Charlie Bone and the Time Twister. Jenny Nimmo
enough to be in a Home, and she’d been told a hundred times that her family couldn’t live without her.
‘So do you know who these people are?’ Charlie pointed to the family in the black frame. Without the cracked glass, the soldier and his family could be seen more clearly.
Charlie’s mother came and looked over his shoulder. ‘They must be Yewbeams,’ she said, ‘Grandma Bone’s relations. You’d better ask her.’
‘No way,’ said Charlie. ‘I’ll ask Uncle Paton before I go to bed. Come on, Ben.’
Tucking the black frame under his arm, Charlie led Benjamin and Runner Bean up to his room. An hour playing computer games passed very quickly, and then Grandma Bone was hammering on Charlie’s door and telling him, ‘Get that dog off your bed.’ How did she guess? But then a lot of the Yewbeams had powers.
The boys trailed downstairs with Runner Bean behind them, and Charlie let Benjamin and his dog out of the front door.
He stood in the hall a moment, staring at the rectangle of pale wallpaper where the framed photograph had hung. What had caused that photo to fall? Could it really have been a door being slammed? In this house, the force at work was bound to be more mysterious.
‘Perhaps Uncle Paton will know,’ Charlie murmured. He ran upstairs.
Uncle Paton was Grandma Bone’s brother, but he was twenty years younger, and had a good sense of humour. He also had a talent for exploding light bulbs when he got near them, so he spent most of the day in his room and only went out after dark. Even in the daytime, lights were on in shop windows. At night he was not so easily seen.
Charlie retrieved the photograph from his room, and knocked on his uncle’s door, ignoring the permanent DO NOT DISTURB sign.
There was no response to his first knock, but his second drew an irritated, ‘What is it?’
‘It’s about a photo, Uncle Paton.’
‘Are you hearing voices again?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Come in then.’ This was said in a weary tone.
An extremely tall man with a great amount of untidy black hair looked up from a desk by the window. As he moved, his elbow sent a stack of books toppling to the floor.
‘Bother,’ said the tall man, ‘and other more rude things.’
Paton was writing a history of his family, the Yewbeams, and he needed a great many books to help him do it.
‘Where’s the photo then? Come on, show, show!’ Paton clicked his fingers impatiently.
Charlie laid the photo in front of his uncle. ‘Who are they?’
Paton squinted at the family group. ‘Ah, that’s my father.’ He pointed to the small boy sitting on his mother’s knee. ‘And that,’ putting an ink-stained finger beside the girl, ‘that’s poor Daphne who died of diphtheria. The soldier is my grandfather, Colonel Manley Yewbeam – a very merry man. He was on leave from the army. There was a war on, you know. And that’s my grandmother, Grace. She was an artist –a very good one.’
‘And the other boy?’
‘That’s . . . good lord, Charlie, he looks rather like you. I never realised that before.’
‘His hair is different. But I suppose he could have had it squashed down with something.’ No amount of squashing would keep Charlie’s thick, springy hair flat.
‘Hm. Poor Henry,’ muttered Paton. ‘He disappeared.’
‘How?’ Charlie was amazed.
‘They were staying at Bloor’s, Henry and James, while their sister Daphne was dying. It was the coldest winter for a century – my father has never forgotten it. One day, in the middle of a game of marbles, Henry just vanished.’ Paton stroked his chin. ‘My poor father. Suddenly, he was an only child. He idolised his brother.’
‘Vanished,’ murmured Charlie.
‘My father always suspected his cousin, Ezekiel, had something to do with it. He was jealous of Henry. Ezekiel was a rotten magician, but Henry was just naturally clever.’
‘Is that the Ezekiel who’s . . . ?’
‘Yes. Dr Bloor’s grandfather. He’s still there, festering away somewhere in the academy, surrounded by gas lamps and bad magic.’
‘Wow! So he’s about a hundred years old.’
‘At least,’ said Paton. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Charlie, these voices you hear, do they ever say anything that isn’t directly connected to that moment in time when they were being photographed?’
‘Erm, no,’ said Charlie. ‘Not yet. I don’t like looking at them for too long.’
‘Mm, pity,’ said Paton. ‘Could be interesting. Here you are then.’ He held out the photograph.
‘No thanks,’ said Charlie. ‘You keep it.’
Paton looked disappointed. ‘My father would be so happy to know a little more.’
‘Is he still alive, then?’ Charlie was surprised. He’d never seen his great-grandfather. In fact, he’d never heard anyone speak of him.
‘He’s a grand old fellow,’ said Paton. ‘He’s in his nineties now, but he still lives in that very same cottage by the sea.’ He tapped the photograph. ‘I visit him every month. If I start at midnight I can be there before sun-up.’
‘What about Grandma and the aunts. They’re his daughters, aren’t they?’
Uncle Paton made one of his here-comes-a-bit-of-scandal expressions. His thin lips compressed and his long black eyebrows arched up towards his hairline. ‘There was a rift, Charlie. A terrible quarrel. Long, long ago. I can hardly remember what caused it. For them, our father doesn’t exist.’
‘That’s awful!’ But somehow Charlie wasn’t surprised. After all, Grandma Bone wouldn’t even speak of Lyell, her only son and Charlie’s father. When he vanished, she had simply sliced him out of her heart.
Charlie said goodnight to his uncle and went to bed. But as he lay awake, trying to imagine his first day back at Bloor’s, Henry Yewbeam’s mischievous face kept breaking into his thoughts. How had he disappeared? And where did he go?
A tree falls
The temperature dropped several degrees during the night. On Monday morning, an icy wind sent clouds of sleet whipping down Filbert Street, blinding anyone brave enough to venture out.
‘I can’t believe I’ve got to go to school in this,’ Charlie muttered as he struggled through the wind.
‘You’d better believe it, Charlie, there’s the bus! Good luck!’ Amy Bone blew Charlie a kiss then turned into a sidestreet and made her way towards the greengrocer’s. Charlie ran up to the top of Filbert Street where a blue bus was waiting to collect Music students for Bloor’s Academy.
Charlie’d been put in Music only because his father had been in it. His friend, Fidelio, on the other hand was brilliant. Fidelio had saved a seat for Charlie on the bus, and as soon as Charlie saw his friend’s bright mop of hair and beaming face, he felt better.
‘This term’s going to seem very boring,’ sighed Fidelio, ‘after all that excitement.’
‘I don’t think I mind a bit of boringness,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m certainly not going in the ruined castle again.’
The bus parked at one end of a cobbled square with a fountain of stone swans in the centre. As the children left the bus, they noticed that icicles hung from the swans’ beaks and their wings were laced with frost. They appeared to be swimming on a frozen pool.
‘Look at that,’ Charlie