Discovering the Future

Chapter 11- Chapter 4 (Part 2)

Disclaimer: I don't own Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children.

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"All dead," he repeated. "No one's lived there since the war."

That took me a moment to process. "What do you mean? What war?"

Horace rolled his eyes. "What war do you think?"

"When we say 'the war' around here, my boy, there's only one the we mean--the second. It was a German air raid that got 'em, if I'm not mistaken."

"No, that can't be right."

He nodded. "In those days, there was an anti-aircraft gun battery at the far tip of the island, past the wood where the house is. It made Cairnholm a legitimate military target. Not that 'legitimate' mattered much to the Germans one way or another, mind you. Anyway, one of the bombs went off track, and, well..." He shook his head. "Nasty luck."

"That can't be right," I said again, though I was starting to wonder.

"Uh oh, we're all in for it now," Hugh joked.

"Why don't you sit down and let me fix you some tea?" he said. "You look a bit off the mark."

"Just feeling a little light-headed..."

He led me to a chair in his office and went to make the tea. I tried to collect my thoughts. Bombed in the war--that would certainly explain those rooms with blown-out walls. But what about the letter from Miss Peregrine--postmarked Cairnholm--sent just fifteen years ago?

"It was magic," Olive said. "Duh."

Martin returned, handing me a mug. "There's a nip of Penderyn in it," he said. "Secret recipe, you know. Should get you sorted in no time."

I thanked him and took a sip, realising too late that the secret ingredient was high-test whiskey.

Enoch rolled his eyes. "Of course it is. What are you? Dumb?"

It felt like napalm flushing down my esophagus. "It does have a certain kick," I admitted, my face going red.

He frowned. "Reckon I ought to fetch your father."

"No, no, I'll be fine. But if there's anything else you can tell me about the attack, I'd be grateful."

Martin settled into a chair opposite me. "About that, I'm curious. You say your grandfather lived here. He never mentioned it?"

"Clearly," Victor said.

"I'm curious about that, too," I said. "I guess it must've been after his time. Did it happen late in the war or early?"

"I'm ashamed to admit I don't know. But if you're keen, I can introduce you to someone who does--my Uncle Oggie. He's eighty-three, lived here his whole life. Still sharp as a tack." Martin glanced at his watch. "If we catch him before Father Ted comes on the telly, I'm sure he'd be more than happy to tell you anything you like."

Ten minutes later Martin and I were wedged deep in an overstuffed sofa in Oggie's living room, which was piled high with books and boxes of worn-out shoes and enough lamps to light up Carlsbad Caverns, all but one of them unplugged. Living on a remote island, I was starting to realise, turned people into pack rats.

"What's a pack rat?" Claire asked.

Oggie sat facing us in a threadbare blazer and pajama bottoms, as if he'd been expecting company--just not pants-worthy company--and rocked endlessly in a plastic-covered easy chair as he talked. He seemed happy just to have an audience, and after he'd gone on about the weather and Welsh politics and the sorry state of today's youth, Martin was finally able to steer him around to the attack and the children from the home.