The Serpent in the Glass (The Tale of Thomas Farrell) Read online

  The Tale of Thomas Farrell:

  The Serpent in the Glass

  by

  D.M. ANDREWS

  Copyright © 2012 D.M. Andrews

  Cover design by Alex Hausch

  All rights reserved. Version 1.03

  DEDICATION

  To all those who believe, who dare to dream, and to never let go…

  — CHAPTER ONE —

  The Birthday Key

  A badly painted garden gnome with a look of surprise upon its face sat atop a bright red toadstool. In its hand it held a fishing rod, the hook of which hung unmoving in the windless Hertfordshire air several inches above a small pond’s still surface. The gnome’s eyes seemed fixed on the other side of the garden where a greenhouse sat in the shade of a crab apple tree. Every other pane of glass had been painted lime green so as to create a checkerboard effect.

  Thomas stood on a large wooden box in the loft, his eye pressed against the hole in the roof as he stared down through a broken tile. He rolled a marble between his fingers. The day felt every bit as muggy as the day before, but he knew better than to wander into the garden without permission. Last time he’d done that he’d trodden on the dandelions, Mrs Westhrop had shrieked at having her ‘prize flowers’ crushed, and Thomas had been sent straight back into the house by a very angry Mr Westhrop.

  Thomas’s attention switched back suddenly to the greenhouse. Mr Westhrop had emerged and was looking up. Thomas pulled his eye away from the hole and ran a hand nervously through his short ash-blond hair. Had he been spotted? Thomas chanced a look through the hole again. Mr Westhrop was now making his way purposefully indoors. Thomas knew that walk and that look. A moment later a small copper bell tinkled. He’d been summoned.

  Thomas barely had his shoes on before the monotone voice called up to him. He poked his freckled face over the edge of the hole in the loft. On the landing below, looking up at him, stood Mr Westhrop in his beige summer suit. He didn’t wear dark suits. Perhaps he thought they would emphasize his rapidly greying hair, what was left of it anyway. He had a calculator in his hand. Mr Westhrop was an employee of Swivet, Stibbard & Waverly, a prestigious firm of accountants, and, as far as Thomas could tell, this meant he had to count things.

  Mr Westhrop brushed something invisible from his suit. ‘Did you polish the taps?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Westhrop slipped the calculator into his breast pocket. ‘I hope you’ve done it well. You know how my wife likes to see her face in them. Those taps have lasted us twenty years and they’re as good as the day we bought them. No sense in forking out for things a little elbow grease will preserve.’

  Jonathan Westhrop described himself as ‘extremely careful’ when it came to money, though not a few of those who lived in Holten Layme used other words to describe this trait. Thomas wasn’t sure what a ‘miser’ was, though he thought the word very similar to ‘miserable’, and that summed up Mr Westhrop very well. Thomas had once overheard a neighbour tell Mr Westhrop that it took far more muscles to frown than it did to smile. Mr Westhrop replied that he would henceforth save himself a lot of effort by doing neither.

  Thomas often felt miserable too. He had none of the trappings of a normal boy his age. He didn’t even have a watch, let alone a computer or mobile phone. He did have a clock, a very old clock that needed to be wound up every other night before he went to sleep. Mr Westhrop didn’t hold with batteries; they needed replacing and that meant money — money, said Mr Westhrop, the family couldn’t afford.

  Anyone entering the Westhrop home on Birch Tree Close wouldn’t have thought them poor. Behind the oak door with its beautiful brass knocker lay a welcome mat; though few ever were. Inside, expensive carpets covered the floors, and then of course there was Mr Westhrop’s plush office complete with aquarium — full of tropical fish of all shapes, colours and sizes — that ran the entire length of one wall. And the whole house was well kept. Mrs Westhrop liked to keep a clean house. A very clean house. An obsessively clean house.

  All of this stood in stark contrast to Thomas’s ‘bedroom’, if that word was appropriate, for it contained no bed — unless one counted the large dog basket in which he slept. Indeed, it wasn’t really a room at all, because Thomas lived in the loft. A naked bulb hung from the rafters, though it did little to dispel the darkness. Mr Westhrop wouldn’t allow anything higher than a twenty-five-watt bulb, it saved electricity he said.

  ‘My wife would like you to scrub the patio again and to pay particular attention to removing the lichen and moss, and then I’d like you to clean the windows of the greenhouse — inside and out. Mind you don’t knock the tomatoes! We should save a pretty penny this year if my yield projections are correct.’ He tapped the pocket containing the calculator. ‘But first make tea, as Jemima will be in from the garden shortly.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Westhrop.’

  Thomas never addressed his adopted parents as ‘Mum’ or ‘Dad’. It’d never felt right. Besides, the only time Mr Westhrop ever spoke to Thomas was when he was giving him chores or financial advice, though the latter seemed pointless to Thomas as he received no pocket money. Mrs Westhrop, on the other hand, spoke to herself more than to anyone else, and seemed particularly fond of addressing the spider plant in the kitchen.

  ‘Good. I’ll assign you some more chores when you’re done. I expect tea in ten minutes.’

  Before Thomas had even finished tying his shoelaces, he heard the front door slam, followed by shoes thudding up the stairs, into a room below, then back out onto the landing. Jessica Westhrop was home. A few seconds later a pleasantly countenanced girl beamed at him, braces and all, from the top of the ladder that led into the loft.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Thomas!’ Her chestnut hair was its usual mess, not surprising for a girl who preferred to run rather than walk.

  Thomas flashed a smile back at her. ‘Thanks, Jess.’

  Jessica climbed into the loft and sat on a box, dropping her backpack. The wooden floor, the source of many a splinter, supported little furniture: the basket, complete with pillow and sheets, served as Thomas’s bed; a wardrobe provided a home for a school uniform and a few other clothes; and several boxes, dotting the floor like seats for guests who never came, contained a few of Thomas’s personal items. Mrs Westhrop didn’t enter the loft even to clean. Mr Westhrop seldom came up here either. There wasn’t much to come up for, unless one was looking for a cobweb.

  Jessica’s face turned serious. ‘So I’m not a year older than you anymore?’

  Thomas smiled. ‘That’s right!’ Jessica’s birthday fell a couple of weeks before his, and she always teased him about being a year younger for that fortnight.

  She grinned. ‘So what did you get from her this year?’

  Aunt Dorothy was the only person who regularly bought him presents, except for Jessica of course.

  ‘A woollen hat.’ Thomas looked around the sultry loft. Jessica’s aunt had a knack of buying out-of-season gifts. He pulled the bright yellow hat from a box. ‘I guess it’ll help keep me warm in the winter up here.’

  ‘Anything from my mum?’

  ‘No, not this year.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Jessica.

  ‘That’s OK. You know how she is.’

  Mrs Westhrop didn’t always remember birthdays. Two years ago she’d bought Jessica her present four months early, and then forgotten it altogether the following year. Thomas had fared worse still, having received but one present in the last three years: a baggy pair of corduroy trousers that remained too large for him to this day. Unlike his wife, Mr Westhrop had quite a good memory, especially for figures. This
made no difference however, because Mr Westhrop didn’t hold with what he termed ‘frivolous expenditures’, such as cards, Easter eggs, or presents of any kind.

  ‘Well, I got you something!’ Jessica announced gleefully, as she reached down for the bag she’d thrown on the floor.

  They always gave each other something at Christmas and birthdays; it was their way of making sure they had at least two gifts to open every year. Usually they made things for each other, as Thomas had no money, and Jessica rarely so. Jessica, unlike Thomas, did receive pocket money, but sometimes weeks would pass before Mrs Westhrop remembered to pay her.

  Jessica pulled a card from her bag and passed it to Thomas. ‘I made it before I went out.’

  It was homemade. Jessica had drawn a cartoon of a schoolboy at his desk, with a teacher bringing him a chocolate cake with eleven candles. Mr Westhrop didn’t allow parties, but at least Jessica’s drawing helped Thomas imagine what it would’ve been like.

  Jessica handed a velvet pouch to Thomas. ‘Now you can play properly!’

  Inside he found an assortment of marbles — some metallic, others like precious gems, and yet others like clear crystal glass.

  ‘They’re beautiful, Jess!’ Thomas loved marbles, but he’d only ever had the few he’d found in the street. He sniffed the bag. ‘I can smell peaches.’

  Jessica bit her lip. ‘The bag split, so I put them in the one Mum gave me. I think it had perfume in it. Still, maybe scented marbles will be all the rage this year?’

  Thomas smiled and then they both laughed.

  The Westhrops hadn’t wanted to adopt Thomas. Mr Westhrop had made that quite clear to him on several occasions. They didn’t even want to have another child after Jessica. Mrs Westhrop had utterly refused to put her ‘poor nerves’ through the ordeal of a second child, and Mr Westhrop had positively sweated with anxiety at the cost. But the then three-year-old Jessica was such a bundle of energy that she affected Mrs Westhrop’s ‘poor nerves’, Mr Westhrop’s wallet, the household’s general appearance and, on one occasion, the location of several of Mr Westhrop’s tropical fish. Even the pet dog, Jags, took to hiding from Jessica after she’d tried to see if he would fit through the cat flap.

  The Westhrops had decided that the only solution was to find her a playmate. When Jessica spotted Thomas at the orphanage, she’d taken to him straight away and wouldn’t let go of his hand. They tried to separate them, but Jessica cried so loud that Mrs Westhrop became very flustered and Mr Westhrop agreed to adopt Thomas on the spot. And so Thomas, a boy whose mother had died and whose father had abandoned him, came into the Westhrop home.

  Thomas proved to be a wonderful playmate for Jessica. But this didn’t stop Mr Westhrop from taking an immediate dislike to the new addition to his home. The first thing that annoyed Mr Westhrop was that the boy’s father had left instructions that Thomas’s surname not be changed. Secondly, the boy daydreamed during the day, and had nightmares during the night. But these were small matters compared to Thomas’s eyes.

  About two years after his adoption the Westhrops noticed that Thomas’s eyes were growing greener. ‘Eyes like a couple o’ burning emeralds’ was how Mrs Taft from number twelve described them. Mrs Westhrop even began to suspect that Thomas was possessed. She had never spoken to Thomas since. ‘Tell Thomas to clean his teeth!’ she would say to Jessica, or ‘Tell Thomas to finish his dinner!’ or ‘Will you tell Thomas to cover his mouth when he yawns!’.

  Sunglasses had been provided for Thomas, with the instruction that they be worn whenever he left the house. It wasn’t permitted for Thomas to wear sunglasses at school, so the Westhrops had been compelled to take the extraordinarily expensive step of providing Thomas with contact lenses that made his eyes look a more ‘acceptable’ blue. Although he had excellent eyesight, Thomas had been forced to wear them ever since — only removing them when he went to bed.

  It wasn’t long after Thomas’s ninth birthday that Jags had died. Thomas not only inherited the dog’s basket, but also many of the pet’s duties such as bringing Mr Westhrop his paper and finding his slippers. Over the last two years those duties had only multiplied. He felt more like a servant than a son.

  The patio would have been quite normal if it were not for the dandelions that sprouted in the place of several missing slabs. The uprooted slabs had been removed to the far end of the garden where they now stuck out of the soil in what Mrs Westhrop called a ‘decorative rockery’. A trellis sat at the top of the rockery, casting its mocking shadow over the climbing plants that would never reach it.

  Cleaning the patio was taking longer than Thomas had anticipated, although he had been distracted. Soon after he’d started, Thomas noticed Mr and Mrs Westhrop in the living room. They seemed to be discussing something in great earnest. Thomas got the impression that Mr Westhrop was trying to convince Mrs Westhrop of something, or at least calm her nerves.

  Jessica had, true to her word, come to help, but she proved even more interested in her parents’ conversation than Thomas. She was still only on her third slab after half an hour.

  ‘Are you sure you can’t pick out any words?’ Jessica had her ear against the patio window again.

  ‘It’s double-glazed, and they’ve shut the windows,’ Thomas said as he scrubbed away at a stubborn patch of lichen. ‘My hearing isn’t that good.’

  Thomas heard a scraper clatter to the ground. He looked up to see Jessica smiling through clenched teeth at the door to the patio. The net curtains had been drawn back and Mr Westhrop stood looking at them both. Thomas swallowed hard. He would probably be told off for not going fast enough, and then told off some more because Jessica was helping.

  Mr Westhrop opened the patio door, and the children awaited their fate. ‘Thomas, you forgot to remind me it was your birthday today.’

  Thomas looked across at Jessica, and she looked back as confused as him.

  Mr Westhrop looked down at the patio as if he wanted to say something about it, but then he shook his head and looked up at them. ‘Go and get cleaned up. You want to be presentable for your party later on.’

  Jessica raised his eyebrows. ‘Party?’

  ‘Yes, it’s lucky your mother reminded me,’ Mr Westhrop added. Thomas and Jessica looked at each other in compounded disbelief.

  ‘It starts at six o’clock sharp. So both of you upstairs and wash your hands. And don’t forget to put on your best clothes!’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Thomas asked Jessica once they were up the stairs and out of earshot.

  ‘I don’t know, but there’s no way Mum reminded him about your birthday. Still, a party Thomas! A party!’ Jessica disappeared into the bathroom with a smile.

  The ‘friends’ Mr Westhrop had mentioned turned out to be Jessica’s school friends. Jessica had the gift of making friends. Thomas had managed to get through his entire junior school without any.

  From their conversation, the girls seemed to be under the impression that Jessica was having a late birthday party. Thomas felt glad they’d not had time to buy presents, or he might have ended up with a doll or a hairbrush. Mr Westhrop hung around the front door for some reason. Mrs Westhrop, judging by the noise of plates and glasses, was busy in the kitchen, either that or she’d put the crockery in the washing machine by mistake again.

  The guests ate their salad without a word to Thomas, preferring to talk to Jessica about shoes and clothes. Thomas salted a piece of celery and bit off the end with a crunch just as the lights went out.

  One of the girls asked Jessica if her parents had paid the electricity bill, but before she could answer, Mrs Westhrop’s off-key falsetto filled the room.

  ‘Happy Birthday to You! Happy Birthday to You! Happy…’

  Thomas cringed. The girls joined in, but even Jessica’s enthusiastic addition to the chorus wasn’t enough to drown out Mrs Westhrop’s contribution. When the song got to Thomas’s name, the girls had to correct themselves when they realized it wasn’t Jessica’s birthday after all. Tho
mas reddened. He disliked the song. It made everyone stare at him.

  Eleven candles stuck haphazardly into a chocolate cake floated toward the table. It was just like the one Jessica had drawn on his card, except smaller. Mrs Westhrop told Jessica to tell Thomas to blow the candles out and make a wish, though he doubted it would come true; after all, what were the chances of everyone forgetting the Happy Birthday to You song before his next birthday?

  The doorbell rang just as the lights came back on. At first Thomas thought it must be another one of Jessica’s friends, but before he could get so much as a peek at the visitor, Mr Westhrop had whisked the newcomer into his office, no doubt to show them his tropical fish — a fate to which many a visitor had been subjected. The office door opened just as Thomas finished his slice of cake. It was their first birthday cake since Jessica had turned eight.

  Mr Westhrop appeared at the doorway. Behind him stood a tall man, perhaps in his mid thirties, wearing the sharpest suit that Thomas had ever seen. The man’s brown hair had a hint of ginger at the temples.

  ‘Thomas,’ Mr Westhrop began in an uncharacteristically pleasant tone, ‘this is Mr Bartholomew.’

  ‘As you can see,’ Mr Westhrop said, turning to the well-dressed man, ‘Thomas is just finishing his birthday party with his friends.’

  The girls glanced at Thomas as if they’d just realized he was there.

  ‘Ah, popular with the girls I see!’ Mr Bartholomew joked in a Scottish accent.

  Thomas’s face reddened.

  ‘Have you had enough of that big chocolate cake, Thomas?’ Mr Westhrop asked, his lips lengthening in an attempt at a smile.

  Thomas thought about saying no, and telling him it was far from big, but before he could say anything Mr Westhrop carried right on.

  ‘Well, Thomas, would you join Mr Bartholomew and myself in my office?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Westhrop,’ Thomas said, as he stood up and wiped his mouth. At least he’d be away from the girls. Some of them were now giving him menacing looks.