The Icicle Illuminarium

by N. J. Gemmell

  My eyes prick with, what? Tears, excitement, anticipation.

  Her world is close. I can feel it. Soon, soon. This will work. Our entire family will be reunited: Mum, Dad, even Bucket.

  I can do this. I’m on the way.

  As the light drops – crazily early in this dimly lit country – Silent Mountain leads us back to the tennis court, then leaves.

  Hebe has gone, immersed in her viola and pianoforte practice, as good as her word to her mother. Bert spins us around in a pile of furs, attaching bits and pieces to various parts of our bodies and standing back to adjust. Bone has magically reappeared, to our delight, and is busily directing the dubious operation – urging us (with a great amount of cackling) to become more furry by the second. ‘More, Company T! More! More!’

  ‘Don’t you go making me look like a grizzly bear, mate,’ Scruff says nervously, glancing at Pin, who’s beyond help in several mink wraps held in place by diamante clasps.

  Now’s the moment for the next step in the plan. Deep breath.

  ‘Pinny Pin,’ I say in my most wheedling voice. ‘I need Dad’s scarf. That’s tied around Banjo’s neck.’ He looks at me in horror. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s really important.’

  He shakes his head furiously. ‘No, it’s my most precious thing. I have to mind it for him.’

  This is going to be more difficult than I thought. ‘I need to get Bucket back. I need to know what happened. It’s eating me up, little man. It’s part of the plan.’ Because our dingo girl is the next thing I’ll make right here.

  ‘Whoooa. Who’s this Bucky?’ Bone interjects. ‘Am I to allow him –’

  ‘Her!’ four Caddys interject.

  ‘Am I to allow her into our very select band of brothers? This is an exclusive club, you know. No riffraff.’

  ‘Hebe mustn’t see her!’ Pin cries.

  ‘It’s okay,’ I soothe, ‘I’d never put Bucket in danger. You know that. I just want her here, with us.’

  ‘Excuse me, who are we talking about?’ Bone snaps.

  ‘She’s our dog,’ I explain. ‘It’s a plan I’ve got, for tonight. To get her back to us. And this is our one big chance, Bone, while we’re not locked up. We can’t blow it because I don’t know when it’ll happen again. And Company T, we have to get Lady Adora and Darius tipsy. Keep filling their glasses. But not so they notice. Got it?’ Three Caddys nod.

  Pin hands the scarf over reluctantly. ‘Anything for Bucky, Kicky.’

  ‘Well, I do love a sortie,’ Bone sniffs. ‘As long as it doesn’t involve abandoning poor ol’ Bone Boy, eh? I have a phobia about that. But if you’re nice to me I can tell you where the wine is stored. In fact, I can even keep the bottles in good supply myself, from all the lovely secret hatches of this house. Just consider me your most obliging ghost.’ He bows.

  ‘You just relax tonight, mate. You might need it for what’s ahead.’

  Bone steps back, surveys us all in various states of furry grizzliness. ‘I say, have I met my match here? You lot are quite the doers, aren’t you, Company T?’ He warns us again about the madly unpredictable Lady Adora, and how she won’t like a dog coming into her house one bit. What we’re doing is enormously risky; we’re playing with fire.

  ‘We have to risk it,’ I say. ‘Bucket’s our link back to Basti. She could get a message to him if we play our cards right.’

  ‘And you too, mate!’ Scruff adds.

  ‘Oh, I’m quite beyond saving.’ Bone comes up close and taps my forehead. ‘But what on earth’s in that head of yours, K? I’d love to know. For the future. To put my mind at rest.’

  ‘A master plan, Lord Bone. To win not only this coming battle but the entire war. Do you approve?’

  He steps back and surveys, his eyes dancing. ‘Quite possibly. It’s the best fun I’ve had in ages. Dooky, cover your ears. K, you make a delectable grizzly bear.’

  Yeah, right. He’s made me look ridiculous here, hasn’t he? As has Bert, no surprises there. She of course looks exquisite, in a long fur cape and matching wrap, swathed in black tulle that even covers her face. I, on the other hand, look like a lump. A brown furry one. Or mole, or rat. Great.

  Bone glances at my grumpy face then swings up to the beam where Dooky lives. He passes down a book to me. I gasp. It’s a beautiful, leather-bound volume of Wuthering Heights. ‘I have a secret stash, K.’ He smiles mysteriously. ‘Mrs Squeedly has spent hours teaching me to read with books like this. She saves them, because Her Ladyship isn’t a reader at all. Disturbing, isn’t it? Library shelves are for gas masks in this place.’

  I punch him in thanks. In absolute, utter chuff.

  ‘Now, don’t getting mushy on me,’ he says, rubbing his arm like it hurt.

  Are you kidding? ‘Not on your life,’ my face scrunches up.

  Bert just stares, furious. ‘I read too.’

  The night is stopped. Not a breath of breeze, not a cloud, just a large silvery coin of a moon flooding our world with light.

  Four Caddys, one Ellicott and one Darius Davenport dash onto the wide ornamental lawn in front of ‘The Swallows’ among a battalion of limbless statues shining a glary white. Darius knows we won’t be going far – there’s a band of terrifying darkness beyond us. He languishes back on a stone bench, as if he’s imagining being lord and master of this grand estate already (well, we’ll see about that, mate). He gazes at us with a look that’s not quite straight on, his body twisted and uncomfortable in its dinner jacket, and we know who would have forced him into that. ‘Come on!’ Scruff yells at one point, then Pin, but Darius shrinks back with a ‘Mmm, no, goodness no. I don’t do running about. Never have,’ determined not to join in our fun despite our best attempts; too wary of us.

  Wondrous fire torches are held aloft by all us kids; they were found stacked in a broom cupboard by Mr Squeedly, who even – with much gravity – cut one down to fit Pin’s exact height. Magic! Delirious magic! We’ve even found an old box of animal masks, ripe for a masked ball, of course. Out with the Russian theme! In with the zoo!

  And so a fox, a tiger, a zebra, a lion and a hedgehog squeal through the stillness of the frost-laden night, our footsteps leaving patterns on the ice, like lines on a hand. We run and spin and skip, do cartwheels and handstands, exhilarated just to be out in the lovely crisp air. It’s a wonderland of ice. The moonlit trees are frozen coral. The endless grounds an ocean of crunchy white, and beyond them lies the dark heaving breath of the real ocean, asleep.

  ‘Ssssssssh,’ whispers Hebe the Hedgehog. ‘Just breathe it in.’ We stop. Absolute stillness.

  ‘You look so beautiful right now,’ I whisper to her, and she does, in a purple velvet dress with her hair out and her mask now flung back.

  ‘Really?’ she responds in disbelief. But the remark is transforming her, I can tell; making her change, and me in the process; chuffing us both up.

  ‘Believe it,’ I say soft, ‘you’re amazing,’ and Hebe suddenly seems taller, straighter. What a gift to make someone feel like that! We stand there, in stillness and solidarity, side by side, and can feel the magic under the full moon, as if everything in this end-of-the-world place is waiting, breaths held …

  For what?

  Lady Adora finally strides from the ballroom in a silver dress that matches the moonlight. The cloth is streaked with age-stained creases and the hem is shredded from too much dancing long ago but she doesn’t care, doesn’t seem to notice. A wire crown of a moon and stars rests upon her long, white hair. She turns back to the house and stares up at it with her arms languid, empty wine goblet in hand. As if she’s in love. Painful love. As if she can’t bear it. I stand beside her, whisper ‘it’s breathtaking,’ gazing with her at the vast, ice-encrusted ruin of the Illuminarium.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘And breathtakingly temperamental. Always falling sick. Catastrophically. Like a prize thoroughbred, only worse. The vet bills are enormous.’ She snickers at it. ‘You’re too, too much, aren’t you, girl?’ Looks at me, shaking her h
ead. ‘We care too much, don’t we, too much.’

  Hebe takes Banjo for Pin while he fumbles with his torch. Asks the teddy’s name. Pin snatches it back with a snapped ‘Mine!’ Hebe lifts up her mask and peers at the little lion in our midst and tells her mother that everyone needs to eat immediately because the guests are starving and starting to act in peculiar ways.

  ‘I second you on that,’ Scruff announces, stabbing his torch into the ground and falling on his back and clutching his stomach in fits of giggly agony. I do too, then Bert, then Pin. Oh, you can tell it’s been a while since we’ve been let loose outside. The result: a laughy, squealy jumble of hitting and shrieking and tickling.

  Darius rolls his eyes at the mess of it. ‘Children, mmm, I’ll never understand them.’

  Lady Adora steps back, hands out in horror, can’t bear the sight. Looks at us suddenly like she’s never seen us before; has no idea why we’re here. ‘Who are you? Supper, did you say, Hebe? Supper. Yes, must. Squeedly will see to it. What have I done?’ She waves her wine glass vaguely at the house.

  ‘Yaaaaaaaay!’ We all run to it.

  So here we are, a raggy, scraggly old ragtag bunch at a cricket-pitch-long table. Furs are piled on like cavemen – except Bert – along with bits and pieces of whatever military uniforms we could find: rows of medals (Pin), a diagonal rope of spent bullet cartridges (Scruff), a velvet choker (Bert), and a pair of Land Army lady’s jodhpurs with a bandage as a belt (me). We’re all wearing pieces of crystal that Bert has salvaged from the chandeliers and strung with fishing line – as necklaces, earrings, badges, belts – and our masks are thrown off.

  Lady Adora has placed four ancient China dolls at one end of the table, on their own gilt chairs, to enjoy the spectacle no doubt. Hebe stares at them in embarrassment, shaking her head and biting her lip.

  ‘Her proper family,’ Bert whispers.

  ‘Sssshhhh,’ I giggle.

  Silent Mountain stands like a footman at the door, expressionless. We sit among yellowing napkins with the initials of some long lost duke, cracked dinner plates with the gold family crest fading off and an enormous soup tureen filled with frozen willow branches and fake roses covered in frost. Candelabra light flutters and trembles all about us and there’s a roaring fire from the central fireplace (thanks to a few salvaged chair legs). Great ropes of icy ivy are tied back from the windows to display the lawn with its lace tracery of madly excited footsteps.

  ‘Perfect for swinging on, sis.’ Scruff nudges me, indicating the very unique curtains. ‘Me first. When that namby pamby dancing bit is over.’

  ‘As long as I’ve got the chandelier, mate.’ I nod to a great central light that’s fallen almost to the ground on its thick rope, but not quite. ‘And don’t forget our mission this evening. The whole point of us being here.’

  Scruff winks. ‘One Ladyship Love-ora, one fit of wobbliness. Ditto Darius.’

  ‘Those barbarous army thugs,’ Lady Adora mutters furiously to her dolls as she holds up two chipped wine goblets to the light. She’s in a world of her own, gulping the sight of all her old crockery, feverishly running her hands over it and holding it to her cheek as if she hasn’t seen the table properly set for years. Darius gently lifts a plate from her hand, tuts sadly and pours her some wine from a dusty bottle. I secretly refill his glass. Scruff is hovering, itching to fill Her Ladyship’s, I can tell. Bert raises a sneaky V for Victory sign to Bone somewhere in the shadows, goodness knows where, and I rub my hands: we’re all settling in nicely with this mission. It’s going splendidly, Company T.

  Mrs Squeedly serves the dinner but Scruff, of all people, doesn’t get past the first course before he spits the green liquid into a napkin of the eighth duke. ‘Urgh, what is this?’ He’s told off curtly that it’s nettle soup, a wartime favourite, and the nation has been living on it for the past six years, as will he. That it will be followed by Everything-in Stew, which is self-explanatory, and Rock Buns, which are guaranteed to live up to their name, and for dessert he’ll be enjoying Eggless Bread and Prune Pudding. Mrs Squeedly looks at various un-thrilled faces. Un-thrilled herself.

  ‘Why thank you,’ I say politely, staring pointedly at all three of my naughty monkey lot and mouthing ‘Bucket’ furiously, to shut them up. They’re pulling the most unenthusiastic faces here but once it’s served, yep, we eat everything – starving, of course. Especially Scruff, who holds his nose through the lot of it.

  Then out of the blue Bert asks why on earth Mr Squeedly never talks.

  ‘Ah, dear Squeedly,’ Lady Adora jumps in, gulping from her wine goblet. ‘He lost a child, didn’t he? Somewhere. An accident. I’ve forgotten now.’ Mrs Squeedly has gone utterly pale, her jug of water frozen in midair. ‘Never had another,’ Her Ladyship babbles on. ‘Never spoke again.’ An awkward silence. Mrs Squeedly doesn’t look at her, doesn’t look at anyone. ‘Bottled up with grief, he was. Yes. Well, he does talk, I know, to those he loves … but not … me. For some reason. Just won’t. Jolly bad luck, eh? Was it a boy or a girl? A boy. No. Girl? Goodness, can’t remember now.’ Lady Adora laughs a nervous laugh. ‘I see the two of them every morning going down to the grave near the cliffs, in the old village. I like staring out at that time, at the sunrise. Early, early, yes. Wake at four am, bolt upright. Can’t fall back to sleep after that, no matter what. Such a big, whispering house. Every night it whispers, did you know that? Taunts. Mocks. Bad girl, bad girl. That’s what it says. How could you allow it?’ She shakes her head, grimaces, collects herself. ‘And now he has children, four of them, crawling all over his life. Like beetles, ants. Tormenting him, reminding him … why did I do that?’

  ‘That’s awful,’ Bert cries, her hands at her cheeks. ‘Poor Mr Squeedly!’

  ‘Isn’t that right?’ Lady Adora throws over her shoulder at him. ‘An accident?’

  Silent Mountain just stands like granite in the doorway, his face a mask of grief battened down, no doubt, and my heart twists to see him afresh. No wonder he can’t talk to us, can barely look at us. More children. Reminders. Of what he lost. I want to run and hold him.

  ‘Quite so, m’lady,’ Mrs Squeedly snaps to life with her lips curled in tight like she’s bursting to say something but won’t, can’t. I catch a flicker of despair on her husband’s face before it’s resurrected to its normal stony state. But little Pin can’t help himself. He’s off. Running across the room and crashing into the huge man’s knees and squeezing tight, just as he does to Daddy, to Basti, to anyone who needs it and my heart catches at his wide open heart.

  Silent Mountain is, as always, silently mountainous. He does not bend. Does not stir. If he did, would it break him? A stew of a silence, rich with everything not said or done. Bert looks like she’s going to cry; like she, too, can’t bear it.

  ‘Did someone say there was music here?’ Hebe declares loudly.

  ‘Yes!’ Scruff grabs her and runs to the gramophone set up in a far corner. A scratchy old record is soon playing the Charleston and that’s it, we’re off. Need the mad flappy relief of Mum’s favourite dance. We’re soon shrieking and bouncing, can’t help ourselves. Holding two hands and spinning, growing more and more bold. I swing on the chandelier that’s already askew; Scruff grabs the ivy over the windows and is closely followed by Bert. Pin. Hebe.

  Darius rigorously avoids it all. ‘Not the dancing type, mmm,’ he murmurs to us. ‘Or the dashing-about type, for that matter. Or the children type. Or –’

  ‘What are you then?’ Pin asks him in frustration.

  ‘Er,’ the man shakes his head, stuck, like he’s not the talking type either now, and all the while Lady Adora is jiggling her foot uncontrollably as her dancing partner is resolutely twisted and turned away on the sidelines then, what the heck, the music gets to him too and something cracks inside and he suddenly grabs the love of his life and flings her back dramatically. ‘I say, young man, I say,’ she whoops.

  He’s off, a new man entirely in the spin of music and candles and Adora an
d Pin’s laughter, and without him realising it I refill his glass as he dances and gulps. As does Bert. Scruff. I ask Darius to dance with me, hold his reluctant hands, wheedle ‘Come on, Lord Davenport,’ and oh he likes that title, it’s what he’s dreamt of, using Basti’s money to get him there, of course. I spin him until he’s laughing, drunk on the idea. Spin faster, faster. Need him hot, need his coat off. Eventually he removes it. Flings it over his chair.

  Bingo. My big chance.

  I watch, wait. Slip Dad’s scarf into an obscure inside pocket when no one’s looking. For Bucket. If she’s still around, at the cemetery, waiting for a sign. Which I’m sure she will be. I’ve got it all worked out. She’ll sniff out this scarf, know Darius is connected to her master and sneak into the van to get to us, somehow, using her amazing tracking nose that’s been trained in the desert to find Pin whenever he wanders off, which averages about once a week. Oh yes, we need our dog here, our beautiful, clever, endlessly smiling girl. Need her extraordinary tracking skills. To find her way back to London. She’s our link to the outside world; to Basti and to Dad.

  So there it is, Company T: Stage One of Ballroom Mission, complete.

  Stand by for Stage Two!

  We all collapse, exhausted, after the dancing frenzy. Hebe and Scruff are side by side, flat on their backs; Pin is curled in my arms as we lean against the wall; Bert is trying to re-attach her outfit, which is coming loose. The evening is stretching into darkness, candles sputter out, one by one. Darius is holding a monogrammed plate high, examining the crest, and Lady Adora is suddenly huddled in a corner, red lips smeared, stroking a wall and crying.

  ‘My darling, I will make you happy again. I’m so sorry it’s come to this. Forgive me, old girl. Your Addy let you down …’

  Darius and Hebe look at her like they’ve seen this a thousand times before and it’s no use doing anything anymore, it’s hopeless. But Bert strides over. ‘I can help you,’ she says, trying to put her arm around Lady Adora’s shoulders.