Dreams That Veil

by Dominic Luke

  ‘Why can’t Roddy be more like you! Why can’t he be easy-going!’

  ‘We’re all of us made the way we’re made, miss, and there’s no changing it. Master Roderick’s not a bad sort. We used to have a lot to do with each other at one time, back when we was kids: playing cricket and rabbiting and whatnot. But he’s got no time for the likes of me now: he’s got bigger fish to fry, has Master Roderick.’

  Haymaking was over, the harvest was beginning. A letter came from Mama. She was putting off her return yet again. The sea air at Scarborough was working wonders. Mrs Varney (the Colonel’s married daughter) had pressed her to stay a little longer. I trust that you are behaving yourself, Elizabeth, Mama wrote, and are not being a nuisance to your brother. But Roderick was not at home. Nothing had been heard from him for weeks. It was as if he’d vanished off the face of the earth. There would be hell to pay (as Daisy put it) when Mama came home and found out what had been going on. In the meantime, Eliza was bent on making the most of her liberty. The whole summer, it seemed, was to be hers to do as she pleased.

  Walking back from the village late one afternoon, swinging her straw hat by the ribbons, Eliza came across some men working on the Lawham Road not far from the turning to Clifton. There were laden carts parked up. There were unhitched horses cropping the grass of the verge. A fire was burning in a metal drum. Most interesting of all, a big machine with a funnel belching smoke was being driven back and forth across the surface of the road. It looked like a larger version of the roller that Becket used on the lawns at home (or Jack Britten used it now: it was too heavy for Becket these days). The men told her they were ‘making up’ the road: macadamizing it. There’d be no more ruts or holes. It would be as smooth as silk from now on.

  As she stood watching, a familiar figure came plodding from the direction of the canal, hollow-eyed and dusty, dragging his heels.

  ‘Johnnie Cheeseman! Where have you been?’

  ‘Working, miss.’

  ‘Working? But what about school?’

  ‘School’s on holiday, miss, it’s August. Any road, I don’t go to school no more. I made up my times and I left. Grandad said I could work for him at the Barley Mow, but my dad said it was time I learned what a proper day’s work is like. I’ve been helping with the harvest down Manor Farm.’ He yawned, rubbing his eyes. ‘What’s going on here then, miss? What’s this monster machine?’

  ‘They’re making the road as smooth as silk.’

  ‘But it’ll still be as hard on your feet.’ He gave another vast yawn. ‘I should get on, miss. I’m about done in.’

  ‘Before you go, Johnnie Cheeseman, help me over this wall. I’ll go back home by the Spinney and cut the corner.’

  He gave her a leg up and she scrambled to the top of the crumbling sandstone wall. She looked down at him as he stood on the verge, screwing his cap in his hands and squinting at her, a rather skinny boy, whey-faced and worn out. He was the boy she’d always known best of all the villagers. He lived at the Barley Mow with his mother and father and his grandfather the publican, and was related to the Turners in some complicated way typical of the village. In days gone by, Eliza had sometimes played fox-and-hounds with him and they’d gone mushrooming together. He was the same age as her, almost to the day, not yet fourteen. But playtime was over for him.

  ‘Well, goodbye, Johnnie Cheeseman.’

  ‘Goodbye, miss.’

  She jumped down from the wall and set off across the field. Not ten minutes ago she’d been happy and at ease, rambling along the Lawham Road in the late-afternoon sunshine, but now she felt – well, she was not quite sure how she felt or what had brought it on. Was it seeing the familiar Lawham Road being transformed? Was it meeting Johnnie Cheeseman, now a working man? Or was it something else entirely?

  She wondered if Johnnie Cheeseman had been one of the men she’d seen earlier working in the field called Nate’s Piece down by the canal. She’d been on her way to the village after lunch and had stopped at the end of the drive to look. She’d been surprised to see as she stood there one of the distant figures go sloping off to the edge of the field before ducking down behind the hedge and making his way onto the road. She’d hidden behind a tree as he’d come running swiftly towards her, booted feet raising the dust. At the Clifton turning he’d stopped and looked all around. He’d not seen her; there’d been no one else in sight apart from the distant workers. He’d whistled softly. There’d been an answering whistle from amongst the trees by the empty round cottage known as the Gatehouse.

  It was an odd, rather forlorn place, the Gatehouse: an odd name, too. ‘There’s never been no gates at Clifton,’ Becket had told her: ‘leastways, none that I can remember – and I’ve worked here sixty year and more.’ At one time the gamekeeper had lived in the Gatehouse. But he was gone now and the old place after two years was falling into disrepair, ivy crawling over it and trees crowding round. It had been there in the shadow of the doorway that Daisy had been waiting for the young man with the ragged waistcoat and rolled-up sleeves, as dark and swarthy as a gypsy. As Eliza watched, he’d put his arms round Daisy and kissed her. Eliza had realized that it must be none other than Zack Hobson, the boy Daisy was so stuck on. She had been shocked by their playing truant, by their shameless unconcern. She had shuddered to think what would happen if they were caught.

  Making her way now across Corner Field towards the Spinney, Eliza tried to put all these disturbing thoughts aside. The round, red sun was sinking slowly towards the horizon to her right. The shorn field was bathed in golden light. Stooks cast long shadows across the stubble.

  She did her best to perk herself up. The stooks, she said, were great, lumpish troll-creatures who’d crept out to feed on the gleanings now that the workers had gone. She turned back to look at them, to tell herself their story. But the story fell flat. Somehow she couldn’t spark any enthusiasm. The field, empty and silent, and the setting sun, made her lonely, made her sad. So many different feelings ached inside her. She longed for – what? She had no idea. Yet she felt that she might break into pieces from wanting it.

  At length she turned away. Beneath the tangled branches of the Spinney it was dusk already. She crept silent as a cat through the gloom. As she did so, sudden fear took hold of her. The stook-trolls came to life in her mind. But they were not the friendly, lumbering giants she’d imagined. They were silent, they were deadly, they were pursuing her into the wood. They would do anything to stop her revealing the secret of their existence.

  A pheasant squawked. She nearly jumped out of her skin. She stood frozen, wide-eyed, listening. Nothing. Not a sound. Turning slowly in a circle, she peered all round. There were no trolls, no sign of life, not even the pheasant: she was completely alone.

  She set off once more. The trees seemed to press in around her. It grew murkier and murkier. The snapping of twigs and the rustling of last year’s leaves beneath her feet was painfully loud. Surely the driveway must be close by now?

  Suddenly, without any warning, a great burly figure lunged out from behind the bole of a tree. White eyes rolled in a craggy, hairy face. A gaping mouth uttered brute, guttural sounds. Gnarled hands reached towards her.

  She screamed and she ran.

  The peace of the Spinney was shattered. The alarm calls of birds set up a raucous chorus. Eliza plunged through the undergrowth. She expected at any moment a groping hand to grab her from behind. She sobbed with fear. She tripped, stumbled, forced herself on. The Spinney seemed never-ending.

  Her lungs were fit to burst. Her legs were giving way. With her last ounce of energy she threw herself forward. And suddenly the trees vanished; she had left the Spinney, she was out on the drive – and she ran smack into Billy Turner.

  She had never been so glad to see anyone. She clung to him, spent.

  ‘Miss Eliza? What’s up, what’s wrong?’

  She managed between sobs and gulps of air to tell him about the man in the Spinney: the mad, terrifying man who’d been chasing he
r.

  ‘A man, is it?’ said Billy grimly. ‘A poacher, I’ll be bound. It’s not dark yet but they’ve got bold as brass since the old gamekeeper passed on. What did he look like, miss, this man?’

  ‘His face was wrinkled, like bark; he had a beard, green—’

  ‘Green?’ Billy’s eyes widened.

  ‘I . . . I think it was green. It might have been grey. It was all straggly, like moss. He was like a . . . like a troll, all raggedy.’

  ‘Sounds more like a turnpike sailor than a poacher. That’s good. It’ll save me a job, any road. I’d have to take a look if it was a poacher.’

  ‘A . . . a what did you say?’

  ‘A turnpike sailor, miss: a tramp. Sleeping on a nice bed of leaves, as like as not. I daresay you frit him just as much as he frit you.’

  She tried to believe this but she couldn’t convince herself. What if the tramp had caught her? She pictured herself stretched out cold and lifeless amongst the brambles and pale leaves. What did it mean to be dead?

  She shuddered, tightening her grip on Billy, pressing her head against his chest. He was warm and alive, he was comforting. She could feel the coarse fabric of his shirt against her cheek, she could hear his heart beating, she could smell a certain smell, half horse and half something else, the sweaty smell of Billy himself. She closed her eyes and breathed in, a long steadying breath.

  ‘All right now, miss?’

  ‘I . . . I think so. I will be. In a minute.’ She was safe with Billy. She didn’t want to let go. And it was nice, having his arms round her, having him hold her: she would never have guessed just how nice.

  The terror of the tramp began to fade.

  ‘Let’s get you up to the house, miss.’

  He helped her up the drive. She leant against him, feeling weak. But she didn’t want him to think she was completely helpless. She wanted to show that she could be brave. She began to talk, trying to keep her voice steady, trying to sound blithe and unconcerned. She told him about the stooks in Corner Field, about Johnnie Cheeseman working at Manor Farm, about the men making up the Lawham Road. Before she knew it she was recounting how she’d watched Zack Hobson sneaking off from Nate’s Piece.

  She heard her words, was horrified, clamped her lips together. But Billy turned to her, his slow brown eyes searching her face. ‘What’s that about Zack Hobson? Miss Eliza, you would tell me, wouldn’t you, if you knew summat?’

  She felt just then, with his eyes on her and his arm round her waist, that she would have told him anything, everything, whatever he wanted: she couldn’t help herself. ‘I saw them. I saw them by the Gatehouse, Zack and Daisy. They were kissing.’

  He scowled. He took away his arm. She felt bereft. She was appalled, too, by what she’d done, betraying Daisy. Her frock was torn, her hands scratched, her hair hanging loose, she had lost her hat: she felt utterly wretched.

  She turned and ran. She ran full pelt. She didn’t stop until she reached the nursery and had closed the green baize door behind her.

  She still felt shaky later on, lying in her bath. Wiping herself with her flannel, she tried to wipe away all memory of the tramp and of her betrayal of Daisy. She thought of Billy instead. She thought of his gruff, gravelly voice and the dimple in his chin, she thought of her head on his chest and his heart beating, she thought of his smell and the feel of his muscular arm round her waist. Remembering how he’d rescued her from the terror of the tramp gave her a warm feeling inside. She dropped the flannel into the water and hugged her knees against her chest, holding on to this feeling and blotting out everything else.

  Chapter Eight

  Daisy marched into the day room with a face like thunder. ‘Well, miss, I hope you’re pleased with yourself! I never had you down for a tell-tale-tit – and to go clacking to our Billy of all people! You know very well that he and Zack don’t see eye-to-eye. And now Billy’s gone and told our dad and there’s been the biggest row you ever saw and I’m not to talk to Zack Hobson ever again!’

  Eliza blenched in the face of such fury. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy! I didn’t mean to say anything. It just slipped out.’

  ‘Spite, that’s what it is: pure spite,’ said Daisy nastily. ‘You think you’re it, don’t you? You think you’re so high-and-mighty. But you weren’t so clever when you started your monthlies and you thought you were dying!’

  ‘Oh, Daisy, you beast!’

  Eliza turned crimson with embarrassment. The memory was horribly fresh in her mind. With all the blood and the pain in her tummy, she had thought she was dying. She had sat up in bed and screamed. But when Daisy came running and saw what it was, she’d been quite unconcerned. ‘It’s perfectly normal, miss. Hasn’t anyone told you?’ But nobody told her anything.

  ‘You beast, Daisy, you beast! That’s private, you mustn’t talk about it, you mustn’t!’

  ‘Now you know how it feels, miss. Me and Zack: that was private too!’

  But it wasn’t the same; it wasn’t the same at all. Daisy didn’t understand the shame of it, having a body that played tricks, a body that was so much a mystery. There was no one to answer her questions even if she’d known what to ask. She daren’t ask Daisy, who always laughed when you got things wrong.

  ‘You beast, Daisy! You’re hateful!’

  Eliza ran to her room and slammed the door. Face down on her bed, she sobbed. She’d been having such fun as mistress of Clifton Park, able to do whatever she liked, but now it was all going wrong. She didn’t dare leave the house in case the tramp was waiting for her. She pictured him creeping round outside, trying the doors and windows, hunting for a way in. Even the nursery no longer seemed quite safe. If she didn’t have Daisy on her side – Daisy, the only one who ever came up here under the eaves of the house – well, it didn’t bear thinking.

  Contrite, Eliza crept out of her room. Daisy was dusting the toy shelves.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daisy, I really am. Please say you’ll forgive me.’

  Daisy stuck her nose in the air. ‘Well, I shan’t. And you can’t make me, for all you’re a miss and I’m just a plain nursery maid!’

  But if there was one thing Daisy was not, it was consistent, and it wasn’t long before she heard some news which quite eclipsed her quarrel with Eliza.

  ‘It’s the King and Queen, miss! They’re coming to Lawham! Our Jem says it’s the talk of the town. They’ve come to watch the army manoeuvres. They’re staying tonight at one of the big houses nearby, they’ll pass tomorrow through Lawham itself! Oh, miss, just think: if we could go, if we could see them! You could arrange it, miss. You could tell Mrs Bourne you need me, we could set off early. It’s not far to walk, not really: our Jem does it every day, going to the shoe factory.’

  Eliza, anxious to get back in Daisy’s good books, was sure she could do better than that. Bypassing Mrs Bourne, she went herself to see Jeff Smith and ordered him to have the motor ready next morning. He looked rather sulky about it but he couldn’t exactly say no.

  Sure enough, the motor was waiting by the front door after breakfast the following day.

  ‘Don’t go in the front seat, Daisy,’ said Eliza. ‘Get in the back with me.’

  ‘What larks! I shall feel like a real lady!’

  Daisy didn’t notice, as Eliza did, Jeff Smith rolling his eyes at her words. As she climbed into the motor, Eliza found herself regretting that she hadn’t let Billy Turner duck Jeff’s head a few more times in the water trough.

  There was quite a crowd gathered by the crossroads at the top of London Road in Lawham. It was the best place, general opinion had it, from which to see the royal party pass by – though no one seemed quite sure of the direction they’d be coming nor when they might be expected. The morning wore away. The expectant buzz faded. People began to mutter. Perhaps the King wasn’t coming, perhaps he never had been; it was probably someone’s idea of a joke. The crowd began to thin.

  ‘We should go, miss,’ said Daisy, disappointed. ‘Mrs Bourne will be having kittens.’


  They began to walk along Cow Street back towards Market Place where they’d left the motor. Eliza dragged her heels. She felt somehow responsible, as if she’d promised Daisy a treat and failed to deliver.

  They had just reached the narrowest part of Cow Street and could see Market Place ahead when Daisy suddenly stopped.

  ‘Listen, miss.’

  They heard faintly the sound of cheering but when they looked back the junction with London Road was out of sight round a bend, the street behind them quiet and empty. They were about to carry on when the buzzing and humming of motor engines stopped them in their tracks. Two motorcycles came sweeping majestically round the curve of Cow Street. Behind them was a black limousine, polished to perfection.

  Daisy gripped Eliza’s arm. ‘Oh, miss, it’s them! It must be! I can’t look!’

  Eliza had no time to answer. The limousine was already gliding past before her very eyes. And there, sitting on the nearside, framed in the window, was the Queen in a hat and high collar looking just as she did in her portraits. The rather severe expression on her face reminded Eliza of Mama. Daisy for all her protestations that she couldn’t look was jumping up and down at Eliza’s side, waving like mad. Eliza remembered just in time to wave too.

  The Queen turned her head. She saw them. She spoke to a figure sitting next to her, pointed. The figure leant forward, a man in uniform with a beard and sweeping moustache and rather bulging eyes, unmistakeably the King. Both the King and the Queen were now looking and smiling and as the limousine slipped away they waved: such slow, regal, dignified waves that Eliza was quite overcome by the magnificence of it.

  It had all happened in the blink of an eye. The motorcade swept on. It skirted Market Place, turned into Priory Street, disappeared round a corner. The sound of the engines faded.

  ‘Oh, miss, it was them, it really was! I couldn’t believe my eyes! And we had them all to ourselves!’