Violet and the Smugglers Read online

  Violet told Art about what she had seen the night before.

  ‘Well, he must be a smuggler,’ he said knowingly.

  ‘Of course!’ Violet exclaimed. ‘What do you think was in the box?’

  Art was about to reply but Johnny started shouting things like, ‘Hoist the main sail!’ and ‘Come around!’ and there was no more time for chatting, as she and Art scurried back and forth across the boat, tying and untying ropes.

  The wind was strong and Il Taratuga zipped along so that soon they were out in the open sea. A school of dolphins appeared and swam with them for a while, much to everyone’s delight. ‘It’s a good omen,’ Johnny announced happily.

  This story is not really about Violet and Art’s time on Il Taratuga, so I’m afraid we will have to skip forward a little bit.

  Several things of note did happen over the next week as they wended their way up the coast.

  Art fell overboard ten times.

  Violet beat Johnny and Benedict at poker nine times.

  Johnny called them all ‘useless land-lubbers’ eight times.

  Art caught seven magnificent fish.

  They slept out on deck under the stars six nights running.

  Violet and Art saw five shooting stars each.

  They made a fire and cooked their supper on a deserted island on four evenings.

  One day they saw three octopuses while they were swimming.

  The boat nearly drifted away twice because no one had thought to secure the anchor properly.

  And they spoke French and did a bit of maths once.

  One week and a lot of fun later, Violet was standing patiently in the middle of a mountain of shopping bags as Johnny chose some cheese and salami in a little grocery shop near the harbour in Dubrovnik. There was a rack of foreign newspapers beside her and a headline in English caught her eye.

  Grand-mère hadn’t been able to get tickets to see the opera star, much to her disappointment, and it didn’t sound as if she would have a chance of getting any now - oh dear! Violet would have read more, but the small article below looked more interesting:

  ‘Right, we’re done,’ Johnny announced, handing over some money to the elderly shop keeper. ‘Are you ready to go?’ he asked Violet.

  Violet nodded, although she still had one eye on the newspaper article while Johnny loaded them both up with the shopping bags.

  It felt strange to be back on land. Violet was so used to the rocking of the boat that the ground almost seemed to be moving beneath her as they made their way through the crowds of tourists and locals out for an early evening stroll. They had arranged to meet Art and Benedict in a café and as they drew nearer they spotted them drinking milkshakes and writing postcards.

  ‘Excellent!’ Benedict exclaimed at the sight of the bags. ‘There’s enough food to keep us going all the way to Venice. I just spoke to Camille and she sends her love, especially to you, Violet. Dee Dee’s sister is not feeling very well, so Dee Dee wants to spend longer with her and she has asked if Art can stay with us in Venice.’

  Violet beamed at her friend, delighted he’d be along for the whole holiday.

  ‘It did sound as if your mother was feeling a bit nervous about the journey. For a start, she has to bring the Maharani because Norma is away and Lavinia is allergic to birds (or so she says), so she can only look after Pudding. Anyway, Camille leaves with Rose the day after tomorrow. They stop in Paris for a night before travelling on to the south of France where they meet Grand-mère and Alphonse and get the train to Venice. Oh dear, I hope Grand-mère behaves herself.’

  ‘Who on earth is Alphonse? I thought Grand-mère only had eyes for me,’ Johnny said with a cheeky grin.

  Violet laughed. ‘Alphonse is her really naughty French bulldog. Grand-mère refuses to tell him off and whenever he does something dreadful she just says, “I’m sorry, he cannot help it, he is just a puppy”, when he’s five years old! He’s so spoilt that he has a different little coat for every day of the week!’

  Violet was about to tell Art a funny story about Alphonse when she saw a familiar figure walking nearby.

  ‘Look! It’s Mr Jolly!’ she whispered to Art.

  ‘The smuggler?’ Art replied. ‘We should watch him for further evidence.’

  Luckily, Mr Jolly sat down on a bench opposite, so they were able to keep an eye on him. Only a few minutes later, a man holding a large box sat next to him. The man placed the box carefully on the bench between them. At first, Mr Jolly totally ignored him, then Art and Violet watched as he pulled an envelope out of his pocket and placed it casually on top of the box. The other man took the envelope and strolled off. Mr Jolly picked up the box and walked away too.

  Art and Violet looked at each other, eyes wide.

  ‘That was straight out of a spy movie!!’ Art exclaimed.

  ‘I’ve just seen a newspaper story about a gang of diamond smugglers. Maybe he’s one of them! We should follow him!’ Violet cried

  ‘Follow who?’ Benedict interrupted.

  Violet sensed that her father might not see the enormous importance of following Mr Jolly, so she did something, dear reader, you must never do. She told a large fib!

  ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered that I promised to send my chess tutor a postcard . . . he wanted to follow our trip.’

  ‘Can’t you send him one from Venice?’ Johnny asked.

  ‘No. He, um . . . specifically wanted one from Dubrovnik. He has a great aunt who lived here.’ The fib expanded.

  Benedict looked sceptical, but handed Violet a few coins. ‘Well, meet us back at the boat, but be quick, I don’t want you wandering around for a long time on your own.’

  ‘Of course!’ Violet cried and she and Art sped off after Mr Jolly.

  Mr Jolly was quite a large man, but he walked surprisingly quickly. It took Violet and Art a few minutes to catch up with him as he weaved his way nimbly through the crowds, carrying the box ahead of him like a tea tray. He looked as if he was heading towards the harbour, but then he stopped abruptly and went into a café instead. They watched Mr Jolly through the café’s large window as he sat down at the bar, placing the box carefully on the neighbouring stool, and ordered a drink.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ Art asked.

  Violet thought for a moment. ‘I think you should stay outside, ready to follow him in case he makes off again. I’ll go in and see if I can get a look into the box.’

  Jangling the coins her father had given her, Violet marched straight to the bar, next to Mr Jolly and asked for a Coca-Cola. Mr Jolly took absolutely no notice of her. The box was very close, and as Violet began to sip her drink, she could see there was a small gap between the lid and the sides. If only she could take a peek! Violet was about to pretend to drop something so she could try and look in the box when Art came in, distracting her for a moment. He flicked his eyes towards the street and Violet followed his gaze to see Johnny and Benedict walking past the café. She swivelled away from the window.

  ‘Coca-Cola for you too?’ the barman asked Art in English.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Art replied.

  ‘Here, come and sit next to your friend,’ Mr Jolly said. He spoke English with a very strong Italian accent, and moved to pick up the box.

  ‘No, no, please don’t worry!’ Violet exclaimed. But before she could stop him he had lifted it to the bar stool on his other side.

  What to do now? Violet and Art were both thinking as they sucked their drinks noisily through the straws. Violet had just decided that she needed to create a distraction when Mr Jolly got up, finished his drink, threw some coins on the bar and, asking the barman to watch his box, he made his way to the telephone at the back of the café, next to the entrance to the toilet.

  ‘See if you can look in the box,’ Violet whispered to Art and hopped off her stool.

  She wandered towards the toilet and tried the door. Pretending it was occupied, Violet desperately tried not to seem as if she was listening to every word of Mr Jolly’s phone conversation. It was all in Italian but, as we know, Violet’s Italian was pretty good. This is what she heard:

  ‘Yes, Boss, yes. No problems so far. All is good for next Friday night. We arrive that morning at about eleven and I will come straight to you with the goods. Yes, Boss, yes. See you in Venice.’

  Violet was a-quiver with excitement - it was Friday today so he must mean in a week’s time. Il Taratuga would have reached Venice by then too. When she was sure he had finished she made a great play of trying the door to the toilet again and it miraculously opening. But Mr Jolly didn’t appear to notice and when she came out of the toilet, he was gone.

  ‘Did you see in the box?’ Violet asked Art as she walked back to the bar.

  ‘Not really but I thought I saw something gleaming through the gap.’

  Violet gasped. ‘Like a diamond?!’

  ‘Maybe,’ Art said, unsure.

  Violet was beside herself. ‘I bet he’s part of the diamond smuggling gang. Come on, let’s follow him. He’s probably going back to his boat. I’ll tell you on the way all about his telephone conversation.’

  They paid for their drinks and headed for the harbour. There was no sign of Mr Jolly himself, but they saw his boat moored not far from Il Taratuga. The pair walked slowly past the boat, desperately sneaking glances to see if they could see anything. Something caught Violet’s eye.

  ‘What’s that?’ she whispered to Art, pointing at a small brown thing on deck that appeared to be moving.

  ‘I think . . . it’s a tortoise!’ Art replied, craning his neck to see.

  ‘Oh, how sweet! I love tortoises,’ Violet cried, forgetting all about smuggling and being secretive for a moment. ‘That’s what Johnny should have – a ship’s tortoise. Come on, let’s go and see it!’ And she bounded up the gang plank onto the boat.

  Unfortunately, at that moment, Mr Jolly came out on deck.

  ‘Well, I don’t see why he had to get so cross with me,’ Violet complained to Art, as they walked back to Il Taratuga a few minutes later. ‘I was only being nice to his tortoise. Honestly!’

  Il Taratuga sailed into Venice at dawn on Tuesday morning, and after they had moored the boat, Violet, Art, Benedict and Johnny walked through the maze of narrow, empty streets to the Pensione Renaldo, the small hotel where the Remy-Robinsons stayed every year. Violet was so excited to see her mother and Grand-mère that she was practically skipping and Art was wide-eyed with amazement at Venice. ‘I can’t believe how cool it is here,’ he said. ‘Boats instead of cars!’

  Art and Violet charged through the hotel entrance into the little courtyard garden and bumped straight into Camille, who had been waiting eagerly for their arrival.

  ‘Oh, my goodness me, it’s so lovely to see you!’ Camille said as she hugged Violet tight to her. ‘Perhaps you had just better go and jump in the bath before you see Grand-mère,’ she added as she stood back and took in their appearance.

  Violet’s skin was very tanned and her hair was still in the same plaits that Camille had carefully done before she went to the airport, but her hair was now so full of salt that the plaits stuck out like Pippi Longstocking’s. Art was one big freckle and his red hair had been bleached to a coppery colour by the sun and sticking on end like a loo brush.

  ‘Too late,’ grinned Violet. ‘Grand-mère!’ she cried, running towards an elderly lady who had just come into the courtyard.

  ‘Who is this savage?’ Grand-mère said, and brandished her walking stick like a sword at Violet.

  ‘It’s me, Grand-mère!’ Violet laughed.

  ‘It cannot be. My granddaughter is a neat, clean child and you are a filthy urchin!’ Grand-mère exclaimed, trying to hide a grin.

  ‘It is me!’

  At that moment, Alphonse appeared and charged straight towards Violet, tail wagging. He was closely followed by the Maharani who shrieked, ‘Vi-let! Vi-let!’

  ‘Well, the animals seem to recognise you,’ Grand-mère said and, using her walking stick as a hook, she pulled Violet to her, peering at her over the top of her glasses.

  Violet launched herself at Grand-mère for a hug.

  ‘Non, non, non, Violet,’ she shrieked, wrinkling her nose. ‘You smell like an old dog. Go and have a bath and hurry or I will eat all the croissants. You too, young man,’ she added, looking at Art. ‘Let us become properly acquainted once you are clean.’

  Violet and Art went to their rooms, had the fastest baths imaginable and sprinted back down to breakfast. A long table sat in the shade of a lemon tree, piled high with croissants, cake, bread and jam and pots of coffee and tea. Everyone was sitting around it. Johnny was busy making Grand-mère shriek with laughter, while she fed Alphonse bits of cake. The dog was sitting on his own special chair with the Maharani sitting on the back, gazing adoringly at him. Happy to be together again, Camille and Benedict were holding hands. Violet took a very dim view of any form of soppiness so she gave them her sternest frown. And of course Rose was there. Rose grinned with delight when she saw Violet and Art. Violet was bursting to tell her all about the smuggler, but as they sat down Camille said, ‘I should think Rose is very pleased to see you both. We had quite an eventful journey on the way here.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Benedict asked. ‘Come on, tell us why.’

  Camille lowered her voice.

  ‘Well, there were several minor incidents, but by far the worst bit was when we got on the wrong train. Grand-mère pulled the emergency brake as we were leaving the station.’

  Benedict smothered his laughter. Camille allowed herself a giggle.

  ‘Poor Rose. It was very embarrassing, wasn’t it, chérie?

  Rose nodded, biting her lip. ‘There was a lot of shouting,’ she said.

  Grand-mère’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Are you talking about that silly guard on the train? What a fuss! How can he have expected me to stay on the wrong train? Trains can reverse, you know. Anyway, he was quite rude until I explained about my work in the French Resistance during the war. That shut him up,’ she said with satisfaction.

  ‘Rose, you have all my sympathy,’ Benedict managed to say between guffaws. ‘I have had similar experiences travelling with Grand-mère.’

  ‘You know, Rose,’ Grand-mère said, not unkindly. ‘Sometimes in life, if you are going somewhere you don’t want to go, you have to be brave and pull the emergency brake.’

  Signora Renaldo, the owner of the hotel, appeared with large bowls of hot chocolate for Rose, Art and Violet. With her was a young woman with a kind face, long black curly hair and large brown eyes. She was wearing lots of silver jewellery and a flowery, floaty dress.

  ‘This is my niece, Elena,’ Signora Renaldo said, introducing her. ‘She is helping me for the rest of the summer. She has just come back from travelling in India.’

  ‘Hello,’ Elena said shyly.

  She seems nice, thought Violet, glancing around the table. Everyone was smiling at Elena, except Johnny, who looked like he’d seen a ghost, only he wasn’t pale, but very pink in the face.

  ‘What’s the matter with Uncle Johnny?’ Violet whispered to her mother.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Camille whispered back.

  Rose was listening. ‘I think he thinks Elena is pretty,’ she explained to Violet in a whisper.

  ‘Oh,’ Violet replied. ‘Well, if he keeps looking like that, she’s going to think he’s pretty silly!’

  ‘Children, I have to collect Alphonse from the beauty parlour and I have some little errands I would like you to do for me – just a few things from the shops on the square around the corner,’ Grand-mère announced the following day. It was seven in the evening and Rose, Art and Violet had all had their baths after a day at the beach, and while the grown-ups were getting ready for supper, they were playing cards at a table in the courtyard and discussing Mr Jolly. Violet and Art had filled Rose in on every detail. The Maharani was with them, looking around longingly for Alphonse. The children sprang up immediately because, however fun cards were, an unaccompanied shopping trip was even better.

  Grand-mère produced a list from her handbag.

  ‘Now, Violet, concentrate. I need you to go to the pharmacy and then the stationers, and then . . . ’ She gave Violet a handful of notes with a wink, saying, ‘Don’t buy ice cream with the change and ruin your appetites. Be back in twenty minutes. Dinner is at seven-thirty sharp and we don’t want to keep Signora Renaldo waiting.’

  The children charged out into the busy street and ran up to the Square. Clutching the list, they made their way around the shops until they were laden with little bags and packages. Art counted the change.

  ‘Just enough for three small cones,’ he said, as they strolled into the ice cream shop.

  I don’t know if you have ever been into an Italian ice cream shop but they are one of the best places ever invented. Rows and rows of zingy coloured ice cream are laid out for you to drool over, with exciting names such as zuppa inglese, frutti di bosca and stracciatella.

  Violet went through her usual debate of whether she should have melon or caramel or maybe even chocolate. Then, as always, she decided to stick to her favourite – mint choc chip. The shop was crowded inside, mostly because there was a man ordering the largest ice cream you can imagine in a mixture of terrible Italian and English. Everyone was rolling their eyes and sighing as he stumbled slowly on,

  ‘Er tutti frutti next, chocalato, strawberry and a bit of minta, per favore and that’s it.’ Finally he handed a note over to the girl behind the counter and the whole shop breathed a sigh of relief.