One month later, a Coroner’s Court was convened. Atty was required to attend, along with Miggy and her dad. Mr. Dalzell Rice was already there on their arrival. The coroner’s verdict was that after the required period deemed by law, and in the light of evidence, Eric McGrail was declared officially missing, presumably dead by misadventure, his body having been swept out to sea.
They emerged into the sunlight, where Mr. Dalzell Rice showed them to his waiting carriage. He took them to his offices, which he referred to as “Chambers.” Miggy and Atty were given cups of aromatic coffee and some dainty chocolate-covered biscuits. The office clerk raised his eyebrows on seeing Miggy taking coffee with her little finger extended. Atty wrinkled his nose playfully at her.
“Miggs look like very fine lady now, much growed up. You be eleventeen twenty-two next birthday, I think!”
The girl frowned over the rim of her cup at him. “Kindly drink your coffee, my good man!”
Paddy smiled as he signed his name to what looked like sheafs of official-looking papers. When the business was done, everybody shook hands. Miggy had never seen her dad looking so happy, his face a picture of joy.
Mr. Dalzell Rice gave them the use of his carriage and driver to get back home. They arrived at the Mersey Star Boardinghouse and Chandlery in time for lunch. Paddy McGrail leaped from the carriage and swept his daughter up in both arms.
“Well, Miggy, me darlin’, welcome home! As the only survivin’ relatives an’ kin of the late Eric McGrail, this all belongs to me an’ you now, lock, stock an’ barrel! No more sailin’ for me. We’re proprietors, me love, boardin’house owners. D’ye know what? I think the first thing I’m goin’ to do is to double Atty’s wages an’ declare him dinin’ room manager. Atty Lok, what d’ye think of that? Huh, where’s that feller gone?”
Miggy, sitting on the doorstep, gestured inside. “Prob’ly making lunch for us.”
Paddy looked down at the girl, who was dabbing her eyes on her sleeve and sniffing quietly. Full of concern, he sat down beside her. “Miggy, girl, what’s the matter, darlin’?”
She blinked rapidly to dispel the tears and gazed out to sea. “It’s Sailor. I miss him a lot, Dad. I wish he was here now. He was my friend, and I’ll never see him again.”
Paddy hugged her. “I know, darlin’, I know. But you can’t be sad forever, Miggs, cheer up. You’ll soon be gettin’ nice new clothes an’ goin’ to school . . . bet you’ll make lots o’ mates there. In the holidays we’ll go out together to the beach, an’ to the country, you, an’ me, an’ Atty, too!”
Miggy stood up slowly. “Won’t be the same without Sailor, though.”
As they entered the dining room, Miggy gasped. There was Atty, feeding an egg to Sailor. He grinned at them. “He waitin’ here like old drownded cat. Shall I give him another egg? This mongoose look hungry. Where you been, eh?”
Miggy dashed to the counter with her arms held wide. “Sailor, oh, Sailor, you came back, you’re alive!”
The mongoose leaped into her arms. He licked the girl’s face, leaving traces of raw egg all over her cheeks.
Paddy McGrail could only shake his head in wonderment. “Well, can ye beat that, Sailor’s finished goin’ to sea, too!”
Miggy placed her pet on the counter. “Give him eleventy-seven eggs, Atty, he deserves them!”
Atty grinned. “I give him eleventy-eight if he tell me where he been. See, Miggs, I tell you, mongoose friend for life!”
Miggy nodded fervently. “I believe you, Atty, I always did!”
Rosie’s Pet
GO LOCK YOUR DOORS EACH EVENING,
bar all the windows tight—
young Rosie and her boyfriend
are on the prowl tonight.
Don’t snigger at my warning,
you’ll hear as they pass through.
Your marrow will freeze to a cry on the
breeze,
it sounds like this—
Aaaawwwwwoooooooooooooooh!
In a fight, Rosie Glegg could knock spots off any boy in her age group. She never played with other girls, hated frocks, dresses, skirts and ribbons. Rosie used dolls as target practice for her catapult shooting; her skipping rope served well as a lasso. She was always lassoing boys—the pale, studious types fled in terror from her expertly aimed loop.
Rosie Glegg wore jeans and Doc Marten boots. She also kept her hair cut short. She was the proud owner of a Swiss Army knife, which came in handy for cutting up other little girls’ skipping ropes. Rosie harassed the local Boy Scouts and Girl Guide clubs, drove her teachers to distraction and was the scourge of librarians, playing park attendants, shopkeepers, bus drivers, etc., etc.
In the small rural English village of Nether Cum Hopping, Rosie Glegg was infamous during the nineteen sixties. Which was not bad going, considering she was only eight years old and had been grounded more times than a wingless plane.
It was the summer holidays. All sensible villagers had fled on vacation to the European Continent, making sure they were well out of Rosie’s reach. Her poor father seldom ventured his family on such trips, fearing an international incident. He often suffered nightmares from something that occurred on a family jaunt to London. Mr. Glegg was still paying damages to the National Heritage Trust for the depredations his daughter had caused to the Tower of London. As a result, he had to work long overtime hours repaying the bank loan. The plus side of this was that Mr. Glegg did not have to come home until Rosie was safely installed in bed.
Mrs. Edith Glegg, Rosie’s mother, was a wan-looking, long-suffering lady. Several times she had tried changing her name to Whegg, Flegg, Pegg and, even adopting a Scandinavian accent, calling herself Olegg. This did not fool the female populace, who would point her out on the High Street, whispering to one another, “Look, there’s Rosie Glegg’s mother, poor soul!”
One sunny afternoon, when the other children were off on distant holidays, Rosie was in a rare peaceful mood. She sat by the pond in the local woods, skimming flat stones across the water’s surface. She looked so placid that one or two of the bolder frogs plucked up courage to watch her from the reeds on the far bank. That was when the boy appeared on the scene. He was about the same age as her, and equally scruffy. Rosie ignored him for a while, then, on a sudden impulse, selected a flat stone and gave it a super-skilful skim. It bounced off the water seven times. Rosie nodded at the young intruder.
See that? I’m Rosie Glegg, the best stone skim merer inna world. Betcha can’t skim stones s’good as me!”
She tossed him a stone, a round bumpy one, which she knew would be useless to skim with. He tried it. Like all bumpy round stones, it vanished with a single plop. They watched the ripples spread over the pond. Rosie scoffed.
“Yahaa! See, I told ya. What’s y’name?”
Throwing himself on the grassy bank, the boy rolled over and shook himself, like a dog. He had a grin like a slice of red watermelon with a lollopy tongue. “Charlie Lupus.”
Rosie tried to keep her face straight as he grinned at her. Absently he scratched his stomach with a bare foot. She was so taken by his infectious grin that she did not even bother reaching for the skipping rope lasso. “Charlie Lupus, eh, great name. What d’you do, Charlie?”
Giggling hoarsely, he produced a piece of stick and gave it to her. “Just you throw that!”
Rosie tested the stick’s balance. “Where d’you want me to sling it?”
Charlie shrugged. “Anywhere. Go on, chuck it hard!”
Leaping to her feet, Rosie whirled and flung the stick, high and hard. Up and out it went, off into the tangled woodlands. Rosie blinked in surprise as Charlie took off like a bullet. She marvelled at his speed, and how he disregarded for bush and bramble, merely leaping over them or crashing right through.