When This Bell Rings Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  Title Page

  When This Bell Rings

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  IN the sea of dull shoes, I watch for the scarlet boots.

  Leather lace-ups, shiny patent heels, scuffed sneakers. Black, brown, blue, boring. None of them that brilliant flash of colour against the grey pavement. None of them attached to her feet.

  It’s already 4:32 pm.

  Maybe she’s not coming?

  From the desk in my basement room I keep staring up at street level. Every day, at exactly 4:30 pm she exits her townhouse and turns right, walking past my window.

  Her name is Edie St Clair and she is a famous author. Just about everyone has read her graphic novels, or at least seen the movies.

  Edie St Clair lives next door to me in Chester Square. Chester Square is full of rich people who live in fancy white townhouses. We aren’t rich, but Edie St Clair is. The family my mother works for is also rich. She’s a housekeeper. Each week, it is my mother’s job to organise flowers for people who will never see them, and arrange cleaners for an already clean house. At Christmas time, the drawing room is redecorated and filled with a real tree and presents. The house holds its breath, its glassy eyes wide open. Hopeful.

  The family never comes.

  I live with my mother in a small apartment in the basement of the townhouse. That’s where I draw Edie St Clair’s characters. They’re all I ever draw. I’ve been drawing them so long, they are good. Very good. I can say that, because I’m not good at many things.

  Like reading.

  Writing.

  Maths.

  Okay, all subjects, except for art.

  At school there is too much reading. Too much writing. So, I draw. When I draw, the noise of the world goes away. I get in trouble for drawing. For not paying attention. Sometimes I wonder if it’s like that for Edie St Clair, too. If everything is quiet and still when she draws.

  One day later . . .

  I know everything about Edie St Clair. I know that she drinks lots of tea (Darjeeling). She eats fruit toast with butter and a dash of cinnamon every morning for breakfast, and salmon with salad for lunch. She loves black clothes, red shoes and jewel-coloured scarves. She has a black cat called Ink who hates everybody but her. She has published nine books.

  I know her tenth book is due next week.

  I know this is why the journalists wait in front of her house.

  I know this is why her feet run past my window now, instead of walk.

  Two days later

  There are more journalists now. They crowd the pavement. One of them spots me at my desk.

  He crouches, holding onto the iron railings. His eyes light up when he sees what I’m drawing. He stands, opens the wrought-iron gate. Takes a step or two down the curved stairs towards my open window.

  “Hey there!” he says. “Do you know Edie St Clair?”

  His question is like a truth kick to my stomach.

  I want to say “yes”, but instead I have to shake my head.

  I only think I know Edie St Clair.

  Edie St Clair doesn’t even know I exist.

  “Come up and have a chat,” the journalist says.

  I don’t look up from my drawing again.

  Eventually I hear his shoes plod back up the stairs.

  The man’s visit makes me think. All those journalists – they like the fact that Edie St Clair is struggling to finish book ten. I think that’s sad. Why does the world enjoy hearing about someone’s failure more than their success? What if all Edie St Clair needs is one person outside her house with a sign that says, “You can do it!” or “We’re all behind you!” or something like that? I don’t want Edie St Clair to fail. I want her to finish her series. I need that book. I can already imagine myself admiring its fancy display in the bookshop window. Lining up to buy it at midnight. Opening up the brown paper bag to sniff its delicious inky, papery goodness. Listening to the crack of the hardcover spine as I turn to the first page, desperate to start reading and at the same time worried that the final page will come too quickly.

  What if none of that ever happens?

  It has to happen.

  I have to make it happen.

  Maybe . . . maybe I could help her in some way?

  Once the idea enters my head, I can’t seem to let go of it. I have to let Edie St Clair know I’m down here. Waiting for that final book.

  Twenty minutes later

  I know what I’m going to do.

  I’m finally going to talk to Edie St Clair. I’m going to give her a drawing. And I’m going to tell her I can’t wait to see what happens in the next book.

  Problem: I can’t decide which drawing to give her.

  I have hundreds. So many favourites. I mostly draw Kit, Wilf and Bes – Edie St Clair’s most famous characters. They are the heroes of the London of the Bells series. They are all half faerie and half human. They are also my best friends. I stare at the drawings strewn across my desk, all of them sketched in strong black lines. I stare at them until they don’t look like drawings any more, but more like the people who exist in my head – the ones I make up stories about, just like Edie St Clair does. I know it sounds silly to call them my best friends, but why not? I spend all my spare time with them. They are as real to me as real people. I even talk to them.

  Actually, that’s not a bad idea.

  I close my eyes.

  “Hey, guys! Which drawing should I give Edie St Clair?” I ask them.

  “The one that’s so amazing, so special, so unlike every drawing that has ever come before it that on viewing it every single one of the problems in Edie St Clair’s life will instantly disappear, and she’ll finish book ten in five minutes flat,” a voice answers.

  I swivel in my seat, my eyes still closed.

  It’s Bes, of course, in human form. She is small, brown, and hard as a little walnut. Bes’s mother was a hyster sprite. Because of this, she can shapeshift into a tiny bird called a sand martin. But no wings are in sight now. Instead, her two arms are crossed in front of her as she leans against my bedroom wall.

  “Oh, I have a bunch of drawings like that. You’ll have to help me choose one.” I don’t take the bait. Bes is tough because she has to be. She’s suffered the most in the London of the Bells. Her sisters died in book four and book six. Lots of people say they won’t read Edie St Clair’s final book because they believe that Bes is going to be killed off.

  “You really expect us to decide something like this on an empty stomach?” Wilf appears on the other side of the room. As usual, his dirty red beanie is half-hanging off his head. He makes his way around my bed and trips on my school backpack as he goes. His stubby greenish arms dart out to stop his fall and he cracks a leg on the bedpost. He cries out in pain, rubbing his hairy half-hobgoblin shin and hopping the rest of the way over to Bes. “We’ll need tea. Some cake. Biscuits, too, if you’ve got them. At the very least, toast. Not that there’s really a decision to make. We all know it’ll have to be that one.” He points to a drawing stuck to my wall.

  It’s a picture of himself, of course.

  “You’re never going to change, are you?” Kit appears.

  “That’s why people love me,” Wilf says.

  Bes snorts. “Well, it’s not for your looks or charm, that’s for sure.”

  Kit doesn’t join the others, but comes over to stand at my desk. He begins to flick through my pile of drawings. I watch as a lock of his iridescent hair falls forward and he pushes it back behind one ear. Kit’s mother was an asrai – a water faerie – and Kit shares her features, tall and willowy with t he lightest of light green eyes. But I know better than to say how good looking he is out loud. If I did, he’d likely run off for a quick dip in the Thames and come out covered in stinking mud, just so I’d have to take my words back.

  Flick, flick, flick.

  “You can really draw.” He finally places the pile back down on the desk. “But it’s not up to us. You know which one it needs to be. Trust in yourself.”

  I open my eyes.

  Kit’s right.

  I get up from my desk and pluck the drawing from the wall.

  This one.

  It’s a drawing of Kit himself. He’s sitting on some stone watermen’s stairs, looking out over the swirling grey Thames. Kit needs to be near the water, because of his asrai roots. There’s a little bit of everything in this drawing – sadness, hope, a feeling of yesterday and tomorrow.

  Yes.

  I’m going to give Edie St Clair the drawing and I’m going to tell her I believe in her. She needs to know how much everyone needs this book.

  AT exactly 4:29 pm, I exit our apartment.

  I climb the steep stone steps to the pavement, my hand sliding along the black iron railing. There are even more journalists waiting now. They juggle coffee cups, poke at phones, and jostle each other, trying to get the best spot in front of Edie St Clair’s townhouse.

  I wait behind the small iron gate at the top of our steps.

  “Hello again!”

  I look up to see the journalist who spoke to me earlier.

  He bends down so his head is at the same height as mine. “Hey, seeing you’re here, why don’t you tell me a bit about your neighbour?”

  “Right, you lot, back up,” someone barks. It’s a police officer. He’s standing by Edie St Clair’s front door, which has just opened a crack. “Give the lady some room.”

  The journalists grumble, but they move to create a path.

  Edie St Clair wastes no time. She exits the townhouse and takes off. She crosses the road. Runs down the opposite pavement. She coughs, then coughs again. It’s a rattling cough that comes from deep inside her. It sounds painful, and makes me clutch my own chest.

  The journalists run after her. As they run, they shout questions. “Ms St Clair! Edie! Your book is due in just over a week. Is it true it’s not finished?” And, “Is there any hope that you’ll get your book in on time?” And, “Will this mean a delay in the scheduled publication date?” And, “What about the next movie? Will that be delayed, too?”

  “Oi! No bothering her as she goes!” The police officer chases after them, all the way to the gates that lead into the private garden that runs the length of the street, opposite the townhouses. Edie St Clair enters the garden and disappears from view.

  I stand very still on the stairs, the drawing hanging limp in my hand. I was going to give it to her. To talk to her. But I hadn’t thought about how I would do that with all the journalists around. I see now that it was all just . . . a dream. Why did I ever think I could help her? Me. An absolute nobody, who copies her drawings.

  A few of the journalists are looking at me. I want to fold myself up like a piece of origami, fold upon fold until I’m so small that I disappear from sight.

  I take one step down towards our apartment, eager to return to the safety of my room. But something stops me from going any further. A little spark of courage. Am I really going to give up that easily? It’s like Wilf says – if something feels too hard, it’s probably worth doing. Quickly. Before you can change your mind.

  So, before I can change my mind, I open the gate.

  And I run across the road, just like Edie St Clair.

  The journalists wait by the entrance to the private garden. The police officer keeps watch to make sure none of them climb over the spiky iron fence.

  “Ah, it’s my friend again.” The journalist spots me. “She lives next door.”

  “That right?” The police officer gives me the eye, like I might also be a journalist. A very short one. “You going in there, too?” He jerks his thumb at the gate.

  I pause. I don’t know if I’m allowed inside the private garden. Yes, I live on Chester Square, but only because my mother works here. Not because I belong.

  But then I remember something. I slide my hand into the pocket of my skinny black jeans and pull out a key. I stare at it. Did I put it there? I guess I must have, because it feels . . . right. Like it belongs.

  “Well?” the police officer asks.

  Frowning at him, I unlock the gate and enter the garden.

  Inside, there are no journalists or police officers, only grass, trees, dappled light. Calm. Edie St Clair is nowhere in sight.

  Until she is. Behind a tree, I spot a half-hidden green wooden bench. Beneath the bench, I see Edie St Clair’s scarlet leather boots, one tucked neatly behind the other. I look down at my drawing, which is still in my hand. I put the strange key in my pocket and smooth out the rumpled edge of the paper.

  I walk towards her, thinking, I can’t do this. I can’t just walk up to Edie St Clair and talk to her. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t thought about it before, but I’ve always been scared I’d get it wrong, say something stupid. I want to turn around and scurry home, but I force my feet to keep stepping. One, two. I can’t do this, but I’m going to. For once, just once, I want to feel like I’ve done something big and bold and brave, like the characters I’m always reading about.

  I round the corner of the bench and her eyes lift to meet mine. Edie St Clair isn’t old, but she isn’t young, either. She wears a black dress and leggings and a bold scarf. These set off a short, dark bob and sparkling deep brown eyes that feel familiar somehow.

  I thrust the drawing of Kit at her. I want to say something clever, but all my words are stuck to my teeth, like toffee.

  She takes the paper from me. Looks at it.

  “You’re very talented, Tamsin,” she says.

  I gasp. “How do you know my name?”

  Edie St Clair smiles up at me. “I’ve been expecting you. Sit.” She pats the seat beside her. On her other side is a small new sketchpad and pencil.

  I sit down. Slowly, carefully. I’m scared I might frighten her away like a skittish squirrel.

  She passes me the sketchpad and pencil. “Now, draw me something different.”

  Easy, I think. But it isn’t. I need to draw the perfect thing so Edie St Clair will like me. What should I draw? What shouldn’t I draw? After too much time has passed, I force myself to start drawing in case my not drawing annoys her. I draw a line, then another and another and before I know it, a figure slowly starts to take shape.

  “No!” Edie St Clair says, the moment she sees that the figure is Bes. She reaches out to clasp my hand. “I mean draw something for you. Just for you. Not something to please me.”

  I don’t know what she means. I don’t know what to draw. What to say. What to do. The pencil is motionless in my hand.

  Edie St Clair spoke to me. Knew my name. Was interested in my drawing. And now I’ve gone and wrecked everything.

  She sighs. Puts her hand out for the sketchpad and pencil.

  Defeated, I give them to her. I go to get up.

  “No, stay,” she says. “Please stay.”

  I sit back down again, Edie St Clair watching me closely. The pencil twitches in her hand.

  “Yes. Just like that. Don’t move.”

  She begins to sketch. Edie St Clair is drawing me. Me! Maybe I haven’t ruined everything after all.

  Finally, there is a ripping sound. She passes me the piece of paper.

  Edie St Clair’s bold strokes detail a girl with short, dark hair. She is bending over a notebook, drawing. From the side, you can see that her thick brows are pushed together in concentration. I stare and stare and stare. It’s so strange. I know it must be me, but it’s like I’ve never seen myself before. But the best thing? If I squint, I can make myself believe Edie St Clair and I look a little bit alike. Dark hair, dark eyes, black clothes.

  I’ll k eep this drawing forever.

  Edie St Clair fishes another sketchpad out of her pocket. A second pencil. “Now,” she says, “we draw together.”

  And that’s exactly what we do.

  I draw a rose. The bench. Some ivy. Edie St Clair’s pretty boots.

  “Can I keep that one?” she says to me. “I am particularly fond of these boots. I’m a firm believer in red shoes. They’re good for the soul, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  I look down at my own shoes – scuffed red Converse – and I nod. I know exactly what she means.

  I pass her the sketchpad.

  “Oh, no. The sketchpad is yours,” she says. “But I’d love the picture.”

  Carefully, I rip it out. Give it to her.

  We sit in silence for a while.

  “Thank you, Tamsin. That was a lovely afternoon,” she says after some time. “Why don’t we do it again tomorrow?”

  WE meet in the garden the next day. The day after that, it rains. My mother – always busy – leaves me one of her notes to say Edie St Clair called. I’ve been invited to go and draw with her in her study.

  I go next door to her townhouse. I have to push past the journalists, who ask a lot of questions. Everyone watches as I climb the one wide step that leads to her front door. There I pause, looking around me. I feel so small. Everything is too large. Too fancy. Too perfect. The gloss of the shiny black door, the polished brass of the lion’s head knocker, the gleaming glass pendant light above my head. Before I can press the intercom button, the door opens. An older woman with a peach cardigan and a friendly smile greets me.

  “Ah, Tamsin, is it? Edie’s been expecting you. I’m Mrs Marchant, her housekeeper. Come along.”

  I step inside and Mrs Marchant closes the door behind me.

  “If you wait here for just a moment, I’ll fetch Edie for you.”

  Mrs Marchant bustles off down the hallway, leaving me by myself. It doesn’t feel right, being in Edie St Clair’s house. It’s not like my downstairs apartment with its worn carpet. Up here, the floors are cool grey marble. Everything matches. Every surface is smooth and shiny – lemon-fresh and highly polished.