Celandine Read online

  ‘He’s not well enough to talk, I’m afraid,’ said the nurse.

  ‘Blimey,’ said the inspector, taking Celandine’s ticket, but barely glancing at it before punching it. ‘Got your tongue as well, did they? Well, good luck to you.’ He nodded to the nurse and stepped back into the corridor, closing the sliding door behind him with a smart click. The train gave a sideways lurch and Celandine swallowed. She thought for a dreadful moment that she might be sick.

  But the crisis had passed. The nurse sat staring at Celandine and absently tapped her fingernails on the white stick … tap-tap … tap-tap … an irritating echo to the rhythm of the wheels.

  The Somerset countryside, cheerful now on this sunny spring evening, passed by the grimy window until the train eventually began to slow down on its approach to Withney Halt. Celandine got up. She opened the compartment door and turned to pick up her bag. The soldier raised his head at the sound of the sliding door, listening to the movement in the compartment.

  ‘You going?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ said Celandine. ‘I get off here. Goodbye, Tommy. And good luck.’ As she pulled the door closed behind her, she heard the nurse say, ‘Well! You’re a dark horse, I must say. Do you know that extraordinary-looking girl?’

  The steam-engine smell of oil and cinders hung upon the still country air long after the train had gone. Celandine stood on the little greystone platform of Withney Halt and looked out over the Somerset Levels – the lush patchwork of flat fields and withy beds that stretched to the far wooded hills. The marshy land was criss-crossed with rhynes and irrigation ditches, and the familiar figures of pollarded willow trees stood, dipping their heads towards the still waters.

  Celandine squinted into the last rays of the sun, and plotted an imaginary course across the darkening wetlands. She could just see part of the roofline of Mill Farm, her home, nestling beneath the shadow of Howard’s Hill.

  The rapidly darkening countryside felt lonely and deserted, and so quiet that, when a heron suddenly rose from a nearby ditch with a horrible kraaark and a loud splashing of wings, Celandine thought her heart would stop. But she doggedly followed the muddy paths trodden by the labourers and withy-cutters, dragging her monstrously heavy bag, and told herself that this was Somerset and not France, and that at least she wasn’t being shot at. Better, too, than going by the road, where she was sure to meet someone who knew her, or her father.

  The air had grown cold by the time she finally reached the scrubby paddock that stood behind the farm stables, and yet her journey had been such hard going that her muslin blouse was sticking to her back and shoulders. She cautiously leaned against the corner post of the paddock fence and looked at the dark huddle of buildings that made up Mill Farm. Faint chinks of light escaped from beneath the eaves of the stables. There would be harnesses yet to clean, and tack to mend, water to be drawn, feed and bedding to be provided for the teams, and a host of other things to be done before the stable hands could safely leave their charges for the night and go to their own rest.

  The lower windows of the farmhouse itself were by now ablaze with light, and one upper window also – her mother’s room. Downstairs her father would be sitting at the kitchen table, discussing the day’s business over a knuckle of ham with her elder brother, Thos, and coughing his dry persistent cough – explaining why this must be done and why that must not. And Thos would be listening, impatient, scratching the back of his neck, trying to keep his temper and then, when he got the chance, explaining why this must not be done and why that must. The two lurchers, Cribb and Jude, would be lying at the foot of the stairs, sullenly waiting upon the hour when they would be put out for the night to shelter beneath the open barn and do their duty with regard to rats and foxes and other intruders. Cook would be in her room, with her half glass of milk stout, getting ready to turn in. How familiar it all was.

  And there would be a bed for her there, thought Celandine, and food on the table if she chose to enter, but there would be no welcome. There would be only angry words from her father, bitter tears from her mother, and no gesture of comfort from Thos. A bed for the night, a meal, and then back they would send her – back to school, where they were paying good money for all her nonsense to be knocked out of her.

  Celandine felt chilly now, conscious too of the open ground she had yet to cross and how her light-coloured blouse might easily be visible to anyone who happened to step outside and look about them. She undid the buckle of her canvas bag and hauled out her dark mackintosh. She also took out the envelope that she had been carrying.

  It didn’t take long to find a suitable stone. Celandine placed the envelope on the top of the paddock corner post and weighed it down with the stone. Now the wind wouldn’t blow it away. It wouldn’t be long before someone found the letter and delivered it to the farmhouse. Turning her collar against the cool night air, and her back against the lights of Mill Farm, Celandine picked up her bag once more and began the long slow climb that took her up Howard’s Hill.

  There had been a lot of rain recently, and so the stream that trickled down the gully on the hillside was quite lively. The stillness of the night air made the bubbling sound of the water seem unnaturally loud, and Celandine became worried that her signal might not be heard – or even recognized. Months it had been, since she was last here. Would they even remember her? She crept along the rising bank of the gully until she was as close as she could get to the thick mass of brambles that bounded the edge of the high woodland. Resting her bag on the grass she cupped her hands, put her thumbs together, and blew into the gap between her bent knuckles. She was breathless from the climb, and also out of practice, so it took two or three attempts to get it right – but eventually she managed to produce a sound that was supposed to be that of a hooting owl. Was it loud enough? Could anyone hear her? She tried again a few times and looked towards the dark jumble of briars expectantly, but nothing happened. Celandine began to panic. What would she do? To go back was quite impossible.

  Celandine sat down upon her bag and concentrated – no longer on imitation, but on volume. She began to experiment with finding a note, and then gradually opened her cupped hands to make the pitch and volume of the note rise as she blew harder.

  Whatever it was, then, that landed with a thump upon her shoulders took her so by surprise that she was flung sideways from her perch – squealing with shock as she tumbled and rolled down into the gully, clutching at the flailing wiry limbs that clung about her neck, and then hearing the throaty little sound ‘ah-ah-ah’ that made it all clear. She reached the bottom of the gully and managed to struggle to her feet – one of which was in the water by this time – laughing and trying to disentangle herself from the frantic little creature that continued to cling to her. It was no use. He wouldn’t let go. She dropped to one knee again and hauled the wriggling being from her shoulders, managing to get one arm about the skinny waist to grasp the rough material of his tunic, pulling him around to the front of her where she could then grab him by the upper arms and force him away from her. At last she was able to hold him – just – at arms length, as he continued to writhe like a puppy, clutching hanks of her hair in his tiny fists, his whole face alive with the delight of seeing her again. His wide innocent eyes flashed white in the darkness and the huge gap-toothed smile was wider still. ‘Cake!’ he said, triumphantly. ‘Cake-cake-cake!’

  ‘Hallo, Fin,’ she said. ‘It’s so lovely to see you.’ And it was too. She gave him a hug – and it was good to feel the childish arms tight about her neck, the affection so freely given.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, and, releasing Fin with a sigh, she stood up and pushed back her hair. Fin tucked his own straight black hair behind his ears and looked up at her hopefully. ‘Yes,’ she couldn’t help laughing, ‘I’ve brought you some cake. But you must lead me through the tunnel first.’

  The dark little figure hopped barefoot over the wet stones that were strewn along the bed of the gully, and carefully began to part the
overhanging brambles. Celandine followed, clutching her canvas bag to her chest and stooping low, one foot squelching uncomfortably in her soaking wet shoe.

  Chapter Two

  CELANDINE HAD FIRST met Fin over three years ago, on the 22nd June 1911, shortly after her tenth birthday. She was hardly likely to forget either the date or the occasion, for it was the Coronation of King George and Queen Mary. There would be parties up and down the land in honour of this event, and the Howards of Mill Farm would be celebrating along with everyone else.

  Celandine’s father, Erstcourt Howard, had been persuaded to put his hand in his pocket for once, and it had been decided that a grand picnic should take place on Howard’s Hill.

  The hill rose from the surrounding fields like a wooded island. Too steep and stony to plough, it had been allowed to run wild for generations. Occasionally a few sheep or cattle might be turned out to graze the rough slopes, but only if the pastures below were too flooded to use. The ancient woods that covered the hilltop had become so surrounded by brambles that only a fool or a rabbit would attempt to enter – and the Howards were solidly conscious of being neither. They left well enough alone.

  For the Coronation picnic a stone platform was being specially built, about halfway up the hillside, and this was to be large enough to hold all the big trestle tables that were normally used for Harvest supper.

  The Howard children – Thos, Freddie and Celandine – each viewed the coming party in their own various ways. Thos, almost fifteen at the time, pretended not to care and outwardly took his father’s grumbling view that the whole affair was an unnecessary expense. He was sure that he had better things to do. He may well go and shoot some rabbits instead, come the day. Inwardly, however, he was in a breathless agony of excitement and anguish – for here was a golden opportunity to talk once again with the enchanting Emily Swann, or at least it would be a golden opportunity, if only the Swann family had been invited. But they had not. He knew this because he had overheard his mother and father in discussion. His mother, whose Austrian upbringing still caused her to struggle with her English, had said, ‘What about the Svanns – Swaaans?’ And Erstcourt had replied, ‘Don’t see the need of it. Blasted man still hasn’t settled up for the team I hired him last autumn. Always looks the other way whenever I see him. No, Lizzie, I think not.’ So Mrs Howard had timidly returned to her guest list, pegging away at it with her perpetually worried expression – so difficult it was for her to organize such an event, Erstcourt, when it was with no back-around she had in which things.

  Freddie, thirteen years old but still glad of any excuse to dress up, decided that he might spend the day in costume – something British perhaps, to suit the occasion. He already had a large Union Jack that would serve as a cape, and a small red gardening fork lashed to a rake handle for a trident. Now all he needed was a helmet and a shield, and he could go as Britannia. It didn’t help matters that his mother had only the vaguest idea of who Britannia might be. Freddie showed her the brown penny with a likeness of Britannia on it which he was using as his model, but his mother, after raising her spectacles and peering closely at it, had said, ‘And this is a man, Freddie?’ Well of course it was a man, he said. Did she think he wanted to spend the day dressed as a woman? Britannia was like Neptune, only … British. A small seed of doubt had been sown, however, and he wondered if he should go as John Bull instead. Did John Bull ever carry a trident? It would be a shame to waste the trident.

  Celandine had grasped the fact that the party was to be a very special occasion, and so she was not much looking forward to it. Very special occasions usually meant pain and discomfort. Her hair would have to be more tightly scraped back than ever and Miss Bell, her governess, would be continually fussing over her manners and appearance. Best boots and best behaviour would doubtless be required, and each were too tight a fit for Celandine’s liking. She wondered if she would be able to escape from the awful Miss Bell and play with the kittens in the cider barn instead.

  By seven o’clock on the morning of the picnic, the great trestle tables were standing on the newly-built stone platform on the side of Howard’s Hill, and by eight o’clock Freddie was dressed as a Christian.

  He had solved the problem of his costume, having remembered a picture he had once seen of a man fighting a lion. All the man had to defend himself with was a trident and a net. It was something to do with Roman times. But Freddie was sure that the brave man with the trident was a Christian – and what could be more British than that?

  Freddie already had the trident, and now he had managed to borrow one of the nets used for ferreting. He was looking forward to the day.

  Thos was also remarkably cheerful. Mr Swann had suddenly paid off his debt to Farmer Howard, thus securing a last-minute invitation to the party for himself and his family. Emily Swann would be coming after all.

  Celandine was not so happy. Miss Bell had caught her before she had even finished her breakfast egg, and had rigged her out in calico so starched, and ribbons so numerous, that she felt like a Christmas parcel.

  ‘Miss Bell, I don’t think I’m very well,’ she said.

  ‘Then you shall have a dose of castor oil,’ said Miss Bell, promptly. ‘Very good for the tongue is castor oil. It helps to keep it truthful, at the least.’

  Celandine scowled at herself in the mirror, and tried to think of a good act of revenge.

  At midday the whole company of guests were assembled. Besides the immediate family there were friends and relatives, the farmworkers, local tradespeople, the vicar and various other dignitaries. And there was one baby – the youngest of the Swanns – in a wicker bassinet. Over eighty people in all made up the cheerful procession that eventually began to drift through the paddock at the rear of the stables and wind its leisurely way up the sunny slopes of Howard’s Hill towards the heavily laden picnic tables.

  Mrs Howard set about positioning her guests.

  ‘Erstcourt, you are here of course, at table head, and then I. Here. Brigadier … no, Mrs Brown is you there, then Brigadier. Reverend Brown, is you next to me, Miss Tvigg, and then the ozer Miss Tvigg. Josef and Sarah, you are here …’

  When each had found a place, Erstcourt Howard rose to his feet. ‘Now then,’ he said, and paused for silence. ‘If all have a drink to hand, I shall ask the Reverend here to lead us in a prayer and a toast to Their Majesties. Reverend?’

  The atmosphere at the head of the first table soon became awkward. Mrs Howard’s younger brother, Josef Wesser, had got into an argument with Brigadier Locke. Josef Wesser was a doctor, specializing in what he called ‘the science of the mind’, and had made the mistake of challenging the Brigadier on that retired soldier’s home territory – the battlefield.

  ‘You’ll forgive me for saying so, Doctor Wesser, but you’re talking tripe. Absolute tripe. Cowardice is cowardice, plain and simple. If a fellow hasn’t the stomach to fight, then he has no business being in the army. There’s only one way to deal with that type of shilly-shallying, in my opinion.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Josef, ‘And that would be …?’

  ‘Court martial, sir. Certainly in the case of desertion.’

  ‘I see. And the penalty for that would be – what – execution? I think there is a difference … yes …? between cowardice and nervous collapse. The mind works in strange ways. A man cannot always be held responsible for his actions …’

  ‘Talk like a dam’ fool, sir! What are you – one of the white feather brigade?’

  Mrs Howard was embarrassed that her guests should be arguing, and did her best to change the subject.

  At the far end of the second table sat Thos, Freddie and Celandine, in various states of disgruntlement as the afternoon wore on. Thos was only inches away from the delightful Emily Swann, but as this young lady was seated with her back to him at the next table there was little opportunity to talk.

  Freddie had eaten all that he wanted to eat, which wasn’t very much, and so he was bored. And Celandine, to her disg
ust, was seated right next to her governess, Miss Bell, who was showing off to Tom Allen the blacksmith by finding fault with everything she did. She must sit up straight, or she would end up round-shouldered. She must not speak with her mouth full, or she would choke. She must not kick the bench, or she would spoil her shoes. And no, she may not leave the table. And no, Freddie may not leave the table either. They must sit still and wait for their food to digest properly.

  On and on she went. Celandine noticed that one of the Swann girls – a heavy-set child with short dark hair – was smirking at her discomfort from the next table. Celandine poked her tongue out at her. Unfortunately Miss Bell saw her do it and said, ‘Celandine, stop that! Really! Your behaviour today is quite disgraceful! Do you see what I have to contend with, Mr Allen?’

  A wicked thought came into Celandine’s head. ‘Miss Bell, do you remember that time when you were sick in a bucket?’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Celandine?’

  ‘That time when Father said you must have been at the sherry—’

  ‘Celandine! That’s quite enough, thank you! And if you’ve had quite enough, then I think you’d better get down after all – yes, yes and Freddie also. I shall certainly speak to you later, you sinful child. Mr Allen, I must assure you that there is no truth to this whatsoever …’

  Miss Bell was quite scarlet. There had been an occasion when she had been rather ill, in the schoolroom unfortunately, and the girl had witnessed it – but she had not been sick in a bucket, and neither had sherry anything to do with it. Wretched little liar!

  ‘Come on, Freddie,’ said Celandine.

  The two of them made their gleeful escape, and scuttled around the side of Howard’s Hill until they were out of sight of the party. In an ecstasy of freedom they threw themselves onto the warm grass – Freddie’s idea – and rolled down the steep hill, over and over, until they came to a halt. Then, reeling with dizziness, they clambered back up the hill, higher this time, to begin again, gasping and shrieking as they rolled once more, recklessly allowing gravity to do what it would with them, spinning them like bobbins along the bumpy turf. At some point, then, Celandine lost all control over what was happening and knew only that she was tumbling head over heels, arms and legs hopelessly flailing, quite unable to help herself.