by A. J. Elwood
I must go further, for I feel my letter would be half incomplete if I did not mention not what is missing from the book, but some rather wild matter contained therein. I am no great writer, nor a philosopher. I am not possessed of any special wisdom that lifts me above other men, and yet in the name of common sense, I must address something that I cannot help but feel is disfiguring to the whole. My position as, I hope, your friend and would-be assistant speaks against it, but I must say it; I should feel dishonest if I did not.
I refer to the question of clairvoyance, and its use in detecting the presence of fairies not through the agency of the eye, but the mind. The ‘observations’ made by a Mr Sergeant (a pseudonymous name, I believe), not only of fairies but undines and wood elves, nymphs, brownies, gnomes and goblins, which fairly seem to have swarmed to Cottingley Glen to meet him in numbers worthy of an invading army, cannot but stretch credulity, particularly as they stand unsupported by any evidence save that of his avowed good character.
I recognise that Sir Arthur has a greater interest in the direction of spiritualism than in fairies, and that the clairvoyant in question is a friend of your own. I mean nothing ill. Rather, in reflecting the accusations that others will make, I hope I merely carry out some small service to the cause in which we are united, or ought to be.
Further – and here I take the risk, I know, of losing your regard entirely, but I must say it – I refer to the explanations provided of the nature and purpose of fairy existence that are put forward by the Theosophists.
Sir, I know that you are a noted member of that organisation, even serving as President of its Blavatsky Lodge, and I am sure they must do much good in the world; I apologise if my comments seem disrespectful. Perhaps it is my own ignorance or lack of understanding, but it seems to me that to describe in such detail the fairy business of making plants grow – with some tending to the leaves, others the roots, and some painting the flowers their various colours – is more than a little fanciful. We have scarcely proved the reality of fairies before unveiling them as the vital link between the sun’s energy and the leaf!
Furthermore, the book explains the different species of fairy required for the numerous tasks involved in making a plant grow, and puts down their method to that mysterious concept of ‘magnetism’. How could we know such things? We are describing the dark side of the moon by means of a match! It can surely withstand no serious questioning.
I do not wish to trample upon your beliefs – indeed, I am sure in other aspects it must be a very admirable system – but this is very wild, and surely has no place within a serious approach to the subject. And for the book to suggest, after all my experiences, that such beings possess no real material body – even further, that the fairies do not die as humans do…!
But I will leave it there, at the risk of alienating you for ever. I hope you will forgive my consternation and give credence to my genuine intentions. I simply feel that something of a steadier and more closely observed nature would have had greater efficacy. But perhaps Sir Arthur felt, as he says somewhere, ‘The human race does not deserve fresh evidence, since it has not troubled, as a rule, to examine that which already exists.’
Or – and do I dare hope? – he wishes to stretch the matter to a second volume, filled out with what has befallen us, to strike down the disbelieving critics of the first?
But again, I beg you to have patience with the length of my letter and indeed its manner, for my aim was never to displease you. And I beg you to reply – not only to give any hint of a reason which may be at your disposal as to the omission of my photographs, but to reassure me that I have not trespassed too far upon your tolerance as to be unable to sign myself,
Your humble servant,
Lawrence Fenton
9
I didn’t come to Mrs Favell’s bedroom searching for this. The letter was placed on top of the bureau, in plain view, as if waiting for me; as if she’d known I would be here at this moment. I hadn’t come to take anything or to snoop. I hadn’t even expected there to be more to the story. I came here with gifts; I tell myself they’re gifts.
And Lawrence Fenton, that seeker after fairies, isn’t shown in a good light. Suddenly I don’t know what I’m doing here. It doesn’t surprise me that he couldn’t leave his encounter with the folk behind him, but I thought he’d been content with his family: Charlotte with her sight restored, everyone safe. Now he seems like a man who only wants his brush with fame – or notoriety. But surely he’d only wanted to be in the book because he thought he knew the fairies best?
It’s as if she left this here to distract me. I came here with a purpose and even if that is nonsense too, there’s no reason not to go on. What can I lose by it?
I grip my bag tighter. In it are the things I purchased at a little shop tucked away down a side street near the florist, before I headed back. I’d never been inside before. It was full of bric-abrac and antiques, what my mum would have called jumble. The things I found weren’t quite what I sought, but I think they will do. There’s a small Bible, its leather cover worn to soft silkiness, the flyleaf covered in crabbed handwriting I can’t read, and an old paperknife. I had wanted iron scissors that I could open into the shape of a cross, but the old man in the shop assured me that the knife is made of iron, that substance so repellent to the fairies. It feels rough and dry to my touch; it is old and blackened and cold.
There’s also the item I brought from the pantry. That should have been easier, though the second chef had walked in as I was filling the container I’d had the foresight to lift from the staffroom. I explained that we needed sugar for our coffee and she nodded, but it wasn’t sugar I’d taken: it was salt.
I open it and sprinkle the contents onto the carpet, trying to make a solid line across the bottom of the door. I rub it in a little with my foot. If anyone sees it I’ll be in trouble, at least if they can connect it to me, but the line fragments and I’m not sure anyone would notice. I hope it will still be enough.
I wonder again what I’m doing. Isn’t it madness to think this might work – even more so to act upon that belief? But I’ve begun and may as well go on.
Next is the paperknife. My choice seems more apt by the moment. I decide to be bold and place it in plain view and I put it down on top of the letter. If the missive was a message to me, here is mine in return. If she wants to put the letter away, she’ll have to touch the knife. If she complains to anyone about finding it here, if she accuses me, I’ll say I found it downstairs and assumed it was hers. They’ll think one of the other residents misplaced it, or a visitor. Mrs Favell won’t, but what can she say?
It’s not as if I’m stealing.
That leaves the Bible. I look around. Hartland’s book suggested placing it under a crib to ward away the fairies, but I lift her pillow and push the book underneath. I see at once it won’t work. It’s small, but still too bulky. I’d rather she didn’t know it was there. I remove it and pause, looking down at the cross embossed into the cover, a little gilt still clinging to the leather.
Is that a footstep I hear in the corridor?
Without further thought I open the Bible and rip out a few of its pages. They’re too thin to tear cleanly but are pulled in half and I stare down at them, catching the words, Honour thy father and thy mother. I grimace, hastily lift the mattress and place the loose pages underneath, right in the centre, hoping that housekeeping won’t find them when they make the bed.
Another step – outside the door? I’m expecting her, of course. Her lunchtime is over and she won’t long tolerate the conversation downstairs. That was the point. I need to see what happens when she tries to walk across the threshold.
I realise I’m still holding the Bible. I shove it under her pillow after all and turn to see two shadows breaking the line of light spilling underneath the door. I wait, holding my breath. For a moment I think I’m mistaken because those shadows don’t move for what feels a long time, then the handle rattles and the door opens.
The scrape of it against the carpet is too loud, grainy, and I catch my breath. Will it have broken the line of salt?
Mrs Favell stands there, her eyes narrowed, her face blank. I’m reminded of our first day again, but now our positions are reversed. I’m the one waiting to see who she is and what she will do, but her eyes are brightening by the moment, and she doesn’t even look at me. Am I so unimportant to her – after what she’s done? I curl my hands into fists.
She steps cleanly over the threshold and into the room.
‘Did you require something, Rose?’ Her voice is ice. Nothing about her has changed. The salt didn’t stop her for a second, didn’t even give her pause. Does that prove something? Have I lost my mind – or has my fear negated its power? Did I simply not use enough?
‘I came to read to you.’ I hold out the book I’d concealed in my pocket, the one I knew would fit because that’s where I’d put it when she first gave it to me. It’s the little ruined volume of Keats’ poetry. ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’. ‘I thought you might like that.’
She doesn’t answer, just stalks into the room. The air shifts as she goes past me to the bureau and stares down at the letter, or at the knife positioned on top of it. She remains perfectly still and I wonder if that’s because she wants to touch the paper but can’t, not with the cold iron waiting there; then she reaches down and pinches the edge of the paper between her finger and thumb and slides it free. The paperknife clatters to the desk.
‘Games,’ she says.
I don’t know how to answer. I couldn’t speak if I did. Something bubbles up inside me, new knowledge perhaps, or triumph, and she reaches down without even looking and picks up the knife and holds it out.
Her skin doesn’t burn. Smoke doesn’t rise from the metal. She doesn’t flinch at its touch. She only stands there, waiting for me to take it. My attempt to expose her feels pitiful. What did I think it could achieve? She adjusts her grip, turns it sideways and tosses it towards me. Awkwardly, I snatch it from the air.
‘Yours, I believe.’
‘I found it in the day room,’ I say. ‘I thought it was—’
‘Yours,’ she says again, and I am silenced. ‘Did you read my letter, Rose?’
Blood rushes to my cheeks. She walks towards me and I think she’s going to challenge me further and I can’t take my eyes from her face – I don’t think she’s blinked even once. Maybe she doesn’t need to. She tugs the Keats from my grasp.
‘Did you like it? You miss a little poetry in your life, don’t you?’ She leans in closer and I smell her scent: lily of the valley. I’m no longer certain it’s the same one my mother used to dab behind her ears. This is richer, sweeter; redolent of real flowers, of springtime.
‘Did you like his touch on your skin?’ she asks. Her face is up close but even so, I can’t see a single wrinkle or crease. She could be any age at all. She holds the book up between us, like a minister warding off evil with a Bible, or perhaps she just wants to remind me of the night I ruined it. She knew it was spoiled, though she’d barely glanced at it. I try to tell myself she’d only smelled the lingering trace of aftershave and stale wine beneath the cloying scent of flowers.
She takes another step and I retreat before her. ‘A little advice. I suggest you leave things well enough alone.’
Her eyes have depths, I realise. Golden lights swim inside them. Images come to me: Alexander, his face purple as he screams with endless hunger. Mrs Favell showing me my own reflection: You look like a consumptive, Rose.
She moves aside, sitting on her bed as if we’re done and all she wants to do is relax, as if I’m dismissed. Without turning she reaches beneath the pillow, takes out the Bible and holds that out too.
I swallow hard. I am consumed, with hatred for her. Salt didn’t stop her; iron didn’t burn her. The Bible didn’t give her a moment’s pause. Did I destroy its power over her by tearing it? Did I bring down a curse, rendering myself unable to see the truth?
Suddenly I’m exhausted. I’ve achieved nothing. I couldn’t even stand in front of Theresa and say the word fairy. But perhaps that was a good thing, the right thing. I tell myself again that Mrs Favell is nothing but a spiteful old lady. She’s bitter and she has too much perception and too little kindness, she’s nasty and vindictive, but that is all. There is no other story to tell. I shouldn’t hate her; I’m supposed to look after her. The salt, a Bible – all they mean is that I’m losing my mind. Perhaps Paul’s mother was right, I have post-natal depression or I’m having some kind of breakdown, and I should get myself together because if I’m not careful someone will come and lock me away, probably somewhere not all that different to Sunnyside.
I reach out and take the Bible and the book of poetry, both of them as ruined as each other. I think of the word she said earlier: games. Theresa had mentioned that too. She says things to you, you know that. None of my tricks worked because there’s nothing special about her – nothing magical, not in her or the world. I suddenly picture my mother’s books, all of them gone now, not just the ones I’d sought but everything, and I feel a pang of sadness but I know that what remains is the truth.
Alexander is mine. Paul and me and our boy, we’re a family. She can’t ruin that, can’t steal it from me. She can’t poison it unless I let her, and I won’t let her, ever again.
I don’t know I’m going to say the words until I open my mouth. ‘You won’t make me give my baby up.’
Mrs Favell doesn’t answer. She opens her mouth and laughs. She throws back her head and shakes with mirth.
I back away, rush from the room and slam the door behind me. I can still hear that awful laughter. I wonder if it will ever stop, if I will ever rid myself of it. She laughs as if she knows, as if she can see every thought passing through my head. She laughs as if that’s what she’d longed for; as if my words were exactly the ones she’d most wished to hear.
10
It is the blink of an eye and a thousand years until I’m back at Sunnyside again. It’s not that I can’t remember the previous night – I ate; I sat with Paul; I expressed milk, despite all my resolutions to stop; I held Alexander in my arms and silently promised to love him. And yet somehow I was separate from it all. It passed in a haze, as if that was the fiction and this the only reality I know.
The weather is unseasonable, a displaced day of summer. There are clouds, but they are innocently white, moving swiftly by. Sunshine spears between them, chasing their shadows so that the ground almost appears to be moving.
The Activities Coordinator is here again, rallying everyone in her too-bright voice. A lovely day, she says, a splendid day, so why don’t those who are able have a game of croquet? The lawn’s not really big enough and there are only three hoops and the balls are big and brightly plastic like children’s toys, but no one seems to mind. Sandra even persuades Mrs Favell, giving her the responsibility of helping Alf so that she can’t make her excuses. She doesn’t seem to want to be elsewhere though, not today. She stands in the shade of the wall, by an espaliered apple tree that has always looked spindly and bare but is suddenly bursting into fruit. The apples look tiny and hard and must be sour, yet Mrs Favell reaches out, plucks one and takes a bite.
Jimmy groans. His ball has hit the edge of the hoop and rolled away. Maryam cheers and Sandra claps as if he’s done something clever. Clouds move across the sun and shadows shift. Sunshine pierces the furthest corner of the garden.
Mrs Favell suddenly stands in the fullness of its light. I stare, remembering something I’d read on the internet: that when the folk are exposed to sunlight, any glamour or deception is stripped away. They appear as they truly are.
The spell is broken. She isn’t elegant. She isn’t poised. The last time I saw her, her skin had seemed so unwrinkled she could have been any age. Not so now. Her face is lined, her lips thin, her cheeks sunken. Her hair is limp and despite the sun’s brilliance it appears nothing but grey, untouched by silver or gold. Her soft blouse hangs from her bony arms
, the claws of her hands. She looks worn-out and ancient. Only her eyes are fierce, gleaming with defiance as she looks at me.
She knows I’ve seen her – truly seen her. I can’t swallow; my throat is dry. I can’t move as she starts to walk towards me, her movements awkward, her limbs like sticks and too long. I almost think I can hear them clicking.
What will she do? Will she seize me in those claws, snatch me away?
She pauses, putting a hand to her back as if she is pained. I remember the torn pages of the Bible concealed beneath her mattress, too thin to feel them as she slept – but did she somehow feel them anyway? Did one of my tricks work after all?
A cloud passes across the sun and she is cast once more into shadow.
At once, she straightens. She half turns and calls out to Maryam, in a quite ordinary way, to ‘Hurry up and finish him.’ The curve of her cheek is smooth, her neck only slightly creased under her lovely pearls. She waves at someone seated across the lawn and there is no stiffness in her movement. I cannot hear her joints click; possibly I never could.
I shake my head. Did I only imagine it? No one else has noticed anything amiss. I imagine trying to explain it to them. Why should it seem strange for an old person to look old? What suspicion lies in an aching back or ungainly movements? She had taken a bite of a bitter apple and screwed up her face. The full light of the sun never flattered anyone. There is nothing strange or unusual in it, and yet I saw.
I watch her instruct Maryam in angling her shot. The ball passes cleanly through the hoop, to more cheers. Mrs Favell smiles and yet I suspect she’s refusing to look at me. She’s trying to show me I don’t matter, that she doesn’t care if I’ve seen the truth.
I turn and walk towards the French windows. She might not care now, but she will.
I hurry through the lounge, ignoring Barry, who sits alone in the corner, nodding, with a blanket across his knees. I ascend the stairs two at a time. I reach her door and it’s odd – I know she’s outside, that she’s behind me – but I automatically raise a hand to knock.