The Tunnel Behind the Waterfall

by William Corlett

  ‘Oh, that’s odd, isn’t it?’ Colonel Dearing said sarcastically. ‘The Crawden family haven’t been near the place for forty years and now, suddenly, your son wants to go fishing there?’

  ‘There is no law, so far as I am aware, Colonel,’ Charles Crawden replied, still smiling but with a cold edge to his voice, ‘that states when a man should and should not inhabit his estate. Unless of course you subscribe to squatter’s rights?’

  ‘No, of course I don’t. If you don’t want people to fish there, you should put up a notice.’

  ‘And how does your son propose to get to his fishing lake?’ Mr Jenkins, Jack and Phoebe’s neighbour, asked, rising to his feet.

  ‘And you are . . .?’ Crawden asked, his eyes narrowing and the smile now so stuck to his face it looked as if it would crack.

  ‘Jenkins, local farmer. From the moor road. Your lot have already been in touch with me. I own some of the land you want.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Now I recall. Well, Mr Jenkins, as the last speaker so ably pointed out, there are public rights of way . . .’

  ‘Footpaths, yes. But not roadways. What about your future customers? Are you expecting them to walk from the Moor Road to this holiday camp you’re going to build?’ Mr Jenkins said. ‘You can study any ordnance survey, you’ll find no roads running across my land. The only track my side of Goldenwater leads to Four Fields. I’m right about that, aren’t I, Miss Lewis?’

  ‘Yes,’ Meg replied, shyly. ‘When my grandfather sold the estate to the Crawden family it was all private land. He kept back Four Fields and made the cart track through the forest at that time.’

  ‘There is, I believe, vehicular access to the forestry land beyond your smallholding, Miss Lewis?’ Martin Marsh said, referring to a map that he had produced from his briefcase.

  ‘There is a track, yes. But not as far as Goldenwater.’

  ‘These are all matters that will have to be looked into and ironed out,’ Mr Marsh said, folding the map once more.

  ‘Are there any other questions?’ Mrs Sutcliffe asked, as though she were anxious to change the subject.

  ‘Yes. I have one,’ Miss Prewett said, making all eyes turn towards where the Golden House party were standing.

  ‘Yes, Miss Prewett?’ Mrs Sutcliffe said, then turning to Charles Crawden she said in an audible whisper, ‘this is the local historian I was telling you about, Charles.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ Crawden said, turning and beaming in the direction of Miss Prewett. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Do you have proof that your family actually owns the land?’ Miss Prewett asked in a clear voice.

  Her question caused a ripple of interest to stir through the assembled audience. Charles Crawden was obviously so nonplussed by the question that he turned and leaned across Mrs Sutcliffe to consult with his solicitor. Martin Marsh, meanwhile, was riffling through the contents of his briefcase.

  ‘What an extraordinary question,’ he muttered. ‘I haven’t actually got the deeds on me. But, yes, of course the land belongs to the Crawden family.’

  ‘Why do you ask, Miss Prewett?’ Charles Crawden enquired.

  ‘Casual interest, Mr Crawden,’ she replied. ‘I am an historian, you see. These things are an abiding fascination. One so often finds, in my line of work, that assumptions have been made and that, as the years have passed, those assumptions have become accepted as fact.’

  ‘Well, I assure you that, in this case, the facts are the facts. Goldenwater is on Crawden land. Who else could it possibly belong to?’

  Mr Crawden was asking a rhetorical question and turned away, not expecting an answer.

  ‘Well,’ Miss Prewett replied, her voice ringing out, ‘if the land was not sold with Golden House to your family, then it would still belong to the Golden House estate – as it has done ever since it was purchased from the Crown Estates, during the last year of the reign of Edward the Sixth. The land had originally belonged to the Abbey of Llangarren – which was dissolved in 1539 . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Prewett,’ Mrs Sutcliffe cut in. ‘But we are not here for one of your endless history lessons . . .’

  Her remark received some good-humoured laughter from the hall, but it did nothing to stop Miss Prewett, who was now on her favourite topic and seemed unaware of the interruption.

  ‘The details of this transaction,’ she continued, ‘are in the museum library. The Quiet House, as it was known, in Gelden Valley had already fallen into disrepair long before the purchaser, Stephen Tyler, took possession in 1552 . . .’

  To hear Stephen Tyler’s name mentioned was a shock for the three children. But it also had the most spectacular effect on Charles Crawden. He swung round, rising up out of his chair, and faced Miss Prewett. His face had changed from baby-pink to a strong scarlet and he was not smiling any more.

  ‘Stephen Tyler?’ he roared. ‘What has the legend of a magician got to do with the twentieth century? Please don’t waste my time with red herrings, woman! The Crawden family own Goldenwater and we intend to develop it. That is the end of the matter.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence and then a lot of voices started speaking at once. Martin Marsh closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. Mrs Sutcliffe tried to regain order and Crawden sat down, looking flushed and flummoxed and obviously aware of what a foolish thing he had done with this outburst.

  Mrs Sutcliffe seemed incapable of controlling the audience now. After a hurried conversation with her colleagues on the platform and a feeble attempt to call for order, she declared the meeting closed, and the three speakers left the stage and hurried out of the hall through a door in the back wall.

  As Jack drove Miss Prewett back to her home he asked her what had prompted her question about ownership.

  ‘Just a hunch, Mr Brown,’ she replied. ‘Oh, what a pity your grandfather wasn’t still with us, Miss Lewis . . . you see, I remember your name,’ she said, almost embracing Meg in her enthusiasm, ‘because you’re part of our history. If only we could go back in time.’ The children glanced at each other, but remained silent. ‘I have a feeling that the only thing the Crawdens bought from your family was the house,’ Miss Prewett continued, without seeming to pause for breath. ‘It’s all in that book. The one your grandfather wrote. I must look it up again. I’m sure there’s something in it about the estate. But you, Mr . . . oh, what is your name?’

  ‘Why don’t you call me Jack?’ he asked, with a laugh.

  ‘Because I’d probably end up calling you Tom! That’s why!’ Miss Prewett replied. ‘Here we are,’ she cried, as Jack nearly missed her cottage gate. Climbing out of the Land-Rover, she thanked them for the lift and then called, ‘You should check your deeds, as well Mr . . .’

  ‘Green!’ the children all called in unison.

  ‘Yes, quite!’ Miss Prewett said. ‘That’s precisely what I was going to say. Good night to you all. I’ll look up that book as soon as I have a minute. I just have a hunch . . .’ and, still talking, she disappeared up the dark path to her front door.

  12

  In the Tree House

  THE HOUSE DEEDS revealed nothing that they didn’t already know. The original was with the mortgage company, but Jack had a photocopy. With them he was able to establish that Golden House, together with two acres of land, lying mainly to the east, west and south of the property had been transferred to his possession. There was no mention at all of the lake, nor of the land that surrounded it.

  ‘Mind you,’ Jack explained, ‘these deeds only go back as far as nineteen hundred – when the Crawdens purchased the property from the Lewis family. I asked my solicitor about that, when we were buying the house. It’s all quite legal – but not very satisfactory. There is a covering letter, explaining that new deeds had to be drawn up, as the previous ones had been destroyed in a house fire . . . I think that’s what it said. I haven’t a copy here. My solicitor’s got it.’

  ‘But in that case,’ Phoebe observed, ‘surely the land could still belong to M
eg. D’you see what I mean, Jack? If her grandfather had sold the Crawdens all the land – then surely it would appear in the deeds.’

  ‘Yes, you’d think so. But the Crawdens must have some proof of ownership. They’d never have gone this far without being sure of their case.’

  ‘I think Miss Prewett was just clutching at straws,’ Phoebe said, glumly.

  ‘We’ll see what she turns up in that book,’ Jack told them. ‘I’ll call in at the museum, next time I’m in town.’ Not for the first time they all wished that Golden House had a telephone. ‘We are supposed to be getting a line put through – but, as you know, we’re in “the forgotten corner of England”!’ Jack said, quoting from Martin Marsh’s speech, with a grin.

  Then, as so often happens, the drama of the planning application faded into the background as other pressing events took over.

  Dan and Arthur had been working on an outhouse in the yard, when the roof caved in and they both narrowly escaped being crushed by the debris. It was nobody’s fault, but Arthur made a lot of noise about compensation and danger money and Jack lost his temper. Arthur immediately went into a sulk and threatened to walk out and Jack was forced to apologize. He explained that Stephanie had developed a bad cough and that he’d been up all night and . . .

  ‘It really wasn’t my fault the roof caved in, Arthur.’

  ‘I’m not saying it was your fault, Mr Green. I’m merely pointing out that I am flesh and blood and you’re very lucky that my flesh and blood isn’t now squashed all over your backyard. That’s what I’m saying.’

  ‘And I am apologizing,’ Jack said.

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ Arthur grumbled. ‘But I can’t spend your apology, can I? What good’s your apology?’

  ‘But – nothing happened to you, Arthur . . .’ Jack exclaimed, almost losing his temper again.

  ‘Could have, Mr Green, that’s the point. Think what could have happened.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Arthur,’ Dan said quietly. ‘It was our fault. Mr Green might just as well ask us to compensate him for knocking down his outhouse.’

  ‘Whose side are you on, lad?’ Arthur had moaned. Then, with a lot more protesting, he’d gradually let the matter drop.

  After a couple of days Phoebe decided to take Stephanie to the doctor. She and Jack had both been up most of each night nursing the baby. Consequently they were both lacking sleep and got bad-tempered with each other and with the children.

  ‘I’ll call in at the museum,’ Phoebe said at breakfast that morning, ‘and see what Miss Prewett has discovered.’

  She asked the children if they wanted to drive into the town with her, but they all agreed that it was too hot and that they’d prefer to go to the lake.

  ‘D’you think it’s still all right to go up to Goldenwater?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said. ‘The worst that can happen is that you’ll be told to leave. But, as was pointed out by that man from the Ramblers’ Association, there are masses of rights of way up there.’

  So the children packed a simple picnic – it was too hot to carry more than some fruit and a packet of biscuits – and they set out soon after breakfast, accompanied by Spot, who panted a great deal in protest at the weather.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ he’d told Alice. ‘You’re not covered in fur, are you? Besides, panting cools me down.’

  They walked slowly up through the forest, climbing the steep path that led to the badger sett and the yew tree on the heights above Golden Valley. The sun bore down, blasting them with heat whenever they came out of the shade of the trees.

  Up above in the cloudless sky a solitary black bird wheeled and turned.

  ‘Could it be the Magician?’ Alice called to the others, hopefully. ‘Like when he was in the kestrel? What d’you think, Mare?’

  Mary shaded her eyes and looked up at the bird. Then she shrugged.

  ‘Don’t know. It’s too far away to see what kind of bird it is.’

  ‘What difference would that make?’ Alice said. ‘The Magician can be in anything.’

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be in a rat, would he? Or in a spider. Or in a fly. I mean, those are the kind of creatures that Morden uses.’

  ‘But this is a bird, Mary,’ Alice said, as though she was speaking to an imbecile.

  ‘I know that, Alice,’ Mary snapped back, the heat making them both irritable. ‘But Morden might go in birds as well. Horrible ones like . . . vultures and . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There are some birds that frighten me, like rats do you.’

  ‘I like birds,’ Alice said, comfortably. ‘I’ve been in a blackbird and a swallow . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Alice!’ Mary warned.

  ‘. . . and we all went in the kestrel,’ Alice continued, beginning to smile. ‘You don’t like birds, Mary, because you were scared when Jasper took you hunting at Christmas and you had to eat that mouse.’

  ‘Alice!’ Mary said, her voice sounding dangerous.

  ‘There was all blood everywhere, wasn’t there?’ Alice gloated, warming to her subject and enjoying making Mary squirm. ‘You could taste the blood, couldn’t you? And it dribbled down your face and you had to lick it off your chin . . .’

  ‘I said shut up!’ Mary said, really losing her temper. ‘I mean it, Alice. Shut up!’

  Alice sighed and brushed her hair away from her face. It was too hot to fight. She stared up at the black dot of a bird again, wheeling up above them. ‘Spot. Is that Mr Tyler up there?’ she asked.

  But the dog didn’t even bother to look up.

  ‘Stop talking!’ he growled. ‘It’s far too hot for that.’

  As they neared the yew tree Alice, who was trailing behind, called to the others to wait for her.

  ‘I’m going up to the tree house, anyway,’ William said, speaking for the first time since they’d started out.

  William had been silent a lot since their last visit to the room at the top of the chimney. Mary had once or twice challenged him to ‘stop working things out, William’ which had made him irritable and proved that he was doing just that. Now, as he hurried ahead and disappeared into the cool depths of the yew branches, it seemed to Mary that he was trying to get away and to be on his own.

  ‘Where’s Will?’ Alice asked, puffing into view, red-faced and exhausted, followed by Spot.

  ‘Gone up to the tree house,’ Mary replied, sounding glum.

  ‘Ugh!’ Alice groaned, sinking to the ground and lying flat on her back. ‘I hope they put a lift in!’

  ‘Who? Where?’ Mary asked, without much interest.

  ‘Those people – when they build the adventure park or whatever it is. I hope they put a lift from the bottom of the valley up to here.’

  ‘You’re impossible, Alice,’ Mary said. ‘You really don’t care, do you?’

  ‘Not now, I don’t,’ Alice replied, closing her eyes. ‘It’s too hot to care.’

  Spot, meanwhile, crawled towards the welcome shade of some bushes and lay down with his tongue hanging out and his eyes closed.

  Up above them the black bird circled, its wings creaking on the torpid air.

  ‘Listen,’ Mary said, looking up and again shading her eyes. ‘Can you hear its wings beating?’

  Alice squinted at the sky. As she did so, for a moment, she saw a small girl, lying on the parched grass, looking up at her. Slowly turning on outstretched wings, she stared down at the girl beneath her. Then, as a single rough sound rose in her throat and broke as a croaking squawk, echoing and reverberating on the hot air, so she tilted her wings and stretched her head, pointing her sharp beak towards the earth.

  ‘Oh!’ Alice gasped, sitting up and automatically protecting her face with outstretched hands.

  ‘What?’ Mary asked.

  Alice saw only the dusty tree tops disappearing over the side of the valley in front of her and the hot, languid morning that surrounded them. Spot was asleep under the bush and Mary had turned to look at her with concern.

  �
�Alice?’ she said, sounding alarmed. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ her sister replied in a small, fearful voice. Then she looked up at the sky again, seeing the bird retreating on a long upward spiral into the blue haze.

  ‘Al?’ Mary said, more gently. ‘Something happened to you. Are you all right?’

  Alice looked at her sister. ‘I think so,’ she said. Then, kneeling, she searched the dense foliage of the tree, looking for any sign of the hidden room. ‘William,’ she called.

  ‘What?’ a voice above her asked.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Watching that bird,’ William replied.

  ‘Did you see what happened?’ she called, then she got up and ran through the branches to the dark interior of the yew.

  It was cooler under the tree, but dry and airless. She found the first foothold and started to climb up the trunk. Reaching the iron ring, she grasped hold, stretched across to the platform and hauled herself up, panting and perspiring. Then she edged her way round the trunk, ducked under the spreading branch, and saw, ahead of her, light spilling out of the door of the tree house.

  William was sitting on the solitary chair in front of an open window. The other windows had their shutters closed, but the light from this single opening was so dazzling that it blinded Alice and made her shield her eyes.

  William was sitting as motionless as a statue, staring out. As Alice ran towards him, he seemed scarcely to be aware of her presence.

  ‘William,’ she said, breathlessly.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I told you – watching that bird.’

  Alice stood back from him, watching. Then, putting her hands in the pockets of her shorts, she waited. William didn’t move. He was so still that he seemed to be hardly breathing. His eyes stared, unblinkingly, into the light.

  ‘You’re up to something, aren’t you?’ Alice whispered at last.

  ‘Alice!’ William protested.

  ‘What?’ she nagged.

  ‘Oh, you are impossible!’ her brother snapped, turning to glare at her.

  ‘Why? What?’ Alice protested.