The Tunnel Behind the Waterfall

by William Corlett

  ‘D’you like sausages?’ Alice asked.

  ‘My staple diet,’ Miss Prewett told her.

  Alice wasn’t sure what a staple diet was, but her opinion of Miss Prewett went up considerably.

  They had lunch at a long table in the walled garden under a big apple tree. The table was covered with a white cloth and Phoebe had put tiny vases of wild flowers all down the centre.

  ‘It looks so pretty,’ Miss Prewett exclaimed.

  ‘We don’t very often have guests,’ Phoebe explained, shyly. ‘It was fun doing it.’

  ‘What about us?’ Alice exclaimed. ‘We’re guests.’

  ‘No you’re not. Al. You’re family. And you can help with the serving,’ Jack told her. ‘It’s a long way from here to the kitchen!’

  The meal started with a cheese soufflé accompanied by a green pea sauce. This was followed by a dish of vegetable lasagne, that Phoebe carried steaming to the table, the smell rich with herbs and garlic. A green salad containing dandelion flowers fried in oil was served with this. For pudding there was a fresh raspberry cream with caramelized sugar on top. Phoebe called it Crême Brulée, which Mary said meant burnt cream. Alice had second helpings of everything and when there wasn’t a space left for another morsel she leaned back in her chair and told Phoebe that she was without question the best cook in the world and that she was definitely giving up sausages for the rest of the day.

  After they had finished eating, the children cleared the table while Jack made coffee then, sitting together in the cool shade with Stephanie sleeping in her pram and Spot curled up under the table, Miss Prewett opened Jonas Lewis’s book.

  ‘You will probably remember, from the last time you borrowed the book, that an awful lot of it is given over to charts and diagrams – all completely meaningless to me, I’m afraid,’ Miss Prewett explained, taking charge of turning the pages and sounding a little as though she was giving a lecture.

  ‘Yes. D’you remember, darling?’ Jack cut in, turning to Phoebe, ‘you were a whizz at translating the Latin!’

  ‘God knows why,’ Phoebe said, shyly. ‘I hardly did any Latin at school and what I did do, I was hopeless at.’ She looked over Miss Prewett’s shoulder as the pages slowly turned, revealing drawings of suns and moons, flowers and fish, sheets covered with neat lists of letters and numbers. ‘The extraordinary thing is,’ Phoebe said, speaking half to herself, ‘I feel as though I’ve seen it all before. But I know I haven’t . . .’

  ‘Look,’ Alice said, stopping Miss Prewett at one page. ‘That’s a picture of your necklace, Phoebe.’ And Phoebe’s hand went automatically to the little pendant of the sun and the moon with the twisting dragons between them that Jack had found in the house and given her for Christmas. There on the page in front of them was an identical coloured drawing.

  ‘And it’s the same as the weathervane we found in the cellar,’ William added. ‘The one Dan and I fixed to the top of the dovecote.’ As he spoke they all looked towards the dovecote at the centre of the garden and saw the weathervane at its top, with the silver discs below it that could spin in a breeze but which were motionless on this hot, still afternoon.

  ‘Perhaps it’s the crest of the original owner of the house,’ Miss Prewett suggested. ‘His name was Stephen Tyler and I believe he was highly thought of . . . though I can’t find out much about him. Now, I mustn’t get sidetracked. That’s always been one of my failings. History gets under your skin. One tries to imagine how things used to be. This place, for instance. If only these walls could talk!’ She looked round at the garden and the back of the house appearing over the brick wall. Then she threw up her hands. ‘There I go! Stick to the point, woman! Stick to the . . . I’ll leave you the book to look at at your leisure. It really belongs here, after all.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Jack said. ‘I expect Meg would like to see it again. It was she and her mother who sold it, you know.’

  ‘Yes. It seems that the Lewis family have always been in straitened circumstances. Which brings us to a present crisis. By the way, two bits of news. I understand that the Forestry Commission have turned down an application for access across their land. Not that that means a lot, I’m afraid. Pressure can always be brought to bear on these government departments. And, of course, this scheme has the backing of our local MP, the ubiquitous Mrs Sutcliffe. Ghastly woman. Always gives the impression that she knows better than anyone else. Heaven defend us from Members of Parliament! Funny breed! Now, where was I? What was I saying?’

  ‘That you have two bits of news,’ Jack prompted her, kicking Alice to stop her staring open-mouthed at Miss Prewett.

  ‘What?’ Alice said, jumping.

  ‘Sorry! My foot slipped!’ Jack said hurriedly.

  ‘Close your mouth, Alice,’ Phoebe said, trying not to laugh. ‘You’ll catch a fly. And don’t stare!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Alice said quietly. But really, she couldn’t help it. She thought Miss Prewett one of the most peculiar people she’d ever met. She spoke so fast and used such weird words that being with her was like being with a foreign person.

  ‘Two bits of news,’ Jack prompted. ‘You’ve told us about the Forestry Commission . . .’

  ‘Forestry Commission?’ Miss Prewett sounded totally mystified. ‘Have I? What did I say?’

  ‘That they’ve refused access across their land to the lake.’

  ‘Oh! You’ve heard that, have you? I was going to tell you that.’

  ‘You just did,’ Jack murmured.

  Miss Prewett threw up her hands and hooted with laughter.

  ‘“Age and its oft-time infirmities”! Don’t get old, you children. It’s ghastly. Sometimes I have a struggle to remember my own name! Now where was I? Think, woman! Concentrate. I’ve told you about the Commission. What was the other thing? Oh, yes. Miss Lewis.’ She beamed with pleasure. ‘It’s so good when the old brain actually works. Now, I have a friend, Joan Benson. She works in Martin Marsh’s office. Actually she’s not a friend. But I know her. She’s a very garrulous woman. Never stops talking. I can’t get a word in edgeways sometimes. Imagine!’

  All her audience were clearly finding it difficult to imagine anything of the sort, but for now they remained silent and politely attentive.

  ‘Anyway, Joan Benson told me that Martin Marsh has received a letter from Miss Lewis turning down their offer to buy her out of her small-holding!’

  ‘But that’s wonderful news!’ Jack exclaimed.

  Suddenly their quiet conversation was disturbed by the noise of furious barking, and Spot shot out from under the table, snarling and yapping angrily.

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Spot?’ Jack yelled. ‘Shut up!’

  But Spot was too busy snuffling in the undergrowth on the other side of the path from where they were sitting to pay any attention to Jack’s words.

  ‘What’s got into him?’ Phoebe exclaimed, as Stephanie, disturbed by the noise, started to cry noisily. ‘Somebody stop that dog!’ she shouted, picking Stephanie up out of her pram and rocking her soothingly.

  ‘Spot! What’s the matter with you?’ Alice asked, running to the dog. Then she screamed and froze in her tracks.

  ‘Now what’s the matter with you, Alice?’ Jack roared.

  ‘There’s a rat!’ Alice wailed.

  ‘What?’ Phoebe cried. ‘Where?’

  ‘There!’ William shouted as, at the same moment, a big, grey rat shot from the cover of the bushes and ran fast up the garden path pursued by Spot, who was now barking hysterically.

  The forest gate at the back of the garden was ajar and they all watched as the rat scooted out of sight, followed moments later by Spot. They heard the dog continuing to bark as he followed his quarry up the steep rise, beyond the wall, through the forest.

  ‘Oh!’ Phoebe grimaced. ‘Sorry! But I really hate rats!’ and she cooed and cuddled Stephanie perhaps more for her own comfort than for the baby’s.

  During this entire distraction Miss Prewett had remained
motionless and with her mouth open. Now that it had passed, she swallowed nervously and brushed some hair away from her forehead, with her hand.

  ‘Yes, sorry about that!’ Jack said, brightly. ‘Never mind. Panic over! Just one of the hazards of living in the country! Funny though. You don’t usually see rats in the middle of summer – though they must be there, of course. Now,’ he smiled reassuringly at Miss Prewett, ‘what were you saying?’

  ‘Oh – dear Mr . . . You can’t expect me to remember? Not after all that excitement.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Jack cried, enthusiastically. ‘You’d just given us the good news that Meg Lewis isn’t going to sell Four Fields to the crawly Crawdens!’ And as he spoke they all returned to their seats.

  Miss Prewett grimaced.

  ‘I wouldn’t be over the moon about that, if I were you. I’m afraid I think it only a temporary respite, Mr . . .’

  ‘You promised to call me Jack.’

  ‘Did I? How forward of me!’

  ‘But if Meg says she won’t sell,’ William insisted, ‘surely that’s the end of the story?’

  ‘Dear child,’ Miss Prewett scoffed. ‘They’ll come back with a better offer. They’ll get her in the end. Everyone has a price.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Meg hasn’t,’ William said, leaping to his friend’s defence. ‘She loves it here – she’s known the valley all her life.’

  ‘Well, we shall see – but it seems to me it would be far better to discover that none of the land actually belongs to the Crawden family,’ Miss Prewett insisted. ‘That would really cook their goose. You must agree with that?’

  ‘Why are you so certain that it doesn’t?’ Jack asked.

  ‘No, I’m not certain,’ Miss Prewett protested. ‘I didn’t say that. But I am curious.’

  ‘But – why?’

  ‘This book,’ she answered, tapping the book where it lay open on the table in front of her. ‘I just had this . . . vague memory at the back of my head . . . that I’d seen . . . something . . .’

  ‘So – is there anything in the book that can help us?’ Phoebe asked, sounding almost impatient. Miss Prewett’s chatter was obviously beginning to irritate even her.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Miss Prewett said, leafing through towards the end. ‘And yet . . . listen to this. It’s from near the end of the book,’ she cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses and started to read: ‘“All is lost. The gold has reverted. Crawden has come to me. I think he knows what has taken place. He will take the house in payment. All is lost. I am finished. Fool’s gold. Fool’s gold.” Miss Prewett took off her glasses and polished them. ‘It seems, though it’s pretty hard to believe, that old Jonas Lewis thought he’d managed to make gold and with it he’d tried to pay off the debts he had incurred through gambling. I rather think he hadn’t actually been gambling with Crawden – but he’d borrowed money from him. One of the ways the Crawdens made their money was through lending. At the end of the last century, there was a lot of poverty. A person with a private income could do very nicely . . .’

  ‘Miss Prewett, please!’ Phoebe cried. ‘Just tell us what it says in the book.’

  ‘Sorry! Was I off again? Now, you’ll remember the story. The house was at one time lived in by an alchemist – and this book, written by Lewis, is crammed with alchemical allusions. There’s nothing all that unusual about that. I mean there are many books on alchemy. Some are still being written. But, of course, no one seriously believes that the alchemists could really make gold. And yet, here . . .’ she stabbed her finger on the page in front of her, ‘here is a man who claims that he has done just that – made gold! It’s fascinating stuff.’

  ‘Well, if he did manage it,’ Jack said, speaking in a slightly mocking voice, ‘he didn’t seem to do it very well! The stuff reverted. He says so there. If it was gold – it wasn’t gold for long.’

  ‘Quite,’ Miss Prewett agreed. ‘But whatever had been going on, he lost the house because of it. Listen to this next page.’ She put her glasses back on and turned the page and started to read: ‘“December 15th. We are to be out by the end of the year. Crawden will take the house. We have agreed on the land. Papers are to be signed. It is the best I can do. The Magus must not know. It will be good to be gone from this place.”’

  Miss Prewett looked round at her audience.

  ‘Now what do you suppose that means? “We have agreed on the land. Papers are to be signed. It is the best I can do . . .”? It sounds to me as though the land was being held in some sort of trust.’

  ‘But without the papers we can prove nothing,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘Where are the papers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Miss Prewett answered thoughtfully. ‘Your solicitor told you that the house deeds had been lost in a fire. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mmmh,’ she mused thoughtfully, and she turned the page. ‘Listen! This is almost the last entry in the book.’ She started to read again.

  ‘“December 28th: I know what I must do.

  This art must ever secret be,

  The cause whereof is this, as ye may see;

  If one evil man had thereof all his will,

  All Christian peace he might easily spill,

  And with his pride he might pull down

  Rightful kings and princes of renown.

  The king comes forth from the fire and rejoices. So be it. To the fire I will return all I have achieved.

  December 29th. Will Hardwick will help me with the stones. It must be done tomorrow. Crawden may find the secret room, but he must never find the laboratory. Or, if he does, in God’s name I must see to it that it is empty.”’ Miss Prewett looked up again, her voice shaking. ‘What can it all mean? And then, finally, the poor man writes: “Whoever reads this let him take heed. The Gold is not for use. The Magus watches. The Magus knows. The Magus owns us all. I am ruined. May the Lord God have mercy on my soul.”’

  The silence that followed was broken by Phoebe shivering.

  ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t like that book the last time we had it in the house. I like it even less now.’

  ‘The laboratory,’ William said, thoughtfully. ‘Where was the laboratory?’

  ‘What does any of it mean?’ Jack exclaimed, exasperatedly. ‘It’s so nonsensical!’

  The three children avoided each other’s eyes. They knew so much more than the adults. The book made sense to them because they knew that what Jonas Lewis had written had actually taken place.

  ‘Fascinating stuff though,’ Miss Prewett remarked, cheerfully, breaking the mood of tension that had descended on them all.

  ‘Anyway,’ Jack continued, glumly, ‘Whatever it’s all about, I can’t see that it helps us in the slightest degree. Damn! I really thought we might find something . . .’

  ‘But we have, Mr . . . we have. We know that there was some agreement between Crawden and Lewis over the land!’ Miss Prewett cried.

  ‘That doesn’t help us,’ Jack exclaimed. ‘Not if we don’t know what it was. Not if we can’t prove it. In about five years’ time, somebody will be sitting here in this garden with merry hell blasting forth from a funfair at the top of that cliff. But I’ll tell you all one thing, it won’t be me.’ And, getting up, he stamped away down the garden path and disappeared into the yard.

  ‘Oh dear,’ Miss Prewett said, mournfully. ‘I’m afraid Mr . . . Jackson . . . is taking all this very much to heart. But you mustn’t give up hope, you know. The battle isn’t lost. Though I must admit I don’t know where to turn for help.’

  20

  Thinking

  SPOT HADN’T RETURNED by supper time. Alice stood at the forest gate, calling his name, until Phoebe came up the garden path and told her to come back to the house. Night was closing in over the forest and, after the heat of the day, a slight breeze was blowing.

  ‘We’ll leave the kitchen door open for him,’ Phoebe told her. ‘He’s often gone off before. He’ll be all right. He might have gone to see Meg. Come along,
Alice. Don’t worry any more . . .’

  Reluctantly Alice walked with Phoebe back down the centre path of the walled garden. As they were passing the dovecote, an owl hooted. Looking up, Alice saw him sitting on one of the top ledges. She hoped that it was Jasper, that he might have come with some news, but as she watched the bird flapped its wings and disappeared, flying away over the roof of the house. A sharp barking sound made them both look over their shoulders, expectantly. Then Phoebe shook her head.

  ‘Fox,’ she said.

  Again Alice hesitated. She thought that it might be Cinnabar, coming in search of the children with some information. But once again she was disappointed for, moments later, they heard it barking further away in the forest. Still she and Phoebe remained standing, listening to the night sounds; a late bird chattering, the breeze in the trees, the distant hooting of an owl.

  ‘You would think a place like this would be safe for ever,’ Phoebe said, putting an arm round Alice’s shoulder.

  ‘Is there really nothing we can do to stop them?’ Alice asked her.

  ‘I doubt it. In fact most people are actually in favour of the scheme. I suppose, in a way, I can understand it. There isn’t a lot going on round here. The theme park idea would bring about a lot of building work. Then, once the place was opened, there’d be plenty of new. jobs just staffing it and, of course, the visitors would bring in lots of extra capital. In a way it’s true what was said at the meeting – going ahead with the scheme would bring a new lease of life to the area.’

  ‘So does it matter all that much if it goes ahead or not?’ Alice asked her.

  ‘It does to us,’ Phoebe replied. ‘But I’m sure that’s selfish on our part. So all we can do, if it comes to it, is cut our losses and sell up.’

  ‘Sell Golden House?’ Alice asked, appalled at the thought.

  ‘Yes. There isn’t really any other alternative.’

  ‘Oh, Phoebe! You wouldn’t?’ Alice cried.