‘And I hit my head. I … I haven’t been very well.’
‘I know,’ said Nina. ‘Your mother told me. I wrote you a postcard, you see. To Mill Farm. And then your mother sent a card back, to say that you were staying here for a while. She said that you were ill. Anyway … now I can come and visit you – every day, if you like.’
‘Yes, I would like that. Although I’m supposed to be going home next weekend.’
They fell back onto the common ground of the past, talking about Mount Pleasant and all the awful people there – Miss Craven, and the Bulldog, Mary Swann and the ridiculous Pigtail Twins. They could laugh about it now.
‘It wasn’t very funny at the time, though.’
‘No,’ said Celandine. ‘It wasn’t. I thought they’d … killed you.’
Nina was silent for a few moments. Then she said, ‘That time – when I was in the san, and you came down to visit me. What did you do?’
‘Do? I don’t know what you mean. I just sat by the bed.’
‘I think you do know what I mean, though. You … took the pain away somehow. It was like … like it was being drawn out of me. By you. I could feel it happening.’
‘Oh. Well …’ Why shouldn’t she just tell the truth? Nina was her friend. Weren’t friends supposed to confide in one another? And she had already told Tommy about it. She couldn’t help the way she was, and it was nothing to be ashamed of.
‘If I tell you, will you tell me the truth about something in exchange?’
‘Yes, of course – if I can. You first, though.’
‘All right, then. It’s …’ Celandine sought for the words. ‘It’s as though, sometimes, I can feel what’s inside other people, when they’re sick … and animals too … but only sometimes. Not always. I mean, if I put my hands over where it hurts, I can somehow feel it too, and help to take it away … oh, I’m not explaining this very well.’ But she tried, and when she had said all that she could say about it, she stopped and waited.
‘Gracious,’ said Nina. ‘It’s a good job it’s 1915 and not 1515. They really would have burned you for a witch.’
But that made Celandine feel cross, and she said, ‘I’m not a witch. And I can’t help it – it’s just what happens.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nina. ‘I’m only teasing. And just a little bit jealous. I wish I could do something like that.’
‘Well, it’s not a conjuring trick …’ Celandine began, but then decided that she shouldn’t be angry with Nina. It wasn’t easy to explain, and it probably wasn’t easy for anyone else to understand. ‘And anyway,’ she said, ‘now it’s your turn.’
‘All right. What do you want to know?’
‘I want to know the truth about the lockers – that first night at school, when all my things got moved around and put back in their right place. And the sweets and everything – how they got into those other lockers.’ Celandine’s voice was shaking. She had the strangest feeling that this had also been due to some weird capability of her own – some wishing-power that she was unaware of. It was just too frightening to contemplate, and she didn’t like it. ‘Tell me the truth, Nina. Was it you?’
Nina looked at her with wide innocent eyes.
‘Me?’ Then she laughed. ‘You nincompoop. Of course it was me.’
‘Ohhh … Nina!’ Celandine felt the relief rushing through her, but then looked round as she heard her Uncle Josef’s polite cough from the doorway.
‘Nina – your mother’s here. She’s come to collect you.’
Nina came to visit every day after school, as she had promised, and by the time Thursday evening came around Celandine was very sad to part from her. Even sadder, in some ways, was the fact that they had begun to run out of things to say to each other – because it was almost impossible to make any future plans together. Celandine had no idea what would be happening to her next, and could only promise that she would make a better job of staying in touch this time. It wasn’t a very satisfactory way of saying goodbye, and both girls were subdued.
‘Oh, I wish you could just move the whole of Mill Farm to the middle of Taunton,’ said Nina.
‘Yes. Or perhaps you could learn to drive a tractor and come and be our new ploughman.’
Neither of which flights of fancy raised much of a smile.
The next morning, a half-hour or so before she was due to catch her train, Josef said to Celandine, ‘Come into the sitting room for a few minutes, Celandine, please. I wanted to talk with you a little.’
Uncle Josef’s Austrian accent could sometimes make his speech sound rather formal and severe, and Celandine felt uneasy. Was he now going to break his promise and start asking awkward questions? She sat down at the little table by the window and waited.
Her uncle sat opposite her and rested his bearded chin on his hands. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘There will soon be some choices to make, Celandine, over your future – over what will happen to you now. And perhaps when you speak with your mother and father, it might help them if you had some ideas of your own to offer. I wondered whether you had been giving this any thought.’
Celandine shook her head.
‘No. I don’t know what will happen. Perhaps another governess …’
‘Hm. It is important to be with friends, Celandine. I do not think that being so much alone is what is best for you. Nina is a good friend, yes? A good friend. So I have two suggestions for you to think about. Here is the first: if you were to return to your schooling, then perhaps you should go to school with Nina, here in Taunton. What would you say to that?’
Celandine could say nothing for a few moments. Here was a possibility that had never occurred to her. It hung before her, shimmering, and yet she hardly dared reach out for it. ‘But … I can’t,’ she said at last. ‘Nina’s at a day school now, and it’s too far away from home to travel to.’
‘Well, you could lodge here. By that, I mean that you could stay with us during the week, and go home to your mother and father at the weekends. This would be quite practical, I think. Yes?’
Yes, it would be very practical – and suddenly the world was changing. Within the space of a few sentences, a different and more hopeful future had begun to appear.
Celandine blinked, and struggled for something more to say. Uncle Josef had not finished, however.
‘I have also another suggestion for you – but first a question. Do you believe in magic?’
This caught Celandine off-guard, and she shrank back inside herself again, instantly wary. What was he getting at?
‘Magic? No. Not really. Or at least, I don’t think I do.’
‘Good. Nor do I. I believe that there is an explanation for everything – although we shall never know the explanation for everything. Not everything in this world can be understood by us, nor should it be. It is not necessary.’
Uncle Josef looked out of the window, watching the market day traffic pass by – the farmers’ traps, and the horse-drawn wagons loaded with produce.
‘Some people have special abilities, Celandine. Why this should be, or how this should be, I do not know. I only see that it is so. I prefer to think of such abilities as gifts, rather than powers. A gift – something given. Rather than a power – something to be wielded.’
He turned to look at her again.
‘I think that perhaps you are such a one. One with a gift. I overheard part of your conversation with Nina the other day, and must apologize for that. It is not my habit to listen at doorways. But I have had some thoughts on the matter before. Doctor Lewis, my colleague, has also spoken to me on the subject. You may not have made the connection, but he has a daughter at Mount Pleasant – Margaret Lewis. A talkative young lady, apparently, and quite close to her father.’
Margaret Lewis? Ah yes. Tiny. Tiny Lewis, who had been watching her, that night in the sanatorium with Nina. So Tiny had told her father what she had seen. A talkative young lady indeed.
‘And there have been other instances of course, Tommy Pal
mer being the most notable.’
‘Tommy? But all I’ve ever done is sit with Tommy, and talk to him. And he talks to me.’
‘Quite so. He talks to you, who would talk to nobody else. I had begun to wonder – for all my magnificent skill as a doctor – whether Tommy Palmer would ever talk again. You have a very nice way about you, Celandine. That is a gift in itself – and it is all that the clinic would require of an assistant. This, then, is my second suggestion: that you should come and help at Hart House. There would be a place there, I think, for a girl like you – a girl who has sympathy for those who have suffered … damage. We could pay you, a little, and once again you could lodge here during the week, and go home at weekends. You would also be able to see Nina, of course, which would be good for both of you, I am sure.’
‘You mean – come and work there? But … aren’t I too young?’
‘Yes, you are.’ Josef gave a grim little smile. ‘You are far too young for all this – but then many of my patients are also far too young for all this. We are living through times where the young must carry burdens that they should never be asked to carry. Ridiculous times. But what can we do? When an Austrian doctor is asked to treat soldiers who are at war with his own countrymen – so that those soldiers may then return to fight with his countrymen some more – then we live in ridiculous times indeed. Nevertheless, that is my job. I cannot stop the war, and nor can you. We can only help where we may, with whatever small skills we possess. None of this is your responsibility, Celandine, but perhaps there is a role for you to play – if you wish it.’
‘I … don’t know. This is such a … a …’
‘A shock. Yes. And too much to decide all in a moment. You don’t have to decide anything – but think about what I have said, and talk to your mother and father about it. They want only what is best for you. They love you, and they will help you. Listen to them. But listen to yourself also. You could go to school with Nina, or you could leave your schooling and work at Hart House. You are of a legal age to do so. Either choice would be good, yes?’
‘Yes. Oh yes – it would. Thank you. I’m just …’ Overwhelmed was what she was. And utterly confused.
‘Try not to worry. There is plenty of time. But …’ Uncle Josef glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece ‘ … not much time before your train leaves. Come, we should go to the station. Sarah! Are you ready?’ Uncle Josef rose from his seat. ‘A railway carriage compartment is a good place for thinking,’ he said as he walked towards the door. ‘There is something about a railway carriage compartment that clears the mind. Marvellous! Quite magical. Of course, there will be a proper psychological explanation for this, but I cannot think what it is – possibly because I am not in a railway carriage compartment.’
Celandine sat in the corner seat and looked out of the window. There was nobody else in the compartment, and nobody but Uncle Josef and Aunt Sarah on the platform, waiting for the train to leave. Aunt Sarah was saying something to Uncle Josef, and he was looking down at his feet, nodding and smiling.
How kind they had been to her, and how understanding. They had never questioned her about her mysterious absence, or her sudden reappearance. One day she might try and explain it all … but not yet. It was still too muddled and confusing. Here she was, in her railway compartment, and yet her thoughts seemed as cloudy as ever.
The whistle blew and her aunt and uncle looked up from their conversation. They smiled at her, and as the carriage shuddered into life, they raised their arms to wave. Thud-thud-thud … the couplings took the strain and the platform began to slowly roll by. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Josef walked beside the train for a few paces and then stood together beneath the station clock, still waving. Goodbye, goodbye …
And this time, Celandine knew that it would happen, a split-second before it did. She looked beyond the figures of her aunt and uncle, beyond the flash of Roman numerals on the overhanging clock, and saw the girl standing at the back of the platform. That extraordinary girl. Their eyes met and she saw the look of sudden puzzlement on the girl’s face, the fleeting half-smile of recognition and the bare arm beginning to rise, hesitantly returning her own wave. Goodbye …
Then the girl was gone, and her aunt and uncle were gone, and the station clock was gone. The rolling platform disappeared abruptly, to be replaced by white fence posts which ticked past the compartment window, lazily at first, and then faster, as the train picked up speed. Tick tick tick went the white posts, and the 10.25 was on its way.
Celandine leaned back against her seat and thought about the girl. Who was she, this person who seemed somehow connected to her? And why did she keep appearing?
‘ … there is an explanation for everything – although we shall never know the explanation for everything, or understand. Not everything in this world can be understood by us, nor should it be. It is not necessary.’
Her uncle’s words. It was a comforting idea – that it was not necessary to understand everything – but she did want to understand more about the ghost-girl. She couldn’t just ignore something like that, or help but wonder about it. Although she should try not to worry about it, perhaps.
And what about the Various? Should she worry about them? Their troubles were not her fault, any more than the troubles of the outside world were her fault. She would keep their secret, as she had promised – and perhaps someday their lives would cross again – but she would not go looking for them.
Would they come looking for her though? She didn’t think so. Corben’s archers had made it very clear that they were unwilling to leave the forest again.
But then an image came to her, of the scrap of material that lay in the mud near the farmyard gate. Blue-spotted it had been, torn and stained. Now she remembered where she had seen it before. It had been tied about Corben’s neck …
Another flash of memory – the sound of Cribb’s rasping snarl, and the cry of terror in the dead of night.
Were those two things connected? Had Corben come searching for her after all, perhaps alone, as she lay ill in her room? Celandine pictured herself waking in the darkness to find such a nightmare perched at the foot of her bed, leathery wings outstretched, bow and arrow pointing at her. Ugh. She shuddered at her own imagination. It could have happened, though …
No. Put that thought away. Perhaps Corben had escaped from the dogs, and perhaps he had not – but either way, she didn’t think that he would ever trouble her again.
She looked up at her canvas bag, perched on the netted rack overhead. The Orbis was in there, and Micas’s letter, and the Skye boat, and the little wooden comb. If it weren’t for those things, she would struggle to believe that any of it had ever happened. Whenever she had been away from the forest for any length of time, she had begun to doubt what she had seen.
Then she understood something. Nobody really believed in the little people, and that was how they managed to survive. They were there, right under everyone’s noses, and sometimes they were glimpsed, by accident. But those who had seen them would soon forget that they had done so, because they would not believe it. The Various were protected by disbelief. It made them invisible. That was their magic.
Even she, who had seen so much of them, might cease to believe and so forget. Already it was becoming difficult to picture the faces of those extraordinary beings. They were slipping away from her, disappearing. And everything that had happened to her was beginning to feel as though it had happened to someone else, in a story that she had read, or heard somewhere.
She would put the Orbis and the letter and the Skye boat in her jewellery casket at home, and she would turn the key. And some day she would perhaps open the casket again and look inside, and wonder how she had ever come by such things.
Micas, Elina, Pato, and Loren, and even Fin seemed hazy beings to her now, characters that she had imagined. It was the strange and wonderful Maven-the-Green, the one she had seen the least of, who still appeared to her most clearly. And Maven’s was the voice that she could st
ill hear.
You have the Touch, maid … Aye – the Touch. And ’tis a gift to be given – mark it well.
The Touch. A gift to be given.
And her Uncle Josef had said the same thing. A gift. Perhaps it was so, and perhaps that should be the choice that she made – to help at the clinic, in any way that she could, and with whatever ability she had. Or perhaps she should wait a little, until she was older, and in the meantime go back to school, with Nina. A happier school than Mount Pleasant.
Either prospect seemed equally exciting, equally wonderful, and she felt a sudden shiver of anticipation, a little burst of gladness inside her – something that had been absent for so long.
She thought about the Orbis, that unfathomable device, and Maven’s voice came back to her again.
… thee’ve another gift, and this must be hid – ’till better times than these. Thee shall know the day, when it comes.
Thee shall know the day …
Would she? And would that day come? It might, and it might not. But of one thing she was certain – she would never climb Howard’s Hill again, not if she lived to be a hundred.
The late summer countryside came back into focus as the train began to slow down on its approach to Withney Halt. Here were the familiar fields of home, with their ancient orchards and their withy beds, their rhynes and ditches – poppy-bright – and their curtseying lines of willow trees. And there stood the forest on the distant hill, unchanged, as innocent looking as ever against the bright horizon. She could gaze upon it now. She could take it out of its box and look at it, and then put it away for another day. The day that might or might not come.
Celandine pressed her cheek against the window – looking for Robert. Yes, there he was, calm reliable Robert, patiently waiting for her with the pony and trap, ready to take her back to Mill Farm – and to the beginning of all that lay ahead.
All that lay ahead …
A picture appeared before her, of herself in that future place. She thought that she could see, now, where she would be, and what she must do.
She picked up her walking sticks and heaved her canvas bag down from the luggage rack. Uncle Josef was right. There was something marvellous about a railway compartment. It had worked its magic upon her and her thoughts were suddenly as clear and as cloudless as the blue September sky.
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