Page 4 - The Divided Talisman_Taster

“Can’t I help?” she asked, looking longingly at the paint, nails and glue scattered all over the
table.

“Nope. Not after last time. I’ve never seen anyone make such a fuss over a little bang on her
finger.” Jenny recalled the incident somewhat differently. It had really hurt.
It was only when the pot spilled over and the smell of burning jam filled the kitchen that the
children realised that their mum, hadn’t come back. Gill quickly pulled the pan off the ring.
“What on earth can be keeping her so long?” asked Jenny, and they all trooped out of the
kitchen into the adjacent hall where they found mum slumped on a chair, holding the opened letter
in her hand.
She looked worried, and that worried Jenny. Mum had been having a series of medical tests,
but the doctors still hadn’t found out what was wrong with her. She hoped it wasn’t bad news.
“What is it, Mum?” asked Chris.
“It’s a letter from the Brook House Estate Manager, Captain Ponsonby. They’re planning to sell
the house and garden.”
This came as a shock to all of them.
“But, how can they?” asked Jenny, horrified. “It’s our home.”
“It doesn’t belong to us and the owner is entitled to do whatever he likes with it,” she replied,
fishing out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.
“We only rent a small part of Brook House. Our flat was converted from the old servants’
quarters,” explained Chris. “Mr King,” who was the headmaster of Dad’s school and their nearest
neighbour, “doesn’t own it either. He just rents the bit that was built during the Georgian era.” Jenny
was astounded. It had never occurred to her that the flat wasn’t theirs.
Mum handed the unwelcome letter to Chris. It was couched in official language and it
informed the Turner family that the estate agent, Mr N.E. Larson, would be coming next morning to
take promotional photographs for the local newspaper. Thereafter, the property would be
immediately available for viewings by interested building developers. Meanwhile, a surveyor would
start measuring the house, outbuildings, and the five-and-a-half-acre garden, to enable the Estate to
apply for planning permission. The Turners were required to allow access to any or all of these.
“But what does that mean?” asked Gill anxiously. “Will we have to leave?”
“We can’t leave, the summer holidays have just started. I’m planning on extending my den!”
objected Jenny, her voice ending in a wail. And this year she’d been hoping to be allowed to climb the
tallest tree in the garden, the poplar.
“I don’t know if it will come to that,” Mum said gently, “but I need to go and tell your father
right away.” She was trying to sound reassuring, but they could all detect a wobble in her voice. “You
three had better clear away your clutter and start getting the tea.”
With that, the wooden door of the boxed-in staircase creaked and swung open as though
caught by a sudden draught.
“Shut the door, Mr Carter,” the children chorused, not even bothering to look towards the
gaping doorway. They were quite used to this happening. It was an old house with a life of its own.
“I swear that ghost is getting lazier as the years go by,” said Mum as she slammed the door
shut and, taking the letter back from Chris, stuffed it back into its envelope.
Jenny opened her mouth to ask the first of a million questions when she saw her mum and
sister exchange a meaningful look. This seemed to be happening a lot lately. It had got worse since Gill
started at secondary school last September. Before that they’d played hide and seek, dressed up and
mucked about together in her den. These days, when she wanted to play Gill and her new friends
would just run off, giggling.
“Be kind,” said Mum. Gill rolled her eyes.