They talked about fairies. They spoke names that meant nothing to me: Dab Swallowfoot, Busky Debaree, Kip-Kip, Pin, and Pupkin. They discussed which fairies lived under tables, which drank from bowls of milk, which could be bought with gold, and which ones scattered curses and sickness over houses.
Linda noted my expression of bewilderment.
“Don’t you have fairy stories in America?”
“Oh, yes. Yes, we do,” I answered. “I never went in for them much. I rather liked pirate stories better.”
“Then you missed out on some great stories, didn’t he, Esmirelda?”
“Yes, m’um.”
“The British Isles are full of wonderful fairy stories, Mr. Castle,” Linda went on. “Every brook, hillock, and tree has some little fairy or elf associated with it. And the kitchen — the larders, cupboards, and stoves are just overrun!”
“What brought this subject up?” I asked.
“You did.”
“Did I?”
“Yes. When I was leaving to get this sheet. I lost my key, and said that some sprite must have stolen it. And you asked me if I believed in fairies. A strange question from a man, if you must know. Don’t you think it’s a strange question, Esmirelda?”
“I don’t know, m’um. Some men believe in fairies.” Esmirelda gave me a look. I could not, however, fathom its meaning.
“Well, I’m always throwing off comments,” I chuckled. “I guess I don’t even remember them.”
We were standing on boxes holding the sheet up against the ceiling. I was about to hammer a tack into it when the hammer slipped out of my fingers. I jumped down to get it. The sheet dropped down around Linda. She stood there with her head covered by the sheet, looking like a tent post.
We all had a good laugh, and I apologized.
“I suppose I haven’t thought about fairies in years,” Linda said, as I helped her out from under the sheet. “They’re sort of cheap now, aren’t they? Like Father Christmas. Advertising things, and all that. Children can still enjoy them, though, can’t they? There are some wonderful books. I know if I had children . . . Well, enough of that. Mr. Castle was being whimsical, Esmirelda. Don’t you think he was being whimsical?”
“What’s that mean, m’um?” Esmirelda took the hammer out of my hand. She started tacking up her end of the sheet.
“Whimsical?” Linda looked on as she did so. “It means light and charming and childish.”
“Then I wouldn’t know.”
“Why not?”
“She’s not a whimsical person,” I answered for her.
Since Esmirelda said nothing, Linda thought Esmirelda assented to what I had said.
“Oh, you must have whimsical thoughts,” Linda said. “We all do. We only have less of them as we get older. That is, I can’t believe in fairies as a grown-up. But I remember what it was like. Being young, those were the best years, really. Years of trust and simple belief. When you’re a child, you can create a whole little world in your imagination.”
“Like the Templeton girls?” I asked.
“Exactly. Playing with fairies in their garden. Photographing them. Isn’t that precious? It’s a kind of ecstasy, isn’t it? We cast it aside in order to grow up. Then we spend the rest of our lives trying to get it back. We look for it everywhere; love, books, religion — ”
“You think believing in God is the same as believing in fairies?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“Strange words from a clergyman’s wife.”
“No one cares what I think about religion.”
“Lucky for you.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, people might talk. Look at me, for instance.”
“What about you?”
“You have been very kind to me. Both you and your husband.”
“I’ve been much more kind than my husband.”
I raised my eyebrows.
Linda went on, “My husband is very suspicious of you.”
I gulped.
“He thinks you’re here on some mysterious business,” she said. “Land speculation or something. He says he finds you ‘maddeningly vague,’ whatever that means. You aren’t listening to this, are you, Esmirelda?”
“Not my business, m’um.”
“And why do you think I’m here?” I asked Linda.
“I don’t care why you’re here,” said Linda. She’d climbed up on a chair to help Esmirelda. Now she climbed down. We stood face to face. “I’m just glad we met,” she said. “I’m happy you’re here.”
I backed off a little. I don’t know why. I wasn’t thinking. I could see in Linda’s face that this gave her offense. I was sorry. I coughed. “I’m very glad, too,” I said. “Burkinwell is a beautiful little town.”
It was no such thing, really.
Linda ventured a step closer. “I hope you’ll be staying awhile,” she said.
I found myself backing off again. “I hope so too,” I said. “So much to photograph here. That reminds me, I’m supposed to go back to Templeton’s at half past. I’m going to photograph their wonderful garden today.”
Linda folded her arms. She turned away. “It’s past that,” she said. “I’m sure.”
“My God, I’ve got to go,” I said, grabbing my hat and camera bag.
I hesitated before running out. Was Linda offended? If so, how deeply? And if so, why? It was all so confusing.
Noting my hesitation, Linda turned around. She was all smiles and brightness. “Off you go, then,” she said. “And good shooting.”
“Thank you.”
I studied her face for a moment. Her expression was that blank, cheery look the English have a patent on. I turned and climbed up the ladder.
Trotting down the aisle, I passed through the church’s gloomy vestibule and burst out into the sunshine.
Why do people worship in church? I wondered. God is out here, in this airy, blue-vaulted temple. My mind was crowded with thoughts of God, man, and nature as I made my way through the town and out to the road that led to Templeton’s cottage. These thoughts passed. Soon I was sweaty and tired. My arm ached from carrying the heavy camera case (containing my Hapling “Omnic” field camera, extra celluloid film magazines, a tripod, monopod, light meter, and spare folding reflex camera). I was relieved when I got to the low rise just down the road from my destination. I paused there for a moment before going on.
Below me was Templeton’s cottage. Low and broad, with a mighty chimney, it was a place I could not help loving. There was something exceptionally pleasing about it. Maybe it was the tiny, square windows; the sturdy stone walls; the way the tiny front door hid behind the aprons of the squat shrubs. It was almost a fairy-tale cottage. How thankful I was to have spent the days of my recovery there! How wonderful it was to have enjoyed the hospitality of Brian Templeton and the Rev. and Linda Drain — and to have enjoyed the company of Anna and Clara. How unworthy I was of it all. I determined then and there that whatever I did concerning the fairies in the garden I would do with care, courage, and probity. I would bring glory on us all.
With joy in my heart, I picked up my camera case and hurried down the rise. Around the back of the house, I met the scowls of Templeton and Walsmear. The two men were seated side by side. Walsmear had his watch in hand.
“Not in any hurry, are you, Mr. Castle?” he said.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“Not very considerate,” sniffed Templeton.
“Not like he has anything else to do,” said Walsmear. “Makes a lot of fuss for everyone, and then what?”
“Where were you, anyway?” asked Templeton. “The way you rushed off this morning — ”
“I assure you,” I said, “what I was doing was an essential part of this project. I’ve been setting up my darkroom in the church. And a very n
ice darkroom it will be.”
“I’ll bet,” Walsmear sneered. “With you and Mrs. Drain down there.”
I ignored his remark.
“You’ve worked your way into this town pretty well, haven’t you?” he went on.
Before I could answer, he’d turned around and started clapping his hands.
“Girls!” he shouted. “Anna and Clara. Come along now.”
The two little girls came around the corner of the house. Vigorous little Clara was in the lead. Anna came dragging along behind.
“We made tarts,” Clara said, holding out a mud pie to Walsmear. “Will you pull a shilling out from behind my ear?”
“Not now, girls, not now.” For all his uncouthness, Walsmear was genuinely gentle and affectionate with Anna and Clara. To them, he was a familiar old gargoyle; they did not hesitate to climb over him, play with him, or ignore him. “We’re going to hunt for fairies now. Just like we talked about. Out into the garden. Come on.”
With Walsmear’s hands on their backs, the girls started toward the garden.
“Remember, girls,” I said, “I want you to be perfectly natural. Don’t pay any attention to me or anything I do with the camera. Pretend I’m not here, all right?”
Walsmear turned around “They’re not stupid, you know.”
“I’m just saying — ” I followed them down the three steps to the garden, which ran alongside the road, spilling over the edges of a long narrow lot between two low, stone walls. It began at the back door of the cottage, and petered out around Old Splendor, the venerable walnut
Old Splendor was a remarkable tree; vast, seamed, and rippling. Its trunk twisted upward like a torso drawn by Michelangelo, sending thick, muscular branches skyward in a hundred dramatic gestures. On its lower levels, it spread broad, benedictory canopies of leaves, in whose shadows nothing grew. Roots like great gnarled knuckles clung to the earth and spread in a circumference almost as wide as the branches.
From the shadow of Old Splendor, a path paved with mossy, green flagstones ran to the back door of the cottage. To either side of the path was a narrow strip of grass (which somebody appeared to have recently mown — perhaps Brian Templeton took more care of the garden than people thought) onto which the flowers spilled over. Thick tiers of blossoms, billowing shrubs, and spiky stalks poured down on either side of the pathway.
It was the picture of profusion; and more than a little heady. I had spent many hours there during my recovery, and every time I walked down the path, I discovered some new flower — either a weed, or a cultivated blossom — configuration of leaves, or fascinating tangle of vines. Will heaven be like this? I suppose I’ll soon find out.
Beyond Old Splendor, past the cultivated part of the property, there was a grove of brilliant green ferns that grew as high as a man’s waist. There was something fresh, almost prehistoric about this grove. The earth underfoot was blacker than in the garden. The trees around it were younger, smoother, and more slender.
If you looked beyond the ferny grove, you could see some redbrick walls. These were the outbuildings of the ruined factory, which was itself about two hundred yards back, hidden by saplings.
I set my field camera up on its tripod in the middle of the pathway.
Walsmear stood on one side of me. Templeton stood on the other. We stared at the girls. The girls stared at us.
“Well?” I said.
Templeton clapped his hands briskly. “Come, come, come, girls,” he said. “Go do whatever it is you do with the fairies.”
Anna and Clara huddled in the path.
“Don’t watch,” Anna said.
“We’re not watching,” Templeton said.
“Just be natural,” I urged once again.
“Come on,” Templeton said to me and Walsmear, “let’s not watch them. See girls, we’re not looking. All right now, let’s talk.”
Templeton put his arm around Walsmear’s back; the two turned away from the girls. I made as if to adjust my camera and blow dust off the lens. Anna and Clara walked slowly toward Old Splendor. Then they broke into a run. A few minutes later, they were shouting and playing a hide-and-seek game around the tree’s mighty trunk.
Still not watching, Walsmear and Templeton talked about the crops and the condition of the roads. I turned the camera and took some shots of the cottage and the tiny clouds sailing overhead. Walsmear detached himself from his friend and came up behind me.
“Oh, by the way. Castle,” he said. “Your suitcase turned up.”
“The one that was stolen?”
“It appears so.”
“My God, do you have it?”
“No, no, no. I don’t have it.”
“Is it at the police station?”
“No.”
“Then who has it?”
“An old Gypsy woman. She purchased it. Innocently, of course. Old gal didn’t know it was stolen.”
Strange as it may seem, up until that moment I had forgotten all about having seen Paolo and Shorty that confused night at the Gypsy camp. Perhaps the blow to my head had driven it from my mind. Now I recounted the fact to Walsmear. The constable affirmed that the police were aware that the two were in the vicinity that night. (And were the police aware that he — Walsmear — was in the vicinity that night?)
“Why don’t they catch them?” I asked.
“It’s not up to me. Unless they come into my patrol area. Then I’ll do my duty.” The Gypsy woman, he went on to inform me, would be bringing me the valise the next day. “I hope you’ll have something for her,” he said.
“Money?” I said. “I have to buy back my own suitcase?”
Walsmear shrugged. “She didn’t know it was stolen when she bought it.”
I doubted that it was official police policy to make me pay to get my suitcase back, but I decided to go along with it. I wanted to stay cordial with Walsmear. And I wanted my property.
The girls, meanwhile, busied themselves among the flowers. I saw them crouch at the end of the pathway. They were intently regarding one particular stalk of blossoms.
“What is it, girls?” Templeton shouted in his thin, irritating voice. “Is there something there? Do you see something?”
Clara turned around and mouthed the word fairies.
With clattering of tripod and upsetting of benches, we grown men leaped up and scrambled down the pathway. Hurriedly, I set up the camera, and Templeton demanded of the girls, “Where? Where? Where are they?”
“Right there,” Clara said, solemnly pointing to a single pink flower.
“Hold still,” I said, taking a shot of the girl pointing to the flower.
“There’s one over here,” said Anna, who’d moved a few feet into the flowers. I dragged my camera over. “In the black-eyed Susans,” she said. “Oh look, she’s standing on Susan’s face.”
I took a shot of the little patch of flowers and several shots of the flowers around it just in case.
Behind our backs, we heard Clara shout, “Here’s more,” and we ran halfway back up the pathway. The shorter girl was pointing to a flowering shrub. “They’re dancing. There’s a fairy dancing on every flower.”
“I don’t see anything,” Templeton wheezed petulantly.
Clara looked frightened.
“Show me which flowers,” her father demanded.
Walsmear stepped between them. “Get back out of the way,” he said. “Let the man take his pictures. You wouldn’t see the fairies anyhow. Only the girls see the fairies. That’s the point. Do you get it? If you or I could see them, we’d see them every day.”
“I expect to see something,” Templeton pouted. I moved around the bush, taking shots from two angles.
Now the girls had run back down to the far end of the garden, where we saw them whispering conspiratorially around a fat, red tulip.
&nb
sp; “What is there?” Templeton said, walking toward them.
“A little man,” said Anna.
“He’s trapped in the tulip,” said Clara.
“What do you mean he’s trapped?” Templeton asked.
“He can’t get out.”
“What does he look like? What is he wearing?”
The girls exchanged a look.
“He’s got a jacket on,” said Clara, staring up at us to measure our reaction. She looked back at the tulip as if referring to something inside. “Oh, and he’s got shoes. With little buckles. And a belt. And stockings. And a pointy beard.”
“And he’s got yellow hair,” shouted Anna.
“No, he doesn’t,” Clara disdained her sister’s contribution.
“Yes, he does.”
“No, he doesn’t. You can’t see his hair. He’s wearing a little cap.”
“No, he’s not,” said Anna.
“Yes, he is.”
“You don’t know anything,” said the older girl.
Templeton said, “What is he doing in there? You said he was trapped.
“He’s getting honey,” said Clara. “But it’s too slippery and now he can’t get out.”
“He doesn’t want to get out,” Anna said, defiantly. “He’s hiding.” Then she turned her back and ran around the back of the shrubbery. A moment later, we heard her shout, “Oh look. More fairies. Lady fairies. In beautiful clothes. And they’re wearing crowns and brand new shoes.”
Walsmear and I looked at each other with expressions of dubiety.
Templeton was still absorbed with the problem of the tulip. “Let’s have a look at this little man in his jacket,” he said. Bending low, he brought his face down to within an inch of the flower. Suddenly, he let out a sharp cry. Leaping back, he stumbled over a tripod leg and onto his back. A bee, in its last mortal throes, spiraled away from his face.
“I’ve been stung,” he said, staggering to his feet. “Oh, oh, oh.” His features were a watery mask of self-pity as he patted his nose. “It just flew out and stung me.”
“Oh, stop crying and we’ll put some mud on it,” Walsmear said, taking Templeton by the arm and leading him toward the house.
Photographing Fairies: A Novel Page 16