Winter Wood Page 10

  ‘Celandine – is you! Look at my girl – so grown up you are in your uniform. But you should say when you are coming. I have nothing done for you.’

  ‘There was no time to write, Mama. And it was quiet this week, so Uncle Josef said I might come home early and see you.’

  ‘Ach. That is a good man, to think of me.’

  She saw her mother’s face, so tired and frail and thin. And always so worried.

  Then they were in the parlour, drinking coffee. Such a treat to drink coffee. It had made her want to cry, the thought that her mother would never spoil herself like this if she were sitting here alone. The smell of the coffee, hot and milky, was with her now – as was the overwhelming feeling of wanting to reach out and bring some comfort to that poor woman. She had lost her youngest son to the war, fighting the Germans, and yet she was still whispered about by those around her for being German herself.

  ‘Mama, I wanted to tell you something. I wanted to tell you about what happened to me that time when I . . . when I ran away.’

  And then her mother’s ringless hands raised quickly to her mouth, the little gasp of apprehension. They were too thin, now, those ivory-yellow fingers, to safely wear wedding and engagement rings. The risk of losing them was too great.

  ‘I was so unhappy at school, Mama. I hated it there. And then when Freddie was killed, I just had to leave. I couldn’t bear it any more – but I knew that I couldn’t come home either. Papa would have only sent me back again. And so I went . . .’ The words were half-rehearsed, but always they stuck in her throat at this point. ‘So I went to Burnham Common. I caught a train to Withney Halt, and I walked the rest of the way from there.’

  ‘To Burnham Common? Where those gypsies come each year?’

  ‘They looked after me, Mama. They were kind and good to me. And they never hurt me, I promise. They gave me food, and let me stay with them.’

  ‘Oh! But this I can’t believe! Is so terrible! My own child was taken . . .’

  ‘No, Mama, I wasn’t taken. I went to them. To them. And they’re just people, like anybody else. Just ordinary people. They mean no harm.’

  ‘And they cared for you all those weeks? But when we found you . . .’

  ‘I know. That was my own fault. I just fell, that’s all. It was an accident. I was coming home, across the hill I think, and I just fell down it somehow. I honestly can’t remember it very well. And my head hurt, and I was so upset about Freddie, and I didn’t know what was happening to me . . .’

  ‘But why have you not said this before, Liebling? Why must you have such a secret from me?’

  ‘Because I knew what you would do – what Papa would do. He’d go marching up to the common with men and dogs and guns, and make such a fuss, and chase those poor people away. And all they ever did was look after me, as if I was one of them. Please don’t say anything to Papa about it. Even now he might be too angry to listen properly.’

  ‘Ah, is true. Erstcourt is a kind man, but his temper is too bad sometimes. I shall say nothing. But listen to me – are you sure nothing wrong has happened to you with these people? Do you promise to me?’

  ‘Yes, I do promise. And everything’s different now, Mama. I’m happy working at the clinic, and I feel so much better.’

  ‘Then I am glad. Josef said that you would speak of this when you were ready, and now you do. Thank you for telling me, Celandine. This means very much to me. But what did you eat? And those clothes that you were wearing . . .’

  The conversation had really happened, but the story wasn’t true. She had not gone to stay with the travellers on Burnham Common at all. In her dream she was still a child, and as a child she knew what the truth was. In her dream she understood perfectly well why she was lying to her mother, but when she was awake the reason for it had gone – always slipping back into the shadows just as consciousness returned.

  It was to do with protecting someone else. She had pretended that she had gone to stay with the travellers so that someone or something else should not be discovered. That was as far as she could ever get.

  Miss Howard looked out of the high apartment window. She thought that it might be raining again, but there really wasn’t much she could see – just a blurry impression of bare trees and the stone-grey afternoon sky. Soon Elaine would come to make the toast, and they would have their conversation.

  ‘When I was young, Elaine, I once stood in the doorway of this very room, and watched the big girls making toast by the open fire. I wondered then whether I should ever be eighteen myself, and allowed such a privilege.’

  ‘And now here you are, Miss Howard. With as much toast as you could wish for.’

  ‘Yes. I’m still not allowed to make it for myself, though.’

  ‘Well, it can be a bit of a dangerous thing to be doing at your age.’

  ‘I know. But you’ll let me hold the toasting fork for a while.’

  ‘Course I will. Just wait while I cut the bread for you.’

  It was a gas fire now – made to look like coal, but gas nevertheless. You could make perfectly good toast on it.

  Elaine always called her ‘Miss Howard’, as was proper and right. The nurse who came in the middle of the week had been inclined to call her ‘dear’, or ‘love’, or even ‘Di’, and that she would not have. She was an old lady, for goodness’ sake – not a little child, and certainly not prepared to be jollied along like some of those feeble folk downstairs. She was to be accorded due dignity and respect. Miss Howard, if you don’t mind.

  Had Elaine been and gone? Or had she just imagined it?

  ‘I’m half expecting a visitor, Elaine. Some time this afternoon perhaps.’

  ‘Oh, that’d be nice for you. Who’s that, then, Miss Howard?’

  ‘A girl. You might take me down to the day room at around teatime. Only I shouldn’t like to miss her.’

  ‘OK. I’ll pop back up at four-thirty and help you into the lift.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She didn’t like the day room much. Too many old people there. She had tried to advise them, some of them, on how they should be treating their various ailments but they didn’t listen to her. Not now.

  ‘Oh, she’s a marvel, our Miss Howard,’ the care staff said – purposely loud, so that she could hear. ‘And a very clever woman, when it comes to medicine. She used to run a clinic in Taunton. Alternative therapies, wasn’t it, Miss Howard? You know, healing hands, and herbal remedies and all that. You should take her advice, Mr Lickis.’

  ‘Alternative’ therapies! An alternative to what? Pills, pills and more pills? What did they understand? Nothing. And as for herbal medicines, well! She had forgotten more than they would ever know on that subject. Let them follow their own path, then, and she would follow hers – continuing to diagnose and treat her own ills, as she was more than qualified to do.

  Today she would instruct Elaine to fetch her a sprig of rosemary from the herb garden. An infusion would do her stomach good, and help calm her nerves for this afternoon. She always felt a touch of anxiety before entering the day room – in case the girl should be there. Or in case she shouldn’t.

  But had Elaine already been?

  The girl would be standing at the window – that same window where she had so clearly seen her, all those years ago. The day room had been the Form 2 classroom then, and this building had been the Mount Pleasant School for Girls. How she had hated the place back in those days. But that hatred had long gone. She had made her peace with the old echoing corridors, so softly carpeted now. And the draughty washrooms that had been turned into such pleasant exercise suites no longer held any fear for her. She had faced the ghosts that had haunted her – Miss Craven . . . Miss Belvedere . . . Mary Swann . . . and had chased them into oblivion. They could hurt her no more.

  And her life had been good. She had helped more people than she could recall, helped them to find the healing paths that existed within themselves. She had had a gift for that, and had used it as best she cou
ld.

  But there was a gap. Somewhere between running away from school and beginning her working life, something had happened to her. In her dreams she knew what it was, but in her waking hours it would not come. What could it have been that was so terrible as to completely blank out her memory? Time and again she had tried to force a picture into her mind. She imagined herself spinning round, in order to catch whatever was standing behind her. And always it was the girl.

  The girl was no ghost, she was convinced of that, but both a clue to the past and a glimpse of what was to come. That day when she had seen her, almost ninety years ago, standing at the window and turning towards her, a cup in her hand, had been a vision of something that would surely occur. She wished that she could make it happen, today. She wished that she had a fishing rod like Freddie’s, so that she could cast her line out across the years, and reel the future towards her, or give the girl a thread to follow. She knew exactly what the girl would be wearing. Why was it taking so long for her to get here?

  She must remember to tell Elaine to be sure and help her to the day room at around four-thirty. Just in case.

  Had Elaine already been, though? Or was that yesterday?

  Chapter Eight

  ‘I CAN ONLY stay a few minutes,’ said Midge. ‘I shouldn’t really even be here. I’ve got to be back for five, at the latest, or my mum’ll kill me.’

  She felt nervous, walking along beside the manager lady – Carol – and not a bit sure that she wanted to be doing this. It was all too sudden.

  ‘Yes, I understand. But now that Miss Howard knows you’re here, I think that you must just say a very quick hello if you can – even if it’s just for five minutes. She’d be so disappointed to have missed you. I wouldn’t want you to stay for long in any case. She’s rather fragile.’

  They came to a set of double doors at the end of a long corridor, and Carol pushed one of these open in order to let Midge through. The door squeaked loudly as it swung back behind them.

  ‘This is the day room,’ said Carol. ‘Some of the residents have their tea in here – those who prefer not to eat later on.’

  It was a large open space, brightly lit, and dotted about with tables and chairs, a few of which were laid out with cloths and crockery. At these sat little groups of people – very old people – whose heads slowly turned towards the door. Perhaps twelve or fifteen in all. Carol gave a wave of acknowledgement to the room in general. ‘Hallo . . . Hallo!’ and led Midge over to a table set out for two by the far window.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she said. ‘Can I get you a sandwich, or a drink or something? Or would you rather wait?’

  ‘Um . . . no, I’m OK, thanks.’ Midge wished that she had the courage to leave. This was just awful. But when Carol sat down, she felt obliged to do the same, and so she perched herself on the edge of the chair, her hands gripped between her knees. She noticed that the two cups and saucers on the table didn’t match. One was plain, but the other had a picture on it. A fairy.

  ‘Midge . . . I can see that this isn’t a very easy thing for you to be doing. You’re a bit shaken up, aren’t you?’ The woman was looking at her, and as Midge met her eye she saw the genuine sympathy and understanding there. Behind the smart outfit and the perfume and the neat hairdo was someone who could be trusted, she felt.

  Midge bit her lip and nodded, too uncertain of her voice to try and speak.

  ‘Well, now. Let’s see if we can put your mind at rest. Where is it that you’re actually supposed to be? At the Almbury centre? Is that where your mum is? Yes? And you need to be back for five?’

  Again Midge nodded.

  ‘Listen, then. I’m very happy to walk you back there myself. It’s only two minutes away – in fact you can see the car park from these windows – and you won’t be late, I promise. Give your mum a quick call, if you’re worried, and tell her exactly where you are. Or I could speak to her myself and explain. But now that you’re actually here . . . um, how shall I put this: I don’t think Miss Howard would be able to understand if you suddenly weren’t here. Can you see that? Miss Howard’s an extraordinary woman, brilliant for her age, but quite frail. And she can be difficult. And easily upset. Now, she’s not a fool – very far from it – but she does get confused and I wouldn’t want to—’

  There was a loud bump and a squeak from the double doors, and the big woman – Joan – put her head into the room. She glanced quickly round, a worried expression on her shiny face.

  ‘Carol!’ She beckoned to the manager. ‘It’s Mr Lickis – he’s having a bit of a do, I’m afraid. You’ll need to come.’

  ‘Oh Lord, again? OK, Joan, I’ll be right with you.’ Carol stood up, smoothed down her jacket, and said, ‘Sorry, Midge. This won’t take long – nothing serious, but I do need to be there. Now please don’t go anywhere, OK? I’ll be right back, and everything’ll be fine. Don’t worry!’

  Carol hurried across the room to where Joan was holding the door open for her. The two of them disappeared, and the door closed again with another squeak.

  Midge let out a long breath. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She had never imagined, or even tried to imagine, that she would ever actually meet Celandine. She had promised to try and find her, yes, but by that she had supposed that she might have been able to discover what had happened to her, perhaps piece together some details of the past – nothing more. Not once had she pictured a scene where they would truly be together, in the same room, at the same time. Talking.

  And that was another thing: what on earth was she going to say? ‘Hallo, Aunt Celandine. Do you know where the Orbis is by any chance?’ It was ridiculous. And too weird. She felt that everyone in the room was watching her – all those watery old eyes, staring and staring at her. She risked a quick glance. Yes, most of the heads were turned in her direction, some bald, some silver-haired. All of them nodding and smiling.

  Midge smiled back as best she could, and then turned away again. She picked up the cup that had the picture of the fairy on it. It looked as though it might be quite old – or perhaps it was just old-fashioned. The fairy was very pretty, all dressed in green and yellow, and holding a big yellow flower. Midge turned the cup upside down and looked at the base. ‘The Celandine Fairy’, she read. ‘Cicely Mary Barker’. But how wonderful that there should be such a thing. A Celandine Fairy. Her great-great-aunt must have bought this for herself, as a reminder of what she had seen – although the winged Ickri looked as unlike this delicate creature as was possible. Still, it was an encouraging sign.

  Midge got up from her chair, unable to just sit there, waiting. She wandered over to the big window. Carol was right. You could see the Almbury Mills car park from here, just on the other side of that line of trees. The streetlights were all on, misty orange in the cold night air, shining down on the rows and rows of cars. She looked at her watch, and realized that she still had the fairy cup in her hand. Twenty to five. Just a couple more minutes, she’d give it, and then she really would have to . . .

  The squeak of the swing door made her turn from the window. She hoped that it was the manager, Carol, returning to rescue her – but no, it was someone in a wheelchair. Another old relic, being manoeuvred through the doorway by one of the staff.

  Then she recognized the woman who was pushing the wheelchair. It was the one who had come down in the lift to see her. Elaine? Yes, Elaine. Oh my God. And so that must be . . .

  That must be . . .

  Celandine.

  Midge put out her free hand and groped for the window sill beside her. She needed something solid to touch, something to hold on to, just for a moment. It was too bright in here, and too hot, and everything was out of her control. The wheelchair seemed to have got stuck, half in and half out of the room. Elaine was struggling to push the thing and hold the swing door open at the same time. Midge moved away from the window sill, and guiltily replaced the china cup on its saucer. Should she go and help? No, they were safely through.

  But then the f
igure in the wheelchair raised an arm, and there was a murmur of sound. Elaine was leaning forward, head bent low, and Midge heard her say, ‘What? What is it?’

  Midge allowed herself to look – to properly look – at her great-great-aunt, for the first time. Celandine.

  She was tiny. As tiny as a child. She could have been a nine-year-old for all that there was of her. Except that she wasn’t a child at all. She was a shrunken old woman, in a white blouse, crisply pleated at the front . . . a blue brooch . . . tartan rug over her knees . . . and shiny little black shoes that peeped out from under the rug, so that Midge was reminded of a miniature Scots doll that she’d once owned. But her hair . . . what had happened to . . .?

  The arm was moving. Beckoning to her? Midge hesitated. But no, this was apparently a signal to Elaine because the chair began to move again, rolling across the room towards her, the wheels silent on the thick grey carpet.

  Midge stood up a little straighter. The approaching face was so heavily creased about the mouth, the eyes so deeply buried in wrinkles, that it was difficult to read any expression there. Midge didn’t know what to say, or how she was even going to begin.

  ‘I’m so glad you could come.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, yes . . .’

  The old lady had surprised her by speaking first. Celandine. And yet not Celandine. Midge just couldn’t see how this person could be the girl in the photograph, the girl on the wicker box, clutching a tiny bridle in her pale hands. It seemed impossible.

  One of those hands was extended now, and Midge awkwardly reached out.

  ‘Yes, I’m . . . I’m glad too. Glad to meet you.’ How silly the words sounded. She held the thin hand for a few seconds, felt the skin, warm, but so loose and separate from the tiny bones within. It made her think of Pegs, and of Little-Marten, for some reason. Yes, that same strange touch of bone and membrane. Wings.

  And something else? Some brief jolt of recognition . . . picture-memories. Midge withdrew her hand, unsure of what it was that she had felt in that moment. And uncomfortable with it.