The Keeper. Part 1. An Invitation

‘I’ve tried, but it won’t budge. Look.’ And holding it so the cat could see, Arthur tried to pull the top off.

‘My turn, then. Give it here, weedy.’

‘To you?’

‘Well, I don’t see anyone else asking.’

‘All right, keep your whiskers on.’

Placing the box down, Arthur watched as the cat dexterously held it down with one paw and attempted to cut around the faint line of the lid with the other.

‘Yow!’ he hissed, breaking a claw.

‘See! What did I tell you?’

‘But I was close, I reckon.’

‘Sure, you were, Cat. Come on, this is useless. We need some real tools.’

Stuffing the box into his pocket, and gathering his things together, they headed back to the cottage. The big cranes, which had been removing the twisted wreckage from the railway tracks, had gone. Now, with only a few men and machines left to finish up, it was clear it would soon look as though nothing had happened.

‘See that?’ he said, without really meaning for it to sound like a question.

Halting by the garden gate, Arthur peered through a crack. Spying that the coast was clear, he slipped through, darting between apple trees, until he reached the tool shed about halfway down the slope. The key, as always, was under the rusting watering can.

‘Come on, come on!’ he mumbled, trying to coax the old lock whilst at the same time keeping a wary look out. After a rather unfortunate incident a few years ago when he’d almost, accidentally, demolished it, he’d been banned from ever entering again. The door swung open with a click.

‘Cat—quickly!’ he whispered, closing and barring it behind them.

Built about the same time as the cottage, the shed had gradually become lopsided over the years and now resembled an old barn. Doubling as a storage area, there were pieces of furniture, planks of wood, tiles, and all manner of bits and bobs that someone had once thought might one day be useful, piled up against two of the walls. In the centre was a large, heavy, wooden work bench. Arthur placed the box on top of it.

‘Ready?’ he asked, rummaging about in a rusty toolbox and producing a hammer and chisel from it.

‘Only if you’re sure you know what you’re doing,’ said the cat, jumping up next to him.

‘What’s that supposed to mean? I thought you wanted to open it?’

‘I did! I do! I definitely did, for sure!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t know. What if it’s just not meant to be opened? Maybe there’s a reason that it fell into the lake and all those men came looking for it.’

Arthur frowned at him. Placing the sharp end of the chisel into the faint line, he picked up the hammer. ‘OK, here goes nothing,’ he said and struck it gently but firmly. When nothing happened, he struck it again a little bit harder.

‘I don’t get it. I’ve hit it twice and there’s not even a mark on it.’

‘See. That’s what I was saying. Maybe it’s not meant to be opened.’

‘No… not a chance! It just needs a bit more effort, that’s all.’

And raising the hammer high into the air, he brought it down with such an almighty whack that he lost his grip completely, allowing it to fly out of his hand, narrowly missing his head and ricocheting off the roof. The chisel, launching in an entirely different direction, embedded itself into the far wall with a loud cracking sound.

‘You okay?’ Arthur whispered, having thrown himself on to the floor.

‘I think my whiskers have gone grey,’ meowed the cat, poking his head around the corner of the wood pile in the corner.

‘Really?’

‘Could be. Shocks like that can definitely age a cat!’

Taking a deep breath, Arthur raised his head up to see what had happened to the box. But it was just sitting there in the middle of the work surface, exactly where he’d put it.

‘But how? That’s not possible. I hit it really hard—you saw me, right?!’

At that moment, the latch on the door rattled, followed by a loud banging.

‘Arthur! You open this door immediately, do you hear me?!’

‘O-o, Cat!’ he said. ‘Now we’re in for it.’

‘No, not me, my friend, I’m just an innocent cat. And don’t forget to hide the box!’

Quick as a flash, Arthur stuffed it into the little pack which he always took fishing with him and put the hammer back. Attempting to retrieve the chisel from the wall, he found that it was in too deep and was forced to leave it.

‘Arthur! Open this door right now!’

With a last look around, he straightened his T-shirt and unbarred the door.

His mother was even more cross with him than he’d expected. Not only because going into the tool shed was expressly forbidden; but also, because, as luck would have it, she also spotted the chisel. The fact that he couldn’t give her a reasonable explanation as to how it’d gotten there only made matters worse.

‘So, you’re telling me that you have no idea how that chisel came to be stuck so far into the side of the tool shed wall that it can’t even be pulled out?’

‘Yes, Mama… I must have fallen over, and it flew out of my hand, I guess.’

‘You <<guess>>?’

‘Yes, Mama.’

‘And what were you doing with it in the first place?’

‘Trying to fix my backpack.’

‘Your backpack? With a chisel?’

‘Yes, well, I thought…’

‘Just you wait until Sasha hears about this. And what do you think your grandfather is going to say when he learns what you’ve done to his chisel, not to mention his tool shed. Again!’