Violet and the Smugglers Read online

  FOR PHOEBE - HW

  FOR CALLUM - BM

  FIRST PUBLISHED IN GREAT BRITAIN

  IN 2016

  BY SIMON AND SCHUSTER UK LTD,

  A CBS COMPANY.

  TEXT COPYRIGHT © 2016 HARRIET WHITEHORN

  COVER AND INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS COPYRIGHT © 2016 BECKA MOOR

  THIS BOOK IS COPYRIGHT UNDER THE BERNE CONVENTION.

  NO REPRODUCTION WITHOUT PERMISSION.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  THE RIGHT OF HARRIET WHITEHORN AND BECKA MOOR TO BE IDENTIFIED AS THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR OF THIS WORK RESPECTIVELY HAS BEEN ASSERTED BY THEM IN ACCORDANCE WITH SECTIONS 77 AND 78 OF THE COPYRIGHT, DESIGN AND PATENTS ACT, 1988.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER UK LTD

  1ST FLOOR, 222 GRAY’S INN ROAD, LONDON WC1X 8HB

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PEOPLE LIVING OR DEAD, EVENTS OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

  A CIP CATALOGUE RECORD FOR THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE FROM THE BRITISH LIBRARY.

  HB ISBN 978-1-4711-2263-7

  EBOOK ISBN 978-1-4711-1900-2

  PRINTED IN CHINA

  WWW.SIMONANDSCHUSTER.CO.UK

  Contents

  Introduction

  1

  SOMETHING EXCITING

  2

  IL TARATUGA

  3

  HOW VERY MYSTERIOUS

  4

  SMUGGLERS AHOY

  5

  VENICE

  6

  THE DIAMOND BAKLAVA SMUGGLERS

  7

  A BIT OF A QUARREL

  8

  LA BELLISIMA

  9

  GRAND-MÈRE’S SHOPPING TRIP

  10

  A HEART-SHAPED BOX OF CHOCOLATES

  11

  TARATUGAS AND TRUNKS

  12

  A STAR IS BORN

  13

  ARRIVEDERCI?

  14

  JUST A FEW LITTLE PETS . . .

  This is a story about Violet Remy-Robinson.

  Violet lives with her mother, Camille, and her father, Benedict, as well as her cat, Pudding and her cockatoo, the Maharani. Violet is a brilliant at two things – climbing and playing poker. She lives in a flat that backs onto a large garden, called a communal garden, because all the people who live near Violet share it. Violet’s special friends who live around the garden are Rose, with whom she also goes to school, and Art, who lives with his great aunt, an eccentric lady called Dee Dee Derota.

  Violet is always on the look-out for adventure, and she, together with Rose and Art, have solved two previous mysteries – the theft of a jewel that belonged to Dee Dee, named the Pearl of the Orient, and also the kidnapping of the cockatoo who now lives with her, the Maharani. In both of these cases she had a little help from a policeman called PC Green (very little, Violet would say, although PC Green may say differently). Now, in this story, Violet and her friends go on an adventure to Italy and Italians love ice cream. So, what better way to introduce you to everyone than telling you what their favourite ice-cream flavour is!

  This book starts with a letter.

  It was a summery Saturday morning at the beginning of July and all was peaceful in the Remy-Robinson household. The sun was flooding through the open sitting room windows, shining down on Violet, who was lying on the floor doing her maths homework, with surprisingly little complaint. Her mother, Camille, sat nearby, curled up in a chair, reading a newspaper. The Maharani, Violet’s cockatoo, was perched on the back of Camille’s chair (apparently reading the newspaper too) and Pudding the cat was snoozing on the window sill.

  There was the sound of a gentle plop from the hall as the post fell onto the doormat, and a few moments later, Benedict, Violet’s father, strode in clutching a letter.

  ‘Well, something very exciting has happened,’ he announced and everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘What?’ Violet and her mother asked at the same time.

  ‘Johnny has inherited a boat.’

  Johnny was Violet’s godfather and Benedict’s oldest friend.

  ‘A boat? That is exciting!’ said Violet.

  ‘What sort of boat?’ Camille asked.

  ‘It is a smallish, rather old sailing boat,’ Benedict said. ‘It belonged to Johnny’s Great Uncle Marmaduke. I remember we had a very funny holiday on it when I was about thirteen because there were at least eight of us squashed into it!’ He smiled at the thought. ‘It had an Italian name, I think . . . I can’t remember what.’ He paused, wracking his brains. ‘Anyway, Johnny has written from Corfu in Greece, where the boat is currently moored. As it’s the start of Violet’s school holiday next week, he’s invited us to go on a sailing adventure with him.’

  Violet gasped. ‘You are, of course, invited, my love,’ Benedict said to Camille, ‘but the boat will be quite basic with no running water, so perhaps . . . an adventure like this is not really your thing.’

  ‘I agree,’ Camille said and gave a delicate shiver at the thought of being stuck on a sailing boat for more than an afternoon. ‘But when Violet finishes school we only have two weeks before we have to meet Grand-mère in Venice and I have also promised Dee Dee that we will look after Art while she is visiting her sister in the Isle of Wight. I have already booked a tutor to give them some extra maths and French lessons.’

  Benedict and Violet’s eyes met and silently she begged him to change her mother’s mind.

  ‘Well, this is just an idea,’ Benedict said carefully. ‘But maybe I could take Art and Violet to Corfu and then we could sail up to meet you and Grand-mère in Venice. I’ll make sure we talk a bit of French on the boat and Johnny is brilliant at maths. Think how delighted Grand-mère will be to see Johnny; you know how keen she is on him.’

  Camille looked unsure.

  Violet could contain herself no longer. ‘Oh, please, please, please, please. I’ll be so good, I’ll work so hard, I’ll do anything, just please can we go?’ She looked pleadingly at her mother.

  ‘Well, I’ll need to talk to Dee Dee,’ Camille said. ‘She may not be happy about Art going, or he may not want to.’

  Violet didn’t think that was very likely. Art was even keener on adventures than she was.

  ‘And don’t forget Rose is coming to Venice with us so you should ask her too. Otherwise she will have to travel out to Venice on her own with me and Grand-mère.’

  Violet could hardly contain her excitement. ‘Yes, please. It would be such fun if Rose could come too!’

  Camille smiled. ‘Okay, we will talk to Rose and her parents as well. Now, speaking of Venice, Grand-mère rang yesterday to say that La Bellissima is singing at the Opera House while we are there and she wanted to know if she should book tickets.’

  ‘Who’s La Bellissima?’ Violet asked.

  ‘She is a very famous Italian opera singer,’ Camille explained. ‘Look, there is a picture of her in the newspaper. She’s holding her pet tortoise.’

  ‘That’s what Johnny’s boat is called!’ Benedict exclaimed. ‘The Italian word for tortoise. Is it tartufo, tartortu . . . or something like that.’

  ‘Taratuga,’ Violet said. Italian was one of Violet’s many after-school activities.

  ‘Yes! Il Taratuga. Well done, Violet!’

  Violet beamed as she examined the photo of La Bellissima. She was a very glamorous looking lady, who was cuddling up to a tortoise which seemed to be covered in diamonds.

  ‘Doesn’t it hurt the tortoise having all those diamonds stuck on its shell?’ Violet asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Camille answered. ‘But La Bellissima has started a horrible tren
d and now everyone wants a diamond-encrusted tortoise.’

  ‘I don’t think that anyone really knows whether it does hurt the tortoises,’ Benedict said. ‘But they were saying on the news that the craze has led to a world shortage of tortoises and they are now fetching the most astronomical prices. Apparently people are smuggling them around the world, mostly taking them to Amsterdam where they get stuck full of diamonds.’

  ‘Oh, that sounds horrible!’ said Violet. She loved tortoises and would regularly go off into the countryside near where her grandmother lived in France to look for them. You may not know this, but tortoises live in the wild all over southern Europe, so you can see them when you are out for a walk, like you would a fox or a rabbit in England.

  ‘Well, anyway’ Camille said. ‘Grand-mère is a huge fan of La Bellissima as a singer and I know she would like to see her perform. So who else would like to go?’

  Violet couldn’t imagine anything more dull so she said no thank you.

  ‘Why don’t you go with your mother?’ Benedict suggested quickly, obviously as keen as Violet not to go to the Opera. ‘Johnny and I can go to the casino instead.’

  Camille raised an eyebrow. ‘And who will look after the children?’

  ‘Of course, silly me, I meant, Johnny and I can look after the children.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll tell Grand-mère to buy two tickets. Now, Violet, shall we just nip across the garden and see if Dee Dee and Art, and Rose and her parents are in?’

  Ten days later, Violet found herself sitting in the back of a taxi with Art, bumping down the white, cobbled streets of Corfu Town towards the port, trying not to listen to her father practising his terrible Greek with the taxi driver and fizzing with excitement to get to the boat.

  Of course, when they had gone to see Dee Dee to ask about Art joining the trip, Art had started jumping around with over-excitement at the thought of a voyage on a boat. Dee Dee, who was not the strictest of great aunts, had said to Camille: ‘I think we had better let them go, don’t you, darlin’? It sounds so much more fun than extra French and maths.’ So Lavinia, Dee Dee’s life-organiser, immediately went and bought some clothes for Art that would be suitable to wear on the boat and, much to Violet’s amusement, Art had arrived at the airport with a huge suitcase, wearing a white linen sailor suit and looking very embarrassed.

  ‘Doesn’t he look just edible?’ Dee Dee had exclaimed as Art scowled. And now, in the fierce Greek heat, Art was bright red in the face, his white suit completely crumpled from the flight.

  Rose, however, was not in the taxi with her two friends. Camille and Violet had been to ask her to come on the trip too as soon as they’d left Dee Dee’s flat, but Rose’s response hadn’t been quite the same as Art’s. Poor Rose! Part of her wanted to go, because what could be more fun than an adventure with your two best friends? But the other, larger, part of her, couldn’t think of anything worse. Just last year she had been on a cross-channel ferry in bad weather and it had made her horribly sick. The thought of being on a tiny boat for over a week, possibly running into storms, big waves and high winds was too much. And what about not being able to have a bath? Would there even be a proper loo? It all sounded very stressful, so Rose gabbled that she was sorry but she couldn’t possibly come because she had to go to an incredibly important ballet summer camp before they went to Venice. Which was true. Or, at least, partly true; she was doing a couple of extra ballet lessons but they weren’t really important. And, of course, she reassured Camille, she didn’t mind travelling just with her and Violet’s grandmother on the train. Trains were nice orderly things, unlike boats, and Rose trusted Camille entirely because she was incredibly organised, very kind and was sure to bring lots of delicious food for the journey.

  So, it was only Violet and Art for the first part of the trip, although they were both very much looking forward to seeing Rose in a couple of weeks’ time.

  The taxi dropped them at the port, and the three of them went to find Il Taratuga. At last they spotted the boat. It was right at the end of a quay with a tanned and happy-looking Johnny on its deck.

  Il Taratuga was exactly as Violet had imagined her. She was about as long as two cars and made of wood, with a bright orange sail that was neatly rolled up. As Johnny and Benedict greeted each other, Violet and Art scampered down some little rickety stairs to a small, cosy sitting area and tiny kitchen below deck. Next to them were two weeny cabins and the whole inside was lined in wood. Violet thought it was very like being inside a tree. They came back on deck to find Benedict and Johnny standing over Art’s enormous suitcase.

  ‘Art, my boy,’ Johnny said firmly. ‘I think some surgery is needed.’ Art was puzzled, but didn’t object as Johnny opened the suitcase to reveal a smart navy blue blazer, several crisp shirts, trousers, cravats, a naval cap and a pair of shiny leather shoes. ‘I think that this is a suitcase for a different sort of boat.’

  Johnny disappeared into the cabin for a moment, returning with a large pair of scissors. Art looked alarmed.

  ‘Is it going to hurt?’ he stuttered.

  ‘Only a little,’ Johnny replied and, before Art could object, Johnny had cut the legs off two pairs of trousers, turning them into shorts. Then he trimmed the arms off three shirts, making them short-sleeved. He found some swimming trunks and a pair of flip-flops in the case and handed the small pile to Art, who grinned broadly, delighted.

  ‘Can I go and get changed?’ he asked.

  ‘Definitely,’ Johnny replied. ‘But I think I might have to have this hat.’ Johnny tried to cram the naval cap onto his head. It didn’t fit.

  ‘What a shame,’ he said. ‘You had better hang onto that. Looks like you’re the captain now. Hurry and change, Art. We should have a quick sailing lesson before we set off tomorrow. Who’s good at tying knots?’

  Later, when the light was fading from the sky, they all walked to a bustling restaurant in town. They sat outside at a wobbly table and ate all sorts of delicious food – little fried fish, great big beans in tomato sauce, crunchy triangular cheese pies and moussaka, with yoghurt and honey to finish. And between mouthfuls, they pored over a map, plotting their route from Corfu to Venice. This is what they decided:

  They walked back to the boat, full of yummy food and excited about their plans. But as they neared the quay, they heard loud opera music.

  ‘Oh no,’ groaned Johnny. ‘Not again. Every night so far, the Italian captain of the old tourist boat next door plays opera as he eats his supper. I call him Mr Jolly, partly because it’s the name of his boat in Italian and partly. . . well, you’ll see why.’

  As they got closer they could see the tourist boat. She was as old as Il Taratuga but instead of being a pretty sailing boat, she was a large, lumbering motorboat. Her white-and-blue paint must have once been very smart, though now it was peeling everywhere, and a jaunty sign saying, ‘Day Trips’ must have been enticing to tourists, but now it just looked rather sad. A very serious-looking man sat on the deck at a small table. With a napkin tucked into his shirt, he was slowly eating a large bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, while the music blared from an old-fashioned record player next to the table.

  ‘Buona Sera,’ Johnny and Benedict greeted him politely.

  ‘Buona Sera,’ the man responded mournfully.

  ‘When does the music go off?’ Benedict asked Johnny in a whisper.

  ‘I’m afraid he still has pudding, coffee and a cigar to go. About an hour, I should think.’

  ‘Well, it’s time we went to bed. It’s been a long day and we’ve got to be up at dawn to set off,’ Benedict said. ‘Everyone will just have to put a pillow over their heads.’

  Violet was sharing a cabin with Benedict.

  ‘I’ll never get to sleep with that racket going on,’ he sighed, climbing up to the top bunk, but barely five minutes later, his snores were drowning out the opera.

  Great, thought Violet, though she too dropped off to sleep not long after.

  Maybe it was the
swaying of the boat, or a mosquito buzzing by her ear, but something woke Violet just a few hours later. It was very hot and still. She sat up and gazed through the tiny porthole in her cabin at the moon, which hung low in the sky, sending a silvery path shimmering across the water. It was so beautiful that she wanted to go and have a better look. Her father was breathing deeply in his sleep on the bunk above her. What would be the harm, Violet thought, if I went on deck for a moment? She crept silently up the steps.

  Outside there was a slight breeze, which was deliciously cooling, and Violet lay on her back looking at the stars. She had been studying constellations at school and was searching for the Big Dipper when she smelled a strong waft of cigar smoke. Who was smoking? She flipped over on her tummy and crawled to the edge of the boat to have a look. Just a few metres away sat Mr Jolly, smoking a cigar in the dark.

  He was facing the harbour and looked as if he was waiting for someone. Violet was curious; who could he be meeting at this time of night?

  She heard the gentle creaking of the bicycle before she saw it, as it had no lights on. Someone obviously doesn’t want to be seen, Violet thought. The rider was a boy of about twelve, who exchanged whispered greetings with Mr Jolly, before handing over a large flat box that had been strapped to the back of his bicycle. Mr Jolly looked inside, nodded, then handed a pile of banknotes to the boy. Quickly, the boy rode away and then Mr Jolly picked up the box and went below deck.

  How very mysterious, Violet thought, as she crept back to her bunk. What on earth could have been in that box?

  The following morning, all was quiet on Mr Jolly’s boat as Johnny steered them out of the dock.