The Teacher's Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley Page B

scary, sir?’ she asked.
    ‘Yes,’ said Mr Munro. ‘At least I hope you will find them so. But if you do not like “scary” stories I’m sure we could find something else to do instead. Do you enjoy spelling tests, perhaps?’
    ‘Oh, I love scary stories, sir,’ she replied. ‘We all do, don’t we?’
    The entire class eagerly and noisily confirmed this until Mr Munro raised his hands for calm. He opened his book and took out the leather bookmark.
    ‘What’s the story going to be about, sir?’ asked a tall girl with glasses.
    ‘It would rather spoil it if I told you, would it not?’ said Mr Munro. ‘But it will do no harm to introduce it, I suppose.’
    He replaced the leather bookmark between the pages and closed the book once more.
    ‘Have any of you by any chance been to the coastal town of Whitby in Yorkshire?’
    A wall of blank expressions greeted this question and Mr Munro paused a moment or two before speaking again.
    ‘It is a rather marvellous place in its way,’ he continued. ‘A picturesque fishing port with a romantic ruin of an abbey on the cliff top. It is famous for the Synod of Whitby, of course.’
    It was clear by the blank faces that the fame of the Synod of Whitby had yet to reach St Apollonia’s School.
    ‘It is also famous for its whaling industry, for its fossils and for its jet. You know what jet is, I trust?’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ said a girl with her hair in plaits. ‘It’s a shiny black stone they make jewellery out of. My mother has a –’
    ‘That is correct,’ said Mr Munro. ‘Of course, Whitby is also famous as the place where Count Dracula first came ashore in the sensationalist novel that bears his name.’
    ‘Is the story about Dracula, sir?’ asked a boy at the back.
    ‘No,’ said Mr Munro.
    ‘Is it about vampires?’ asked another boy excitedly.
    ‘No,’ said Mr Munro.
    ‘Is it –’
    ‘It is about jet ,’ said Mr Munro. ‘In a way, at least.’
    A wall of silent but palpable disappointment greeted this statement.
    ‘It might be better if I were simply to read the story,’ said Mr Munro.
    He opened the book at the marked page, gave a searching look around the classroom to ensure that everyone was settled, and then began.

2
    The Jet Brooch
    A small bell pinged shrilly as Martha opened the door. It was a dull and sunless day, but even so the tiny shop seemed gloomy and cave-like in comparison.
    Martha Thriplow was still occupied with trying to recall the nightmare that had disturbed her sleep. She had barely noticed anything on her walk up from the harbour. It was something terrible, she remembered. But that was all she could remember.
    Martha, her mother and her brother, Vernon, had been in Whitby for three days now and so far the holiday, such as it was, had been a joyless affair.
    Martha’s father had died almost six months previously and they had been dressed in black ever since. Their mother had promised that Martha and her brother might each have a piece of jet jewellery as a memento of this holiday. Martha was to have a brooch, Vernon a pair of cufflinks.
    Martha had loved her father dearly. He had been so unlike the fathers of most of her friends. He had been kind and sweet-natured. He had taken a genuine interest in what she was doing. She missed him terribly.
    But still she longed to have some colour in her life again. A piece of scarlet ribbon would have been enough. And she knew her father would not have disapproved.
    The shop bell did momentarily rouse Martha from her melancholy mood, but it quickly returned when she remembered that they were shopping for jet – black, black jet.
    The sunless little shop was jammed with cabinets and those cabinets were in turn crammed with jet jewellery of all sizes and designs. But it was as though they were in a jewellery shop for undertakers.
    The whole point of jewellery was to sparkle and delight, thought Martha. It was meant to be pretty. It was meant to be frivolous and divine, not morbid.
    This