And yes, they saw her – for there was Mr Hughes, the foreman, pausing to look at her as he stood speaking to Robert by the door of the cider barn. And there was Lettie’s face, pale and shocked at the scullery window, her mouth moving – saying something to somebody – and then Cook appearing, to look over Lettie’s shoulder. They all saw her, but none could see how her stomach churned, how hot she felt, and then how icy cold, the effort it took to stay upright. None could see how her knees ached as she climbed the two steps to the front path, how all her joints were so stiff and painful that her finger knuckles would hardly bend around the hooped iron door handle, how her frame was barely capable of pushing the heavy oak door on its hinges.
Celandine clung to the iron hoop. The dark hallway smelled of boiled vegetables and she felt a huge wave of red nausea rising up inside her. Her dry mouth was suddenly full of water, and though she swallowed and swallowed, it wouldn’t go away. Her entire body was pouring with perspiration. The door of the study opened and her father stepped into the hallway. He was holding a newspaper. Celandine caught the flash of his spectacles in the dim light and his look of blank surprise. She saw the word ‘WAR!’ on the front of the newspaper, and then up it came at last, and more, and more again – the sour tide of everything she had been through – all over the coconut matting.
Later, she felt better. They had not shouted at her, as she had supposed they would, nor had they told her she would go to prison. Her mother had come in to see her, and her Uncle Josef. Even her father had looked in for a few moments, grave and serious, but with none of the cold anger that some of her lesser exploits had induced. She had cried and cried, and told them how sorry she was. She had wept, at last, for poor Tobyjug, and they had promised that he should be buried here on the farm and should not be sent to Jotcham’s abattoir. She had wept, too, for Miss Bell, and begged to be allowed to see her – and they had said perhaps tomorrow. And in the end she could weep no more.
Now she lay in her clean cool bed, a jug of Cook’s lemonade on the nightstand beside her, and stared out of her window at the early evening sky. She could hear the teams being led into the yard, the heavy crunch of iron-shod hooves on the cobbles, the soft whiffle of their breath, and the clink of harnesses. She heard the roll-call of the rooks, as they settled in the high branches of the nearby copse, the squeak and clank of the yard pump as the stable boys drew fresh water for the horses, the low woof of one of the lurchers, released for the night. That would be Cribb. Jude never barked.
She had heard these sounds a thousand times, but tonight was different from any other. Tonight she held a secret within her that changed the whole world, and everything she thought she knew about it. Celandine closed her eyes and let it all wash over her.
She dreamed that she was flying. She was flying across the silent universe, through deepest space, and the void was heavy and oppressive, humid, so that it was difficult for her to breathe. It made her feel queasy. Bits of white stuff floated about her – ashes, she thought at first, but then she saw that they were moths and that she was flying amongst them. A great red planet loomed silently out of the darkness, a hot globe, with a soft radiant sheen to its surface, like polished stone. There were giant fingermarks upon the globe, inky stains that shifted and swirled like weather patterns.
From the dark side of the planet a small white horse appeared, beating across the heavens on silvery wings, a thing so beautiful that her heart ached to see it. The trail of moths flew in its wake and she followed too – trying to catch it, trying to shout its name, but no sound would come out of her mouth. The horse flew too fast for her and she was left alone in the darkness, watching the last of the moths disappear like fading sparks.
‘Tobyjug!’ She finally managed to shout the word, but it was too late, and it was the wrong word.
*
Celandine opened her eyes. ‘Yes?’ It was still dark – but then she realized that her head was beneath the blankets. Little wonder that she was so hot. ‘Yes?’ She pulled back the covers, and said it again. Someone was knocking at the door.
It was the doctor, her Uncle Josef, come to see how she was feeling.
He told her that he just wanted to make sure that she was well enough to get up. He didn’t have his doctor’s bag with him, he said, and he hadn’t brought her any nasty medicine – he just wanted to talk to her. Celandine yawned and sat herself up, whilst he took the wicker chair from the other side of the room and brought it across to her bedside.
‘I had a dream, Uncle Josef. There was a flying horse.’ Celandine yawned again. ‘And a big red planet.’
Uncle Josef chuckled and held up a hand in mock protest. ‘Then I beg you, please do not tell me about it. I have many theories concerning the meaning of dreams, but I am a busy man, and if I once begin upon that subject then I shall be here all day.’
Celandine rubbed her eyes and waited. What time was it? It felt quite late – the sun was streaming into her room.
‘Tell me, then, Celandine. Immediately after yesterday’s unfortunate … incident … with Miss Bell – what did you do? Where did you go?’
‘Where did I go?’ Celandine was immediately awake and on her guard. From now on she had to be so very careful of what she said. ‘Oh. I went for a walk.’
‘Ah yes? And where did you walk?’ Uncle Josef’s face was kind – it was always kind – but his Austrian accent gave his voice an authority somehow. And he was clever. Celandine felt that he would very quickly know if she were to try and mislead him.
‘I walked up Howard’s Hill. Well … I didn’t exactly walk. I ran. I was running away, you see, from … what I did.’
‘Of course. I understand.’ He smiled. ‘To Howard’s Hill. And how are the little people?’
The question took her so by surprise that she could hardly answer.
‘Wh— what? Who?’ Her voice was all squeaky.
‘The little people. You remember them, yes? When you hurt your head – at the party – you were seeing some little people. They lived up in the trees.’
‘Oh. Yes.’ Celandine desperately tried to think what line she should take. If she denied her earlier story then it might seem suspicious, but if she continued to claim that she had seen them …
‘So … are they still there?’
‘No. They’re not.’ Celandine tried to make her answer as definite and final as possible – hoping that Uncle Josef would now drop the subject.
He put his hands together and thought for a moment.
‘But … you were looking for them? You were hoping that they might be there?’
What was he getting at? What did he mean?
‘No. I wasn’t looking for them. I was just thinking about what … what I’d done. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.’
Uncle Josef lowered his hands, clasped them over one of his knees, and rocked backwards on the chair. His bearded face looked relaxed and he was still smiling.
‘Do you think they have gone, then? That they are no longer there?’
So that was what he was after. Of course. He didn’t really think that there were little people living in the wood – he never had done. He thought it was all her imagination, and he was just trying to find out if she were still imagining such things. Wasn’t he?
‘Yes,’ she said, and she felt relieved. ‘They’ve gone.’
‘I see. So – first they were there, and now they have gone? Is that what you mean? Or is it that you no longer believe they were there in the first place?’
Celandine was spared the difficulty of answering this question, because Uncle Josef said, almost immediately, ‘Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter.’ He turned away from her slightly, to lay an arm along the windowsill, and then said, ‘There are some things we can only imagine, Celandine. But this does not mean that they are not truly there. The centre of the earth, for an example. We have never seen it, and perhaps we never will, so we can only imagine it – but we are certain that it exists. And there are some things that
we do see, that may not really be there at all. Many of the stars, they say, have long ceased to be, and yet we see them plainly enough.’ He was silent for a while, then said, ‘The truth may never be as obvious as it seems, my dear, and the unlikely is not always the impossible. You know, I had to call upon a colleague’s patient the other day. A … oh … what is this word? A withy-cutter. Yes, a withy-cutter.’ He looked out of the window, talking quietly, as though to himself. ‘A good man, I think. And a sober one. He sees little people. Yes, quite often, by his account. They steal his - withies …’
Celandine watched him scratch his beard – thinking – as he gazed out over the landscape towards Howard’s Hill. Finally he turned to look at her.
‘You would not be the first, you see. No, most certainly. But …’ He rose from his chair with a sigh, and lifted his pocket watch from his dark waistcoat. ‘I must go. I think that if you feel strong enough, my dear, then you might get up for a while.’ He gave her a twinkling smile. ‘And if you are feeling very strong, then you might pay a visit to Miss Bell. I have just been to see her also. She will survive, I believe.’
Celandine got out of bed as soon as her Uncle Josef had gone and poured some water into the wash basin. As she dried her face and hands, she looked out of her window. Howard’s Hill rose up from the landscape, a green island in a greener sea, wild and unexplored. It was miraculous that it had remained undisturbed for so long. And yet, she thought, perhaps it wasn’t so very surprising after all, for who would ever need to go there? Uncle Josef had stared up at the tangled forest, momentarily interested, but she was sure that he would never bother to take a closer look. He was a busy man, he said, and all men were busy as far she could see. This made her feel better – the realization that everything would continue as it was. There was simply no reason for anyone to go there, and that meant that it was unlikely that anyone would notice her if she did so …
Because she did intend to go there again. She had a plan. In the meantime, though, she supposed that she must go and see Miss Bell and try to apologize.
Chapter Six
MISS BELL WAS leaving. Celandine stood on the little attic staircase for a few moments after she had closed Miss Bell’s door, and wondered how she should be feeling. She had longed for this day, it was true, but could never have imagined that it would happen as suddenly or as unexpectedly as this. Miss Bell had cut short her tearful apology and then surprised her by saying, with a note of triumph in her voice, that she had already accepted another post, ‘quite a step up from this …’ She had been planning to leave for some while, and this unprovoked attack upon her person only served to confirm how right she was to do so. Her time at Mill Farm had been wasted in more ways than one, and the sooner she was away from here, the better.
Celandine descended the short flight of steps to the main landing. What would happen to her now, she thought? She supposed that there would be a new governess, someone strange and different to adapt to, a faceless person, unimaginable. There had never been much love lost between herself and Miss Bell, but at least they were used to one another. So how should she be feeling about it all? Quite glad, she decided, and made her way along the upstairs corridor to Freddie’s room.
She had been in Freddie’s room before, but she knew that he would be cross with her if he found out that she’d entered in his absence. She told herself that he wouldn’t find out, and that it was in a good cause.
Nevertheless, she felt as though she were a burglar, that the slightest creak in the corridor outside would make her jump, that there was someone continually looking over her shoulder, that one of the dogs would start barking any minute. How silly. She looked about her – where did he keep the stuff?
The room was very spartan, and neat: Freddie’s collection of birds’ eggs carefully displayed in a tray lined with cotton wool by his bed; a single glass case of butterflies mounted on the wall; a bookshelf with all his books arranged according to size. She looked at the titles. Campfire Songs … The Home Workshop … Pears’ Cyclopaedia … and suddenly she missed him very much. Oh, but she missed him. She sat on the corner of his bed and wished he was here to cheer her up, to do something mad and make her laugh. It was hard to imagine him in his school, learning whatever you needed to learn in order to become a lawyer or a priest, or whatever it was they wanted him to be. Freddie in a wig and gown … Freddie in a cassock and surplice … that wasn’t Freddie at all. Freddie in a circus, she could see that, or on a music hall stage – that she could see.
The heel of her shoe kicked against something and she looked down. It was the end of a long thin canvas case. Of course – he kept it under the bed. She retrieved the case and undid the tapes that secured the flap, then very carefully drew the butt of the rod partway out. He had often promised to take her fishing, but he never had. Was this the right bit though? It was a beautiful thing. There was some lettering, a name, just above the long varnished handle. ‘Hardy’. No, this wasn’t what she wanted.
She got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed. There was another canvas bag, a squareish one with leather straps.
The inside of the bag smelled faintly of riverbanks – of mud and duckweed and earthworms and eels. There were several compartments stitched into the bag – interior pockets that contained curious-looking objects, for the most part unfathomable to her. Here were shiny metal things with beads and swivels, brightly coloured egg-shaped objects, painted quills and lumps of lead. How different it was to be a boy, she thought, and how interesting it must be to deal in such matters. Her own casket of trinkets – of ribbons and brooches and pins and bracelets – seemed dull by comparison. Celandine lifted out a spoon-shaped thing and held it up to examine it, gently touching the three hooks that spoke so eloquently of its deadly purpose. It dangled from its piece of weed-green line, slowly revolving, glinting against the light like a cruel piece of jewellery. A devil’s earring, perhaps. Celandine wondered why any fish would be so stupid as to even go near it, let alone try to swallow it.
It was tempting, but she didn’t think that this was quite the right thing. She found what she was after in the end – simple fish hooks – neatly wrapped in a piece of wax paper. Celandine carefully tipped the hooks into the palm of her hand and counted them. Twelve. How tiny they were, like parts of an insect. She took six, and tore the piece of wax paper along one of its folds to wrap them in.
On her way out she noticed a cricket ball sitting at the back of the bookshelf, next to Pears’ Cyclopaedia. It was the bruised sheen of its polished surface that had caught her eye – so like the colour of the planet in her dream. How funny. She reached out to press the tips of her fingers against the smooth red leather for a few moments, feeling the warmth of it, and then took her hand away. There were no fingerprints that she could see.
Celandine made a promise, although only to herself, that the flat rock that she now sat upon was as far as she would go. To venture further would be an intrusion. She hoped that the little people would see that she understood this, and that she had no intention of moving beyond this point without their invitation. The trouble was, they were nowhere to be seen.
At least two hours must have passed, probably more, and there had been no sign of them. But it was peaceful sitting upon the rock, the waters of the shallow stream trickling around her, and she was happy enough to wait. With her legs tucked beneath her and one hand resting on the warm stone, she reminded herself of a picture she had once seen: the statue of the Little Mermaid in Copenhagen. Perhaps little mermaids really existed, as well as little people? It was possible. Anything seemed possible, now.
She had the fish hooks ready, still wrapped in their piece of wax paper, and she played with the packet for a while, tapping it with her finger, chasing it back and forth across the surface of the stone as a cat might play with a mouse. They would be glad of some proper fish hooks, she thought. What else might they need? A needle and thread? Yes, that would be useful. Scissors? Scissors reminded her, inevitably, of M
iss Bell. She didn’t want to think about that.
They weren’t coming. She could sit here until nightfall, and they still wouldn’t show themselves. Well, it didn’t matter – she knew they were here, and that they were watching her. Somewhere up among the high line of trees, or perhaps closer, hiding among the brambles, crouching in the tall grass, their dark eyes were looking at her, waiting to see what she would do, wondering whether she brought danger to them. But she had been most careful. For a long time she had sat at the top of the gully, scanning the landscape, making sure that there was nobody in sight before slipping off her shoes and stockings and entering the wicker tunnel.
Nobody had seen her come here, and nobody would see her leave. Celandine reached forward and picked up a piece of shale from the bed of the stream, shook the droplets of water from it and carefully placed it on top of the packet of hooks. Then she folded her navy blue stockings, tucked them into her shoes and stood up. She hoped that Pato, or perhaps Fin, would see the little offering, sitting there in the middle of the flat rock. A corner of the wax paper was just visible.
Celandine bundled her shoes beneath her arm and gingerly made her way back to the tunnel.
When she returned the following day, she brought three embroidery needles, several coloured skeins of thread and most of a tea-cake. The packet of hooks had gone.
The day after that, she brought a book to read. If she was going to sit upon the rock for several hours at a time, then she might as well keep herself amused. There was another reason for the book. Her mother had told her that she must keep up her studies until a replacement for Miss Bell had been found, or until some other decision had been made with regard to her education. Celandine had agreed, but argued that it was much better to work in the fresh air than in a stuffy classroom – although she had been careful not to say whereabouts in the fresh air she intended to be. So now she sat, more or less with her mother’s approval, beyond the wall of brambles on Howard’s Hill, waiting for another glimpse of the little people. Once again there was no sign of them, but once again the gifts she had left for them the previous day had gone.
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