The Comic Cafe

Wilf and his family have moved to the seaside to start a new life by opening a run-down cafe. But for his parents it's all too much, and quite separately they decide to take a break from the family, not realising that the other has also left. So Wilf and his four younger sisters fend for themselves and decide to renovate the cafe as a surprise for their parents' return. But ghostly sounds in the house, a parade of oddball and inquisitive visitors and the mysterious links between the cafe's previous owner and the local art gallery complicate their efforts. As Wilf's superhero comic characters take shape on the cafe's walls, covering the fat ladies who previously decorated it, the children's attempts to hide their parentless state slowly unravel, leading to a dramatic turn of events on the day they open the cafe to the public. Packed with humorous characters and witty dialogue, this is a delightfully funny story with an intriguing mystery at its heart. By a well-known children's poet with huge experience of reading and writing with children, The Comic Cafe is an exciting and highly entertaining fiction debut that ranks alongside stories by Hilary McKay, Lemony Snickett and Anne Fine.

Home alone in a dull old seaside café... how are Wilf, Elizabeth, Jaz, Briony and Sammi

going to get through the summer? They decide to open the café for Mum’s and Dad’s return. But ghostly sounds, oddball visitors and the mystery of the café’s previous owner all conspire against them...

Mrs Herring had hung her coat on the back of one of the sturdier chairs where it was dripping a little rainy puddle on to the floor. Killer was sitting next to the coat, eyeing it warily as though it was an unwelcome guest, an animal intruder that had to be guarded - or possibly attacked.

“Where are you from?” I asked her.

“You noticed my accent? I am from Poland. I came here as young voman viz my fazer. That vas long time ago.”

”What do you do?” Elizabeth enquired.

“I'm retired. I vas estate agent.”

“You didn't sell Mum and Dad this house, did you?” I asked, aghast.

“No, I didn't.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I said.

“Don't you like it? It's lovely building. It has lots of history.”

“I'm sure,” I said. “The London Dungeon has bags of history, too, but I wouldn't want to live there.” As I said this, I had a mental picture of Mrs Herring, a bunch of keys in her hand, unlocking a dank, dark and dismal cell somewhere beneath the streets of London.

Mrs Herring took a measured sip of tea. “Very nice tea. Did you make it?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Von't your mum mind?”

“Eh? What do you mean?” Elizabeth said, “I often make the tea.”

“Of course you do,” Mrs Herring said. “No, I mean inviting stranger in. You have to be careful zese days. Shopping, is she?”

“Oh . . . yes,” Elizabeth said.

“And your dad?”

“Oh . . . um. . .” Elizabeth and I looked at one another.

“You do have dad? Oh. I'm sorry. Is he . . . dead?”

“No, it's OK,” I said. “Yes, we do have a dad. He's away on business.” I changed the subject. “Did you come here, then, when the café was up and running?”

“Couple of times. It vas long time ago.”

“Was it busy?” Here was a chance, I thought, to find out if there were ever any customers. I couldn't imagine it ever being full of people.

“Da . . . I mean . . . yes, I zink so. It vas lot brighter zen, of course. You could see pictures on valls, for one zing.”

The walls were covered in a film of soot. But beneath it you could just about make out some shapes painted on to the plaster.

“What are they?” Elizabeth asked. “They look like animals of some kind. Giant pigs?”

“No, not pigs.” Mrs Herring smiled.

“Was the last owner an artist, then?” I asked. I was wondering if perhaps he'd painted the walls himself. Maybe he was a fan of Rubens. But Mrs Herring didn't answer me. She finished her cup of tea and laid it carefully down on the table.

“So . . . your mozer and fazer aren't here.”

“Not at this exact moment,” I said. “As we explained. . .”

“Are you planning to reopen café?” she asked.

“Of course,” Elizabeth replied. “Mum and Dad hope to have it ready for next spring. We're going to renovate it, get new tables and chairs.”

“Ven café open, your parents vill be very busy. And now, getting ready to open, zey vill need cleaner.”

“I suppose so,” Elizabeth said.

“Zat's vhy I came round. I do cleaning. Pension not enough to live on. Please could you tell zis to your mum? I vill clean house as well as café. Zis place is too big for zem to manage on own.”

“Sammi, our youngest sister, thinks it's haunted.” I don't know why I said this. Maybe because last night's ghostly encounter was still in my mind. I was expecting Mrs Herring to tell me that was nonsense. But she didn't.

“Vell,” she said. “I don't vant to scare you, but. . .” she paused for effect and leant forward. “Have you been in cellar?”

“We don't go down there much because the light doesn't work,” Elizabeth said. She failed to admit that none of us had been down there at all.

Mrs Herring lowered her voice. “I'm not surprised. Zey say zer vas terrible murder in zis house. A hundred years ago or more. In cellar! Can't you feel it down zer? A sort of cold presence?”

“I'm not sure,” Elizabeth said.

“If I do your cleaning, nozing you could pay me vould get me down zere.”

There was a long, eery silence.

Then a loud howl.

The chair with the coat on it toppled backwards and the coat began moving across the floor.

Mrs Herring gasped, leaping to her feet.

I jumped up. Killer was dragging the coat by its collar towards the kitchen. I jabbed the cat with my foot and he dropped the coat, spat at me and strode from the room.

Elizabeth picked up the coat and dusted it down. “Sorry,” she said. “That was Killer. We inherited him with the property.”

“Maybe you should disinherit him,” Mrs Herring said coldly. “You von't have many customers if he tries to steal zeir coats.” Mrs Herring took her coat from Elizabeth. “Never mind. No harm done. Look at time. I must be going. Tell your mozer I called.”

“We vill . . . er will,” Elizabeth said.