by Pauline Fisk
And I wouldn’t have entered it now if Pawl hadn’t given me a push and sent me flying in – only to discover that everything was back in its place. I stared at Grace’s books and magazines, her paintings, her pens, notebooks, fossils, feathers, stuffed fish, old glass jars and jumble of everything from knitting needles to seed trays. It was as if she’d never gone away. I could smell her whisky, and even a whiff of her secret hoard of cigars. I went to look behind the Caradoc Evans on the bookshelf, and there they were, back where she had always kept them. Everything was in its place. Everything was back.
Even the dust was back.
I tried to speak, but couldn’t manage a single word. Pawl brought in the promised tea and cakes and set them down. He was grinning with pride – a happy, grown-up child who seemed to think that he had cheated death. I remembered what he’d said about not liking change. It must have taken him months to get the room back to how it had been in the old days. But he’d worked away at it until he’d got everything exactly right.
‘Sit with Grace,’ he said.
I looked at Grace’s chair, and understood. It was almost as if she was in the room with us. I’d thought she’d gone for ever, but now I could almost feel her presence again.
Pawl lit the fire, then flung himself down in a chair and closed his eyes. I knew he wasn’t asleep, but savouring his achievement. I sat opposite him, and a companionable silence fell between us. Firelight danced on the walls and the day outside grew slowly darker. Harri and Mari lay at our feet, basking in front of the fire. There was something peaceful about them, and about the strange half-light. I could have stayed like that for hours, listening to them sighing in their sleep and watching Pawl smiling with his eyes shut.
But then the phone started ringing – the phone I’d tried so hard to find earlier, but now here it was when I least wanted it. I knew who would be ringing, but didn’t want to answer. It rang on and on, and in the end Pawl went and got it.
‘Hello this is … Pawl that’s right … Happy Christmas to … you it’s snowy … here how’s Pengwern … Zed’s here shall … I call him?’ he said.
Or something like that, anyway.
I got to my feet, braced to face my mother. Down the hall, Pawl was nodding and frowning, and I could hear my mother’s voice buzzing down the line. But Pawl didn’t call me over and finally, after a simple unadorned ‘yes’, followed by an equally stark ‘no’, there was a loud click and Pawl was left holding a humming receiver.
He stared at it, as if he didn’t quite know what had happened. ‘What did she say to you?’ I asked.
‘A happy Christmas …’ Pawl said, shaking his head. ‘She wishes us … a happy Christmas …’
I walked away. I knew that there was more to it than that, but Pawl obviously couldn’t get the words out. The day was spoiled, and suddenly I wanted to be alone. I went up to my room and sat in the dark, looking out of the window and thinking how much my mother must hate me, to not even want to speak to me.
But who could blame her, after what I’d done?
Outside the wind got up again, blowing down the valley and bringing with it a fresh fall of snow. Grace always said that Prospect House had the best views in the village, but that it paid for them by taking the brunt of the bad weather. It was doing that now, the walls buffeted by the wind, and the windowpanes thick with running streams of flakes.
Downstairs, the front door closed and Pawl slipped away as if the special moment was over and he’d got things to be getting on with – either that or else he’d heard the bad news about Cary and wanted to nurse his feelings on his own. I heard the sled skimming over the snow and the dogs running with it. Then the sound was gone, and all I could hear was the wind.
I leant against the window. It was pitch dark out there in the night, and I felt like the sole survivor in a crumbling world. I searched for signs of life and it was then, underneath the old yew tree that marked Grace’s boundary, that I saw the candle. It was burning without flickering despite the storm raging around it. I wasn’t imagining it. I really saw it.
A black corph candle, burning for a death.
8
On Plynlimon
That night I hung a blanket over the window to make sure that I didn’t see anything else. I was terrified of what the candle meant, and why it had come to me. I called home but there was no reply, called the hospital, but the only news that the nurse would give out over the phone was that my sister was ‘stable’, whatever that meant.
I hardly slept that night. I didn’t for a minute believe that ‘stable’ was anything to feel at peace about. Every time I dropped off, I dreamt of Cary lying in her hospital bed surrounded by machines. Morning came as a relief. I had fallen asleep around dawn, and now awoke late to the sound of bells.
I removed the blanket from the window with some trepidation, only to find a bright day outside. The landscape was as white as ever, but the snow clouds had blown away and people were out and about. It was like coming into shore from a distant sea voyage. Children played in the snow down the meadow by the river, and the ringing sound of shovels clearing paths could be heard across the village.
Suddenly I was back in the real world again, with my feet firmly on the ground. It wasn’t something out of legend that was going on outside my window, but real life. I watched people struggling up the church path, answering the call of St Curig’s Sunday morning bell. I knew each and every one of them, knew their names and who they were related to and who was friends with whom.
The last to come was Pawl, gliding down the path in Grace’s red wicker sled. He disappeared into the shadow of the church porch, pausing only to take off his pork-pie hat and stuff it into his coat pocket. Then the bells stopped ringing and the organ started playing carols.
For the first time in days, I felt as if Christmas was on the way. It was a beautiful morning. The storm had gone. The sky was bright. The valley glittered like a jewel and I had my first clear view of Plynlimon. Its flanks glistened, white upon white, whilst the Afon Gwy twisted down from it like a silver corkscrew.
It was a perfect picture-postcard view. I sat and watched the river flowing past the village. Back in Pengwern, people thought the queen of rivers was their Sabrina Fludde, but I knew that the Afon Gwy was the only queen. Suddenly I found myself pleading with it to save my sister’s life. Pleading as if it was a real queen, and had the power to grant requests.
‘I don’t care what becomes of me,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t care if my family never speaks to me again. All I care about is Cary. Please, oh please, let my sister live!’
The Afon Gwy didn’t answer. It just flowed on down the valley, giving no sign of having heard. Feeling a fool for expecting anything else, I got dressed and went downstairs to call home. I couldn’t get through, yet again, but discovered that, sometime in the night, my mother had left a message on the answerphone.
‘There’s nothing to report,’ she said. ‘The ward sister told us that you’d phoned, but it’s probably better if we call you rather than you call us. If there’s any change we’ll let you know.’
I played the message through a couple of times, wanting to hear her voice again, even though I knew she must have phoned in the night to avoid hearing mine. Over in the church, the organ had stopped playing and I could hear the mumble of chanted prayers. Suddenly I wanted to pray too. I don’t know what made me think of it, but I wanted to sit in the pews with everybody else, and feel like I belonged, and pray for Cary in the hope that God would hear me better than the river had done.
I hurried out of the house, pulling on my coat, staggered down the garden and over the churchyard wall, and headed for the church. I should have just marched in, but I stopped in the porch, waiting for the right moment. My eyes ran down the rotas on the church noticeboard – the lists of committees for famine relief, missionary work in South America, luncheon clubs, volunteer car-share schemes, babysitting circles, flower arranging clubs and a string of other worthy activities.
; By the time I reached the end of them, I knew I couldn’t possibly enter the church. What place was there for me amongst these worthy people and their good deeds? A boy like me, whose sister’s life hung in the balance because of what he’d done? What would these people on the rotas make of me, if they only knew? They’d wash their hands of me, just like my parents had done. Even Pawl would wash his hands of me. Even him!
Inside the church, the chanting ended and another carol started up. I crept away, knowing that I couldn’t join in. The sun was still shining in a sky still dazzling blue, but it didn’t feel like a beautiful morning any more. A chasm had opened up between myself and everybody else. I’d thought I had come home, but I’d got it wrong. Because of what I’d done, I had no home.
At the church lych-gate, I broke into a trot. I had no idea where I would end up, but couldn’t get out of the village quickly enough. I started up the Plynlimon pass road, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and the sound of good Welsh hymn singing. It was a stupid thing to do – not least because I wasn’t dressed for going anywhere. My coat was thin. My trainers were useless in the snow. I didn’t have a hat or scarf or even any gloves.
But nothing could have persuaded me to turn back. I passed the cottages above the Bluebell Inn, and the village fell behind me. The last cottage disappeared from sight, hidden by a sweep of trees, and the mountain stood ahead. I knew that it was treacherous, even at the best of times. People went up there and never came back – I knew that as well as anyone.
But I ploughed on all the same, following what I thought was the road, until it dawned on me that I was lost. I couldn’t possibly be on the pass road, I decided, but was on one of the mountain tracks that cut up between Forestry Commission land. By now, the shape of the valley had changed drastically and I couldn’t pick out a single landmark. What should I do? I asked myself. Press on through the snow, hoping to reach the next village over the mountain? Look for a barn to shelter in? Turn round, and try to find my way back?
I cursed myself for my stupidity. What had I been playing at? Plynlimon was no mountain to mess around on. It was completely unpredictable, as anybody with sense knew. The sun could shine on it one minute, and it could be shrouded in the deepest and most treacherous mist the next.
In the end, unable to decide what else to do, I carried on. Trees surrounded me until I couldn’t see the valley any more. Fingers of mist started weaving their way towards me, and I was beginning to panic when I suddenly saw a gate with a house set back behind it.
It was a long, low, half-timbered house that had obviously seen happier days. Some of its windowpanes were broken, and I couldn’t see a light in any of them. But I could see smoke rising from a single, tall chimney pot. The smoke of hearth and home – or so I hoped.
I hauled myself over the gate, and made my way towards the house, trudging up a snowy drive. As I drew level with the stable block I saw a couple of abandoned cars and a battered-looking old bus decorated with the slogans ‘WONDER OF ALL WONDERS’ and ‘THE AMAZING DR KATTERFELTO’.
As soon as I saw the words, I realised where I was. I didn’t know ‘the amazing Dr Katterfelto’ personally but, like everybody else, I knew that he lived at Clockvine House, halfway up Plynlimon Mountain. Down in the village he was the source of endless speculation. He was a Doctor of Conjuring, internationally famous, living with his daughter, Gilda, who worked as his assistant.
The village was full of gossip about them both, but nobody knew anything for a fact. Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of light between the trees of Clockvine Wood, but, for months at a time, they would be dark because the Katterfeltos were away on tour in their battered old bus.
I only saw it once, but it stuck in my memory because it happened just before Grace died. We’d been returning home from the Black Lion Hotel, and the bus came tearing past us, driven by Dr Katterfelto in his black four-cornered conjuror’s hat and cloak, Gilda by his side, wearing a green silk costume.
The moon had caught them both as they shot past – caught their eyes and made them glint like silver. Then they’d been gone, carrying on up the pass road, leaving a distinct impression of something strange having passed our way.
The word about the village – depending on whether you drank in the Bluebell Inn or the Black Lion Hotel – was that the Katterfeltos were either eccentric millionaires who conjured for a hobby, or were living in destitution without even electricity. Either showmen or reclusives, father and daughter or lovers, Prussian aristocracy or as Welsh as anybody else, having taken on a fancy stage name in their desire to impress.
And now I had the chance to find out for myself! I hammered on the front door, knowing that I was done for if I couldn’t make them hear.
Please God, I thought, raising the knocker. Please let them answer. Please may they be in. Please, oh please!
A cat miaowed inside the house, but that was all. I knocked again, and then again, and was about to give up and go round the back when a voice came towards me from what felt like a great distance.
‘All right, all right!’ it called. ‘I’m coming. Don’t be so impatient.’
I heard footsteps behind the door, and suddenly it flew open to reveal a man with sandy-coloured hair, a holey sweater with dandruff on its shoulders, baggy trousers and Winnie the Pooh slippers. We stared at each other. It was hard to recognise him as Dr Katterfelto, but that was who he was. I tried to speak, but didn’t need to.
‘Good grief!’ the man said, in a voice that could have been Prussian, like some people said, or it could have been Welsh – or anything else. ‘Look at the state of you! What are you doing out there on my drive? Don’t just stand there like that, boy – come inside, or you’ll freeze to death!’
9
Hocus Pocus
My first thought, upon entering Clockvine House, was that I’d made a terrible mistake. I might have been freezing cold and half dead, but it had always been drummed into me that I should never go anywhere with people I didn’t know. Not only that, but the inside of the house was almost as dark and inhospitable as the mountain upon which it had been built. By the time I’d got to the end of the long hall, I could hardly see my way back to the front door.
I began to feel sick and slightly panicky. The place had a musty, cold smell about it, and I was just beginning to think that the local gossipmongers had been right about it lacking electricity, when a door opened and a voice said, ‘Really, Pa. What are you doing, stumbling around in the dark? You’ll trip over the carpet if you’re not careful.’
A light went on, and there stood Gilda Katterfelto. Her eyes were like bright emeralds and her hair was dark. Her father explained about finding me on the doorstep and sent her upstairs to fetch warm clothes. I changed straight into them, a baggy sweater, jogging bottoms, slippers and thick socks, then allowed myself to be led into their sitting room, where a fire was burning.
‘Sit down,’ Dr Katterfelto said. ‘What’s your name? Zed? Well, Zed, pull up a chair and get warmed up.’
I did as I was bidden, and immediately began to feel better. The Katterfeltos might be strangers, but they couldn’t be kinder. Gilda disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a trolley laden with tea and a cake. It was as if I was an honoured guest. Her father poured the tea while she sliced the cake with a silver knife.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘Help yourself.’
I didn’t need to be asked twice. Suddenly my being here didn’t feel like a mistake. I piled my plate high, then emptied it, then did the same again, and then again. Before too long my life began to take on a distinct glow. Gilda sat at my elbow, wielding the cake knife, while Dr Katterfelto topped me up with tea and filled my awkward silences with tales about his show-business life.
He was a brilliant storyteller, full of tales he couldn’t possibly have made up because, on every wall, I could see the photographs that proved him right. I looked at a pop legend from the sixties, proud to shake the doctor’s hand. A famous vio
linist. A late-night newsreader. A politician. Even a minor royal.
‘Before you ask,’ said Dr Katterfelto, following my eyes, ‘I’ve met them all. Kings and princes, lords and ladies – you name them and I’ve performed for them. I’ve put on shows in palaces, and I’ve put them on in village halls. High and low – it makes no difference. And I’ll put on one for you. Test-drive my latest tricks on you – if you’d like me to, that is.’
My plate was empty by this time, and so was my cup. Gilda nodded at the cake, but I shook my head. She wheeled the trolley out of the way, and I said that I would love to see the doctor’s new tricks. At this, he rose to his feet.
‘Shall we go, then?’ he said.
I was more than willing. The three of us set off through the house, down yet more long, dark corridors, through a pair of glazed double doors, and into an elegant old conservatory. Its great expanse of glass revealed a sky full of stars, and I realised for the first time that night had fallen. Dr Katterfelto pulled up a cane chair between a pair of potted palms, and told me to make myself comfortable. Then he and Gilda made their way down the conservatory to a makeshift stage full of props.
‘Just give us a minute while we put on our costumes,’ he called, as he climbed on to the stage.
Gilda climbed up after him. As she picked her way between their props, she pulled on her green silk costume and matching cap, tucking her hair up into it. The doctor started getting dressed up too, pulling on white gloves, a black cloak and a black, four-cornered hat until, finally, he stood centre-stage, utterly transformed.
It was as if a piece of magic had already taken place. Gilda was transformed as well. She didn’t look like a young girl any more, but a woman of dark mystery. And Dr Katterfelto didn’t look shabby. There wasn’t even a hint of dandruff on his shoulders and he definitely didn’t look like the sort of man who’d wear Winnie the Pooh slippers. Instead he stood tall – a Doctor of Conjuring, and the undisputed master of Clockvine House conservatory, not to say anything of village halls and palaces!