‘On the Cromwellian table?’ asked Rosemary.
Uncle Zack’s large mouth widened still further in a smile.
‘Good girl, you’re learning!’ he said. ‘Have you got plenty of sandwiches? A leaflet through every letter-box, mind, and don’t forget Tucket Towers. I don’t suppose Mrs Witherspoon will spend much, but you never know. She’s a strange old thing. Pedals about on a tricycle now she’s sold her car.’
‘Where is Tucket Towers?’ asked John.
‘Go down Sheepshank Lane. That’s the road that leads from the other side of the Market Place, then over the cross-roads and the old railway bridge, and you’ll see the tower sticking up behind a clump of trees. Old Colonel Witherspoon built it fifty years ago, to be near the railway station. And now, of course, the station is closed. But that’s life. Now away with you, and thank you very much.’
John and Rosemary closed the front door behind them and started up the road in thoughtful silence.
‘It’s a funny thing,’ said John. ‘I’d forgotten about Miss Dibdin, and the purple cracker and everything, ever since we came to Highdown, until Uncle Zack mentioned the old railway station.’
‘So had I,’ said Rosemary. ‘Have you got the ring safely?’
John patted his pocket, and the ring made a dull rattling sound inside the tin.
‘Do you remember Carbonel said he would give us twenty-four hours to get in touch with Calidor before he came to Highdown? Well, we’ve been here for several days and he hasn’t turned up. I wonder why?’ Rosemary said thoughtfully. ‘It’s not like him not to keep his word.’
‘Just as well he hasn’t,’ said John. ‘We haven’t met Miss Dibdin, or seen so much as a whisker of Calidor. I tell you what. When we’ve finished delivering leaflets, let’s go and have a peek at the old railway station.’
They pushed leaflets through every letter-box they could find on the way to the village, each of them going to alternate houses.
‘I’m ringing all the bells, and knocking all the knockers as well, to make sure everyone notices!’ shouted John, as they passed one another, shuttling backwards and forwards.
‘So am I!’ Rosemary called over her shoulder. ‘I like to hear what sort of door-bell each house has. Some go “ping”, some go “ping-pong”, and some just “tinkle”.’
‘And some go “squawk”!’ shouted John as he passed her again.
When they reached the Market Square they handed in a leaflet over every counter. Rosemary liked shops. By the time they had worked their way round they were getting rather tired, and very hungry.
‘I’m simply starving,’ said John. He looked at the rows of cars parked in the Square. ‘But we can’t eat our sandwiches here. Let’s go down Sheepshanks Lane and find somewhere there. We can go on to Tucket Towers afterwards.’
After running beside the road for some way down Sheepshanks Lane, the footpath was swallowed up by a grassy verge.
‘Let’s stop here,’ said Rosemary. ‘Under that bit of hedge with the catkins ... What are you staring at?’ she asked.
‘That great pile of chunky earth. It must have come out of a huge great hole. I expect they are mending the road. Let’s go and see.’
Just as Rosemary liked shops, John liked holes, so they went to inspect it. A little way away was one of those cheerful-looking stripy tents, put up by men who mend roads.
‘I say, what a smashing hole!’ said John, as they looked down into its murky depths. They neither of them noticed the road-man come out of the tent and walk towards them.
‘Oy!’ he shouted. ‘Now then you two! How long ’ave you been messing about ’ere?’
‘We aren’t messing. Only looking,’ said John.
‘Well, what have you done with my cones?’
‘Cones?’ said John. ‘Do you mean those red and white pointed things for warning people the road is up?’ The man nodded.
‘We haven’t done anything with them.’
‘Six there were this morning. I put them there myself. And I’m blowed if someone didn’t nick the lot while I was having my cuppa back there.’ He pointed with a grimy thumb to the little tent. ‘About ten o’clock it must have been, and me not away above five minutes.’
‘Well, it wasn’t us!’ said John indignantly.
‘We’ve only just come,’ went on Rosemary. ‘And whatever should we want the cones for, anyway?’
‘You never know with kids,’ said the man darkly.
‘Well, you can see we haven’t got them,’ said John. ‘They aren’t the sort of thing you can put in your pocket.’
‘All right, all right, I believe you,’ said the man reluctantly. ‘But there’s some as ’ld pinch their grannie’s back hair, given half a chance ... ’Allo, ’allo! It’s coming on to rain! Looks like being heavy. You’d best run for it. Turn left there at the crossroads and there’s a shed you can shelter in before you come to the old railway station.’
They thanked him and said they hoped he would find his missing cones, and turned to go; but not before Rosemary had pressed a leaflet into his hand. They left him looking at it in a puzzled way.
‘Come on!’ said John, and broke into a jog-trot, for it was beginning to rain quite hard; but of course they did not stop at the shed. They ran straight on till they came to the railway station.
It stood by itself, with no houses in sight. The entrance was locked, so they crawled through a hole in the hedge at one side and climbed up on to the deserted platform.
‘Food first, explore later,’ said John, and Rosemary agreed.
They sat down on a rickety old seat which was propped against a wall beneath a torn and mildewed poster, urging them to ‘Come to Sunny Southport’.
‘Good old Mother Boddles!’ said John as he unpacked the sandwiches. ‘Sardine and hard-boiled egg. She isn’t so bad really.’
At first they were too busy eating to talk, but they looked about them as they munched. The railway lines had been taken up. Only two long parallel smudges of darker green on the weedy track, stretching away into the distance in both directions, showed where they had once been. The rain pattered steadily on the glass roof above them, and dripped through a few broken panes on the discoloured platform below. Little pillows of green moss bulged here and there between the boards where once the impatient feet of passengers had paced up and down. A clump of nettles grew by the seat on which they were sitting.
‘I think it’s the most alone place I’ve ever been in,’ said Rosemary. ‘It’s a bit creepy,’ she added, looking at the fields, now misty with rain, on the other side of what had been the railway line.
‘I suppose it’s because you expect stations to be busy,’ said John with his mouth full of sandwich. He looked at the door leading to the small booking hall beside him. It hung awkwardly on a single hinge.
‘That’s queer. Two empty milk bottles by the door!’
‘What’s so funny about that?’ said Rosemary. ‘I expect a porter left them behind ages ago and nobody bothered to collect them.’
John got up from the bench and picked up one of the bottles. There was a dribble of milk at the bottom. He put his nose to the neck and sniffed.
‘If they’d been left ages ago the milk would be all mouldy. It doesn’t even smell sour! It looks as though someone has been here not so long ago. I’m going to explore.’
Rosemary didn’t much want to be left by herself on the deserted platform, so she went with him.
‘I expect it was somebody like us, just sheltering,’ she said, but she looked uneasily over her shoulder as she followed him into the booking hall. The door of the Station Master’s office on the left was locked. There was a shutter over the little window where tickets had once been sold, but the waiting-room opposite was open. There was nothing there but dust and cobwebs, and a scattering of soot on the floor round the old-fashioned fireplace.