The Fairies at Browning Grange

by Barrymore Tebbs

  Right – I guess that set me in my place. I didn’t think my mind was closed to possibilities. I was a schoolteacher after all and always willing to explore new ideas. But others are often able to see qualities in ourselves which we overlook or simply take for granted. I have always been fascinated by children and the charming worlds of fantasy that they are able to invent for themselves. I found it disconcerting that this woman I had known all of five minutes so easily saw some skepticism in me. Of course, she might only have been using her words as a tactic to heighten my curiosity, but she needn’t have done so. If she was to be my guide to fairyland, I was willing to pack my camera and head out to the Grange at a moment’s notice.

  “I would certainly like to try,” was the most sensible reply I could think of. “And perhaps the camera will see something which my eye cannot. When could I begin?”

  “Perhaps someday I shall invite you up to tea,” said Miss Gibbs. Her eyelashes lowered. She was barely able to contain the smile which caused a tremor at the corners of her lips. How bold she was in her flirtations.

  “I would gladly accept,” I said.

  “Perhaps you should like to come tomorrow, then?”

  My face was not big enough to contain my smile.

  * * *

  Traditionally, our summers are mild in our little valley in the West Country, but as Midsummer approached, the days had grown abnormally hot. Of course, I put on my best suit for my appearance at Browning Grange, but I was overdressed to bicycle such a distance. Until I was several miles outside the village and the woods began to encroach upon the road, I had trickles of sweat running down my back between the layers of shirt and waistcoat; I’d had the good sense to fold my jacket and lay it on the basket on top of my camera. It was a blessing to reach the shade of the woods at last.

  I was familiar with the road that led to Browning Grange for I had ridden it many times, yet I had never seen the house itself; it was set far from sight of the road. But today I proudly turned the bicycle between the open wrought iron gates and the massive stone pillars that stood sentry to the walled estate. Passing through the gates it seemed that I had been granted access to some hitherto forbidden world. The woods were rich with summer color and vibrant with bird song which seemed to harmonize with the rustling of wind-tossed leaves and branches. Butterflies flitted about and little furry-tailed things scampered across the drive. The air itself seemed filled with magic. If I were a fairy, this was the place I would choose to live.

  I was so entranced by the sights and sounds around me that when the woods receded and the house was before me I was startled from my reverie. The house was a sprawling Gothic revival: the façade was a riot of pointed arches and oriel windows with diamond panes, the roof littered with gables with pointed finials, gargoyles eyed me from every direction as if they would without hesitation swoop down and snatch me in their jaws, and the whole thing crawled with copious masses of verdant ivy. I had seen sketches of such houses in books, and photographs in magazines, but the impact the house had on me upon first viewing was astonishing. Its enormity was such that I felt insignificant in its presence. I would gladly trade photographing fairies for the opportunity to photograph this magnificent house. I could only imagine what its interiors must be like.

  I dismounted and walked the bicycle the rest of the way along the drive. A steady thwack-thwack sound to my left diverted my attention for a moment, but it was only a gardener, a tall old man who stopped to mop the sweat from his brow, wave in greeting, and then continued trimming the long hedgerow that ran the length of the lawn.

  I was hesitant to call at the front of the house. I supposed I should park the bicycle in the stables, or for that matter the garage, for surely the Conklins owned a car or two. I glanced at my pocket watch; it was five minutes to the hour. I had timed the ride perfectly. I leaned the bicycle against a column of the porte cochere, stepped inside, and rang the bell.

  It was promptly answered by a liveried footman. I gave my name and he stood aside, stone faced in his formality, for me to enter. “I rode my bicycle,” I said. “If there is someplace I should put it so that it is not leaning against the house…”

  “I will have it moved to the garage.”

  “I can do it myself if you just show me where.”

  “It will be taken care of. If you please, sir, follow me.” He turned and led me down a short corridor that gave way into a vast, imposing hall that bustled with activity – two maids were on their hands and knees cleaning the carpet of a grand and sweeping staircase. All around the walls were adorned with paintings of dour faced family members from generations past. The footman took a sharp turn down another corridor that branched to the right, and then opened a handsome oak door and announced my name.

  The drawing room was as large as the entire first floor of my own humble house. Olive stood and greeted me warmly. A plump bulldog followed at her feet. I leaned down and petted the old fellow who barked once, then returned to his resting place on the cool, marble hearth.

  The masculine attire was gone. Olive looked breathtaking in a dress of russet gold, her hair piled extravagantly on her head. It must have taken hours to prepare. She looked even more beautiful than when I first saw her in Mrs. Spencer’s shop.

  “Thank you, Rupert,” she said as the footman returned with an elaborate service which he set on a low table between Olive and me. I am accustomed to making tea on my own, or the occasional invitation to the homes of one of my students, but I had never sat to high tea in a house as ostentatious as this. I was grateful that it was only the two of us, for I felt that Olive would forgive any social faux pas I might commit. I sat stiffly on the edge of my chair, a cloth napkin across my lap, and managed to balance a dainty, decorative scone in one hand and a delicate teacup in the other without spilling a drop or crumb.

  Olive plied me with polite questions about my profession, but in no time at all I had turned the tables and asked about her life outside of Browning Grange. I felt certain that she liked me for she was most gregarious and eager to talk about herself. She grew up in Manchester but now lived in Birmingham. She was the youngest of three sisters, Eleanor being the eldest. Her father was the minister of a congregation of wealthy parishioners, and it was to his great disappointment that Olive, now in her later-twenties, had yet to follow in her sisters’ footsteps and marry.

  “It is of no consequence,” she told me. “I enjoy my freedom. Until I meet a man who allows me to be my own woman I am quite content to remain unmarried. The men who have attempted to court me are bores and want only to possess women or use them as playthings for their own amusement. Do you think I am the sort of woman who wants to be dressed like a doll and taken round to all the dull society affairs, shown off like some prize and then returned home to dutifully give in to their every desire? “

  “Like your sister, Eleanor?” I said.

  “Like my sister, Eleanor.” She winked at me, happy to have found someone who saw her point of view. Already I began to entertain the thought that while we came from entirely different stations in life, I might very well be the type of man she was looking for. Whether she wanted to be the wife of a poor village schoolmaster was another question entirely, but I quickly reined in my fantasy knowing it was best to follow the flow rather than try to shape events to my benefit. I would be doomed to lose her interest if I did and I certainly did not want that to happen.

  “Tell me about the camera,” she said. “It doesn’t look like any I have seen.”

  I picked up the camera proudly. “It’s called a Speed Graphic folding camera. It’s quite handy for traveling about.” I demonstrated how the camera folded into itself. “It has a very high shutter speed, which does a remarkable job of capturing images in motion. It’s quite suitable for photographing children who don’t know what it means to sit still before a camera. I have used it to photograph butterflies in motion, birds—”

  “And now you hope to photograph fairy wings without too much blur.”

/>   I smiled. “Quite right.”

  “Because you know, despite what everyone believes, that the Cottingley photographs are fakes.”

  “Clever fakes, but fakes nevertheless,” I said.

  “Only, the fairies at Browning Grange do not have wings. As the children told you, they are mostly brownies and gnomes—”

  “— and goblins,” I said.

  Now it was her turn to smile. There was such knowingness in her eyes, it seemed as if she kept some wonderful secret that she was on the verge of sharing with me. Still, I couldn’t be sure she was not pulling my leg. “You catch on quickly,” she said.

  “No fairies with wings? No fairies that fly?”

  “I didn’t say they do not fly.”

  “You said you have seen these fairies.”

  “That is true.”

  “The goblins?”

  “Yes. They seem to be the most prolific.”

  “And you have seen them fly?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I have no other word for it. They are swift and agile, and able to rise above the ground at great heights. Perhaps they are only leaping, it is difficult to say. But I believe their physiognomy is far different from our own and any attempt to apply human characteristics of any sort to these creatures can only breed ignorance of their species”

  “When can I see them?” I said as casually as I could. I did not want to seem over-eager.

  “Why don’t we go now? After all it is a splendid afternoon. I’ll summon the children.” Olive went to the door and rang the bell. Rupert appeared within moments and she instructed him to have the governess prepare the children for a walk through the Grange.

  We waited for the children in the great hall. The maids stood with their faces to the wall until we departed, a sight which made me uncomfortable but reminded me what a privilege it was to be a guest in this lovely house. The children were as excited to see me as puppies that recognize a friendly neighbor and greeted me with affectionate hugs about the waist. They led the way down another long corridor and burst through a door into the glorious summer afternoon.

  We followed the children down gently sloping terrace steps at the bottom of which was a magnificent garden. A quaint stone bridge at the garden’s edge led across a sparkling brook, the sun glittering off its rippling waters.

  The bulldog had tagged along behind us at a leisurely pace, but at the bridge he stopped, barked once, then settled down to await our return.

  Across the bridge we entered a vast open meadow and once again I felt the heat from the summer sun as we traipsed through the field of waving goldenrod and heather, the yellow and purple dazzling to behold. The children skipped merrily ahead. Freddie had with him a net nearly as large as his body and whipped it wildly in vain attempts to capture the butterflies that darted all about. The lovely things were everywhere, and beneath the sound of the wind rustling through the wildflowers was the hum of bees busy at their task. If there was a more enchanting place in all of England, I should very much like to see it.

  It took nearly a half an hour to reach the other side of the meadow. I had removed my jacket but still could feel the sheen of sweat which plastered my shirt to my skin. I couldn’t imagine how Olive must have felt in her full skirt and the layers she wore beneath. A few strands of hair strayed from her elegant coiffure, but her skin appeared cool and dry as if the heat of the day had little effect on her.

  I was grateful when we reached the woods at last. The bright colors in the meadow were now replaced by rich, mossy greens and earthy browns in soft velvety tones. The trees surrounding us were large and as old as the land itself, with bulbous roots so gnarled that I had to watch my step lest I should stumble over one and land indecorously on my posterior. Olive and the children had walked these paths many times before and navigated quickly without any sense of caution. I was winded from the trudge across the field and at last had to call to Olive to wait for me while I leaned against an ancient oak to catch my breath.

  I tore open my collar and loosened my tie and sank down between formations of roots that accommodated me as if it were naturally created for just such a purpose. I laid the camera on a bed of ferns beside me.

  “Where are we?” I said.

  Olive laughed and nestled comfortably beside me, unabashedly laying her head on my shoulder. “In fairyland,” she said, “where else?”

  “Are they here?”

  “What do you think?”

  I gazed into the canopy above my head, a deep green mass with shafts of sunlight drifting down to the forest floor. The afternoon had taken on a mystic, unearthly quality. If nothing else, I was bedazzled. I looked around, peering into impenetrable darkness one moment, blinded by dappled spots of sunlight the next. The forest was indeed alive with things I could not see. I felt the gaze of unseen eyes upon me, but were they fairy eyes? I supposed if I wanted to believe then it would be so, just as the children so obviously believed. But Olive? I thought her too sensible to believe such things, though who could blame her if she did. The place was a storybook painting come to life.

  The scent of her perfume, the soap in her hair, the fertile smell of the earth; all that enfolded us was an intoxicant to my senses. My arm went quite naturally around her shoulder. She purred and burrowed further into my embrace. I felt my heartbeat quicken and the temperature of my already overheated body jump another ten degrees.

  She turned her face up toward mine and our mouths met in a kiss. At first it was simply sweet, as it was only meant to be. But within moments my heat overcame me and she responded in kind until our mouths were open, our ravenous tongues exploring each other’s. My arousal was swift and powerful and she knew it. She teased my mouth with her lips, her tongue, and her delicate fingers caressed the naked skin where I had opened my collar. With confident assurance she unbuttoned my waistcoat, and then my shirt, and then her lovely fingernails danced lightly across my skin. I moaned with pleasure. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the sensation, her fingers sweeping in tantalizing circles lower and lower until her hand brushed over the swollen member in my trousers.

  “The children…” I cautioned.

  Her answer seemed to come from a great distance. “They are chasing fairies.”

  A small gasp escaped my lips when she had taken me in her hands and teased the turgid shaft unmercifully with her fingers. When her mouth closed over it, sweet and wet, I nearly wept with the sensation that flooded through me. I had heard of such acts, of course. Every teen-aged schoolboy whispers about them, yet there was nothing sordid in the act. She had so utterly enchanted me that I was powerless to protest or deny her this small request. My hand touched the back of her graceful, swanlike neck and rode the rhythm as her head moved up and down, up and down, coaxing me to a shattering climax.

  Without hesitation she raised her face to mine and when we kissed I could taste the sweetness of my seed. Where a schoolboy would have been appropriately appalled to taste such an intimate part of himself, the act was such an integral piece of the magic spell that I was not repulsed. On the contrary, it solidified the intimacy of the moment. Only afterward would it occur to me that she had performed the act before, for she surely pulled it off with skillful aplomb.

  We lay in each other’s arms, the sweat slowly drying on my skin, until we heard the excited voices of the children from deep within the wood. I rose and hastily dressed myself, but found that my legs were weak. Olive laughed and put my arm around her shoulder so that I would not stumble as I struggled to regain control over my lower limbs.

  The children’s return was a welcome relief. My mind slowly came back into focus, the feeling of intoxication lifted from me like the parting of a veil.

  Freddie’s clothes were torn and dirty and there were streaks on his cheeks where tears had been shed.

  “What on earth is the matter?” said Olive, scooping him into her embrace. “How did you become so dirty?”

  “I caught one, but it got away.” And to validate his claim, he lifte
d the butterfly net which was nothing but a limp rag of netting as it showed a gaping hole where something had torn its way out.

  “I told you that you wouldn’t be able to catch one,” Emily said in a taunting sing-song voice. “I told you.”

  Freddie turned on his sister, fists upraised. Olive grabbed his wrist in time to prevent an altercation. Emily danced away and stuck out her tongue.

  I picked the net up out of the grass and examined it. There was no doubt something had been trapped and then viciously clawed its way out, but what could have done it… some large bird, a badger, or possibly a fox?”

  “Where did you find this… fairy?”

  “In Goblin Hollow,” said Emily, with a child’s undisguised condescension in her voice, as if it were the most common knowledge.

  “What is Goblin Hollow?”

  “It’s where the fairies are!”

  “It’s an area deeper down within the forest,” Olive explained. “It’s a large basin, as the name suggests, that appears to have been hollowed out of the earth. I don’t know, really, but perhaps it was struck by lightning as it appears there might have been a fire there many years ago. Whatever happened, nothing will grow there.”

  “Will you show me?” I asked the children.

  “I’m tired,” Emily said.

  Freddie buried his face in his aunt’s skirts and shook his head.

  “Another day, perhaps,” said Olive, and we all set foot back across the meadow. The summer sun was not kind, the children were exhausted, and my energy was spent. Only Olive appeared to have any stamina remaining. Emily marched diligently ahead, a scout leading the expedition back from fairyland.

  We paused outside the carriage house which had been converted into a garage in recent years. The chauffeur, a smooth cheeked youth not much older than a boy, was polishing the driving lamps of a splendid Rolls Royce, a cigarette dangling from his lips. When he saw us, he threw the cigarette on the ground, snapped to attention and brought my bicycle promptly.