Winter Wood

by Steve Augarde

  ‘Hm. Funny that we never heard about it before, though.’ Mum seemed to be taking this news with a pinch of salt.

  ‘Well, it’s not so strange, if you think about it. We were back at war with Germany again just a few years later. You probably wouldn’t go broadcasting the fact that your family was linked to the fatherland, if you had any sense.’

  ‘Perhaps not. So what prompted this conversation then?’

  ‘Well, it was Midge really. She was trying to find out a bit more about Great-aunt Celandine. So I asked Albert Hughes and old Wilf Tucker if they knew anything. Like walking history books, those two are. Pass the pepper, George, would you? Thanks.’

  ‘And did they?’ said Midge. ‘Know anything, I mean?’

  ‘No, not really. Nothing that we hadn’t already heard, that is. “She were away wi’ the fairies” and so on. No proper details. Wilf reckoned she might have ended up in an asylum, but it was only hearsay. Funnily enough, Albert Hughes thought that Great-grandma’s brother worked in an asylum. Knew his name and everything – Wesser. Quite well known, apparently. That was what convinced me that it was probably true. But there was nothing about Celandine, I’m afraid. Sorry, Midge. Not much help.’

  ‘It’s OK. I was just curious, that’s all.’ Midge looked down at her plate, and tried not to let her disappointment show.

  Mum said, ‘Well, it probably wouldn’t be too difficult to check up on. What was the name again – Vessar?’

  ‘Wesser – with a W.’

  ‘We ought to try and make up a family tree,’ said Mum. ‘Go on one of those ancestry sites on the internet.’

  ‘Mm. Expect it’d cost money, though.’ Uncle Brian no longer seemed particularly interested.

  Midge pushed the remains of her food around her plate. Wesser, with a W. She was tired, and she didn’t seem to be able to think straight, but that name stuck with her for some reason. It was visible. She could picture the way it would look on a page. Wesser, with a W.

  Dr Wesser. Yes, that was it. Dr Josef Wesser. Standing on the front steps of a building. The Butterfly Farm . . .

  Midge scraped back her chair. ‘Can I get down?’ she said.

  Her first thought was to phone Kerry Hodge, but then she realized that she didn’t have Kerry’s number. There must be dozens of Hodges in the directory, and so there would be no point in trying there. She needed to have another look at that Butterfly Farm brochure now, though. Yes, but how? Maybe there was a website.

  Midge ran upstairs to her room and restarted her laptop. She typed ‘Tone Vale Butterfly Farm’ into Search, and up it came – with a web address. Good. She clicked on the address and after a few clicks and whirrs the site logo appeared. Midge looked at the menu: Site Map . . . North American Species . . . European Species . . . History. History – that was what she wanted.

  She scrolled quickly down the history page, speed-reading little sections as she went . . . ‘built in 1858 to house a private collection . . . taken over during the First World War and used as a recovery clinic for the military . . . Lewis and Wesser later becoming well-recognized pioneers in alternative therapies . . .’

  And suddenly there it was – the same photograph that she’d seen on Kerry’s brochure. This was much bigger and clearer, though. The two men and the nurse stood on the steps of the white building, gazing out at her. Dr Sydney Lewis and Dr Josef Wesser, founders of the Tone Valley Clinic. One of the men was quite stout, balding, with a big moustache and glasses. The other was taller and darker, bearded, with surprisingly long hair. Perhaps a bit younger. But which one was Dr Wesser? Midge peered closely at the two faces, trying to spot some sort of family likeness. Could one of these men possibly be related to her? She struggled to work out what that relationship would be. So, if one of them was her great-great . . . great . . . grandmother’s brother, then that would make him . . . what? Celandine’s uncle? Was that right? Maybe she could figure it out on a piece of paper.

  But what then? Even if this Josef Wesser did turn out to be some sort of distant relative, how would it help her? Midge glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. She ought to be thinking about getting her school stuff organized for the morning. Perhaps this would all have to wait.

  And yet there was something here, she knew it, something playing hide-and-seek with her memory. Something that she wasn’t quick enough to catch. She had felt it as she sat in the gardens with Sam that day, and she felt it now. Maybe she was searching in the wrong place, after all. She rested her chin in her hands and let her eyes wander where they would.

  How young that little nurse looked, standing there all proud and upright, arms at her side. The dark uniform was at least a couple of sizes too big for her – very nearly scraping the ground – and the white pinafore sagged slightly, so that you could only just make out the sign of the red cross on her chest. Hair tucked away under some complicated piece of headgear. A bit like a nun. Yes, a bit like the drawing that—

  Midge was jolted backwards in her chair, her whole scalp tingling with the shock of realization – and recognition. She looked across at the piece of paper that still lay upon her bed, and then back at the computer screen.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’ The words came out of her in a whispered gasp. ‘It’s you. I can’t believe it. You’re right there . . .’

  How could she have missed it? How could she have not seen it straight away? The dark eyes gazed out at her from a face that had grown a little thinner, a little older. The extraordinary cloud of hair had disappeared altogether, either cropped short or hidden away beneath the nurse’s headdress. And the smile looked different too – more relaxed maybe, not so forced. But it was still her. Absolutely and unmistakably her. Celandine.

  Midge gaped at the screen, her head turning somersaults, quite unable to believe her luck. If she hadn’t sat next to Kerry on the coach that day, she’d never have discovered this. Never in a million years. And if Tadgemole hadn’t given her that funny drawing, then the similarity to the girl in the photo might never have been noticed. But there she stood, Celandine, as clear as day.

  At last she had a lead, a real starting point. This one amazing photograph told her so much. Celandine had not just disappeared, or gone ‘into an asylum’ – not as a patient, anyway. Here she was, out in the world, with a proper job and an identity. She had become a nurse, not a nun, working in the same clinic as her uncle, Josef Wesser. He was quite a well-known man, it seemed, in which case there would surely be records of what had happened to his niece?

  Tomorrow she would email the Butterfly Farm, and make a start. But for tonight Midge was content to just sit and gaze in wonder at the picture on her screen, amazed at how much she had discovered in such a short time. This was all meant to be, she was certain of it now. It wasn’t just down to pure luck.

  With that thought, Midge turned round and looked at the other picture of Celandine, the one that hung in shadows upon her wall.

  ‘You want this to happen, don’t you?’ she whispered. ‘You want me to find you, I know you do. Well, I’m trying.’

  Chapter Six

  MIDGE FINISHED WRITING her email and signed it ‘Margaret Walters’. It sounded more grown up than ‘Midge’, she thought, and so it might be taken more seriously.

  Dear Sirs,

  I was very interested to see in your Butterfly Farm brochure that there’s a picture of Dr Wesser and also a picture of a nurse whose name is Celandine Howard. Do you have any information, especially on Miss Howard? Only she is a distant relative of mine and I’m trying to find out more about her. Do you know what happened to her when she was working at the clinic, and when she left, or anything at all? I would be very interested to know, and perhaps you would email me. Thank you for your help.

  Yours faithfully,

  Margaret Walters

  Yes, that seemed OK. Midge went through the email for spelling mistakes, and then hit ‘Send’.

  What now? There was nothing much more that she could do, other than wait for a reply
. It was exciting, though. The Butterfly Farm must have kept records of some sort, otherwise how could they have got the information to put into the brochure? She looked again at the onscreen photograph of Celandine in her oversized nurse’s uniform. How old would she have been then – fifteen? Fourteen? They surely wouldn’t have let her work as a nurse if she’d been much younger than that, and yet she looked tiny next to the two men. Small for her age, probably. Midge nodded to herself. She knew what that felt like.

  But she must not waste this time, whilst she was waiting for a reply. She must think. It was important to keep thinking.

  Brmmmmm – blatt-blatt-blatt . . . The cement mixer had started up. That meant the builders were here. Already. Midge growled with frustration – so much for being able to think. She left her room and clumped down the uncarpeted stairs, edging past the open toolboxes and sheets of plasterboard, the tubs of emulsion, the tubes of sealant . . .

  Would they ever be finished? It was like some kind of torture, living in this perpetual noise and mess. It seemed especially unfair to have to put up with it on Saturdays, when she was supposed to be relaxing, for goodness’ sake.

  Mum and Uncle Brian were having one of their talks in the cluttered hallway. Here was a kind of no-man’s-land between the separate partitions of the house – their bit, and Uncle Brian’s bit – and it was here that the two of them often stood, planning the day’s operations.

  ‘So, you can pick up the printer then?’ Her mum.

  ‘Yeah, I can do that. I’m seeing the chap about the kitchen equipment at eleven, then over to talk to Alan Lavers about wine at two-thirty. I can get the printer on the way back. What about you?’ Uncle Brian was wearing his tweed jacket, and for some reason he had a pair of binoculars around his neck. He looked more like he was off to a day at the races than a series of business meetings.

  ‘I’m on the phone for the next two hours at least, trying to get some sense into Stubbing’s lot. Useless twerps. I’m tempted to ditch them altogether. Why do they make these promises if they can’t keep them? It simply isn’t professional. Oh, hi, Midge. What are you up to, darling?’

  ‘Thought I might go and throw myself into the cement mixer,’ said Midge. ‘Or make a cup of coffee. I haven’t decided which.’

  Mum laughed. ‘Poor baby,’ she said. ‘It does all get a bit fraught, doesn’t it? Never mind. Just keep thinking ahead to May the first. That’s when we open for business – come hell or high water. While I think of it, Brian, we need to talk about shrubs . . .’

  Midge began to wander off. This was all too dull for words.

  ‘. . . and I thought maybe we could go over to that new place at North Perrott – Almbury Mills? Barry was telling me about it. It’s huge, apparently . . . garden centre, furniture, cafés, bookshops.’

  Midge pricked up her ears. This wasn’t the first time she’d heard that name: Barry. Yes, it had come up a couple of times lately – Barry this, and Barry that. Barry says we could have got it in Argos at half the price. Barry thinks that white’s a far better choice than magnolia. Midge grabbed her jacket and paused by the front door, pretending to search her pockets – trying to appear as though she might have to go back upstairs for something she’d forgotten.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘I know where Almbury Mills is. Must be about twenty miles away, though. We could make a day out of it. Maybe the kids’d like to come. What do you think, Midge?’

  ‘Sorry? What did you say? I wasn’t listening.’

  ‘Your mum says perhaps we could . . .’

  ‘Who’s this “Barry”?’ Midge said. She just blurted it out, and saw the quick look of confusion in her mum’s eyes. So. It was as she’d suspected, then.

  ‘Barry? Well, he’s a friend, darling. A friend.’

  ‘What, like a boyfriend, you mean?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. But . . . you know. I’ll tell you later, sweetheart. We’ll have a proper conversation.’

  ‘Is he going to be moving in with us, then?’

  ‘Whaaaaat? No, he’s not going to be moving in with us. Midge . . . where are you—?’

  But Midge was off. She opened the front door, slid through the gap, and immediately pulled the door firmly shut behind her – not slamming it exactly, but not far short.

  The cold morning air was acrid with diesel fumes from the cement mixer, and now the big digger thing had started up as well. What a racket. And honestly – Barry. Who in their right minds would allow themselves to be called Barry? Nobody. Didn’t she have enough to worry about already, without all this?

  One of the workmen gave her a cheery wave as she hurried down the front path, and Midge had to wave back at him just out of politeness.

  Two days later, on the Monday evening, she had an email from the Butterfly Farm.

  Dear Ms Walters,

  How interesting that you should be related to Dr Wesser and Miss Howard! Unfortunately, most of the information that we have concerning the history of the Butterfly Farm is already in the brochure. However, I’ve attached a file with the few remaining snippets. You’ll see from these that Miss Howard apparently ran her own clinic here in the main building for many years. It seems to have closed in 1976, shortly before the premises was taken over by the art college. I imagine that she would have retired then, if not before, as she must have been in her early seventies. We have no record of what happened to her beyond that point. That was almost thirty years ago, and so if Miss Howard were still alive she would be a very old lady indeed!

  Have you tried the local library, or perhaps the County Gazette? They may have more information on the history of the clinic. Do let me know how you get on.

  With best wishes,

  Nigel Epps (Dir.), Tone Vale Butterfly Farm

  Midge clicked on the email attachment and opened the file. There were three or four newspaper clippings about the clinic. One of them had a picture of some men – airforce pilots apparently – all sitting in wheelchairs and looking unaccountably cheerful. There was another picture of a group of art students at work, who by contrast looked rather serious. No pictures of Celandine. Midge quickly scanned the columns of text, searching for some mention of her great-great-aunt. There was only one, and they’d got her name wrong.

  Clinic to Close

  Tone Valley Clinic, a private hospital since the Great War, is to close its doors this autumn. Servicemen from both the First and Second World Wars were treated at Tone Valley, many for shell shock, and it was here that pioneering treatment was developed by Drs. Sydney Lewis and Josef Wesser. Part of the clinic was opened as a centre for alternative medicine as early as 1936, and this was run for forty years by Wesser’s niece, Miss Geraldine Howard. Former governor Tommy Palmer (79) said today, ‘It’s a great shame that the clinic is to close, but the development of newer facilities at the main hospital (Staplegrove) has made it redundant, and the expense of upkeep is too great. Miss Howard is a personal friend, very well respected in her field, and her work has greatly benefited the local community. I’m sure that the building and grounds will be put to good future use.’

  And that was it. The other articles were about Dr Lewis and Dr Wesser, and about the art college leasing the building in 1978, but there was no other reference to Celandine.

  Midge sat back in her chair and stared at the screen. She was so disappointed.

  Finding this link to Celandine had seemed such a breakthrough, but now she felt as though she was just as far away as she had ever been. How could she hope to track down someone who had disappeared nearly thirty years ago, and who was an old lady even then? And how old, seriously, would Celandine have to be if she were still alive? Midge tried to do a quick bit of mental arithmetic. A hundred and two? A hundred and three? Something like that. Something ridiculous.

  But she couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not until she really knew that she was beaten. Maybe she’d email the local gazette and see if they had any more information, go to the library perhaps . . . or maybe she should try and pers
uade her mum to fork out for a search on one of those ancestry sites. Not tonight, though. There was homework to be done.

  On Wednesday evening Katie came over, and the two of them had supper at Uncle Brian’s. Midge felt envious of Katie, chatting away, nothing more on her mind apparently than shoes and mp3 players, and the ‘amazing’ exploits of some celebrity or another. Didn’t she ever wake up in the night and gasp with fear and wonder at the truly amazing things that had happened to her? Didn’t she ever think about that day when she had actually seen the little people? If she did, then she never let on.

  As the supper things were being loaded into the dishwasher, the subject of Celandine came up again, in a roundabout way. Uncle Brian pulled open the drawer of the Welsh dresser and took out some sort of package – a brown envelope, folded, with an elastic band round it.

  ‘While I remember it, Midge, here are those papers I was telling you about. You know, the old farm bills and what-have-you. I had another quick flip through them myself, and can’t see that there’s anything that’d be of much use to you. But you never know. Might be worth a look.’

  ‘Oh. OK. Thanks.’ Midge took the bundle and felt slightly self-conscious. Should she open it up now? ‘I’ll have a look later,’ she said.

  ‘Bet that’ll be interesting,’ said Katie. ‘Want some coffee? We can go and watch EastEnders together.’

  ‘All right.’

  They sat side by side on the living-room sofa, the TV switched on, and to Midge’s surprise Katie mentioned the little people – sort of.

  ‘I don’t know why you keep picking at it,’ she said. ‘You know . . . what happened. You can’t tell anyone, or do anything about it. Are you up to something?’