Celandine (15 page)

But the gathering of cave-dwellers seemed genuinely curious, and so she drew out the whole alphabet in thick black letters, one to a page, A, B, C. Then she tore the pages from the book and laid them out on the grassy bank of the stream.

‘These shapes are called “letters”,’ she said. ‘And every letter has its own sound. Do you see? This one says “Ah”. This one says “Buh”. This one says “Cuh”. If you put the letters together, and put the sounds together, then you get a word.’ The cave-dwellers looked blank at this, and Celandine sought around for inspiration. This was so difficult to get across. She felt a pang of sympathy for the departed Miss Bell.

‘Look.’ Celandine separated the A and the B from the line of letters, and placed them by themselves.
Then
she picked up the M and laid it on the grass in front of the other two. The group of Tinklers and Troggles shuffled closer, trying to get a better view.

‘See? This letter says “Muh”. So now we have “Muh”, “Ah”, and “Buh”. So if you put those sounds together, you get “Mmm . . . Aaaa . . .”’

‘Mab.’

Celandine looked round in surprise. ‘Who said that?’

It was Loren. The little Tinkler lad half-raised his hand and smiled shyly.

‘’Tis Mab,’ he said. He pointed to Micas and Elina’s daughter. ‘She.’

Celandine was amazed. ‘That’s
right
,’ she said. ‘It’s Mab!’

Perhaps this was going to be possible after all.

They proved to be astonishingly fast learners, although not all words were as easy to demonstrate as ‘Mab’. It made Celandine’s head spin to try to explain why ‘T. H. E.’ said ‘the’, or why some letters could be pronounced in several different ways. Then, of course, the pieces of paper were inclined to blow about in the breeze. On more than one occasion a carefully assembled word had ended up in the stream, to be whisked off towards the tunnel.

But they continued to persevere, and Celandine’s poor teaching was more than made up for by the cave-dwellers’ enthusiasm and delight at seeing their names spelt out upon the grass.

The days fell into a natural routine as summer passed. Every morning, apart from Sundays,
Celandine
came to the tunnel, and Fin was always there to meet her, answering her whistled signal with a far more convincing bird-call of his own. Sometimes he stayed with her for a while as she sat and read to the cave-dwellers, but the stories could not hold his interest for long, and the bits of paper that they spent so much time pondering over meant nothing to him. Usually he wandered off to play by himself in the stream.

At around mid-morning Pato would arrive – supposedly to collect Fin, but also to accept whatever little gift Celandine might have brought with her; a length of string, a dibber from the greenhouse, or a tomato perhaps. Celandine had come to think of Pato as a kind of toll-keeper. He always took whatever she gave him with barely a glance at it, as though this were her entrance fee to the forest.

Towards lunchtime, Celandine went home. She didn’t want to arouse suspicion by being continually away from the farm, although lately she had begun to wonder whether her absence would actually be noticed, now that all anyone ever seemed to think about was the war.

The war. She didn’t really understand it. Britain was apparently at war with Germany and Austro-Hungary, that much she knew, but there was no one to explain it to her. Freddie was away at boarding school, and Thos only grunted that it was all nonsense anyway. Her mother became tearful, as she so often seemed to of late, whenever the subject was mentioned. Her mother was Austrian and spoke with a German accent.
Celandine
supposed that meant she must be half-Austrian herself. She had never given it much thought before, but now she was beginning to see that it might make a difference.

She entered the kitchen one morning to beg for scraps as usual, pretending that she wanted to feed the ducks. Sometimes she managed to get hold of cake for Fin in this manner. She found Cook talking to Ivy Tucker, the woman who came to collect the eggs. They were discussing the war. Both women turned to look at her, arms identically folded, and Cook said, ‘Sorry,
fraulein
, I got nothing for ’ee today.’ Ivy Tucker smirked.

Celandine thought about it later, and wondered why Cook had called her
fraulein
in that way. Something told her that there would be no more cake forthcoming.

The daily routine held as July burnt through to August, and then the fine weather broke. As the first summer storm crashed through the woods, it seemed natural to Celandine that she should run for cover along with her pupils, following the drenched little figures as they scurried up the steep rocky pathway that led to the caves. It was only as she crouched beneath the overhanging outcrop of the main entrance, gazing out upon the sheets of driving rain and feeling the coolness of the worn stone floor beneath her hands and knees that she began to realize what she had done. They had not invited her here. She had broken her promise.

And yet it didn’t appear to bother them. The cave-dwellers stood beside her, unconcerned, as they listened to the hiss of the rain, watching it tumble in rivulets from the great overhanging rock that formed the roof of the cave. It was like being behind a waterfall, Celandine thought.

There was a pungent smell about the place, vaguely scented, as of burning oil or candle-wax. Celandine could see that further back into the cave there were other dark entrances, to tunnels perhaps, or underground chambers. Was this really their home? What did they do back there? She so wanted to ask questions, but thought that it might be rude to pry on this first visit. She looked about her at the stone walls of the cave entrance. There were cracks here and there, crevices from which tufts of grass and moss sprouted, but for the most part the stone was smooth. Big empty expanses of smooth stone. It gave her an idea . . .

Celandine brought chalk from the schoolroom and was at last able to write out a permanent display of the entire alphabet. The flat grey walls of the cave entrance were covered in rainbow-coloured letters.

‘
Theer . . . wazz . . . onkee . . . a . . . clee-veer . . . fox
 . . .’ She was amazed at how quickly her reading group had progressed, but little Loren, in particular, was quite wonderful. Already he had learned nearly all of his letters. Celandine knelt beside the Tinkler boy and showed him how to move his finger along the line of words, one hesitant step at a time. She gave him a pencil and paper, and the first time that he managed
to
write his own name with no help from her, she felt as though she were a magician.

Her extraordinary pupils flourished, and Celandine began to have real hopes that she might truly be able to teach them to read. But then, suddenly, it was all over. Everything was about to change.

Her mother and father gave her the news one evening at supper.

‘I’ve a letter here, Celandine, from the headmistress at Mount Pleasant School in North Perrott.’ Her father was waving a sheet of blue notepaper at her from the far end of the table. Celandine put down her soup-spoon. What was this? North Perrott was miles away. Miles and miles.

‘She’s prepared to take you as a pupil into the third form, I’m happy to say.’ Her father folded the letter and tucked it back into its envelope as he spoke. ‘Now, your mother and I decided that you’ve grown too old to have another governess, and so I wrote to Miss Craven a couple of weeks ago. We’re very lucky to have got a place at such a good school, considering recent events. Comes highly recommended – not cheap. One of Swann’s girls goes there, isn’t that right, Lizzie?’

‘Yes, I believe is a very good school.’ Her mother had been searching the sleeve of her dress for a handkerchief. She blew her nose, and quickly dabbed at one of her eyes.

‘But Mama . . .’ Celandine was horrified. ‘I
can’t
. Not now. You don’t understand . . .’

‘You
can’t
?’ Her father was already beginning to lose his temper. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, young lady, just for once. And it’s high time you did. Now then. I’ve had to give the school a very full account of the circumstances, and you should be grateful for this opportunity to start afresh. Miss Craven was under no obligation to take you on, and so I give her credit for doing so. I gather she stands for no nonsense. Good thing, in my opinion . . .’

Celandine was only half listening. What would happen now to the little people? All her work would be wasted. All her plans . . .

She tried to focus once more on what was being said, and could see that there was no point in arguing. Her father was adamant that she should go and her mother, though tearful, was in agreement with him. She would attend the Mount Pleasant School for Girls, for the start of the Michaelmas term in a fortnight’s time, and there was a lot to be done before then. It was a boarding school, like Freddie’s, and so there would be uniforms to buy, games kit, and a trunk to put it all in. She might even enjoy it. At any rate she must accept it. The matter had already been decided.

How quickly a fortnight could fly by when you wanted time to stand still, how short the days when you wished they would never end.

Celandine sat in the long grass on top of Howard’s Hill, clutching a little red bridle that Pato had given her, and wondering when she would ever be back here again. She had given her last reading lesson, perhaps
for
a very long time, and tomorrow she was to become a pupil herself once more.

She laid the bridle on the grass beside her. It was a lovely thing, beautifully made, with three small bells that twinkled brightly against the soft red leather. Celandine shook her head at the wonder of it and what it meant. That Pato, who always seemed to accept her gifts without much thanks, should give her a going-away present – and such a present – was a surprise. But to discover that the higher woods must contain other creatures that she had yet to see, creatures that could wear such a bridle as this, was an even greater surprise. There was so much that she didn’t know about them, the Various, so much that she had still to learn.

Well, it would have to wait. It would all have to wait. Celandine stood up, flapped some of the chalk dust from her pinafore and began to make her way down the hill. The bells on the little bridle made a soft jingling sound as she brushed through the clumps of wild poppies.

She arrived back on the farm to find that her mother was cross with her – again.

‘
Here
you are, Celandine! Once more I am hunting you. Always you are lost to me. The photograph man! Did you forgotten this?’

‘What? Oh – yes. Sorry.’

‘And always you are so dirty! What is this white dust – flour? Go and put on your clean dress – is on your bed – and then let me make your hair.’

‘Yes, Mama. I’m sorry.’

It had been her father’s idea that the photographer should call in order to take formal portraits of the family, along with suitable views of the farm – to include the horses and the men. All of this had been done, and now it was only Celandine who was keeping the photographer waiting.

They sat her upon a square wicker basket in the parlour. She was wearing her blue shiny dress with the high lace collar and the pearl buttons. It was too tight, and she hated it. The material always felt cold and stiff and the collar bit into her neck. Her best boots were also too tight, the laces now barely long enough to reach the top pair of hooks. She must have grown recently.

Her mother had scraped her hair back and tied it so firmly that she felt as though her eyebrows were at least a couple of inches higher up her forehead than usual.

Celandine was facing the window, and so Mr Tilzey the photographer was a shadowy figure against the light – quietly moving back and forth with pieces of unfamiliar equipment; a tray with some powder on it, a black cloth, some wooden-framed objects, like drawers from a small cabinet. The camera itself was a large box – mahogany, with brass attachments – mounted on a wooden tripod. Celandine looked at the lens, a dark and mysterious thing. It reminded her of tunnels, and of caves, and she tried to peer through it into the smoky blue world beyond. What might be in there?

The photographer was taking a long time and
Celandine
began to feel quite chilly. She gazed out of the window, at the distant slope of Howard’s Hill. What would they be doing now, the Various, with their secret lives? Would any of them be thinking of her? Tomorrow she would be gone. Would they forget all about her?

‘Now then, ah . . . Celandine, is it? I think we are ready.’ He was a gingery man was Mr Tilzey, and the mid-morning light shone fiery red around the edges of his beard.

‘I am going to put my head beneath this cloth, and when I say “watch the birdie” I’d like you to look into the camera and smile. Yes? And then you must sit quite still, until I tell you otherwise. Yes?’

‘Yes.’ (What birdie?)

‘Celandine – please. You must not be so
shlumping
. Sit
tall
with your back.’ Her mother was still cross with her.

Celandine straightened her back and wondered whether the pearl buttons might suddenly start pinging around the room, whether her boots might fly off, whether her hair would wildly spring from its cage of pins and ribbons . . .

‘And what is this
thing
you are holding – a piece from a
horse
?’ Her mother, again.

‘Oh, I think I rather like that.’ The photographer’s voice was now muffled, from beneath his black cloth. ‘Very pretty, my dear. Quite still then, please. Quite, quite still . . .’

Celandine looked at the camera and tried to smile through the discomfort. Why didn’t he begin? She
pinched
the bridle in frustration, feeling the texture of the leather strap between her fingers and the ball of her thumb. It was smoother on one side than it was on the other. Something caught her eye – something flying past the window – a flicker of black and white beyond the humped silhouette of the photographer’s cloaked shoulder. A magpie.

‘Watch the birdie . . . quite, quite still . . .’

The magpie settled on the roof of the stables and stood there motionless – quite, quite still. How extraordinary. She watched the birdie . . .