley’s – I mean Miley’s - uncle, on his way to take over her room? The reason why Miley has run away?”

  “Wow! I hadn’t thought of that,” said Emily. “Of course he is!”

  “Hmm,” said Uncle Raymond, his ‘hmm’ sounding more pleased than annoyed. He continued to read. Very quickly. Emily was astounded. When he’d finished, Uncle Raymond handed the book back to Emily.

  “There are some other interesting creative

  borrowings in this tale,” he said. “Why did you write a

  story featuring a match factory when you said the one you visited with your class gave you such nightmares?”

  “I was trying to do what you said the other day. Trying to write things better.”

  “Ah. It was clever of you to work out what I meant by that.”

  “I kind of knew straightaway,” said Emily. “The kids who worked in the real match factory, the ones I learnt about, couldn’t get away, but I want Miley and Ned and the others to escape. They can do it for them.”

  “Well, Emily, it seems to me that you have solved your dilemma. The seeds of Miley and Ned’s escape are already planted in the story. You planted them there.”

  “Are they?” said Emily. “Did I?”

  “Indeed. It’s clear. Let me ask you some questions to prove my point,” said Uncle Raymond. “Just for a change.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Emily.

  “Are there only children working in The Devil’s Element?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who packs the boxes of match boxes?”

  “The kids do.”

  “I know they count the matchsticks and put them into small boxes. I meant, who puts the small matchboxes into the bigger boxes? The ones lined up against the wall.”

  Emily chewed her lip. “I don’t know. The kids as well, I suppose.”

  “But do they have to? Next question. What happens to these big boxes?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “Just so. It would repay some serious thought,” said Uncle Raymond. “Next question. Through which door did Miley enter the match factory?”

  “The Inward Goods Only door,” said Emily. “You see, I’ve been past places which say exactly that. “

  “Allow me to suggest, then, that if things enter the match factory they must also leave it.”

  “Uh huh,” said Emily. “But what about Pork Pie?”

  “What of him?” asked Uncle Raymond.

  “How do Miley and Ned get past him, even if other stuff does?” Emily asked.

  “Do they need to get past him?” replied Uncle Raymond. “What is the opposite of Inward? Now, I think I’ve given you more than enough assistance. The rest is for you to work out. As I’ve said, the solution to your writing dilemma is already written into your story. That’s often the way it is with stories, I find. Now, ask me your question,” said Uncle Raymond, “the one you came to ask m
e before I made you cry. I shall use my best endeavours to answer it.”

  “Promise?”

  Uncle Raymond nodded.

  “Auntie Dot said I should ask you about the fire,” Emily said.

  “The fire?”

  “That’s exactly what Auntie Dot said. The fire that burnt your house down,” said Emily. “I asked her how it happened and she said to ask you.”

  Uncle Raymond rubbed his chin. “Did she indeed,” he said.

  Emily waited.

  With some difficulty, Uncle Raymond stood up. He paced up and down the room, from one side to the

  other. Emily followed him with her eyes. It was like

  watching a tennis ball in slow motion.

  “The fire was an accident,” Uncle Raymond began.

  Emily nodded. “I know. You told me. What exactly did Auntie Dot do?”

  “What exactly did she do? I don’t understand.”

  “I mean, how did she start the fire?” said Emily.

  Uncle Raymond stopped pacing and stared at Emily. “Auntie Dot didn’t start the fire!” he exclaimed. “She had nothing whatsoever to do with it. What on earth makes you think she did?”

  “She didn’t want to tell me how it started,” Emily said. “So I thought she must have started it. Accidently, of course. When I burnt my favourite dress, I didn’t want to say, either.”

  “You shouldn’t create fictions like that,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Fictions?”

  “Stories,” said Uncle Raymond. “Made-up things.”

  “I know that, but . . .” began Emily.

  “Yes, yes, I can guess what you are about to say,” Uncle Raymond interrupted. “You and I are both in the business of creating fictions, but there are some

  stories that shouldn’t be made up. Stories that we tell

  ourselves are true but which, in fact, are not.”

  “So how did the fire start then?” said Emily. “If it wasn’t Auntie Dot who started it?”

  “You are a persistent child and the longer I stay here the sooner you will drive me to an early grave,” said Uncle Raymond.

  Emily shook her head. “Not necessarily. Older people don’t always die before younger people. That’s good to know, isn’t it?”

  “Grant me patience,” said Uncle Raymond, once again. Emily wanted to ask if those words were like a magic spell, but she didn’t. Uncle Raymond didn’t give her a chance.

  “I promised you an answer so I’ll keep my promise,” he said. “I was busy on a book the day the fire took hold.”

  “A new book?” Emily asked.

  “No. It was one I’d already finished but I was making a few, last-minute changes to it,” Uncle Raymond said.

  “We have to make changes to the stories we write at school,” Emily remembered. “It’s called editing.”

  “Precisely,” Uncle Raymond agreed. “Well, I was

  busy editing when I felt a draught. It was a cold

  draught so I turned on the heater.”

  “Not the fireplace?” said Emily.

  “There is no fireplace in my study at home,” said Uncle Raymond. “Or should I say, was. I turned on the heater. It is – was – a bar heater. I like – liked – the glow of the bars. The room soon warmed up. I warmed up as well. In fact, I became somewhat somnolent. I dozed off.”

  “What happ . . .?”

  “Shush!” said Uncle Raymond. “No interruptions, please. Now I’ve started, I feel compelled to finish. The draught wafted one of the pages I was editing, off the desk and into the maw of the heater. I didn’t notice. I’d fallen asleep. Then I smelled smoke. I woke up and discovered that in the chain of events started by the wafting paper, my study curtains were ablaze. Luckily, I saw that I could get to the door in time before the flames spread and blocked my exit. I got out just in time, grabbing the Penny Dreadful as I fled. Auntie Dot ran next door to call the fire brigade but everything happened so quickly that by the time they arrived - and they did not take long - it was too late to save the house and its contents. The house burnt down.

  I solely am to blame.”

  For once Emily was lost for words.

  “It wasn’t really your fault,” she said at last.

  “It wasn’t, and yet it was,” said Uncle Raymond. “I was careless. And that is the understatement of the century.”

  “At least now I know why you’ve been much more grumpy than usual,” said Emily. “You feel bad.”

  “There’s no arguing with that assessment,” said Uncle Raymond. He paused, then added: “Am I usually grumpy?”

  “Nearly always,” said Emily. “Except that time when the ice cream cone broke and you got caramel on your trousers and you laughed.”

  “Did I really laugh then? I still don’t remember.”

  “Auntie Dot said that you’re forgetful sometimes,” said Emily. “Especially now.”

  “Then I shall have to try to remember to laugh again,” Uncle Raymond. “Once in a while. This has not been a good year for me, Emily. First our dear mother – your Gran – died, and then I fell asleep and our house burnt down.” Uncle Raymond shook his head. “And now I find that my Muse has abandoned

  me.”

  “What’s a Muse?” asked Emily. “Something funny?”

  “No. A Muse is not the same as amusing. A Muse is a source of inspiration. Without even a little inspiration all you are left with is a blank computer screen and a head bereft of ideas,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Or a page of exercise book with only a question mark and a few words on it,” said Emily.

  “Precisely. Except I think you can now start to fill up the rest of that exercise book with words.”

  “I’ll try,” said Emily. “But what about you, Uncle Raymond? Your head is still empty, isn’t it?”

  “There’s no help for that,” said Uncle Raymond.

  “Maybe I can help you,” said Emily.

  “Finish your story first,” said Uncle Raymond. “If you have any ideas left over, then perhaps offer them to me. Just don’t expect me to write a juvenile.”

  Chapter 15

  ?

  Miley woke Ned up.

  “Not again!” said Ned. “That’s the second night in a row. I’ll be useless for counting matchsticks in the morning.”

  “You shouldn’t be counting matchsticks,” said Miley in a whisper loud enough to be heard by Ned but not loud enough to wake Athol and Charlie. She didn’t want to frighten them. “None of us should. You should be back home with you father, reading as many books as you want to read, and I should be back home with my Mama and Papa and my dearest sister. Now I wouldn’t even mind if my Uncle was there. Anything would be better than this.”

  “We’ve done our best,” said Ned. “There no way out of here. We’ve been there and done that already, Miley.”

  “But I’ve been thinking,” said Miley. “You know how I came through the door marked Inward Goods Only.”

  “You told me,” Ned agreed.

  “Well, if things get delivered to the factory then things must be taken away from it as well.”

  “Of course,” said Ned.

  “Well, what happens to the matchboxes we put our counted matches into?” asked Miley.

  “We pile them up,” said Ned.

  “And then . . .?” said Miley.

  “Then they get packed into the big boxes over by the wall.”

  “Yes!” said Miley. “But who packs them? We kids don’t. And when does it happen? And where do they go after they’re packed?”

  “You ask too many questions,” said Ned.

  "There are always about the same number of big boxes by the wall,” Miley continued, “so that means that some regularly get taken away.”

  “I guess it must happen at night,” said Ned. “Someone takes them through the kitchen.”

  “Why would they go that way unless the boxes had to be stored in the cellar,” said Miley. “It’s a lot of work going up and down the stairs a
nd the doorways are

  quite narrow. As far as I could see, there wasn’t

  anything stored in the cellar the night I arrived.”

  “So what does all that mean?” asked Ned, yawning hugely.

  “It means there must be ANOTHER way out,” said Miley.

  “Where?” said Ned. “We looked last night and didn’t see anywhere.”

  “We didn’t look behind the wall of big boxes,” said Miley.

  “But surely there isn’t any room behind those boxes,” Ned said.

  “We have to check to be sure,” said Miley. “Will you come with me?”

  “I suppose so,” said Ned, reluctantly. “But what if Bacon’s on the prowl? She might suspect that we’re up to something.”

  “Listen,” said Miley.

  They both listened and heard the sound of what might have been water gurgling in the pipes. “She’s fast asleep and snoring,” said Miley.

  “She was last night as well, to start with,” Ned pointed out.

  “We’ve got some time,” said Miley.

  Ned dragged himself out of bed. “This better be

  worth it,” he grumbled.

  “It’s worth anything if we can escape,” said Miley.

  Chapter 16

  They managed to get right up to the wall of boxes without disturbing Bacon’s slumber.

  “Look,” said Miley, almost breathless with excitement.

  “You were right!” said Ned. “There IS a gap behind them. A little corridor.”

  “Let’s go down it,” said Miley.

  But Ned wasn’t keen. “If Bacon wakes up, we’ll be Pork Pie’s breakfast,” he said.

  “We have to look,” insisted Miley.

  Boldly and bravely, she led the way. There was actually a surprising amount of room between the boxes and the real wall. There had to be, of course, if that was the way the boxes left the factory.

  “It’s so dark,” said Ned.

  “Feel for a door,” said Miley.

  They put their palms against the rough bricks of the

  real wall as they inched forward.

  “Ouch!” said Ned.

  “What is it?” asked Miley.