by Maynard Sims
The farewells to my family were surprisingly tearful; Mother was weeping, as was Ellen, but at least she had the dignity to pretend she had hay fever, an ailment from which she never usually suffered. I said my goodbyes quickly, in case the cabbie should see the fuss that was being made, and soon I was racing across London. The cabbie, a tough looking, but extremely affable cockney, waited with me at Paddington and saw me safely onto the train, despite my protestations that I was quite capable of looking after myself.
"I've been paid to do it," he said. "What would you have me do, break my word to your mother?" As I stepped aboard the train he pressed a sixpence into my hand and gave me a playful cuff across the ear. "And you see you behave yourself." I watched him from the open window as the train pulled sluggishly out of the station. He took off his cap and waved. I waved back until the train picked up speed and he became a speck in the distance.
So this was it, I thought as I sat down on the seat, I was on my way to Cornwall and I wouldn't see London again for a fortnight. It seemed an eternity away. That thought battered down my carefully built wall of reserve, and for the first time in months I began to cry. An elderly man in a pinstripe suit and bowler hat sat in the far corner of the compartment. He must have heard me, for he looked across and cleared his throat to attract my attention. I ignored him, lost in my own personal misery. A moment later he said: "Is there anything wrong, sonny?"
I sniffed back the tears and said: "Hay fever."
"Oh," he said blithely. "I suffer from that myself occasionally. It's really surprising how many of us chaps do, you know? Only most won't admit to it. It just so happens that I know a very effective cure for it." He was fishing in the pocket of his jacket. From it he produced a small paper bag. "Have a bull’s eye."
The bag hadn't travelled well, but its contents were individually wrapped in cellophane so it mattered not. The cure worked, and soon I had recovered myself sufficiently to join him in a pleasant conversation. He was a good-natured type with a never-ending supply of stories and, it seemed, bull’s eyes, and with his easy company the journey seemed to go quickly. Actually it was early afternoon before the train rolled into Plymouth station.
We stepped from the train and walked to the ticket barrier. Here we stopped and shook hands. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Jonny," he said. "Have a nice time with that aunt of yours. Here." He screwed up the bag of bull’s eyes and thrust them into my hand before he departed, leaving me to the crowded loneliness of the station.
It had been arranged that Cartwright, my aunt's chauffeur, would meet me, and I stood for a long while waiting by the barrier for him to emerge from the milling crowd of commuters and holidaymakers. After a good half an hour of standing around, all the while becoming more and more apprehensive about the impending two weeks, I ventured outside. There, parked at the side of the road, sat a magnificent old Bentley, its black and tan paintwork shining majestically in the afternoon sun.
Sitting on the running board was a swarthy looking man dressed in uniform, reading a newspaper. He sat perusing the racing page, peaked cap perched on the back of his head, eyes scanning the print with a concentration equal to that of an accountant studying a ledger. He didn't notice me approach. I was hesitant, not sure what to do or say. I circled the car peering inside, marvelling at the rich leather upholstery, and the brightly polished chrome. I stared with a mixture of curiosity and awe at the mass of knobs and dials that made up the dashboard, excited by the prospect of actually riding in such a wonderful machine.
A strong hand gripped my shoulder and spun me around. "And what do you think you're doing, young scamp?" I stared up into the steel grey eyes of the chauffeur.
"Cartwright?" I stammered. The man nodded slowly, seemingly expecting a trick of some kind. "I'm Jonathan Walters." He let go his grasp immediately, almost as if my shoulder had become red-hot, and took a pace backwards.
"Your aunt's expecting you," he said, his voice now almost devoid of its previous Cornish lilt. He opened the back door of the Bentley and ushered me inside, then, closing the door behind me, got in himself and started the engine. The car gave a purr of sumptuous power and rolled smoothly away from the kerb.
Soon we had left Devonshire behind and were into Cornwall. We drove northwards for a while before reaching a small town, where we turned off, forsaking the main road in favour of narrow lanes. Cartwright took these at speed, causing me to grip the seat to steady myself as the old car swung and heaved around tight corners. The road widened suddenly and became a series of undulating hills and slopes. The trees and hedgerows flashed by, a blur of green and brown.
A glass partition separated the driver's seat from the rear. I pressed my face to it and peered over Cartwright's shoulder at the speedometer. To my horror I saw that the needle was stuck on the `70'. I rapped the glass with my fist to try and catch the chauffeur's attention. All this seemed to do was to determine him to go even faster, and I listened with a rising feeling of panic as the purr of the engine grew to a roar. The car swerved sharply to avoid something in the road; it may have been a rabbit, but I didn't see for I was thrown to the floor by the sudden manoeuvre. I scrambled to my feet, shaken but otherwise unhurt, and began to pummel the glass. He responded by jerking his thumb back over his shoulder, indicating the speaking tube, which hung suspended by a chain on my side of the partition.
"Slow down!" I shouted into it. "We'll crash."
I watched him, eagerly awaiting a reaction to my plea. There was none; instead he kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. I shouted again, but once more to no avail. Then I noticed that the mouthpiece on his end of the speaking tube was blocked with a brass-capped bung. My efforts had been pointless. I collapsed onto the seat and closed my eyes, praying that this nightmare journey would soon be over.
Some while later I opened my eyes and looked out of the window. The landscape had altered. Purple-carpeted moorland surrounded us. Dwarf shrubs covered much of the treeless terrain, along with prolific heather and untamed grasses, and towards the skyline to the west stood huge outcrops of rock, boulder towers standing sentinel over the land. To the east a river cut across the moor, tumbling over natural dams, twisting and turning its course before narrowing and disappearing beneath the ground, only to reappear in the form of a small lake half a mile away to the north.
As we crossed that desolate expanse of land I occupied my mind with thoughts of home. It was barely seven hours since I had left, but already I was missing it dreadfully. The thought of arriving at Border End was cold comfort indeed when I could picture myself in the cosy atmosphere of our drawing room eating a jam and scone tea with Mother and Ellen.
We left the moor behind and entered yet another lane. To my relief we had slowed to a steady thirty, and at that speed I found it possible to relax and enjoy the ride. After about three miles we came to a fork in the road. There was a signpost, which I managed to read as we passed. The right hand pointed to a place called Pengarth, whilst the left bore the legend `Border End.'
The lane was severed half way along by a pair of massive wrought-iron gates. From one of these hung a large brown board on which was printed the message: `Private Property. Trespassers will be prosecuted.' The Bentley stopped, and Cartwright got out to swing open the gates. After driving the car through he stopped again, just inside the grounds, to close the gates behind us. Following this performance we proceeded along the lane until it became a long gravel drive that led to an oval forecourt.
As I stepped out of the car I took my first look at Border End. I had been expecting a rather grand mansion, instead I was confronted by a large rambling Victorian house which sprawled across my vision, a folly of Gothic excess. There was an aura of neglect and decay about the place. It was this sense of impending ruin, which became my first impression.
Cartwright took my bag and led me round the side of the house. "Mistress takes her tea on the lawn when the weather's fine," he said, by way of explanatio
n.
I followed him past a ramshackle conservatory, which leaned precariously against the west side of the house. We stopped at the edge of a magnificent lawn, which swept down a gradual slope before culminating at an orchard of apple and cherry trees. In the centre of the lawn stood a white garden table, set with the evidence of a high tea in progress. Seated at the table were two women; one middle-aged, possessed of a sallow complexion and gaunt features; the other, elderly, her grey hair piled high on her head, and secured with a comb which was obviously set with stones, for it glinted in the afternoon sun.
The younger woman must have alerted the other to our arrival for she twisted her head slightly and made a quick beckoning movement with her hand. Drawing my courage in a breath I strode briskly across the grass and presented myself at their table.
I studied each of the women in turn. The face of the younger woman was severe, the eyes small and dark, set close together. Her forehead was high, the nose long and straight, the mouth thin, with a suggestion of dark hair above the top lip. Her hair was black and flecked with grey, close cropped and shaped like a cap about her face. She was rather mannish in appearance.
I turned my attention to the elder of the pair. This I decided was my aunt. The face held a noble quality, although it was heavily lined, and those lines had been poorly disguised by a surfeit of make-up. But here was a face of great strength and character; a face that matched perfectly that firm, confident script that was to be found on her letters. Her eyes were of the palest blue, and were shielded from the sun by a green plastic visor that she wore around her head in similar fashion to those worn by riverboat gamblers in the western movies I had seen at our local cinema. This comparison brought an ill-advised smile to my lips.
The younger woman spoke sharply. "Is it the custom at home to stare and laugh at your elders?"
I stammered an apology, which brought a forgiving nod from my aunt.
"Well, sit down, boy...Jonathan, isn't it?" The younger woman got to her feet. "I'll go and tell Cartwright where he is to put your nephew's bags, Madam. I will send Alice out presently with another pot of tea and a few more rounds of sandwiches. Is there anything else you will be requiring?" Aunt Madeleine shook her head and the other woman departed.
After she had gone I sat and waited for my aunt to speak. Minutes passed in silence, and at one point I thought perhaps she had dozed off, but after a furtive glance at her face I saw that her sun-visor had cast a shadow across her eyes, only making them appear closed. Instead they were open and looking beyond me in the direction of the orchard.
It was then that I was struck with the impression of being in the presence of someone of almost infinite years. I had no real idea how old she was but the impression she gave at that first meeting was of immense, and to my young mind, immeasurable age. Suddenly she turned to look at me, and her eyes seemed to cast a spell over me. My head spun and my sight dimmed, and I felt myself slipping from the chair. Then came voices. Ellen's voice, urgent, whispered: `Jonathan.' Aunt Madeleine's sibilant: `Listen, Jonathan. Can you hear them? Listen to what they tell you.' Then other voices, children’s' voices, all talking at once, an excited cacophony of yells and shouts. Excited but not happy, shouting but from fear not joy.
I opened my eyes and looked up at two pale blue suns. I blinked, my vision cleared, and the suns became Aunt Madeleine's eyes, staring down at me, bewitching, concerned.
"Jonathan...Jonathan. Are you all right, child? Are you all right?"
Then I heard feet running on the grass and felt something cool being laid across my forehead. "We had better get him inside, Madam. It must be the heat, that and the journey, together with lack of food, must have brought on the faint. He will be better inside in the shade. It is too soon." The younger woman had returned. With her she had brought Cartwright. He slipped his arms underneath me and picked me up; I could feel the tensing of his muscles beneath the serge of his uniform. At a signal from my aunt he carried me towards the house. Slowly I felt a wave of tiredness ebb over me and I slept.
I awoke in a large ornately furnished room. I was lying on a chaise lounge with a blanket across my legs and a pillow beneath my head. I propped myself up on my elbow and surveyed the room. A dull evening light entered through a high bay window and diffused into the room, casting much of the furniture into shadow. I could make out a grandfather clock and various other bits and pieces. The fireplace was framed by an elaborately carved mantelpiece that was, in turn, bedecked with numerous ornaments, and I In front of the hearth with its back to me stood a tall leather wing chair. I threw the blanket from my legs and sat up.
Almost at once the small noise I made in doing this provoked a reaction from the direction of the fireplace. There came a faint rustling and the sound of a stick being scraped on the floor. From the high-backed chair Aunt Madeleine rose. I caught my breath in a gasp of surprise, as I had believed myself alone in the room. She crossed the floor, walking with the aid of a stout ebony cane, then sat down next to me on the chaise lounge.
"Well, Jonathan," she said, rubbing a hand across my brow. "How are you feeling now? Do you remember what happened?"
"I think I fainted," I said, aware of the coolness of her palm as it stroked the hair from my eyes.
"You did indeed. I must say you had me quite worried."
"I'm sorry, Aunt..." I began.
"No, no, there's no need to apologise. It could not be helped. It is at times like this that I am thankful for Miss Tregear; she is a trained nurse, you know."
"Was she the lady taking tea with you?" I asked. My aunt's gentle manner was making me feel easier about this holiday. She was nothing like the harridan I had been expecting to meet.
"Yes, she serves me as housekeeper here at Border End. She is also my companion..." A sharp tap at the door interrupted her. "Come."
The door was opened and Miss Tregear entered the room. "And how is the patient now?" she said. Her voice was still stern but it had lost some of its edge.
"Fine." Aunt Madeleine answered for me. "I think he might just manage some food now."
"That is what I came to tell you, madam. I have served dinner."
"Very well, Elizabeth. We shall be along shortly." Aunt Madeleine turned to me as Miss Tregear left the room. "Do you fell well enough to eat, Jonathan?"
I nodded eagerly. The last food I had tasted had been the bull’s eyes and there was now a hunger pain gnawing at my stomach.
"Splendid. Here, you can give me your shoulder for support. These legs of mine do not work as I should like them to."
We walked together to the dining room, Aunt Madeleine leaning heavily on my shoulder as we made our way. The table in the dining room was a large rectangle of burnished mahogany. Two places had been set at the far end. In the centre of the table a silver candelabra burned, its candles scented with sandalwood.
During a meal of roast chicken my aunt said little, and if I spoke at all she tapped her plate with her knife and gestured for me to be quiet. It was obvious that Aunt Madeleine had certain disciplines that were to be adhered to, and although no words of admonishment ever issued from her mouth, she expected her company to follow her example. At the end of the meal I sat silent, and waited for her to take the initiative. After we had finished a sweet of fresh fruit salad, she finally spoke.
"I believe that eating, and eating well, is a communion with the soul, and not something to be taken lightly." She peered at me across the table as if waiting for me to agree. I said nothing, feeling this to be the safer course.
"No doubt, my young nephew, you have heard stories about me." I shook my head but she waved a dismissive finger. "Now be honest with me, Jonathan. When you received my invitation I expect you wondered why an old woman should want to be bothered with having a young boy like yourself down to stay with her. Tell me, did your sister, or mother, tell you why I like the children of the family to visit me?"
"They said nothing, Aunt, honestly. I believed I was coming here for a holiday, nothing more
."
She smiled, nodding slowly. "And so you are, nephew, so you are. Come, I want to show you something." She got to her feet and walked across to the sideboard. She bent over and unlocked the door. She took out a small wooden casket and placed it on top of the sideboard. I stood close at her side and watched as she opened it. Inside was a red velvet tray and on this were rows of small gold lockets. There were dozens of them. "Here," she said, and removed the tray revealing another tier below. "And here."
Each locket lay in its own curl of chain, and each was engraved with an intricate floral pattern and a name. Just glancing over them I recognised a few: Norman, a cousin, Ellen was there, another cousin, Patricia. The lockets, in fact, formed an almost complete family tree. Aunts, uncles, all were represented there in gold. I even saw one for my father.
"And here is you." Aunt Madeleine undid the top button of her dress and produced yet another locket, this one engraved with the name Jonathan. "This is ready for when you join us." She took one from the casket, the one with Ellen's name inscribed upon it and ran the chain through her fingers. "Dear Ellen, it seems such a time since she was here."
"Don't you ever get lonely here, Aunt? Living in so remote an area, I mean."
She laughed. "Good heavens, no. How could I possibly be lonely when there are so many of you here."
This answer confused me and I was about to ask her what she meant by it when Alice the maid entered. She was a pretty, local girl, about sixteen, small and on the pleasant side of plump. Her curly dark hair was pinned up and held precariously under a white linen cap. "Miss Tregear said I should clear away the dinner things, Ma'am," she said, curtseying slightly.
"Not now you stupid girl. Can't you see I do not want to be disturbed?" The sudden anger in my aunt's tone surprised me, and I moved away slightly. Alice, either from foolishness or from an uncommonly plucky streak, stood her ground, and even had the temerity to answer back.
"Begging your pardon, Ma'am, but Miss Tregear also told me to tell you that Master Jonathan's bed's been made ready. She's put him in the Blue Room, like you told her."