The Cuckoo Tree

by Joan Aiken

  ‘Why all the oranges and lemons?’ Dido asked a boy who carried a basket of these fruits and was pinning them with skewers among bunches of oak and beech boughs over the tomb of an old gentleman who was lying uncomfortably balanced on a pile of cannons.

  ‘The new king is very fond of marmalade.’

  ‘My stars!’ murmured Dido. ‘He’ll be able to make enough outa what’s here to last him the rest of his days.’ Then she asked the boy,

  ‘Hey, are you from Doc Furneaux’s place?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘D’you know a cove called Simon – Simon as used to live in Rose Alley?’

  He shook his head. ‘Can’t say as I do. The only Simon I know is the Duke of Battersea. He’s the gaffer in charge of all this set-out – Master of the King’s Garlandries, he is.’

  ‘Oh, no, it wouldn’t be him,’ Dido said, greatly disappointed. Cris plucked her arm.

  ‘Can we go up, do you suppose? The voice seems to be coming from up there.’

  She pointed towards the white vault overhead.

  ‘Can we go up?’ Dido asked the boy.

  ‘Sure – if you can get through the crowd. Door to the stairs over there on the south side.’ He pointed across the nave.

  They edged their way through, Cris tugging Dido’s hand, and found the door; beyond it the crowd thinned somewhat, and they were able to make their way up the stairs. These were wide, shallow wooden steps, winding upward in what seemed an endless spiral; Dido lost count after a hundred and fifty.

  ‘What the blazes would Tobit be doing up here?’ she panted. ‘If all the doings is down below?’ But Cris kept on doggedly.

  At last, however, she turned off through a little doorway into a stone passage so narrow that if two people had met in it, one would have had to go back. After following this, up steps and down, mostly feeling their way in the dark – though it was lit by an occasional lantern – they emerged in a great circular gallery that must have lain under the central dome, for it looked down directly into the middle of the Cathedral. The students below, scurrying hither and thither with their festoons of leaves, looked like ants carrying tiny shreds of grass.

  ‘Ah: now it’s loud,’ murmured Cris. ‘Where can he be?’ She started walking round the gallery. Echoes came strangely to them in this place; Dido felt as if she, too, could hear Tobit, urging them to hurry.’

  On the opposite side of the gallery another little passage led off. Cris followed it, past some doors, and presently paused outside one that seemed made for dwarfs. She tried it; it appeared to be locked. But a voice from inside whispered,

  ‘Cris? Is that you?’

  ‘Yes!’

  A key rattled and the door opened. Cris and Dido slipped through into a tiny stone room that looked out on to a leaded roof. Tobit was there. He and Cris looked at one another in that queer way they had: as if, Dido thought, nobody else existed.

  ‘What a time you took to get here!’ he said.

  ‘I came as fast as I could.’

  ‘Listen, we must do something fast! Old Sannie and FitzPickwick and Mother Lubbage are down below – ’

  ‘How did you get here, Tobit?’

  ‘I followed the rat,’ he said impatiently. ‘I kept peppering it with Joobie nuts from my pea-shooter, and it ate one or two and got slow and sleepy – I’m not ever going to touch those things again, I can tell you – it went wandering along a lot of dirty streets and across a bridge – I couldn’t catch it but I could keep it in sight. Over the bridge – Blackfriars, it was called – the rat crawled into an empty house. There were cellar stairs, and the rat went down, and I went down, and there was a passage, and I went along it, and it came out under here.’

  ‘In the crypt?’

  ‘No, under that. There’s a huge open space, big as – big as Tegleaze park, with all these rollers.’

  ‘What are they made of?’

  ‘I dunno – iron – some kind of metal – all wrapped round with sheep’s wool. They’re big – higher than me – an there’s hundreds of them. The whole place is sitting on top of them. The rat went staggering out into this place and then it fell over and went to sleep. I was having a look round when I heard Sannie and FitzPickwick and old Lubbage, so I hid behind a roller to listen.’

  ‘Not Mr Mystery?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t there.’

  ‘What are they fixing to do?’

  ‘It’s something to do with old Mystery’s puppet-show. They’ve got the theatre down there, and baskets full of puppets, and they’re planning to bring it up by and by – they’d got leaves tied all over, so it looks like the rest of the decorations. And they’ve got trays and trays of Joobie nuts and two boys to take them round – ’

  ‘Oh, rabbit it,’ said Dido. ‘I reckon I know what they’re a-going to do. Did they see you?’

  ‘No. While they were dressing the puppets I found a ladder up to the crypt behind one of the rollers, so I thought I’d try to get out and find you. But you can’t get out of the Cathedral once you’re in – the line of constables won’t let you past.’

  ‘Couldn’t you get back along the passage?’

  ‘I thought of that, but when I went back Fitz-Pickwick and the others were just coming up into the crypt – I only just got away without being seen. And I could feel you weren’t far off, Cris, so I hoped you’d come.’

  ‘And how d’you reckon we’re going to get out if you couldn’t?’ inquired Dido acidly.

  Tobit’s face fell. ‘I don’t know. Can’t you think of something?’

  ‘We’d best find the Dean,’ she said more kindly. ‘He’s somewhere about, a-chatting to the King and helping him with his cogitations.’

  ‘And he’ll get in some of the constables to deal with FitzPickwick?’

  ‘I ain’t so sure about that,’ Dido said. ‘I reckon we has to go as if we was a-walking on eggs. We are on eggs. Start a ruckus wi’ the Hanoverians, and we may set the whole place a-rolling. I can feel it rock right now.’

  It was true, there was a strange uncertain vibration in the Cathedral, more plainly to be felt in its upper rooms and galleries. The whole building swayed gently, like the branches of a tree, like an anchored ship in a slight swell.

  ‘Hushaby, Kingy,’ muttered Dido. ‘Let’s hope it don’t blow a gale in the night, or we may all get a surprise, FitzPickwick as well.’

  She led the way from Tobit’s hiding-place back towards the great circular gallery. Looking down over the rail they could see that the Cathedral had filled up considerably even in the short time they had been talking.

  Some girl students from the Chelsea Art Academy had threaded goodness knows how many oranges and lemons alternately on to a long rope and were busy hanging this enormous necklace in swags all round from the balustrade of the gallery.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ Dido asked one of them, ‘where his Reverence and King Dick are having their chat?’

  The girl put her finger to her lips. ‘Hush! Nobody’s supposed to know the King’s here yet.’

  ‘But he is here, ain’t he?’

  ‘Oh yes. Doctor Furneaux just took them in a basket of oranges and a bottle of marmalade wine because the Dean sent a message to say they were getting rather dry. They’re in the north gallery. But of course they mustn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘O’ course not,’ said Dido, and led the way past a sign that said ‘To the North Gallery.’

  After more stairs, more passages, they came to a closed door with a sign: ‘No Entry Except by Special Permission of the Dean.’ Dido considered knocking, and decided against it. She walked boldly in. Tobit and Cris followed with less confidence, Cris holding on to Tobit’s hand.

  They found themselves in a long room furnished with a refectory table, chairs and gorgeously coloured Persian rugs. On the walls were maps of London and pictures of Old St Paul’s before the Great Fire; a small fire burned briskly in a marble fireplace; nearby stood an open clavichord with some music on it. In front of the fire,
on a low table inlaid with silver, two men were building card-houses. In the corner of the room opposite the door hung a set of coronation robes, glimmering in the firelight; for a moment, as Dido entered, she fancied this was a ghost.

  Cris shut the door softly behind her. At the same moment the card-house, which had reached seven stories, fell down.

  ‘May the foul fiend fly away wi’ the cartes!’ exclaimed the younger of the two men. ‘What ails ma hand this e’en, that I canna build higher than seven?’

  He started building again.

  ‘It must be the wind, Your Majesty; I notice the smoke from the fire keeps eddying out in a most unusual manner.’

  ‘But ’tis a braw, still nicht, man! Nae breeze at a’!’

  ‘It ain’t the breeze, your Royalship,’ said Dido, walking forward. ‘It’s on account of a mess o’ Hanoverians down in the cellar who’ve stuck the church up on rollers. That’s why it keeps rocking back and forth.’

  The King’s hand paused for a second in the act of delicately depositing a card; then he laid it carefully in place. Next moment there was another puff of smoke from the fire and the new card-house fell down.

  ‘You see,’ said Dido.

  ‘There wad appear tae be a possibeelity that the lassie is speaking the truth,’ said the King. ‘What is your opeenion, Reverence?’

  The Dean had jumped to his feet, very scandalized at such an unauthorized intrusion.

  ‘Who in the world gave you leave – ’ he began.

  ‘Whisht, man! Let’s hear what they have tae say. Explain yersel’, lass!’

  Dido and Tobit told their tale, keeping it as short as possible. When Dido mentioned Captain Hughes, as being the original bearer of the Disptach, the King exclaimed,

  ‘That’s no’ Captain Owen Hughes, o’ the sloop Thrush? Why, I ken his son weel, and a canny braw laddie he is, and ettling to carry my train the morn’s morn.’

  ‘Captain Hughes’s son? In London?’ Dido was delighted, ‘Why, then he can come back with me to Sussex – I reckon that’ll be more likely to rouse the old Cap than anything. We can’t wake him, you see,’ and she went on to explain why, and what she suspected the Hanoverians were planning.

  ‘Aweel, aweel,’ said the King, ‘ilka path has its puddle. My puir auld dad had trouble wi’ the Hanoverians aft eneugh, it wisna tae be expectit that I’d gang free o’ them. Whit had we best do, Reverence?’

  The fire smoked again, and the room gave a perceptible lurch. It was plain that as the Cathedral filled up and more people were moving around downstairs, the whole structure was becoming more tippy and unstable.

  ‘Your Majesty must leave the building at once – without losing a minute!’ announced the Dean.

  ‘Na, na, man, I’ll not do sic a thing while a’ the folk doon yonder are in danger.’

  ‘Well then, we must get them out – ’ the Dean began. Then he stopped short and exclaimed, ‘Botheration!’ in tones of the deepest dismay.

  ‘What fashes ye, sir?’

  ‘Nobody is to be allowed out before tomorrow’s ceremony unless they have a special pass signed by the Home Secretary.

  ‘Weel, send someone for him, man!’

  ‘They couldn’t get out.’

  ‘Losh,’ said the King thoughtfully, after a pause. ‘Here’s a pousowdie. Whit’ll we do the noo?’

  ‘You could leave, your Reverence, surely – fix things with Lord Raven?’ suggested Tobit with some diffidence.

  ‘Leave His Majesty in such peril? Never!’ declared the Dean.

  ‘Seems to me’, said Dido, ‘– no disrespect to your Royalty and your Reverence – that there’s a lot of obstinate, clung-headed thinking going on round here.’

  ‘Really – ’ the Dean began, but King Richard said,

  ‘Nay, I like a plain-spoken lass. Let her have her crack.’

  ‘Well then. Us doesn’t want any scrimmage, right? Acos that would start the place a-rocking. So no sense sending for a lot o’ big flat-footed constables. The main thing is to get the place pegged down someway, so we needs to send a message about that.’

  ‘But how – ’

  ‘Fust of all, though,’ pursued Dido, ‘is there any food in the place?’

  ‘Food? Not a crumb,’ said the Dean. ‘Except for the choirboys’ buttons, of course.’

  ‘What’s those?’

  The Dean explained that in the fourteenth century, when choirboys were likely to faint from hunger, an act had been passed requiring the regular supply of small macaroons to the Cathedral by City bakers. Choirboys were better fed nowadays, but the act had never been repealed, and over the centuries a large supply of these cakes had accumulated. They were kept in a special lead-lined room, safe from fire and mice.

  ‘They’ll do,’ said Dido. ‘Have ’em taken round and handed out free to everyone downstairs. Folk who’ve had a bite already ain’t so likely to nibble on Joobie nuts.’

  The Dean departed to arrange for this, murmuring that it was all sadly irregular and how he would account for the disbursement to the Church Commissioners, heaven only knew.

  ‘Now,’ Dido went on. ‘Us needs a lot o’ rope.’

  ‘Lord Forecastle wad be the proper pairson to apply to, I jalouse.’

  ‘He is such a picksome old cuss, though,’ objected Dido. ‘Could you write him a note, Mister King? He’d pay heed to you, likely.’

  ‘Aye, lassie. I’ll stress the oorgency o’ the matter. Two thousand ells o’ best cable,’ the King said, scribbling. ‘But who’ll deleever the message?’

  ‘We know five active, sensible chaps not a stone’s throw from here. All we need is a stone,’ said Dido, and glanced about. On a glass-fronted shelf were some carved pieces of masonry – relics of Old St Pauls before the Fire. ‘That’s the dandy.’ She selected one. ‘Now for a bit o’ leather.’

  At this juncture the Dean returned, having arranged for free distribution of choirboys’ buttons. When applied to for leather he seemed puzzled, but thought the librarian would undoubtedly have a supply, for book-binding; at a nod from Dido, Tobit went with him to choose a suitable strip.

  ‘Odd fishikins,’ said the King, laughing, ‘ye should ha’ been a general, lassie – whit name do ye go by?’

  ‘I’m Dido Twite, your Royalship.’

  ‘Dido Twite? Nay, I’ve heard yon name before – and on the lips of an auld friend. Dido Twite. Weel, weel! He’ll be blythe and canty to hear ye are weel.’

  ‘A friend of Your Majesty – Who in the world – ?’ Dido began, but now Tobit and the Dean reappeared with the leather strip and some thongs, from which Tobit constructed a sling with considerable skill. While he did so the Dean, on the King’s instruction, signed five Cathedral passes for Yan, Tan, Tethera, Methera and Pimp – ‘I know yon names too,’ said His Majesty, ‘they used tae supply claret wine to my dad’ – and Dido wrote a letter:

  Dere Yan, Were stuk in Sint Palls Things is disey. Can yoo tell Home Seck to see Sint Palls is tide down tite as quik as pos. Then slope allong here fast for Them Hanno Veerins is agwine to Brake loose enny minnit. luv Dido.

  P.S. His Majesty sez this is troo.

  ‘You sign it too, sir, then he can show it to Lord Raven and Sir Percy.’

  So the King signed Dido’s letter, which was then, with the note about rope to Lord Forecastle, and the five passes, and a note from the Dean to Lord Raven asking that no more people be allowed into the Cathedral, all placed together in an outer covering addressed: ‘Mrs Grissie Gusset, 4 Wardrobe Court, One ginny reward to him as Delivers this’. Dido’s last guinea was enclosed, since neither the King nor the Dean had any money on them. The whole package was securely tied to the lump of stone.

  ‘The foot of Saint Erconwald! The only piece of his tomb left!’ lamented the Dean.

  ‘Wheesht, man! Ye’ll get it back.’

  ‘Now, where’s the best place to send it from?’ Dido asked Tobit.

  ‘Higher up.’

  So the whole party left the north
gallery.

  ‘Your Majesty had best remain out of sight,’ remonstrated the Dean, but the King said, havers, this was the daftest ploy he’d been engaged in since he was a sackless callant, and naething would gar him to miss any o’ the whim-whams.

  They had to pass round the circular gallery in order to reach the south-west tower, which Tobit reckoned would be the best spot for his purpose.

  Looking down over the balustrade into the nave, Dido let out a groan.

  ‘Confizzle it! They’re a-setting up that blessed theatre. Us’d best make haste.’

  ‘In my north aisle!’ said the Dean, outraged. ‘Wait till I go and – ’

  ‘No, your Reverence! We dassn’t start a row! Feel how the place sways.’

  The motion was even more noticeable now, and sometimes, when there was a sudden shift in the crowd below, the Cathedral bells could be heard faintly jangling in the north tower.

  ‘The rollers are uneven sizes,’ Tobit said. ‘I heard FitzPickwick complaining that Godwit had cast them in small batches and they were all different.’

  ‘The skrimping skellums,’ muttered King Richard.

  They hastened on to the south-west tower, climbed up a steep, narrow spiral stair, past the works of the Cathedral clock with its three massive bells, Great Tom, Great Paul and Great Fred, on, up, to a high outer gallery from which half London could be seen, smoky and twinkling in the clear frosty twilight.

  ‘By my certie,’ said the King. ‘Yon’s a braw parochine! Where do you aim, laddie?’