Celandine

by Steve Augarde

  Nina was awake, then. Awake, awake … That was good – but it was a struggle to reply.

  ‘I … I don’t know.’ It might have been hours. It might only have been minutes. Celandine felt hot, then cold, then horribly faint. The room was slowly turning about her. A jug and washbasin on a corner stand. If she had some water …

  Nina had closed her eyes again. The glass at the bedside – Nina wouldn’t mind. Celandine reached out towards it, but her fingers fumbled against the blue envelope and the glass tipped up. She watched it roll over the edge of the little cabinet, saw it shatter on the tiled floor. Harsh echoing sounds. Bright jewels of glass and water droplets, arcing upwards, rushing to meet her – so close – and then an unfamiliar voice, high and panicky, spinning away into the darkness. ‘Matron! Matron!’ Tiny Lewis …

  She could hear the rooks calling to one another, and thought at first that she was in her bed at home until the explosive sound of a nearby coughing attack suggested that she must still be in the sanatorium after all. Celandine kept her eyes closed and listened.

  The sound of whispering – two low voices. She thought that she recognized one of them: Tiny Lewis, talking to another girl.

  ‘She did, I tell you.’

  ‘Who? Ninky?’

  ‘No, you dilly. Howard. The Witch. It was like a … like … What are those people called – the ones who talk to dead people?’

  ‘Priests?’

  ‘No, idiot. Not priests. Medi— somethings … medians …?’

  ‘Mediums?’

  A brisk footstep, and the rustle of starched cotton. The whispering stopped.

  ‘Lewis – I don’t think I gave you permission to come in here and talk to Price. Are you all dressed and ready? Good. You’ve just two minutes before Assembly to take your sponge-bag and nightclothes back to your dorm – and you can tell Miss Belvedere that I’ve excused you from games for the rest of this week.’

  ‘Yes, Matron. Thank you.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’

  The footsteps came closer. Celandine cautiously opened her eyes. Matron was standing at the bedside, looking down at her.

  ‘Ah. You’re awake then, Howard.’ Matron reached into the top pocket of her crisp white uniform and drew out a thermometer. ‘Pop this under your tongue and I’ll come back in a minute or two. In the meantime you might like to think about giving me a good reason for your sudden arrival in the middle of the night.’

  They’d moved her in with Nina, into the bed lately occupied by Tiny Lewis. Her explanation to Matron – that she had been feeling too ill to sleep and had then wandered down to the san in a kind of daze – seemed to have been accepted. It was possible that she had a chill, although her temperature seemed normal. She was to be kept here for a day or so, but away from other infected patients, just to be on the safe side.

  It was so peaceful, just to lie there and do nothing but think. Celandine looked across the room at Nina. Asleep. The strange experience of the previous night came back to her, but now it seemed unreal, something that she had imagined. Yes, she must have fallen half asleep in the chair and simply imagined it all, although the shocked expression on Tiny Lewis’s face had been real enough. ‘Witch’ – that was what they were calling her. She thought about it. It was true that some very odd things had happened to her – the ghostly figure of the girl that kept appearing, the business with Miss Belvedere’s dog, and with Nina … and the little people, of course. The little people – that was the strangest thing of all. But did that make her a witch? She didn’t think so. But perhaps she was … different.

  Nina rolled over and opened her eyes. Her hands were outside the bedclothes now, and one of her wrists was bandaged.

  ‘Celandine? Is that … what are you doing here?’ She tried to prop herself up, but then said ‘Ow,’ and lay back down again. ‘Were you here last night? Only … owww … my head … only, I thought I woke up once, and saw you. Something got broken.’

  ‘Yes. I was worried. I came down to see how you were. Then … then I didn’t feel very well. I think I fainted. Now Matron says I might have a chill. But never mind about that – what happened to you? What did they do?’

  ‘Oh.’ Nina sighed. ‘The swimming pool. It was horrible. They said … Mary and everyone … they said to come up on to the playing field. They said they’d found something, and they wanted me to see it, but they wouldn’t say what it was. I thought it was something to do with you, so I went. Over by the swimming pool, they said – that’s where it was. Then they made me walk the plank. Made me stand on one leg. Then the other. They kept throwing bits of mud at me, and laughing. So I turned around and jumped. I … I don’t know why. I just did.’ Nina managed to push herself up into a half-sitting position. She looked away, staring out of the window for a few moments. Then she turned back again. ‘I don’t think I was trying to kill myself,’ she said. ‘I think I was trying to frighten them. To make them sorry. I didn’t care about me, or what happened to me, as long it would make them sorry.’

  ‘Well, they are sorry,’ said Celandine. ‘Mary Swann is very sorry. I think I broke her toes, I stamped on them so hard. And she’s probably got a bald patch where I pulled out most of her hair.’

  ‘No! Did you?’ Nina looked half horrified, half delighted. ‘But … she’ll kill you …’

  ‘She won’t. She’ll not dare touch me. And she’ll not touch you either. They’re frightened half to death, the whole lot of them, of being found out. Miss Belvedere’s on the warpath, and if she ever discovers the truth … well, they know what would happen to them. They’ll leave us alone from now on, you’ll see.’

  ‘Mm.’ Nina’s face looked troubled. She picked up the blue envelope that lay on her bedside cabinet. ‘Actually, it doesn’t really matter any more. Not for me.’

  The envelope had been opened, and Nina ran her fingers along the rough edge of the torn paper. ‘My parents are moving back to England. Because of the war, I think. They’ve taken a house in Taunton, and so they say there’s no need for me to be at a boarding school any more. They’re taking me away from here. I’m leaving.’

  ‘What? No! You can’t be leaving. You just can’t. When?’

  ‘End of this term. Christmas.’

  Christmas. Who would have thought that its advent could be so dreaded, or that it could ever arrive so quickly? It came around all too soon for Celandine, who found herself counting the days in quite the opposite of the usual spirit. How would she ever survive at Mount Pleasant once Nina was gone? She would be entirely friendless. There would be nobody at all for her to talk to. To make matters worse, she could see that she was far more upset at the prospect of remaining than Nina was at leaving. Perhaps she shouldn’t blame her friend for that – for who would not gladly escape this place if they could?

  Some things, at least, had changed for the better. Just as Celandine had predicted, Mary Swann and her followers kept themselves at a very safe distance during the last weeks of term, and there was no longer any threat of violence. Miss Belvedere, despite her most vigorous investigations, learned no more of the swimming pool affair than she had upon that first night – and the culprits were at pains to keep things that way. Celandine and Nina felt relatively safe.

  Life had become a little easier, then, for the time being. But there was an atmosphere growing around Celandine that spread far beyond her own dormitory or classroom. Miss Craven’s daily bulletins suggested that the war was now unlikely to be over by Christmas. The battles raged on, and although the Germans were perpetually being ‘held in check’ or ‘suffering great losses’, it was plain that the Allies were far from actually winning. Miss Craven called upon all girls to pray to God and do their duty with a will. The Sewing Club would be rescheduled to accommodate extra sessions, and half of all produce from the kitchen garden would be sold to aid the War Loan. Miss Craven reminded the school that any trace of the Hun – pens, geometry equipment, sheet music, anything that was suspected of being German in origin – was now st
rictly forbidden. All to be impounded, or destroyed.

  Anti-German feeling had risen so high that it was close to becoming a second religion – or a witch-hunt.

  It would not be long, Celandine thought, before they got around to her.

  And Nina was leaving. She would have to face it all alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE ATMOSPHERE AT Mill Farm had become tense. Several of the farm hands had enlisted, and there was now a shortage of manpower – a matter of great inconvenience to Erstcourt Howard and his remaining workers.

  Mrs Howard was beginning to have problems domestically. The egg woman no longer called, having declared that she could live without ‘German eggs’, and Cook had taken to muttering ‘Jahwohl’ to each and every request. The local shopkeepers seemed suddenly to require that all bills be paid promptly, and social invitations had dwindled almost into non-existence.

  ‘What do they think, these schtupid people?’ Mrs Howard complained to Celandine. ‘I am a submarine, with … with bombs in my skirts?’

  Celandine shrugged her shoulders. She wasn’t really listening. She had more than enough troubles of her own, but at that particular moment she was trying to write a letter, and was also thinking about the possibility of a visit to Howard’s Hill. This wouldn’t be so easy in the winter. The ground was sodden and muddy from the persistent rain, and for all she knew the little wicker tunnel could be knee high in water, perhaps worse. Would Freddie’s wading boots fit her, she wondered? It looked as though she might have to put it off once again.

  She and Nina had faithfully promised to see each other if they possibly could, though a visit over the Christmas holiday didn’t seem very likely. She could write, at least.

  ‘Dear Nina …’

  The end of her dip-pen had been gnawed to a splintery pulp, and bits of paint were sticking to the tip of her tongue. So far she had found very little to say.

  ‘It’s Christmas Eve, and I’m sitting at the parlour table where we played cards at half term. It’s still raining, and I don’t feel in the least bit Christmassy.’

  Celandine looked up in wonder. She had been remembering how she had sat here with Nina, and how Freddie had suddenly appeared on the motorcycle. Now, amazingly, here was that very sound again – brpp-mmm … brpp-mmm …

  It was as though she were watching a moving picture, a newsreel that she had already seen. The motorcycle flashed past the window, the two greatcoated figures hunched against the rain, and then disappeared from her view. The engine slowed to a steady beat – thumpeta-thumpeta-thump – and she heard Freddie’s voice, faint upon the gusting wind. ‘Thanks, Jock! Monday … yes … Merry Christmas.’

  The engine speed picked up again and faded away in the lane. Celandine turned to look at her mother, saw the apprehension on her face – and knew that they had both been thinking the same thing.

  ‘Oh! … Erstcourt …’

  Freddie looked thinner. And yet bigger somehow – taller, more angular. The roundness of his face had gone, and his cheekbones were clearly visible. His uniform no longer hung so loosely about his shoulders.

  ‘Where’s Father?’ It was all that he said – just two words – but it seemed to Celandine that his voice had changed as well. The cold wind blew into the hallway as Freddie stood holding the door open, ready to either come in or to go back out again, whichever was necessary. Lizzie ran forward as if to hug him, and then held back, awkwardly. She merely touched the wet sleeve of his army greatcoat instead.

  ‘Oh Freddie, it is so good you are safe … but your father, he is with Mr Hughes. I think perhaps the cider barn … Yes, I hear the machine. But, Freddie …’

  ‘Better get it over with, then. Back in a minute …’

  He closed the door, and was gone. But Mrs Howard, after waiting uncertainly for a few moments, opened the door once more. Celandine joined her mother at the threshold. Together they stood and watched, narrowing their eyes against the sleeting drizzle, as Freddie crossed the yard and disappeared into the barn.

  It wasn’t long before Mr Hughes came out, followed by Robert the head stableman. Whatever was being said in there was obviously not for their ears. The two men hurried over to the stables.

  ‘Will it be all right, do you think?’ Celandine needed her mother’s reassurance.

  ‘Yes, I think so. Your father is still very angry – yet he was too a soldier, when he was young. He will become over this. But I – I shall worry always. Come. We are wet, and we can do nothing.’

  Celandine sat with her mother in the parlour and listened fearfully as the boots came stamping into the hallway, Erstcourt’s loud voice haranguing, questioning, criticizing.

  ‘Now you listen to me, boy. You will tell me exactly which regiment you are with, and the name of your commanding officer – because as far as the Somersets are concerned, they’ve never dam’ well heard of you! No record of you whatsoever!’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to tell you, and so it’s not a bit of good your carrying on. All you need to know is that I’m safe and well. I’ve got forty-eight hours leave for Christmas, and then I’m going back to barracks on Monday.’ Freddie’s voice was calm and unflustered, but absolutely adamant.

  ‘Back to barracks? You’ll do no such thing, my lad! Now that you’re here, you’ll dam’ well stay here and do as you’re told!’

  ‘I’ll go right now if you don’t stop shouting at me!’ Freddie was beginning to get angry. ‘Yes! And you shan’t stop me. I’m sorry, do you hear? I’m sorry, Father. Truly I am. I don’t mean to cause you worry and … and pain. But it’s done. I’ve joined the army. I’m a soldier now. There’s an end to it.’

  The two men entered the room, both red-faced, uncomfortable. Erstcourt appealed to his wife.

  ‘Lizzie – what are we to do with this … this … foolish little drummer boy?’

  ‘Let him beat his drum, Erstcourt, as once you beat yours.’

  Celandine felt the tears spring to her eyes. It was quite the best thing that she had ever heard her mother say – and the first time she had known her father to be defeated. She saw him shrink somehow, as his anger collapsed within him, and she knew that there would be no more argument. Freddie had won his battle.

  The atmosphere at Christmas dinner the following day was a little strained, though it might have been a lot worse. Thos remained disapproving of Freddie’s actions, but was no longer openly scornful, and Erstcourt went as far as to say that there was no better life for a man than the army, under the proper circumstances. He still maintained that these were not the proper circumstances and that Freddie had acted most unwisely, but no son of his would be disowned for attempting to do his duty, however misguidedly.

  ‘Nevertheless, this is still unfair on your mother, Freddie, to refuse to tell us which regiment you’re with. It’s a great worry to her, not knowing where you are. I’ll trouble you for the parsnips, Lizzie, if I may.’ Erstcourt’s gentler tone had more effect than his previous bluster, and Freddie gave ground.

  ‘Well, all right then,’ he said. ‘I’m with the Dorsets, not the Somersets. So now you know. I’d still rather not say where, though. But you mustn’t worry, Mama. I shall write. Training is nearly over, and once I’m posted I promise I shall tell you where I am. I’ve already given you as my next of kin. If I was ever, you know … hurt … they would know who to write to.’

  He looked tired, thought Celandine, tired and distant. And he looked like a soldier. They had cut his hair, and changed the shape of him and the sound of him, and made him theirs. Somebody else owned him now.

  All he wanted to do, he had said to her privately, was sleep. The training was hard, and they kept them at it from dawn till dusk. Soon he would be sent to France or Egypt – perhaps even to Gallipoli. It all depended.

  When dinner was over, Thos and Erstcourt left to attend to some farm business, a necessary thing be it Christmas or not, and Mrs Howard went upstairs for her nap. Freddie and Celandine settled down in the parlour for a game of c
anasta. Freddie soon lost interest however, and they ended up simply building card houses, and talking.

  ‘How’s school?’ said Freddie.

  ‘Terrible. I wish I could run away and join the army.’

  Freddie laughed, and once again Celandine was aware of how different he sounded, how much he had altered. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can just see you stabbing at sack-dummies with a fixed bayonet. Or a pair of scissors.’ Then he looked embarrassed. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to … you know … remind you.’

  ‘Oh … it doesn’t matter.’ She thought about it for a moment, remembering. ‘I can’t believe I actually did that.’

  ‘Can’t you? I wish I knew that I could “actually do that”, if I had to. We talk about it quite a lot, you see … wondering whether we’ve really got it in us …’ He carefully balanced another card on the construction in front of him, to make a roof. ‘And we hear stories in the mess. About deserters. They shoot them for cowardice, as an example to the others. They have to, because it’s letting down the side – can’t have men just wandering off and deserting. But some of them can’t help it, you see … they get the jim-jams … can’t take it any more. And so they blindfold them … sit them in a chair …’

  ‘Freddie, don’t!’ Celandine was horrified. ‘That’s dreadful! Aren’t you very frightened?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He stood up, restless again, and walked over to the window. The little parlour seemed too enclosed for him now, too small to hold him. ‘Not that I think I’m particularly brave or anything. I just want to be there. Just want to get started. I can’t bear all this waiting around.’

  Some things about him hadn’t really changed after all, Celandine thought. He was just as impatient as ever.

  ‘Do you remember that time we walked all the way round Howard’s Hill,’ he said, ‘looking for fairies?’ He was still standing at the window, although little could be seen of the darkening afternoon landscape.

  ‘They’re not really fairies …’ Celandine had been taken by surprise, and the words simply came out. ‘I mean, I didn’t really see any fairies.’