The Cottingley Cuckoo

by A. J. Elwood

  It’s almost time to go, but there’s something else I need. I run up to the bedroom, glancing at the crumpled sheets where Paul and I slept only last night, so familiar and yet already so strange. How could it all have become so alien to me so quickly?

  Before I go I pull the creased, milk-damp shirt over my head, wiping myself with it before throwing it into a corner. I have plenty of similar shirts, ready for milk-spit and worse, but I open the wardrobe and pick something else: something smarter, a blouse I once wore for a job interview. It’s more elegant than my usual clothes and when I fasten the buttons I feel better, as if I’ve donned armour.

  As I rush out of the door, I grab the page from the file with Harriet’s address and punch her postcode into my phone. The house already feels empty. Alexander isn’t crying any longer. Paul will be well into his second pint down at the pub. Now I’m leaving too; the one who should be here, watching over our home.

  But it isn’t my home. Not without my baby in it.

  I think of Robyn. She is the one I need to focus on. I’m coming, sweet girl, I think. Mummy’s coming.

  I rest one hand on my belly as I drive, navigating through the uniform rows of terraces. The little footprints that marked me during my pregnancy are still there, not faded a bit despite the aloe vera I’ve been rubbing on. They may have marked me, but they can’t claim me, not for ever. They can’t take what’s mine. Fierce longing runs through me, a golden thread tugging at the very centre of my being, connecting me to my child. Can Robyn feel it too? I’m confident she will. They never did manage to sever it, no matter how they separated us.

  The houses around me grow bigger and grander before giving way to fields spanning either side of the road. Then there are only occasional farm buildings and the way ahead, winding between them. There are a few cars on the road, mainly heading in the opposite direction to mine. In the distance it must be raining: the land is closed in by heavy, louring clouds, massing like a battle, the horizon smearing into the sky.

  I can still see the words I read earlier, set out so clearly, making no sense. Of course the Power of Attorney had been made out in favour of Harriet. It was the little printed statement by her name that I hadn’t expected:

  Harriet Gorman. Daughter (adoptive).

  She can’t be adopted. She looks like Mrs Favell, moves like her, acts like her. Whatever Mrs Favell is, Harriet is too. No matter where they came from, I can’t doubt that they are mother and daughter.

  I tell myself it must only be another trick, perhaps to disguise how long they live. No one could go on indefinitely without raising suspicion. Each in turn might have to fake her own death, ensuring the other is their heir, no matter who is the elder or younger. How far back do they go? They might themselves have eventually become worn out and left in human cribs in place of real children, becoming changelings to begin again. They could be any age. Could Harriet actually be Charlotte’s mother? They could have taken on many different identities over the years. That might be why Charlotte is now named Favell, not Fenton.

  My phone chirps from my pocket and I catch my breath, thinking of Paul, but it’s only the automated voice of my satnav telling me where to turn. I make a tight left onto a smaller, quieter road, which winds over the tops of undulating hills. I can’t see a town in the distance or any indication of where it could be. Cottingley might be a ghost village.

  I drive on, noticing a tiny overgrown lane dropping sharply into a dip, signposted Beck Foot. Does that mean the famous Cottingley Beck – am I close?

  Soon the road widens out, stone walls and overhanging branches giving way to junctions, traffic lights, bus stops. Cars swarm everywhere, full of purpose. I pass what appears to be a grand hall surrounded by well-tended lawns, glimpse tennis courts and signposts for a health club. I see a sign for a business park, an academy, a crèche, and realise I’m close to the centre of the town, though my satnav remains silent. I cross some mini-roundabouts, seeing pleasant stone houses, surely too new. A pub proclaims Live sport here.

  This can’t be the place. I flick on my indicator and turn off the main road so that I can check the map, glimpsing the ‘dead end’ sign too late. Still, at last, I’m somewhere that feels right. The sign at the bottom says MAIN STREET but the lane is tiny, narrowing as it leads steeply uphill. It’s edged by cottages built in mellow Yorkshire stone, though the windows look new and wheelie bins crowd the little front yards. This road was surely designed for horses and carts rather than motor traffic. Was it once the centre of Cottingley? It’s too small for the people who have come to fill it. It doesn’t match the place Lawrence Fenton described; it’s too built-up, too close, but then he’d lived just outside the town, hadn’t he? Further along the beck.

  The name ‘Main Street’ connects with something in my mind and I realise where I am. This is the place not where Fenton lived, but Elsie Wright and her cousin, Frances Griffiths. I picture two girls standing in the middle of the street, everything faded to monochrome, even their faces. The youngest wears a white pinafore, smeared from her dirty hands; Frances has been running and playing, though she doesn’t want to get marks on the lens of the camera she carries. It’s borrowed from Elsie’s father. She is going to the beck; she’s going to meet the fairies. She doesn’t yet know the debate and speculation that will follow. She can’t imagine the furore she will cause. One of the greatest hoaxes in history – what would she have said if she knew? Would she smile at me or would she hide her face? Perhaps she’d never have played by the beck again.

  I wonder which of the cottages was theirs. I try to peer behind them as I pass, to see the stream running by their back gardens. I can’t see anything past the parked cars and walls and sheds. There’s a space at the kerb and I pull in. I don’t have time to find the beck; that’s not why I’m here. I check the map and see that Harriet’s house lies a little beyond Cottingley, where higgledypiggledy lanes give way to long patches of green. Perhaps it is near to where Lawrence Fenton made his home.

  I use an even tinier side street to turn around before rolling back down the hill. From this direction it’s easier to make out the large, somewhat intimidating building near the bottom of the road: the old town hall. There’s an open driveway at its side, leading towards the cutting that runs behind the houses.

  I don’t want to waste time but in spite of myself, I stop the car once more. When I step out I can’t detect the ozone scent of water, can’t hear the babble of the beck, but I know it’s there. I can tell by the profusion of ferns that nod their heads over the banking. And I can feel it.

  At this point on its course, there is no glen. Cottingley Beck trickles over a flat bed of stones, the water clear and clean. Opposite, the banking is thick with verdure, trees reaching their limbs over the stream. To my right I can see the backs of all the houses. Their gardens are on a higher level, separated from the water by a stone wall. I could paddle up the stream behind them if I chose. I couldn’t do so in the other direction; to my left, a razor-topped fence bars the way. The water passes beneath it and is gone.

  Quickly, I kick off my shoes before stepping into the water. There’s a shock of cold, the smooth touch of mossy stones. I imagine a little girl poking into nooks and crevices, hunting fairies, turning to me and smiling. The sight of her presses on my heart. There’s no time for this, there never was, and yet I feel a rush of strength, as if receiving a benison for my pilgrimage.

  I pull my shoes over my wet feet and hurry back to the car. I drive more quickly, as if the cold has renewed my sense of purpose. When I turn onto the main road I know the exact moment when it bridges the beck, though I can’t see it any longer; it was so quickly hidden from view.

  I sense that they’re close now, and not only because I’ve looked at the map. I feel everything: not only the history stretching away beneath me but Charlotte, Harriet, and most of all, my daughter. My body aches, as if it knows it will soon be reunited with a piece of itself.

  The road rises, climbing away from the pl
ace that started it all. Houses give way to open fields, patches of trees, long views. I wonder if the beck is there too, winding away in a path it has worn into the fields, but if so, I cannot see it.

  The road sweeps around a corner, demanding my attention, and I glimpse a narrow opening. I recognise it at once, though I’ve never seen it before; it is so very beautiful. This lane is beyond the reach of the town. There are no other buildings in view, no crammed cottages, no windows peering down. Here are only hedgerows of tangled, wiry hawthorn that brush the sides of my car as I turn into it, their dark green softened by the lace of cow parsley, and suddenly there is colour: yellow trefoil, pink campion, blue cornflowers and harebells, even spires of foxglove. Life lingers here still, as if it has chosen to stay in this narrow lane, autumn forbidden from taking hold.

  I turn a corner and see the house nestled into the hillside. It is small and neat, built of mellow stone, almost appearing to have grown where it stands. Mosses creep across the slate roof and window boxes are laden with flowers. Roses grow in an arch over the garden gate, still heavy with crimson blooms. As I watch, sunshine penetrates the clouds, and its rays touch each flower with light.

  When I turn off the engine I realise how quiet it is. This place is sheltered from passing traffic, from other people, from the world. It feels like a land where it is always summer.

  I get out of the car and approach the gate. It isn’t entirely quiet, I realise. An old song is playing, plaintive with the hiss and crackle of a gramophone. It strikes me that this might be Lawrence Fenton’s house. It might be a hundred years ago. At any moment he might step from the door, a child clinging to his hand, Charlotte following in her widow’s bonnet. Or perhaps they are inside, dancing to the soft music – and I think: They don’t really know how to dance. They only wish to make us want to be where they are.

  And I do long to be where they are.

  That is when I see the crib. It stands in the middle of the garden as if waiting for me, an old, carved thing, substantial and sturdy, covered with cotton hangings. The clean white fabric is brilliant against the emerald of the grass. It looks like something from a fairy tale.

  There is nothing else. Charlotte and Harriet are nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they have left the child, knowing I was coming for her: a mother’s love, driving them away.

  Perhaps the crib is empty.

  My fingertips numb, I let myself in at the gate, wincing at its creak. My chest is so hollow with longing it hurts. Soon Robyn will be in my arms and that will mend it all. They say that a baby changes everything – and she will.

  I listen for her as I step quietly towards the crib. The emotion rising in my throat isn’t just excitement: it’s fear. What if I peer under the hangings and she isn’t there? What if there is only Charlotte’s laughter, ringing in my ears?

  A breathy sigh rises from the crib, a sweet and lovely sound. I pray there will be no more tricks, that I won’t look inside and find an ugly little troll with misshapen limbs and sloe-black eyes. I pray I won’t see Alexander, the weight of him, his curled fists.

  I peek in and she is there, as lovely as I have imagined her so many times. Her golden hair is fine as silk. Her dress is long and white, like the one in the photograph on Mrs Favell’s wall. I cannot see her eyes because they remain closed, though I see the veins running through them, the luminosity of her skin. One hand is raised by her face, not formed into a fist, not lashing out or waving in anger but gently curled, her fingernails like lucent shells. They’re a little uneven, as if someone has kept them short by nibbling them rather than risking scissors. Did Harriet do that? I think of her holding my daughter to her breast, suckling her, and rage steals my breath. I have missed so much; so many moments have been stolen from me. I can’t bring myself to believe I ever said I didn’t want her. I do. I’m here. That’s what matters now, not the past.

  Then I see the thing in the crib next to her and I am frozen.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  The voice cuts through the air, sharp with indignation. Harriet rushes from the back door, brushing something from her hands – flour? I picture myself grabbing my daughter, running away, trailing soft lace, but somehow I can’t move. Has she cast some spell on me? I tell myself it’s only because I won’t run from them, won’t let them intimidate me again. Besides, there was something in her cry that I hadn’t expected from her: fear.

  ‘She’s mine,’ I say. ‘She’s my child. I’m taking her home.’

  She stops halfway across the lawn, her eyes wide. ‘Whatever are you talking about? That’s not your baby. You know it’s not. Where is he?’

  I can’t answer that and I’m not going to. I won’t let her trick me into saying Alexander was ever mine. I won’t give them that power. They know he’s not.

  ‘Robyn is my baby,’ I say. ‘Charlotte showed me everything. You took her and you left me with him. I know what he is, I’ve always known. You’re not going to keep her away from me any longer. She needs me.’

  Harriet gawps. Then she says, ‘Are you crazy? Get away from my baby. Now. Or I’ll call the police.’

  I stare at her, defiant, daring her to move. Let her try. Now that Robyn is within my reach, I’ll never let them take her from me again. If Harriet moves to make a phone call I’ll be gone before she can dial.

  And she knows it. She takes a single hesitant step towards the crib and instinctively I lean over my baby. I see again the thing they have placed next to her: a roughly carved doll, its face barely formed, only half emerging from the oval of its head. It’s obviously hand-made. It wears a small white christening gown, an echo of the one they’ve put on Robyn. A stock of wood. I can’t think what it’s doing here. Have I returned the changeling child – Alexander? Is this what he was all along, this ugly, misshapen thing lying next to the baby? Or is it only what it appears to be – a doll?

  She holds out her hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Don’t hurt her.’

  Hurt her? Indignation makes my mouth fall open.

  She looks as if she’s fighting back her own anger, or her fear; she can’t get her breath. ‘Look, I might have some idea why you’re so upset.’ She glances over her shoulder as if indicating the person who must be close by, somewhere in the house, listening perhaps. ‘We can talk about this.’

  ‘I’m not going to listen to you. You – she – you’ve talked enough. It’s all tricks and lies.’ I can’t allow them to twist everything. That’s what they do, what they love doing.

  Something like understanding is dawning on her face. Soon she’ll have to accept it. She’ll realise she’s lost.

  Then a distorted shape rushes from the house.

  Her nightgown is too short to cover her stick-thin legs or her bony, clicking arms. There’s no need to cover the truth now; there’s no glamour or disguise. Grey hair is disarrayed about her face but I catch glimpses of her hook nose, hollowed cheeks, witch’s chin. She has always been thin but now she looks emaciated, the goblin revealed. She shrieks as she comes, flying barefoot across the grass, and I can do nothing but watch. It’s Harriet who moves, snapping out a hand to grasp her mother’s bony wrist, bringing her to a halt beside her.

  Charlotte doesn’t look away from me. Her eyes are bright points of concentrated fury, but still, they are black; there is no soul in them. I see that now. No heart beats in her chest.

  And yet Harriet turns to her as if the answers aren’t already plainly revealed all around us, and says, ‘Mother, what have you done?’

  Charlotte’s chest, heaving with each panting breath, stills. Is she even breathing any longer? Her words emerge in a hiss. ‘How is she here? How did she—’

  Harriet doesn’t try to explain and nor do I. She only repeats, ‘What have you done?’

  Charlotte’s lips draw back from her teeth, as yellow and misshapen as Alexander’s. A family trait? She tries to compose herself, standing taller, transforming her features into a semblance of the woman I first met. She lifts her chin and looks defiantl
y at her daughter.

  ‘All right.’ Harriet’s tone is low. ‘Your name is Rose, isn’t it? Well, I’ll tell you then, Rose – I’ll tell you all about my mother.’

  Is this a story? Does she think I’ll stand here and listen, wait for her to bewitch me? But her next words stop my breath.

  ‘You think Robyn’s your baby? All right. I can see my mother’s been playing her games. I can tell you about those. I’ve played them before. She made me think I was a changeling, once.’

  She nods as her words take effect. ‘Of course, I was only a kid. I was young enough to listen to such tales.’

  Poison, I think. Still, they’re only words. They can only harm me if I let them.

  ‘Oh, she was disturbed, more than anyone realised. She had a right to be. Her father-in-law did something…’

  Patricia’s voice: Mrs Favell had to move in with her father-in-law, and – well, he did something terrible.

  ‘She never could get over it.’ Harriet glances at her mother as if awaiting permission to go on. Charlotte doesn’t give it. She keeps glaring at me through narrowed eyes. She looks as if she’d like to tear me apart with her teeth.

  ‘Her father-in-law murdered her real daughter,’ Harriet says. ‘He was disturbed. He had some odd idea that she wasn’t a normal child and he took a blade to her. I didn’t know it then, of course. I couldn’t possibly.

  ‘She got it into her head that another child would come and take the place of the one who was taken, you see. But that child never came, so Mother went to seek her out. And after a time, she found just the right one: she found me. I was the right age; and I looked just like her.

  ‘I wasn’t christened Harriet, of course. She gave me that name when she adopted me, like she gave me everything else. I was just a little girl, living in a children’s home. When Mother came and found me there, when she took me away, I was grateful. I only learned afterwards that Harriet was the name of her own child, the dead one. I didn’t know I was nothing but her replacement.’