Pool of St. Branok

by Philippa Carr

  When the children, exhausted by the joys of Christmas, could no longer keep their eyes open they went to bed and Rebecca’s last words before she fell into a deep sleep were: “Mama, may we have Christmas tomorrow?” And I knew that it had been a success.

  So the time passed.

  During the winter Jenny Stubbs’s baby died. It was a calamity which touched the whole neighborhood. Even Mrs. Fenny was sorry. It always amazed me how people who deprecated others, largely because they were not like themselves, and have little sympathy with their minor predicaments, will suddenly change when real tragedy strikes. Everyone was sorry for Jenny Stubbs. It was so tragic. Her baby had developed a sore throat and in a few days was dead.

  Poor Jenny! She was dazed and heartbroken. My mother went to the cottage with a basket of special food for her and to offer comfort.

  She took me with her.

  Jenny seemed hardly aware of us. Because of Rebecca I could feel deeply, especially deeply for her in her sorrow. I wished I could do something to help her.

  She changed after that; the new sensible Jenny retreated; the poor dazed creature emerged. It was very sad. Everyone tried to help. Those for whom she had worked offered her more work. They wanted her to know how they sympathized with her.

  “She’ll get over it,” said Mrs. Penlock. “It takes time.”

  Mrs. Fenny thought it was the wages of sin. “When all’s said and done she was born out of wedlock and that ain’t going to please the Lord.”

  I felt so angry with her that I retorted: “Perhaps He was pleased to see the difference the child made to Jenny.”

  She gave me one of her sour looks and I knew she would tell the next person who came along that that Miss Angelet should never have gone to foreign parts because if people live among heathens they start to take after them.

  There was nothing we could do to help poor Jenny over her sorrow; but everyone continued to be gentle with her and whenever she appeared would call a greeting to her, as they had never done before.

  It was spring, the best time of the year in the Duchy where the land is caressed by the south-west wind bringing the warm rain from the mighty Atlantic Ocean. Flowers were blooming in abundance—bright yellow celandines, golden dandelions, pink crane’s bill and purple ground ivy. The woods were full of color; the songs of the blackbirds and thrushes filled the air; and the wind which blew off the sea was fresh and invigorating.

  Time was passing. Was I becoming reconciled? How often were my thoughts in that shanty township? Winter would be coming on now. I thought of Mr. and Mrs. Bowles in their store. How many babies had been born? I thought of the graveyard. Gervaise and David Skelling lying not very far from each other. I tried to shut out the memory of Golden Hall. How had they spent Christmas? How was Ben faring? How was his marriage? Was the mine as profitable as ever? It must be or he would have come back. I could not believe that he was happy. How could he be? He was a man who liked lively conversation. He had always enjoyed discussion. There were one or two educated men in the township to whom he could talk. But Lizzie? Lizzie was gentle and kind and loving … but could she give him what he wanted? Perhaps she could. Perhaps a dominating man like Ben was happiest with a docile wife.

  And so my thoughts went on. I tried to forget, but although I was in Cador where everything was done to make me happy, and although I had a beloved daughter with me, still I hankered for a crude Australian township … for the dust, for the dirt, for the flies … and the discomforts of a two-roomed shack.

  You must be crazy, I said to myself.

  Then I would play with Rebecca; we would walk in the gardens; I would listen to her amusing comments; I would talk with my mother and father. I read a great deal. My father was making me more interested in the distant past, the history of the Duchy and its quaint customs; he had done quite a lot of research on these subjects and we had some lively discussions. I should be happy.

  It was April when there was a letter from Grace. It was so long since she had seen us. Might she come and visit us for a few weeks.

  My mother replied enthusiastically that we should be delighted to see her.

  Aunt Amaryllis was a constant letter writer and she kept us up to date with what was going on in London. Her letters were usually full of Uncle Peter’s clever projects and Matthew’s wonderful performance in the House and what good work Peterkin and Frances were doing at the Mission.

  So we had learned that Grace gave quite a lot of parties in her house. True, it was not very large but people seemed to find that amusing. Grace was invited out frequently and Peter made sure she was always at their parties. “Peter says she is a born hostess,” wrote Aunt Amaryllis. “He feels that she ought to get married again. After all it is a long time since Jonnie died. One cannot go on grieving forever. Sometimes I think Grace herself would like to marry. Perhaps one day some nice man will come along.”

  I said: “Do you think Aunt Amaryllis is doing a little matchmaking?”

  “That could well be,” answered my mother.

  Grace arrived. She had always had a look of distinction although she was not what could be called handsome, beautiful or even pretty. But she was certainly soignée and elegant.

  Jack drove to the station to meet her and I was with him.

  She was effusively affectionate.

  “It is just wonderful to see you, Angelet,” she said. “And I can’t wait to see Rebecca.”

  “She calls herself Becca,” I told her. “I suppose Rebecca was a little difficult for her to pronounce.”

  “Becca. I like that. It is more unusual. I expect your child to be unusual, Angelet. You are rather, yourself, you know.”

  “If that is a compliment, thanks.”

  “It is wonderful to be here again. I shall never forget all that your family have done for me.”

  “It is your family now,” I said. “You married into it and before that you seemed to be a member of it.”

  “It’s like coming home.”

  My mother greeted her with pleasure.

  “Do you remember how you used to make our dresses? I shall be tempted to make use of you while you are here.”

  “I should love that,” declared Grace. “It would make me feel so much at home.”

  “You must feel that all the time,” said my mother.

  Grace was impressed with Rebecca’s beauty, charm and intelligence, which endeared her further to me. Rebecca liked her, too.

  It was wonderful to have news from London.

  “In our circle,” she told us, “it is politics all the time. There was a great to-do when Palmerston died. We never thought he’d go. There he was past eighty … and no one would have guessed it. He was jaunty till the end. People used to pause outside Cambridge House in Piccadilly to see him come out in his natty clothes and ride his gray horse out to the Row. The people all loved the old sinner. He always had an eye for the women right till the last. It was just the sort of thing to appeal to them. He was Good Old Pam to the end. He remained witty and when he was dying he was supposed to have said, ‘Die? Me? That’s the last thing I shall do!’ The Queen was upset, though he was never a favorite of hers. John Russell had to step in … but not for long. Once Pam had gone the Liberals were out of favor and Lord Derby is back now. That is good for Matthew, of course.”

  “Politics,” said my mother, “is an uneasy game. One is in one day and out the next.”

  “That is what makes it so exciting,” said Grace.

  “We hear quite a bit … even down here … of Benjamin Disraeli.”

  “Oh yes, the coming man,” said Grace. “Perhaps not coming though. He’s arrived. We shall be hearing a great deal about him. He has somehow managed to charm the Queen which is amazing. One would hardly have thought she would have approved of those dyed greasy black curls.”

  “The Prince Consort would have been most displeased I imagine,” I said.

  “How is she getting on after his death?” asked my father.

  I saw
my mother flash a glance at him. She meant, Don’t talk of dead husbands in front of Angelet.

  He saw the point at once and looked abashed:

  “It seems that she revels in her mourning,” said Grace and changed the subject.

  Rebecca had shown a fondness for one of the parlormaids. She was young and quite clearly had a way with children. Her name was Annie.

  My mother had said that she thought Annie might help to look after Rebecca until we came to a decision about a nanny. We had not yet asked Nanny Crossley to return. I remembered her—excellent at her job but a little domineering in the nursery; and I wanted no one to take my daughter from me.

  It seemed, therefore, an ideal arrangement that Annie should help, particularly as Rebecca had taken a fancy to her.

  I shall never forget that afternoon. During it I experienced some of the most harrowing hours I have ever known.

  Grace and I had gone for a ride. Grace wanted to go up to the moors. It was beautiful up there at this time of the year. The gorse was plentiful and the air so pure.

  Annie was looking after Rebecca and had said she would take her for a little walk.

  When Grace and I returned to the house it was to find it in a tumult. When I heard what had happened, I was cold with fear. Rebecca was lost.

  “Lost!” I screamed. “What do you mean?”

  Annie was in tears. They had been walking along laughing and talking when Annie suddenly tripped over a stone. She had gone down flat on her head. She showed us her arms which were grazed and had bled a little.

  “It knocked me out for a bit,” she said, “and when I come to … she’d gone.”

  “Where?” I cried.

  My mother put her arm round me. “They’re out looking for her. She can’t have gone far.”

  “How long ago did this happen?”

  “An hour or so …”

  “Where? Where?”

  “Along the road … not far from Cherry Cottage.”

  “They are looking there,” said my mother. “They are looking everywhere.”

  Grace said: “We will go and look. Come on, Angelet. She can’t have wandered far.”

  “All alone! She’s only a baby.”

  “She’s very bright. She’ll probably find her way home.”

  “That’s what we thought,” said my mother. “That’s why I’m waiting here.”

  “Come along,” said Grace.

  “Yes, you go,” added my mother. “She’ll be here soon … Don’t worry.”

  We rode off towards Cherry Cottage. On the way I saw my father. He gave me a look of despair. I felt sick with fear.

  “We’re going on,” I said.

  “We have been up there. No sign …”

  “Nevermind,” said Grace. “We’ll look again.”

  So we went on and with every moment my fear increased. Hundreds of images crowded into my mind. Where could she have gone? She had never been told not to wander off, simply because she had never been out on her own.

  Suppose someone had taken her. Gypsies? There were none in the neighborhood. And then the fear struck me. The pool!

  I said to Grace: “Turn here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I murmured, “The pool …”

  “The pool!” she echoed and I heard the fear in her voice.

  She did not speak. My horse broke into a canter. We had turned off the road and there was the pool … glittering, evil. I walked my horse down to the edge and there, as though mocking me, was a little blue silk bag. It was on a gilt frame and had a chain handle. I recognized it. It had been one of the presents on the Christmas tree. Rebecca had received it and she took it everywhere with her.

  I cannot describe my terror as I held that little purse in my hands.

  I looked at the pool. It was retribution, I thought hysterically. We had hidden the body of the man here … and now it had taken my child.

  I think I would have waded in, but Grace restrained me.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  “It’s Rebecca’s purse.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “I know it well. It can only mean …”

  I looked at those dark sinister waters.

  Grace said: “Let’s get back to the house quickly. We’ll tell them what we’ve found.”

  “Becca,” I called senselessly. “Come to me, Becca.”

  My voice echoed mockingly it seemed through the willows which hung over the pool … the weeping willows, I thought, weeping for Rebecca.

  But Grace was right. There was nothing we could do. We must get help. They could drag the pool, but whatever they did it would be too late.

  I was dazed. I heard Grace explaining. There was consternation. My father went off, several of the men with him. I heard them talking. They were going to drag the pool.

  Night came. They were out there. I was there, my mother and Grace beside me. I shall never forget the sight of their faces in the torch light—devoid of hope.

  I was conscious of a great heaviness of heart. Somewhere in my mind I thought, Will they find her? How can we be sure? But they will find him.

  They did not find Rebecca; but there was a result of that operation. On a ledge just below the water they found a man’s gold watch and chain. There were threads of cloth clinging to it. They also found the remains of a man. He had been too long in the water for him to be identified; but officials came and what was left of him was taken away, with the watch which seemed to have aroused some interest.

  I was only half aware of this. I was thinking of my child. There was a hope. At least she was not drowned.

  My mother’s arms were about me. Grace was at my side looking at me pityingly.

  “She’ll come back,” said my mother.

  “She could have wandered off and fallen asleep somewhere.”

  The thought of her alone and frightened, perhaps unable to find her way home, was terrible, but less so than that she should be lying at the bottom of that treacherous pool.

  I could not stay in the house. I had to go out searching; and inevitably it seemed my footsteps led me to the pool. Grace insisted on coming with me.

  “She must have come here,” I said. “We found her purse. Becca!” I called and my voice echoed back to me on the silent air.

  And then I heard it. It was distinctly the sound of bells and they appeared to be coming from the pool. I must be dreaming. They heralded disaster and I could only think of my child.

  I looked at Grace. She had heard them too. She was looking about her, startled. Then suddenly she darted away from me; she had run round the side of the pool towards a clump of bushes. I heard her shout. She was dragging someone with her. It was Jenny Stubbs. In her hand was a child’s toy … two bells on a stick to be shaken in order to make them ring.

  Grace called: “Here are the bells.”

  Jenny tried to run away but Grace held her firmly.

  I went over and said: “So it is you who have been playing tricks with the bells, Jenny.”

  She looked at me from under her lids. “My dad never got caught, he didn’t. He played ’em when people came round and he didn’t want them there.”

  Grace had taken the toy from Jenny.

  She shook the stick. “So much for the Bells of St Branok,” she said.

  “Why did you want to drive us away, Jenny?” I asked.

  “There’s been a lot of them here …” she said. “All round the pool … And now you’ve come … I thought you’d come to take her away from me.”

  My heart leaped in sudden hope.

  “Take her, Jenny? Whom did you think we should take?”

  “Her. Daisy.”

  “Your little girl.”

  She nodded. “She came back.”

  “Where is she?” I asked breathlessly.

  She looked crafty.

  I did not wait for more. I started to run towards her cottage. The door was locked. I banged on it. I heard the footsteps of a child and
relief flooded over me for I knew whose they were.

  “Becca!” I shouted.

  “Mama. Mama. I want to come home. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  I said: “Open the door, Jenny. Give me the key.”

  She was docile now. She handed it to me. I opened the door and Rebecca was in my arms.

  We had a rather disjointed story from Rebecca. When Annie sat down in the road she walked on. She saw Jenny and Jenny took her hand and said she would take her home. She said she was Daisy and not Becca and her home wasn’t where home was. It was somewhere else.

  She had not been frightened. Jenny was nice. She gave her milk and said she must lie in the bed with Jenny. She hadn’t minded until she didn’t want to play that game any more.

  Everyone joined in the rejoicing but my mother and I were very sorry for Jenny.

  “Poor girl,” said my mother. “She wouldn’t have harmed the child. She thought she had found her daughter. She is very sick really. I am going to ask the Grendalls to keep her there for a bit. Mrs. Grendall is a good sort and Jenny has worked quite a bit for her. I’ll go along to see her. That poor creature is in a daze.”

  The Grendalls were tenant formers on the Cador estate—good, honest, hard-working people and we were sure they would help.

  “She couldn’t be in better hands,” said my mother. “She mustn’t be reproached for what she has done. She meant no harm and she cared well for Rebecca all the time she was with her. She needs to be treated very gently.”

  That night I had Rebecca’s little bed brought into my room. She had suffered no harm from her adventure but she wanted to be close to me; and I wanted her there so that I could reassure myself through the night that she was safe and well.

  The Bodmin newspapers were full of the discovery at the pool.

  The watch and chain which had been found bore initials on it: M.D. and W.B. They were not engraved but appeared to have been scratched on. Readers would be reminded of a case some years ago. A man had been on trial for a particularly dastardly murder; he had sexually assaulted and murdered a young girl. He had been about to stand trial when he had escaped from jail. He had been traced to the Poldoreys area and although there had been an extensive search he had never been found. At length it had been assumed that he had escaped from the country.