“Who?”
“The church,” I said. “I can’t accept charity.”
“And I can? It’s all right for me to accept charity?”
“You’re not accepting charity,” I said. “You’re providing a service and you’re getting paid for it. But if you see it that way — ”
“Don’t move.” He waved his long, thin fingers. “Don’t get up. The doctor said not to get up.” Templeton’s voice rose to a near-shriek.
“I don’t want to insult you.”
“No, no, no,” he said. “I’m sickly myself, you see. I’m not always balanced. You needn’t worry. We’ll take good care of you. The girls will nurse you. They have nursed me for so long. Yes. For most of their lives this has been a house of the sick. I’m a very sick man.”
Looking at him, you couldn’t argue with his self-assessment. With his sickly gray face, and rheumy eyes, he was the living suggestion of hospitals, sanatoriums, and other places of wasting and decay.
“My cook will bring you your meals,” he said. “We will see that you are well taken care of.” He passed a weak hand over his forehead. “I see you are tired. I’ll tell the cook you’ll be having dinner.” He turned and dragged himself out of the room.
For my part, I could not think about what he’d said. Nor could I meditate on my situation. My head throbbed like a steel press. The pain obliterated everything but the desire to sleep. The moment he left, I turned my head to the pillow and invited oblivion.
And that was the pattern for the next several days. I’d wake up; then I’d get a huge headache; I’d drink some tea; eat some bread or sip broth; I’d feel better; sleep; and wake once more to the pain in my head. In time, the periods of being awake stretched themselves out. The pain in my head was no longer a furry, monstrous thing that slopped over into every aspect of my existence. It shrank to a small, manageable knot. And it was getting looser every day.
The doctor continued to prescribe bed rest. I got better in the proportion that I enjoyed it.
Brian Templeton remained his irritable self in my presence, but I got the impression that I was not an entirely intolerable burden to the household. For one thing, he was getting a little money out of the deal. And having to take care of a strange invalid had brought a salutary order and sense of purpose to the little household. From various impressions, including the gabbing of the friendly old cook, I guessed that the Templetons were leading a fairly aimless life before I came.
For example, the girls were accustomed to staying up until all hours of the night. With me in the house, however, they couldn’t make noise after eight. This requirement made their evenings so dull that they started going to sleep when I did, and waking early when it was time for my breakfast. And since they liked taking their meals with me, they also acquired regular mealtimes as an added benefit. Out of chaos, order.
For all his self-proclaimed sickness, Brian Templeton spent a lot of time up and about. He even took the girls into town and bought them new frocks. They burst excitedly into my bedroom to model them. St. Anastansias’s Wayfarers’ Fund was changing their lives.
One day, when the doctor came in to check on me, I asked him about Brian Templeton. (I was well enough to sit up in the chair by this time.)
“He keeps saying he’s a sick man,” I said. “What exactly does he suffer from?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” the doctor laughed. “That sort of information is confidential. I can’t talk about my patients.”
“Oh, so you’re treating him?”
“No — not really. Actually, he treats himself. Gets some kind of exotic medicine through the mail. Mostly narcotic.”
“So he’s not your patient?”
“Never has been.”
“Then you don’t even know what’s wrong with him.”
“Oh, everybody knows what’s wrong with him. You can hear that down at the Starry Night.” The doctor snapped his case shut. “No, sir,” he said as he was leaving. “You won’t hear from me that Brian Templeton suffers from syphilis.”
“What stage?”
“You won’t hear anything from me.” The doctor stepped aside to let Anna and Clara run into the room. “See you next time, Mr. Castle.”
“Read to us, Mr. Castle,” Anna begged, dropping a copy of the Journal of the Edinburgh Philosophical Society onto my lap.
“Oh, I don’t think you’d enjoy this,” I said. “It’s very dry stuff.”
Both girls reached over and felt the pages, solemnly assessing the journal’s apparent moisture content.
“Could you read it better if it was wet?” Anna asked.
Templeton’s promise that Anna and Clara would “nurse” me was fulfilled inasmuch as the two helped bring me my meals and put fresh flowers by my bed. They kept my water pitcher irregularly filled. Plus, they gave me all the company I needed.
Anna was the oldest. She was a tallish, dreamy girl, who stared out of the window a lot and drew pictures on any piece of paper that came to hand. Clara was a little fireball. Shorter and squarer than her sister, she liked noisy fun that involved running, and games that let her dress up and show off.
Now, for my part, I usually don’t get along well with children (I had no brothers or sisters myself); but just as Anna and Clara had enchanted me in their photographs, so they captured my heart in person. I was charmed by their innocent receptivity to everything around them. And though I know I am sometimes an overly stiff and formal person, the Templeton girls had no trouble bringing me on to their level and making a suitable playmate out of me.
About the only “adult” role I took was reading to them. (They were both repelled and fascinated by my accent. Clara said I talked like a duck — if a duck could talk.) They brought me all sorts of things to be read. In addition to the Journal of the Edinburgh Philosophical Society, the girls at various times wanted to be read from Coote’s Principles of Motion, Wald on taxation, and volume three of Richardson’s Clarissa. They took no heed of my advance warnings that a particular book would not interest them. It was only after I read a page or two that Clara would reach on to my lap, wordlessly slam the book closed, throw it aside, and hand me another.
The stories they liked were the ones you’d expect them to like. Cinderella. The Little Match Girl. All the old favorites. I even extemporized my own stories. I did my own version of the Brer Rabbit stories I remembered from my own childhood. And, of course, Tom Sawyer’s trip down the Mississippi on a raft with Injun Joe — which I know by heart.
Every so often, amid all this storytelling, the subject of fairies came up. It came — and it went.
I never grilled the girls about the fairies, their garden, or the photographs. I know it is difficult to believe, since this was my purpose in coming to Burkinwell, and fairies were the secret pulse of my most ardent desires. But I felt a strange, almost moral compunction about introducing the subject around the girls. Sometimes I would upbraid myself for this absurd, under the circumstances, delicacy. I would make up my mind to question the girls as fully as possible about the fairies at the very next opportunity — indeed, to create such an opportunity. But the moment the two girls would come into the room, my determination would falter, as I’d see their faces, so full of trust and ingenuousness.
I think the manner of my coming into their house determined the character of our relations. I was a guest there (even though, technically, the church was paying). When I was in London, planning my strategy, I had hoped to establish a different sort of relationship with Brian Templeton and his girls. A more businesslike relationship: mutually respectful, but a little exploitative on both sides. Now, however, while I was enjoying their father’s hospitality, I could not in good conscience pursue my profit motive. Later, I thought, when I was out from under their roof and back at the Starry Night — that would be another matter.
Only once while I was staying at Templeton’s did the
subject of fairies flit up and sail out of the fictional context. It was on a day I found myself feeling stronger of mind and limb than I had for a long time. I was sitting up in a rocking chair, fully dressed, reading an old romantic novel. The girls came imperiously up on either side of me and slapped an illustrated magazine over my book and ordered me to read it aloud. Happily, as always, I complied, following their orders to read everything, including picture captions, girdle advertisements, and the contents page. We came across that advertisement for Tomilson’s Chocolates, the one that shows a slender, dragonfly-winged girl in gauzy clothing whispering “Tomilson’s” into the ear of a ritzy-looking lady.
“And this fairy is saying ‘Tomilson’s’ to this lady,” I half-read, half-narrated.
I went on to read the next page — something about a hunting party — but the girls began discussing the advertisement.
“She can’t talk,” said bold Clara. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is true,” said Anna. “It’s in the magazine. It’s true.”
“Who can’t talk?” I asked.
“Fairies can’t talk,” Clara asserted.
“It’s in the magazine,” Anna said, appealing to me with her eyes.
But my answer disappointed her. “Not everything in a magazine is true, Anna,” I said. “Especially in advertisements.”
“Maybe some fairies can talk,” she said.
“They don’t talk,” Clara insisted. “Not to people.”
“Maybe,” Anna said, “they talk to each other.”
This exchange resulted in a moment of silence; Anna and Clara stared at each other across my knees.
I decided to prod the subject a little. “Perhaps,” I said, “they talk the way cats and dogs talk to each other.”
This perked the girls up.
“Cats and dogs can talk?” Anna asked.
“Not with their mouths. But you’ve seen cats and dogs, I’m sure, sort of bump into each other and sniff each other’s noses.”
“That’s not talking.”
“It’s communicating,” I said. “Or take bees, for instance. They communicate by touching each other’s antennas and bumping into one another.”
“Let’s talk by bumping!” Anna said, coming around the back of the chair and falling on top of her sister.
“I’m a bee,” Clara said, lowering her head into Anna’s chest.
They collapsed giggling onto the floor.
I tapped Anna on the shoulder. “Pretend you’re a fairy,” I said. “How would you talk?”
“Nooooo,” she said. “I’m not a fairy.”
“No fairies in the house,” Clara said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“Houses are for people.” She made a fist and struck my arm. “Don’t you know?”
“Couldn’t a fairy come in by accident?”
“How?”
“Maybe one could stray through an open window. Like a bee.”
Clara suddenly grew very serious. “A bee came into the kitchen,” she said, laying a hand on my wrist. “It was looking for jam. That’s what the cook said. It was flying around the table.”
“How did it get in?” I asked.
“Through the window.”
“What happened to it?”
Clara didn’t answer. She just looked very serious.
“Papa killed it,” Anna answered.
Clara gave a slow verifying nod.
“He had to,” said Anna. “It would have stung us.”
“Oh yes,” I said, helping the two girls to their feet. “He did the right thing. No question about it.”
Later that day, I decided that the time had come for me to leave Templeton’s cottage; it was time to get on with things. I came upon Brian Templeton out in the garden. He was seated in a wooden chair, shaded by a tattered umbrella.
“There’s no reason for you to move back into the Starry Night,” he said, in reply to my proposal of moving out. “You can continue on here.”
“But the church fund — ” I began to protest.
“Was not being used for anything else,” he snapped. “It hadn’t been used for two hundred years. Finally, it’s helping people, instead of just moldering somewhere.”
“Money?” I asked. “Is that what it’s all about?”
“Don’t get high and holy with me about money, Mr. Castle. I know why you’re here. Walsmear told me everything.”
This was distressing.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’m very sorry. I’d wanted to present my ideas to you myself. I think you’ll — ”
“A very dubious proposition. Very dubious. Still, no cause for you to move out just yet — ”
“I can’t abuse the Wayfarers’ Fund for your benefit.”
“Mr. Castle.” Templeton clipped his words. “The girls — ”
“What about them?”
“They’d miss you.”
He turned and called, “Anna! Clara! Come here. Mr. Castle wants to leave us.”
The girls came running around the corner of the house, golden curls streaming behind.
“No, no,” they said, pulling on my arms. “Don’t leave us.”
I melted.
Templeton smiled.
“But Mr. Castle is feeling much better,” he said, tousling the girls’ heads. “So we’re going to have a special dinner in his honor tonight.”
The girls clapped their hands with glee.
It was the first dinner I had eaten seated at the table with Brian Templeton and the two girls. For Anna and Clara, it was fascinating. They folded and unfolded their serviettes and stared at the silver candelabra in the center of the table. After the girls had gone noisily to their bedroom, Templeton and I had cigars and brandy in his study, just like two civilized men in a story.
The dinner seemed to function as a formal declaration of my recovery from the injury to my head. And Templeton’s indirect acknowledgment, that if the Wayfarers’ Fund was helping anyone now, it was himself, seemed to put us on an equal footing. I felt free to discuss many things. Most important, my purpose in coming to Burkinwell.
“Fairies,” he sniffed. “Come, come, Mr. Castle. I’ve seen you out walking in my garden. Have you seen any fairies there?”
“No,” I answered. “And believe me, I’ve studied every square inch of it. What we’re talking about is a phenomenon that shows up only on film.”
“Like spirit photography?” he said. “Is that something you believe in?”
“I don’t,” I said. “But some people do. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, for instance.”
“Perhaps one of the world’s most gullible fools,” he said.
I was sitting in an overstuffed chair beside the cold fireplace. Templeton was standing up and leaning on the study’s somewhat ornate wooden mantelpiece. There were various knickknacks on the mantelpiece, including a brass idol — an ugly little trinket from the Far East. He flicked the idol with his fingernail. It pinged.
“People believe what they want to believe,” he said. “They won’t face reality.”
“I grant you, some people want to escape the harsh — ”
“I face reality, Mr. Castle. I have no choice. I’m talking about death, in case you didn’t know. But I’m sure you already know what I — ”
I coughed in embarrassment.
Templeton went on: “An affliction such as I have can be the product of a lifetime of vice. Or it can be the unfortunate effect of a single lapse. I leave it to your goodwill to guess which it is in my case. However it may be, I have two things to look forward to: insanity, followed by a painful death. It is not a pleasant prospect. And it is not one from which I can be distracted by fantasies of fairies.”
“You don’t necessarily have to believe — ” I said in a quiet, resp
ectful voice.
He waved away my words. “Yes, yes, yes I know, I don’t have to believe in fairies to sell those photographs to Arthur Conan Doyle, or to let you crawl all over my garden with your camera. I’m not arguing with your proposition, Mr. Castle. Let’s get on with it. I use expensive medicines, you know. And Anna and Clara — well, I want to leave them something besides this cottage. If there is money to be made here, let us make it. You said Doyle gave you contracts to sign. Well, the photographs and negatives are locked in my desk. Where are the contracts?”
“Ah,” I said. “They’ve been stolen. . . .”
I explained that the contracts from Sir Arthur were in the valise that had been taken by Paolo and Shorty.
“What I want to do now,” I said, “is take new photographs.”
“New photographs?”
“New photographs that will be owned jointly by you, Walsmear, and myself. New photographs that will be worth a fortune, Sir Arthur or no Sir Arthur.”
“Worth a fortune? Then what are you waiting for? Why aren’t you taking them!” He threw up his hands and abruptly left the room. I poured myself another brandy. Templeton’s shriek seemed to echo in the air. But that, as I said, is the way he always talked.
Chapter Eighteen
How I Photographed the Garden
Transforming the cellar of St. Anastansias into a darkroom presented no insurmountable difficulties. As I was still technically a convalescent, Linda directed the church handyman to do most of the heavy work. My main worry about using the room was that dust might fall from the ceiling onto my prints and negatives. Linda suggested I tack a rubberized sheet over the ceiling to catch any particles that might fall. I thought this was a good idea. But where would I get a rubberized sheet? Fortunately, Linda had one. She brought it over from their house. She brought Esmirelda along as well. Esmirelda had been hanging around the town square, trying to avoid some task at the Starry Night.
You wouldn’t think Linda and Esmirelda had much in common, but Linda, as the wife of a minister, could talk naturally to anybody from any class. She and Esmirelda chatted easily as they helped me tack up the sheet.
Photographing Fairies: A Novel Page 15