The Key to the Indian Read Free Page A

together, ignoring the weather, and no one will miss us for two days, and we’ll ‘go back’ and see what the situation is.”
    “Ah!” So that was it. A way of getting away from home, just the two of them. “But have you thought about what we’ll use to go back in ?”
    “Yes. I’ve thought.”
    “Well, what? We can hardly carry some wardrobe or chest or something big enough in the back of the car!”
    His father put down the palette carefully on his paint-stained table with all its jam jars full of old brushes and its rowsof squashed paint tubes. “It came to me today in the square, when I was shopping. I got a load of vegetables and I couldn’t carry them all in one go so the greengrocer said he’d take the other box out for me to the car. He asked me the registration, and I told him, and it burst on me like a blinding light.”
    “What, Dad?”
    “Go and look at it. The numberplate.”
    Omri, frowning, left the studio and crossed the yard to the open bays, in one of which was parked the family car – a third-hand Ford Cortina Estate that his father had recently bought when their old one packed up. His eyes went to the numberplate and he stopped in his tracks.
    The next instant he had turned and raced back, bursting into the studio with his face alight.
    “Wow, Dad! Wow and treble-wow! You’re brilliant!”
    “No, Om. It’s the magic. It couldn’t be coincidence. It means we’re meant to go.”
    They went out into the yard together and stood looking marvellingly at the old car.
    The registration number was C18 LB.
    “C eighteen. That’s for eighteenth century, of course,” said Omri’s dad softly. “It’s a double indicator. I never thought I could believe anything like this. But I know it’s true. That’s our cupboard, Omri. Our time-machine.”
    Omri went to bed that night feeling so excited he couldn’t sleep. Another adventure, and with his Indian! The adventure with Jessica Charlotte, his ‘wicked’ great-great-aunt who hadactually made the key, had been complicated and thrilling in its way, but it was more like a detective story than a risky adventure, and it had all happened here in his bedroom, under the thatch. A lot of it, most of it, had happened in his head while reading the Account. Now a real, true adventure was in the offing. And his dad would be part of it!
    It might be a bit of a problem, though, leaving Gillon behind.
    He was really getting worked up about the camping trip. He kept calling through the thin dividing wall between their two bedrooms, keeping Omri awake more than ever.
    “I’m going into town tomorrow after school to get a camping mag. They’ll have proper ads in them for gear, and articles to read and stuff.”
    “Mm.”
    “It’s not true that Mum’s the only one who’s camped. Remember Adiel went to the Brecon Beacons with his class?” Omri pretended to be asleep and didn’t answer. “Omri? Remember?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He said it was grisly,” called Gillon, but with relish, as if ‘grisly’ was good. “Rained the whole time. And he got lost in a bunch of mist and hurt his leg sliding down some rocks and they had to hunt for him for hours . His teacher thought he was dead, for sure! Om?”
    “Mmm.”
    “You still awake? I’ve heard of lots of hikers andclimbers getting lost on Dartmoor! One lot died of exposure. We’d better buy some rope and rope ourselves together. We’ll need proper climbing boots, knapsacks, sleeping bags… maps, compasses… a stove…” His voice finally petered out on a lengthy list of prospective purchases.
    Omri was nowhere near sleeping. He was actually sitting up. He’d switched on his pencil torch and was making notes. Maps and compasses… Could you get maps of north-eastern United States back in the eighteenth century? Sleeping bags, knapsacks and a stove certainly sounded as if they’d be useful. If only they could take them!
    He kept imagining himself, and his dad, in the car. They could put all the