Chapter Thirteen

Off to find George

Joan was the only one in the household who woke up reasonably early the next morning — but even she was too late to catch the milkman. She scurried downstairs at half-past seven, an hour later than usual, tying up her apron as she went.

“Half-past seven — what a time to wake up!” she muttered, as she began to do the kitchen fire. She thought of all the happenings of the night before — the queer evening with young Sid, Dick’s capture of Jo — and Jo’s extraordinary tale. She had had a look at Jo before she went down, half expecting that lively young rogue to have disappeared in the night.

But Jo was curled up like a kitten, her brown cheek on her brown paw, her hair, unusually bright and tidy, falling over her tightly-shut eyes. She didn’t even stir when Joan scurried about the bedroom, washing and dressing.

The others were fast asleep, too. Julian woke first, but not till eight o’clock. He remembered immediately all that had happened, and jumped out of bed at once.

He went to Joan’s room. He could hear Joan downstairs talking to herself as usual. He peeped round the open door of her bedroom. Thank goodness — Jo was still there.

He went and shook her gently. She wriggled away, turned over and buried her face in the pillow. Julian shook her more vigorously. He meant to get her up and make her take them to where George was as soon as possible!

Most miraculously everyone was down at half-past eight, eating porridge and looking rather subdued. Jo had hers in the kitchen, and the others could hear Joan scolding her for her manners.

“Have you got to stuff yourself like that, as if the dog’s going to come and lick your plate before you’ve finished? And who told you to stick your fingers into the syrup and lick them? I’ve eyes in the back of my head, so just you be careful what you’re doing!”

Jo liked Joan. She knew where she was with her. If she kept on Joan’s right side and did what she was told, Joan would feed her well and not interfere too much — but if she didn’t, then she could expect something else she understood very well indeed — scoldings and a sharp slap. Joan was good-hearted but impatient, and no child was ever afraid of her. Jo followed her about like a little dog when she had finished her breakfast.

Julian came out into the kitchen at nine o’clock. “Where’s Jo?” he said. “Oh, there you are. Now, what about taking us to where your father’s caravan is? You’re sure you know the way?”

Jo laughed scornfully. “Course I do! I know everywhere round here for miles.”

“Right,” said Julian, and he produced a map, which he spread out on the kitchen table. He put a finger on one spot. “That’s Kirrin,” he said. “And here’s a place called Ravens Wood. Is that the place you mean? How do you propose to get there — by this road, or that one?”