The Adventures of Pratchett and Banks

As a little special treat to mark my birthday here is the opening to my children’s novel – “The Adventures of Pratchett and Banks: The Mystery of Darwin’s Dog” – it is set in the same world as The Crimson Mask, but is only in the initial stages…

 

Burlington, Sussex – 1862

Bartholomew Banks lay trembling beneath his bed, listening to the crashing waves, rattling chains and howling wind. Green light flickered, scattering shadows around his room. Even though he was expecting it the sound of the gunshot still made him jump. He held his breath. The room fell silent.

There was a knock at the door. The green light faded.

“Bartholomew,”

It was his grandmother; she sounded breathless.

He rolled out from under his bed just as the door opened. Light from the hallway gaslamp spilled into the room. Bartholomew glanced at the fireplace. The ship was still there; motionless inside its green glass bottle, mounted on its copper frame upon the mantelpiece.

“It’s your grandfather…” she said, stepping into the room. Bartholomew could tell she’d been crying. “He’s, he’s…” her voice faltered. “He’s gone.”

*****

The funeral was held on a frosty February morning. Warmth from the winter sun struggled to make itself felt through the heavy sea mist embracing the town. Bartholomew stood in the shadow of his own parents’ gravestone watching gulls circling overhead. His grandmother beside him, her long grey scarf fluttering in the cold breeze. Several other family members surrounded the grave, hands in pockets, faces obscured by frosty breath. Bartholomew didn’t recognise any of them. An elderly aunt had rubbed his cheek and told him he was the spitting image of his father. Bartholomew simply shrugged; he’d never known his parents and had never even seen their portrait, so didn’t feel qualified to comment. He simply smiled and nodded nervously.

After the service the rest of the family slowly drifted away. Bartholomew walked with his grandmother, her hand in his, supporting her as she stumbled on the gravel path.

“You’re a good boy Bartholomew,” she said, patting him on the back of the hand.

He smiled, took one last look towards his grandfather’s grave and saw Her for the first time. He assumed she must have been a cousin he knew nothing about. Bartholomew watched as she bent down, the hem of her navy coat brushing the damp grass as she gently placed a yellow flower against his grandfather’s gravestone.  Bright against the cold grey granite, the flower matched the colour of the ribbon that held her long black hair back in a ponytail.

“Come on Bartholomew,” his grandmother beckoned. “We’ve a shop to run, you’re a full-time member of staff now. Those books won’t sell themselves.”

 

Over the days that followed Bartholomew and his grandmother kept themselves busy in the bookshop. The bookshop that had been Bartholomew’s home ever since he’d been born in the bedroom on the fourth floor. Ruby’s Antiquarian Bookshop stood on the corner of Grove Avenue and Clarence Road in the heart of Burlington, Sussex’s busiest seaside resort. The Banks family used to live in comfort in the top three floors of the four-storey building but as the shop’s stock of books had grown over the years Bartholomew and his grandmother now found themselves sleeping beneath the sloping roof in the shop’s attic. The shop was home to thousands of books and was filled to bursting point. Shelves were filled from end to end and books were stacked in every available space; between shelves, on the stairs, above the doorways and in precariously balanced piles on the floor. There were even crates of books on the street outside, protected from the worst of the weather by the striped awnings that shaded the windows.

Tourists travelled to Burlington for the sheer pleasure of getting lost in this labyrinth of literature. Locals visited the bookshop for the sheer pleasure of William and Camilla Banks’ company. They were well known throughout the town and well loved. When news of William Banks’ passing appeared in the Herald regular customers flocked to pay their condolences. Customers such as Rosie Weeks from the bakery next door who brought them a daily pair of apple turnovers, oblivious to the fact that Bartholomew didn’t like the cream and apples gave his grandmother a headache, but because they were Old Billy Banks’ favourite.

Over the nights that followed the mysterious ship-in-a-bottle on Bartholomew’s mantelpiece remained silent; still; waiting.

One week after the funeral, Bartholomew was following his usual morning routine; stacking books and applying price labels when he spotted Her outside the shop, browsing through the books balanced on the windowsill. He peered over the bookshelf he was kneeling beside ( Fiction ~ AT to AZ ) and watched as she turned towards the shop door.

Bartholomew gasped, knocking the bookshelf as he ducked down, causing a pile of Jane Austens to fall onto his head. He heard the door open and the network of tiny brass bells tinkled overhead. He sat motionless, holding his breath as he listened to her soft footsteps on the floorboards. After what seemed like an eternity there was a ding-a-ling from the shop counter.

“Bartholomew! Customer!” cried his grandmother from down in the shop’s cellar.

He gathered the Austens and stood up.

“Good morning!” came a cheerful voice from the other side of the bookshelf.

Bartholomew gasped and dropped the books. She giggled.

“I’d like to return this one,” she said holding out a book titled Sea-birds of the South-West.

He stared at the picture on the cover, “Puffins,” he croaked.

“Um, yes,” she smiled. “I guess so.”

With his head down, he followed her to the shop’s counter. (Puffins!?!).

“Umm, did you not like it?” he mumbled as she passed him the book.

“Oh, no, it’s in the book,” she said. He just stared blankly in reply, turning the book over in his hands. “Under the counter, your grandfather keeps a book to note down the loans.”

At the mention of his grandfather he felt his eyes well up. Loans? He had been helping out in the shop since he was six-years-old and he’d never been aware of this loans system. He ducked down, so she could not see the tears in his eyes, and fumbled under the desk until he found a well-worn red notebook. He wiped his eyes and stood up, placing the notebook next to the till.

“That’s the one,” she said smiling.

Bartholomew opened the notebook at the page with the folded down corner.

“You just write the name of the book, today’s date and my initials. There I am, P. P.”

“P. P.?”

“Yes, Penelope Pratchett.”

“Penelope?”

“Yes, but my friends call me Pen.”

“Pen?”

“I said my friends.”

“Oh, sorry, Penelope,” mumbled Bartholomew, his cheeks reddening.

“Only messing with you,” she said smiling. “You can be my friend Bartholomew.”

She knew his name!

“And I shall call you Mew.”

“Mew?”

“Yes, it’s the sound you make when you try to talk to me. Like a little kitten calling for his mummy’s milk.”

He wanted to shrink and hide beneath the counter.

“I shall be back tomorrow. Puffins,” she giggled as she left the shop.

There was a chuckle from behind him and he jumped as a box of apple turnovers was placed on the counter. Bartholomew turned and came face-to-bosom with Rosie Weeks. She was a large lady who always reminded him of the freshly baked cottage loaves that sat in the bakery window next door.

“Can you point me towards your love stories?” she asked with a big grin on her face.

“Romantic novels, down the back, on the right,” replied Mew who was still staring towards the doorway.

“Ah, so you have heard of romance?” chuckled Rosie. “You might want to read some dear boy.”