Cora Ravenwing
Page 12
Mr. Phillips coughed loudly and looked at his wife. She said tartly: “Unfortunately a sweet voice doesn’t mean a sweet child, does it?” and sipped her chilled white wine.
In the kitchen, Mrs. Briggs pulled on her bulky winter coat and knitted hat. “May I see the programme, dear? I like to see if there are any familiar names.” She scanned it. “No, not this year. Don’t know a soul.”
“That was Cora Ravenwing, actually.” I pointed to where it said: “Local Folk Music.”
“Oh. Was it indeed!” she said. “I’m surprised she had the nerve. Silly of the school to put her on.”
“She was the star of the whole thing.”
“That one won’t even be the star of her own funeral,” she hissed and bundled herself out through the door.
“What did you say that for?” asked Susan.
“Because it’s true.”
Hermione, Barbara and Susan looked at me suspiciously.
Chapter 9
Fire
EVERYONE WAS FULL OF THE CONCERT NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL. I saw several teachers stop to have a word with Cora in the corridor but none of us said anything to her. I thought that was particularly churlish. After Barbara and Susan and Hermione and I had finished yet another round of clapping each other on the back, I said: “Don’t you think we should tell Cora we thought she was good?”
“You must be joking!” said Susan.
“No, I’m not. Look at her, poor soul—the star of the evening and nobody mentioning it.”
Hermione gave me a stony look. “Why have you always got to spoil things by bringing her in?”
“I’m not spoiling anything. What am I spoiling?”
“The fun we were having. We were all as cheerful as anything and now you’ve messed it up.” She flopped down at her desk and got her things ready for the first lesson.
“She’s right,” said Barbara. “Why the constant loyalty to Cora?”
“Oh, leave her alone,” said Susan. “Forget the whole thing. You are a bit tiresome, though, Becky.”
Then we all sat down grumpily, and fortunately Miss Turnbull came in and started in about how dismally bad we all were at arithmetic, so that, by the end of the lesson, we felt united again in our indignation against her and her slighting remarks about our intelligence. Barbara was the only one to feel smug, as she was specifically exempt from all the generalizations applied to the rest of us. I suppose that was only fair as she had gained ninety-four per cent in the last exam.
Nothing prevented me from congratulating Cora in the end. I managed to shove a note in her desk when nobody was looking. I said I thought hers had been the best item on the programme and could we meet as usual the next day, the last Thursday of term. Later, across the classroom, she gave me a quick nod.
When I met her in the cold, black, air-raid shelter she said: “I assumed we’d be meeting. You didn’t need to risk upsetting your pals by communicating with me almost under their noses.”
“Don’t tease, Cora. I wanted to be sure we were going to meet, that’s all. I shan’t be able to over the Christmas holidays. I’ve had to lie about this evening. Everyone thinks it’s very odd me having a piano lesson today when I’ve already had my quota for the term and the concert’s over and everything. I’ve had to pretend I missed one earlier on.”
“O.K. Keep your hair on. You’re so earnest, Becky! What did you want to see me about so specially, anyway?”
“Just to tell you you were super at the concert,” I said, feeling somehow that our earlier rôles were becoming more and more irrevocably reversed. The time had been when Cora thought I was wonderful and trailed around after me in an irritatingly adulatory fashion. Now here was I doing the same to her. There was no doubt that I did admire her for the way she had coped with her lot: her motherlessness, persecution by the spooky Mrs. Briggs, being outcast by parents and pupils and so on. But what had finally clinched it was the superiority of her performance at the concert, my father’s admiration for her, and her simple modesty.
“I enjoyed you and Barbara too.”
“But you were so natural and unforced. It’s all sort of in you without trying, whereas Barb and I worked on our duet for weeks.”
“Oh, I worked on my whistle thing too.”
“Still, you know what I mean. Were those songs by your mother?”
“Yes—words and music. I love them. Aren’t they good? Better than Hermione’s, don’t you think?”
“I suppose they are. But then she was grown up. Hermione’s got years to improve.”
“She won’t improve. She’ll only go off. Still, seeing you’re being nice about me I won’t start laying into your friend today! Did your parents like me?”
“Daddy did.”
She looked pleased. I suspected she approved of him in the same way as he approved of her. “I like your dad.”
“He spoke out in favour of you in front of other parents.”
“I bet they didn’t like that!”
“Not much!—And I showed Mrs. Briggs the programme too, and pointed out your thing and said it was you.”
“Heavens! That was sticking your neck out. What did she say?”
“Not a lot! But she wasn’t pleased.”
“No—she wouldn’t be, the old bat. Still, I’m glad you told her. It would be like a thorn in her flesh. I’d like to cram her flesh with thorns—the nasty old witch.”
Cora had brought a little paraffin lamp into the air-raid shelter this time. It had a hollow green base which you filled with paraffin, and then there was a hole in the top to drop a wick in and screw it into place. She had lit the wick and dropped a little shade over the flame. It looked very pretty and gave more light than a candle. In her pleasure at the thought of Mrs. Briggs’s vexation she threw out her arms and knocked the lamp over. At first nothing happened; the lamp went out and we fumbled about looking for it. Then I think Cora must have knocked over the bottle of paraffin she’d brought for refilling the lamp and then I knocked a candle over on top of that. Anyway, the spilt paraffin caught fire. Not much at first. We weren’t frightened. “Oh, Becky, we’re on fire,” giggled Cora. “Put one of those rugs over it, quick!” I grabbed a rug. “Not that one,” she said before I could do anything. “That’s one of our decent ones.” She scrambled around trying to pick out the shabbiest of our old blankets.
“Cora, get a move on!” I yelled. “It’s spreading!”
Then there was the most almighty bang as the flames reached the paraffin bottle itself and flared up inside where a pool of paraffin was still trapped. Glass shot everywhere. Cora’s face was caught in the sudden explosion of light, her eyes and mouth gaping, blood filling one eye. Flames and smoke were everywhere. The whole shelter was alight, a flaming tunnel from end to end. I couldn’t see for smoke; I couldn’t breathe for smoke; it curled round and round the arched roof; it was filling the place. And the entire floor seemed on fire. There was no escape. Cora’s wiry hand grabbed mine. “Move!” she bellowed. I couldn’t. She kicked my shins and pulled. “Move!” I don’t know how we got to the ladder. My eyes were shut. But suddenly she jammed my hands on to a rung. “Climb!” I did, stumbling and choking up the rusty old rungs till my head came out among the clouds of smoke billowing into the field. Someone grabbed me and pulled me out into the darkening, damp evening. Then the face leaned down into the chimney again and the light from below flickered over the grim, streaked features of Mrs. Briggs, spluttering in the smoke.
“Cora’s in there! Cora’s in there!” I screamed through my own choking.
Her face leered down into the flames, a witch over her cauldron. “Is she indeed!” she cackled.
I leapt up and dashed to the side of the exit stack. “Cora!” I yelled. Then I could see her black head coming up towards us. “Cora! Quick!”
A huge fist plunged down into the shaft. A huge hand opened and spread over Cora’s dark head, holding her down. Cora struggled; she turned her choking face up towards us; the hand spread over that to
o. Mrs. Briggs was pushing and grunting beside me, eyes closed as clouds of smoke gushed furiously up into her face. She was never going to let Cora out. With all my strength I rushed at her. I threw my entire body into her side and the impact bowled her over. She and I rolled down the grassy side of the air-raid shelter into the prickly, nettly grass at the bottom. I was up like a shot and scrambling back up the side in time to help Cora out at the top. She was wracked by coughs. I thought she’d choke to death but bit by bit she began to recover her breath. She clutched an exercise book under one arm. “I went back for this,” she croaked. “I was going to show it to you.” It was one of her mother’s books.
Others had arrived in the field. They surrounded us now and helped us towards the gate. Mrs. Briggs was ahead of us on the arms of two farm men. Nobody asked us anything about how it had all happened; people were just gentle and kind. I remember soft murmurings of “Easy does it,” and “All safe now”. Only Mrs. Briggs’s voice kept up an unearthly, shrieking monologue as we all struggled through the long grass. At the gate I turned and looked back at the shelter. Now flames were spurting out of both exits and two immense swelling balloons of thick white smoke were towering above in the evening sky. Someone said shakily: “… a narrow squeak! If it hadn’t been for that woman …” I fainted—the first time in my life.
We were taken to the nearest house and an ambulance later took us and Mrs. Briggs to Heatherton Cottage Hospital. I don’t remember it at all clearly now, but our lungs were checked and some bits of glass were removed from Cora’s face and she had some stitches. Then we were sedated. I’ve no idea what was done with Mrs. Briggs. Some time later Mother and Father came and took me home. Cora was still sleeping when I left the ward. Her head was bandaged and she was just lying there motionless. Father wrapped me in a huge woolly blanket and carried me out. “Don’t worry about your friend,” a nurse whispered. “She’s fine, but we’re keeping an eye on her overnight. Her father has been already.” At home Mother tucked me in my own bed and sat with me for a long time. Once she sobbed and said: “Oh … Becky!” But otherwise there was no comment on the incident.
In fact there was silence on the topic for at least a couple of days. Then it was almost Christmas; school holidays had started; Father had a few days off work. There were presents to buy, the tree to decorate, meals to plan and buy for. On December the twenty-third, to the great joy of Jo and Dory, thick snow fell. They rushed out into the garden straight after breakfast to build igloos and snowmen. I was still at the table in my dressing-gown when there was a bumping and shuffling and shaking outside the back door, which then opened to admit the bulk of Mrs. Briggs coming in backwards. I’d completely forgotten it was her day and choked down my last piece of toast in an effort to get back upstairs before she saw me, but I was too slow. Panting and puffing clouds of steamy breath into the frosty air as she pulled her boots off and shook the snow on to the step, she addressed me over her shoulder. “None the worse then, dear?”
Mother intervened. “Becky’s fine, Mrs. Briggs, and I’m glad to see you are too. I gather we’ve you to thank for the fact that the girls escaped at all.” Mrs. Briggs grunted. “I came round to see you, actually,” continued Mother. “But there was no reply. I didn’t like to knock too long in case you were resting.”
“I was,” said Mrs. Briggs. “A shocking do! Fair took it out of me.”
Father folded up his newspaper at the other end of the table. “I’m sure it was. I can’t tell you how grateful we are, Mrs. Briggs. As a matter of fact we haven’t begun to discuss the whole thing with Becky yet.” He turned to Mother. “Why don’t we all have a cup of coffee, dear, and sort it all out now?”
My heart turned over. Mrs. Briggs sat down heavily beside me. Mother made coffee in silence and set a mug in front of each of us.
“Well?” said Father, leaning his elbows on the table, cupping his chin in his hands and fixing me with a long stare.
“Oh, dear,” I said desperately. “Is there any point going over it all? We’re all safe, that’s the main thing.”
“Indeed it is,” said Father firmly. “But we’ll have your account if you don’t mind. Then perhaps we can set our minds at rest that nothing like this is ever going to happen again. If it weren’t for Mrs. Briggs, who risked her own life, it seems, you’d almost certainly have lost yours. So we’ll just have the complete story right now. O.K.?” He continued to stare. Mother looked down into her coffee cup; I could see she was distressed. Mrs. Briggs, bright red from her walk through the snow, sniffed and sucked at her coffee.
There was no way of avoiding a row. “Cora and I had a den in the air-raid shelter,” I admitted. “We used to meet there secretly once in a while—just for a few minutes. On Thursday she brought a paraffin lamp and we knocked it over and some paraffin got spilt and went up in flames.”
“You realize you could both have been killed?” said Father icily. “Quite apart from the fact that you’d promised your Mother that you wouldn’t have anything to do with Cora …”
“But you like her, Daddy. I thought as long as it was secret from everybody it wouldn’t matter. And you yourself said after the concert …”
“Never mind what I said then,” he interrupted. “Perhaps I was wrong. The fact remains that you were deceitful and the whole escapade was highly dangerous. If Mrs. Briggs …”
“She didn’t do anything,” I flashed. “We got out by ourselves. She didn’t save us or anything like.”
“Be quiet!” roared Father. “You’ve no recollection of what went on. I’ve heard eye-witness reports of how Mrs. Briggs pulled you out. She’d have pulled Cora out too only she was overcome by smoke. You wretched child! I’m ashamed!”
“Mrs. Briggs, I do apologize,” mumbled Mother.
I couldn’t say anything. The farm men must have misinterpreted what they saw as they struggled through the gloom, smoke and long grass to the shelter. And Mrs. Briggs must have spun such a yarn … How could I say that, far from saving Cora, she’d done her best to shove her back into the flames? And now she began to talk in such mild, wheedling, insinuating tones: “Mr. Stokes, Mrs. Stokes, please don’t upset yourselves. I know kids. Becky’s confused and upset, aren’t you, dear? I know she doesn’t remember what happened—perhaps it’s for the best that she doesn’t. I know she’s not a bad girl. But I do beg you—and I’m afraid I’ll have to repeat myself now—keep her away from that other one. She’s bad. She’s rotten through and through. She won’t rest till she’s killed someone. Mark my words, that’s what’ll happen. She seems driven to it. There’s some that are mischievous and some that get themselves into all sorts of trouble they shouldn’t—but there are some that are evil, black as the Devil himself, and she’s one of those …”
“It’s so hard to believe …” began Mother.
“We don’t have to believe it,” said Father, “though I’m almost beginning to. That sweet voice—bewitching—for good or evil? Who’s to say?”
“Daddy!” I gasped. “Don’t be daft! Cora’s nice, and she’s honest and good. Mrs. Briggs is lying. She’s mad!”
“Go to your room,” he thundered and leapt to his feet. He dragged my chair back from the table with me still sitting on it and my coffee slopped over the floor. I fled upstairs and locked myself in my bedroom.
Later he came up and tried the door. He shouted furiously. I didn’t move and didn’t speak. He hurled himself against the door, but it didn’t give and after a while he went away. My knees were knocking with fright. I could hardly believe that my own father had filled me with such terror. I thought of Georgia Jamieson. I hardened against Father then; I don’t think I every fully softened towards him again. I sat in my room all day. I saw Mrs. Briggs stumping off at noon. Sometimes the boys came running and whooping round the house, once pursued by Father tossing snowballs gently after them. I loved him and knew he was good and right in most ways, but I couldn’t forgive him his total blindness earlier on and his fearsome raging at me.
“I don’t know if he’ll patch it up with me. He’s so furious.”
“He’s not so bad now. It was just so embarrassing you going for Mrs. Briggs like that after she’d practically killed herself saving you both.”
My fists punched into the pillow beside me. “Mummy, she didn’t, she didn’t,” I seethed. “She was just there, that’s all. At most she gave me a hand at the top of the ladder, but Cora she tried to push down. I saw her. She had her hand on top of Cora’s head. She wouldn’t let her get out. And she didn’t collapse because of the smoke. I shoved her out of the way. It was me—I pushed her down the side of the air-raid shelter so Cora could get out. She tried to murder her.”
Mother sat down, white and shocked. She believed me, I thought. “Oh, Becky! What are we going to do with you? What’s got into you? How can you say such things …?”
My heart sank. “Go away,” I whispered. “What’s the use? Nobody believes me.” She went out silently. I sobbed desperately. I longed to see Cora. She knew the truth. I didn’t even know if she was home from hospital.