Photographing Fairies: A Novel

by Steve Szilagyi

  “My husband needs the countryside to run over,” Linda said.

  “It’s good for the soul.” Drain tucked his chin into his chest.

  Up ahead, I saw a large shaggy woods. It was hardly Sherwood Forest, but it was the largest group of trees I had seen yet in the area.

  “Not far now,” said Drain.

  As we got closer to the woods, I saw a long, low building amid the trees. It was the ruin of an old factory. The roof was caved in, the windows all broken. Weeds and saplings sprouted in the interior.

  Beyond the factory was a sharp bend in the road. Drain struggled with the wheel. “Right here,” he said, stopping the car.

  The woods ended. Before us was a splendid garden. It spilled over a low stone wall alongside the road, gloriously amorphous; a mist of pastel colors; waving green stalks; hovering bees; tiny leaves. Beyond the garden was a stone cottage, almost hidden behind clouds of flowering shrubs and the thick, lowering trees. To either side of the cottage two tall cypress trees rose as slender, leafy cones.

  Linda turned around in her seat to look at me. “This is where it happened,” she said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “The accident.”

  “Your friend,” said her husband. “Constable Walsmear. He was driving the motorcar.”

  “One of the few in town back then,” said Linda.

  “It wasn’t his, of course,” said Drain. “It had been stolen and abandoned.”

  “Gypsies, I’ll bet,” said Linda.

  “The constable had been told to return it,” said Drain. “But he’d never driven a car before.”

  “Imagine,” said Linda. “How surprised he must have been. To have her dart out of the garden. Into the road.”

  “Right into his path,” said Drain.

  The garden had entranced me. I wasn’t really paying attention.

  “Who ran where?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Templeton,” said Linda. “We’re telling you about the accident. How she was killed.”

  “Templeton?” I said. “You mean this — this is the garden where the girls took pictures of — Excuse me.”

  I opened the car door and half stepped outside.

  So this was it! No question. If there were fairies in England, this would be the spot they would gather. I imagined them dancing on every flowertop. My heart leaped at every puttering butterfly and lumbering bumblebee. What was that? And that? At one end of the garden was a vast, gnarled tree, like nothing else I’d ever seen.

  “Mr. Castle,” Linda called me back to earth.

  “Sorry.” I dropped back into the seat. “Just having a look. The garden is just as beautiful as everyone says it is. What kind of tree is that?”

  “That?” Linda said. “That’s Old Splendor. Oldest tree in Burkinwell. It’s a walnut, I think.”

  “It’s magnificent. All of it,” I said.

  “And it looks like this without any maintenance,” said Drain. “Brian Templeton — he lives in that cottage — he’s as lazy as any man alive.”

  “Now, Tom,” chided Linda.

  “I don’t know where he gets the energy to get out on Sunday and bring the girls to services,” Drain sighed. “The Templeton family owned all this land you know. The big house burned down long ago. The fortune vanished somewhere or other — ”

  “Lawsuits. Bad investments,” said Linda.

  “Brian inherited the cottage, the garden, and a little income. He’s a sad creature, really. Just this side of a charity case. I wouldn’t care, but those girls — ”

  “Darling girls.”

  “They deserve better. Growing up like wild Indians. No supervision.”

  “But they’re so sweet. So innocent.”

  “No thanks to him,” Drain said, stepping on the gas. As we passed the cottage, he stuck his hand out the window and waved. “Just in case they’re looking,” he said.

  I turned in my seat and watched the garden and cottage get smaller. The flowers blurred and folded up around Old Splendor as the chimney and the tops of the two pointed locust trees disappeared behind a hill.

  Chapter Ten

  How I Met Esmirelda

  The starry night was a modest inn. Three stories. Blank stucco facade. The Rev. Drain and Linda dropped me off under its sign, a dark blue circle with the Big Dipper splotched on with a crude brush.

  “Perhaps Mr. Castle could come over for tea some time,” Linda suggested to her husband. “Would that be all right, Tom?”

  Drain couldn’t see why not. They often had parishioners over on Wednesdays for tea. “Will you be staying long?” he asked.

  “That depends.” I laughed. “If I’m still here next Wednesday, I’ll be happy to come.”

  Linda and her husband bade me a jolly good-bye. They seemed to be the picture of married contentment as they drove off to return their borrowed car.

  Inside, the Starry Night was divided into two downstairs rooms. There was a bar and eating room on one side. On the other side, there was a cozy sitting room. The walls in both rooms were replete with moth-eaten hunting trophies, ugly paintings, framed mottoes, and stuffed fish. A narrow stairway separated the two rooms.

  The proprietor of the Starry Night introduced himself as Colin Cole. He registered me from behind a tall desk in the sitting room.

  “Like the old king,” I joked to him.

  “What?”

  “You know,” I said. “Old King Cole?”

  “There was a king named Cole?” he asked.

  “You never heard ‘Old King Cole was a merry old soul . . .’?”

  “Was he?”

  “Forget it.”

  He was a red-faced old fellow. Had a huge torso and a twisted leg.

  “Broke that leg when I was a lad. Best thing that ever happened. Got me off the farm, it did. Can’t work with a bad leg, can you? And — ” he winked “ — the ladies like it.”

  “Do they?”

  “Blimey. Makes them laugh. I can chase them. But I can’t catch them. ESMIRELDA!”

  A swinging door flew open and slammed against the wall. Bits of plaster dropped from the ceiling. A hulking girl dragged herself into the room. She held a limp dishrag in one hand.

  I remembered Detective Cubb’s account of the Starry Night. This, I thought, must be the famed Esmirelda. She looked to be in her mid-twenties. Dark. Her scraggly brown hair was tied at the back of her neck with a piece of ordinary twine. She wore a threadbare, salmon-colored shift; no apron. The front of her shirt appeared damp, scattered with fresh stains and bits of blood.

  “Take this man’s trunk up to the Bachelor’s Room,” Cole ordered her roughly. Smiling to me, he said, “I’m putting you in the Bachelor’s Room. If that’s all right with you. All our rooms have names, you see. You could also have the Old Home. Or the Fairy Palace. But the Bachelor’s Room is quite nice.”

  “That will be fine. But I’ll be happy to carry my own trunk. I couldn’t let a girl — ”

  “She don’t mind.”

  Esmirelda was already struggling awkwardly with the heavy piece. She got it up the first couple of steps. Then she stopped. “Hoy,” she said. “I ain’t a’carrying this.”

  “And why not, you large, wretched girl?”

  “It stinks.”

  “What do you mean? How dare you insult our guest?”

  “I’m not saying he stinks. His trunk stinks.”

  “Well, how dare you insult our guest’s trunk?”

  “Can’t you smell it, you daft old man?”

  “My nose hasn’t worked right for years,” Cole snuffled. “If it did, I’d have you bathe more often.”

  “Limp over here and sniff it.”

  “Typical woman. Pick on a man’s weak point that isn’t even his fault,” Cole said. He limped over to the stairs. “
Waah!” He suddenly staggered back. “Even I can smell it now. What are you sir? A tanner? Smells like a tanner’s fixings in there.”

  Not a bad guess.

  “No, sir,” I said. “I’m a photographer. Those are my chemicals. Some of the jars got broken in transit, I’m sorry to say. But I’ll have the whole trunk straightened out once I’m settled in.”

  “You’ll do it out in the stable, I’m afraid.”

  “The stable?”

  “I can’t have you stinking up my inn. I mean, with all due respect, I got other guests, too.”

  “It doesn’t smell that bad,” I said.

  A man in a tweed cap was coming down the stairs. He had to jump over the trunk.

  “He says it doesn’t smell bad,” Esmirelda said to this other guest.

  “Smells like bloody embalming fluid,” said the man, passing on with a broad wink.

  “That’s right, Mr. Parker,” Cole said to his back. “That’s just what I was going to say.”

  “But you can’t — ” I sputtered.

  Esmirelda was dragging the trunk out through the barroom.

  “Oh Jeez, what’s that smell?” was among the comments from the bar. “You got a body in there, Ezzie?” “Some new kind of cheese, Ezzie?”

  “Shut your fat mouths,” said Esmirelda.

  I watched her disconsolately. It didn’t occur to me to help until she was already outside.

  “Oh dear,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Castle,” Cole said. “That one’s not afraid of hard work. Your trunk will be safe. She’ll lock it in the harness closet. You don’t need anything out of it right now, do you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Well then, come on. Have something to eat.” Cole winked and grinned. “I’ll bet you’re hungry,” he said. “Am I right or am I wrong?”

  “You’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. Here now, pull up a chair. What would you like? A nice steak and kidney pie? ESMIRELDA!”

  A savory pie appeared from the kitchen. I washed it down with several pints of ale.

  Some locals joined me. They talked about an upcoming racing meet, a neighbor who’d been fleeced by some builders, and the railway porters’ strike. One of the locals’ nephews was somehow involved. Either a striker or policeman, I don’t remember. But it was a chill reminder of Paolo and Shorty. It was only that morning I had been attacked, and the two were still at large.

  After my meal, I enjoyed a smoke. It was provided by a genial Cole from behind the bar.

  “Not much of a pub life here in Burkinwell,” he said, tilting a candle flame in my direction. “Folks here stick close to home.” He leaned closer and whispered. “What we get in here is mostly the strays. Lost scraps of humanity. They blow up here like scraps of paper on a fence.”

  Finally, I was full and tired. Wishing everyone goodnight, I went up to my room.

  The room was small but neat. I saw a dormer window, a washstand, and none other than Esmirelda stretched out on the bed. The big girl didn’t move as I came in. She stared dreamily at the ceiling. With one hand, she tucked a corner of the quilt around the mattress.

  I coughed.

  She looked up with big watery brown eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “Just making the bed. I do it lying down sometimes. I get tired, you know.”

  Esmirelda had dark hairs at the corners of her mouth; and she was young enough for it to be attractive. She said that Cole was working her too hard; she needed her rest.

  I was at a loss for a reply.

  “He seems like a good man,” I ventured.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she replied. Her voice was slow and lazy. “I can’t blame him. He works me hard, I’d work me hard too. That’s how you make money.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Sure. That’s how you do it. I’m saving my money. And when Cole dies, I’ll buy this place. I’ll call it — ”

  “The Esmirelda?”

  “How’d you know? Anyhow, I’ll get my own girl. Work her to the bone. There’s got to be some likely ones hereabouts.”

  “Local girl?”

  “Maybe. I know most of them, though. Too lazy. Or too smart.”

  I don’t know why I asked this: “Know the Templeton girls?”

  “You’d have to be an animal.”

  “What?”

  “An animal,” Esmirelda sat up. “To treat those girls bad. They’re good girls. Sweet girls. Not like me. Not like that minister’s wife you drove up with.”

  “You know her, too?”

  “Can you believe some of the things she wears? Do they dress like that in London?”

  “Well, not every — ”

  “Must make the men wild. Don’t know how she controls them if they’re like the men up here. What do you think of her?”

  “I suppose she seemed — ”

  “She goes down to London for her good times, she does. I’ll do that too, someday. When I saved up enough. I’m saving my money, you know.”

  I turned my back on her. I began loosening my tie. Time to go, Esmirelda. “I suppose everything’s all set up here, then?” I said.

  “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.” I heard her heavy body creaking off the bedframe. “My room’s back down the kitchen.” She spoke from the doorway. “The yellow door. Knock me up if you need anything. Anytime. I’m a light sleeper.”

  The door closed.

  I flung my tie over the chair. I lay down on the bed. It still smelled like Esmirelda — a not entirely unpleasant smell. A combination of sweat, kitchen grease, and cloves or something.

  Lying there, fully clothed, I began to fret. And there was plenty to fret about. Did I have enough to pay for the room? I leaped out of bed and went through my pockets and valise. I had enough money to last me a while. What about my missing valise? Some stranger could be pawing through it at that very moment. That was painful to think about. It wasn’t only my underwear in the valise. There were legal papers drawn up by Sir Arthur, outlining his offer for the Burkinwell fairy photographs. Anyone reading those papers would now the whole business. Or think I was a madman. It was disturbing, as if someone were reading my love letters.

  Did losing Sir Arthur’s legal papers hurt my mission?

  Not at all. Sir Arthur wanted me to buy the Burkinwell fairy pictures and get them out of circulation. That I could still do. But there was much more. I had plans that would make me rich. Would make Constable Walsmear rich. Would make those two little girls and their father rich.

  I started to panic. Suddenly the whole thing seemed like a crazy scheme. After all, the success of my plan was based on the assumption that there actually were fairies in Templeton’s garden. All I had to prove it was that one shadowy photograph. Was I losing my mind?

  As I lay in that strange room, I was overcome with a sense of superfluousness. Were the fairies in Templeton’s garden real? Hell — was I real? How far I was from London! From Boston! From any woman who loved me or had ever loved me! All I had here was a bit of money. No income. A few pounds away from being a tramp.

  I got up and began to pace. I heard noises beyond the walls. There were strangers there. Strangers to all sides of me. Outside was a quiet town full of homes. In it, people were going to sleep behind ancient stone walls. The sheep were locked in their pens. The moon was rising over placid fields.

  Now here I was, rattling; rattling through the town. Like Cole said: A stray bit of paper. Wondering what it would be like to make love to Esmirelda. Imagine that! In London, amour with someone like Esmirelda would have been unthinkable; but here I felt the need to nail myself down to that evening, and to that place. To get some weight into my being.

  Not that I was ready to go down and knock on her yellow door. I stood at the casement window and looked out of the Starry Night into a cloudy night. I saw the roof
tops of the town. The treetops. A church tower. Beyond all that, the sky was vague and depthless.

  What brought me to this place, I wondered. What did I really think about the Burkinwell photographs? Did I think that vague image on that scrap of cheap celluloid was actually left there by a supernatural being? Or was I chasing a winking light? A will-o’-the-wisp?

  Had I come to Burkinwell because it was spring? Maybe I’d looked into the clumsy constable’s clumsy photographs and seen something I hadn’t seen in a long time: the possibility of some other life. A new stream of vitality. Did I seek renewal, then, amid perfumed bowers, surrounded by merry children? Did I see a last chance for my personality in a vision of Edenic village England? Did I sanctify my desires with figures from traditional folklore? Did I believe in fairies?

  Chapter Eleven

  How I Went to Church

  The next day was Sunday. It had rained while I had been asleep. The sky was still a sheet of clouds. The sun glowed like a light bulb through a murky negative. Outside my window, the trees were still wet. Their trunks were slick and black. Their leaves were sloppy and dripping.

  In the valise the robbers had left me, I still had my second-best suit. I put it on. I wet down my hair. One strand on the side wouldn’t go down; it never does. It usually sticks out like a cockroach leg.

  I could see the tower of Rev. Drain’s church from my window. Gothic, but not imposing, the tower was stubby, square, and louvered. Its crockets, quatrefoils, gables, and galleries stood out with the somber detail of a daguerreotype under the sodden sky.

  I followed the idiot clangor of the bells into town.

  Burkinwell had grown up around a market square. From this ancient marketplace, all roads radiated in and out of town. In the “Olde Towne,” clustered around the square, the stores and houses were built of a similar stone; probably from some local quarry, now long depleted. It was a rough-hewn granite; gray, with a lime-colored lichen softening the quartz-flecked chisel marks.

  The Rev. Drain’s was the church of St. Anastansias the Martyr, also known as Sweet Stanley’s to the more irreverent Burkinwellians. (The story of St. Anastansias, a martyr from what is now Turkey, is that when the Romans pierced him with their lances, he bled honey. I learned this from the back of a postcard on sale at the Starry Night.)