The Piper (6 page)

‘Don’t worry, it’s only for a minute or two. I expect …’ He broke off at the distant sound of music, coming from somewhere outside, the same slow melody he had heard before. He hadn’t been able to hear it downstairs with the wireless playing, but up here in the silence of the landing, it was different. ‘What
is
that?’ he muttered. ‘It seems to be …’

He stopped at a sound coming from Miss Sally’s room, the urgent clanking of metal against metal. He and Daisy looked at each other, puzzled.

‘What’s that?’ whispered Daisy fearfully.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Peter. ‘It sounds like—’

‘You can come in now,’ announced Mrs Beesley, interrupting him. Peter pushed Daisy ahead of him into the room. He heard her give a gasp of surprise, and a moment later he understood why. The room was large and lavishly decorated, lit now by the glow of two paraffin lamps. Mrs Beesley was standing beside a tall mahogany wardrobe. A huge four-poster bed stood in the middle of the room, hung with swathes of red velvet, and at the foot of it there was a magnificent dapple-grey rocking horse, its teeth bared, its eyes wild. But what really caught Peter’s attention were the dolls.

There were scores of them, all sitting and staring blankly towards the door, as though they’d somehow been expecting Daisy, their little mouths curved into grins revealing shiny white porcelain teeth. There were dolls of every size. They were sitting on shelves, on benches, on window seats, even on the floor along the base of the wall. A couple of larger ones sat on the bed propped up against the pillows. There were pretty female dolls with big blue eyes, blonde tresses and silk gowns. There were clown dolls with painted faces and garish outfits. There were African dolls and Spanish dolls and Japanese dolls and just about any other nationality you could think of. Against one wall stood a huge, ornate dolls’ house, four storeys high, and on each floor little pale faces peered from every window and every doorway, as though judging the new arrivals.

Daisy stood for a moment looking around in silent amazement, her eyes big and wide as she took in every detail. Then she ran into the room, entranced.

‘Oh, Peter, look at them! Aren’t they
lovely
?’

Peter frowned. He knew that his sister loved dolls, that she was always asking her mother if she might have another to be a companion for Eva. So this room must have been her idea of heaven. But this … this was simply too much. Peter could somehow feel the power of all of those glass eyes staring at him and he felt decidedly uncomfortable under their gaze. Daisy made a beeline for the dolls’ house and unlatched a door, lifting a hand to reach in and take one out.

‘No!’ snapped Mrs Beesley, and Daisy froze as if she’d been slapped. ‘Ah no, we don’t play with the dolls, Daisy. We can
look
at them, but we don’t ever touch them.’

Daisy looked crestfallen. ‘Oh but … they’re
dolls
. Can’t I …?’

Mrs Beesley shook her head. She moved closer and reached out an arm to push the dolls’ house door firmly shut. ‘They are very valuable,’ she explained. ‘They have to be kept just as they are. Miss Sally is most particular about it.’

There was a puzzled silence. Peter could imagine Daisy asking herself the inevitable question.
What’s the point of having dolls you can’t play with?

He asked one himself. ‘Who do they belong to?’

‘Why, these are very old,’ said Mrs Beesley. ‘Been in this house since the 1800s, they have. Aren’t they pretty? Miss Sally loves these dolls. Used to spend all her time in ’ere, she did. Not playin’ with ’em, you understand. Just lookin’ at ’em. Talkin’ to ’em. That kind of thing.’ She smiled, remembering something. ‘D’you know, she used to tell me that one of the dolls used to speak to her, just as clear as I’m speaking now? Sally says she used to talk right back to it.’ She turned to study the dolls for a moment as though trying to spot the likely culprit but she shook her head. ‘There’s so many of ’em, it’s impossible to remember which one,’ she said. ‘Tillie, I believe Miss Sally called her.’ She looked back at Daisy, as though dismissing Peter. ‘Now, dear, you can unpack all your things and put them in the wardrobe there. Then get yourself ready for—’

‘The dolls must have belonged to
somebody
,’ insisted Peter. He wasn’t prepared to let Mrs Beesley talk her way around this one.

Mrs Beesley looked back at him, an expression of irritation on her face. ‘Well, if you must know, they belonged to one of Miss Sally’s ancestors,’ she said. ‘A girl called Alison. Miss Sally inherited them when she was born.’ A troubled look came to her ruddy face. ‘You know, at one time, Mr Sheldon was all for getting rid of the dolls. Said he was sick of them cluttering up the place. And some antiques fellow he met had looked at them and made quite a handsome offer for them. But Miss Sally wouldn’t hear of it. Begged and pleaded she did, worked herself up into a right old state until he finally gave in to her. He always does in the end. They are very valuable. So I must ask you, Daisy, not to touch them, there’s a good girl.’

Daisy nodded glumly. She had sat down on the bed and opened her own suitcase. She took out Eva and sat her on the bed, propped up against the pillows.

‘And who have we here?’ asked Mrs Beesley.

‘This is Eva. She’s my doll,’ said Daisy quietly. And then she added fearfully. ‘I
can
play with her, can’t I?’

‘Why, of course you can, silly! You don’t imagine I’d stop you from playing with your own doll, do you? I’m not a monster, you know. Do I seem like a monster to you?’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Yes, well …’ Mrs Beesley looked around the room, as if to assure herself that everything was in perfect order. Then she looked at Peter and, picking up one of the lamps, she added, in a businesslike tone, ‘Now, if you’d like to come with me, young man, I’ll show you where you’ll be spending the night.’

Peter’s room was nothing like Daisy’s. Tucked away under the eaves of the roof on the second floor, it was a small, spartan affair with a single bed and a cheap pine wardrobe. A jug of water and a washbasin stood on a mahogany stand. Peter told himself that at least he didn’t have a whole army of dolls staring at him while he slept. There were no other lights up here, apart from the paraffin lamp that Mrs Beesley had used to light their way up the stairs, but she produced a box of Vestas from the pocket of her apron and set light to a candle in a tin holder on the bedside table, placing the box of matches down beside it.

‘Blow the candle out before you go to sleep,’ she warned him. ‘We don’t want any fires, do we? I’ll leave the matches here in case you need to go to the …’ (She couldn’t seem to bring herself to say the word ‘lavatory’) ‘… the little room. Now, are you all set?’ she asked him.

Peter nodded and stood there rather forlornly, not sure what to do. At home he always had a hug from Mum before he turned in, but there was no way he was going to attempt that with Mrs Beesley, even if she’d wanted one.

‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ she said. ‘I’ll give you a call in the morning.’ She threw him a stern look. ‘It won’t be none of them Lunnen hours, mind,’ she said. ‘We’re early risers in this house.’ She picked up her lamp and went out, closing the door behind her. After a few moments, he heard the sound of her feet clumping down the stairs.

Peter was alone in the tiny, low-roofed room. There was no window to look out from, just a small skylight with a view of a handful of scattered stars. He got his pyjamas from his case and changed quickly into them, then brushed his teeth and there being no sink, spat the water into the washbasin. It was cold in the room, so he pulled back the sheets and climbed into the unfamiliar bed. He stared at the ceiling above his head, which bore a large stain, the shape of which made him think of a map of India he’d seen back in school.

The day’s events flashed through his mind in a mad jumble of images and sounds, but he was so exhausted he soon found that the memories were dissolving into each other, becoming all mixed up. Then he was drifting down into sleep but just before he was quite gone, his senses picked up a faint sound, somewhere in the house. Once again, it sounded like metal clanking against metal, as though somebody was repeatedly rattling a length of chain and he was pretty sure it was coming from Miss Sally’s room. He had time enough to think how odd it was to hear such a thing indoors before sleep stole over him like a warm, enveloping blanket. But hidden in its folds was one of the most unsettling dreams he had ever experienced.

He was out on the Marsh in the bright sunshine, strolling across a wide flat meadow. He felt deliciously wicked being out here on his own, because he’d been told it was forbidden, but there had been something so inviting about walking out in the heat of this Indian summer that it was too compelling to resist. Nevertheless, he kept telling himself to be careful, because Adam had warned him you couldn’t always see where the water was …

But then he
did
see water, a wide straight line of it cutting across the land in front of him, its banks too regular to be a natural river. A canal, he supposed; Adam had said something about canals, had even warned him not to go near them, but this one seemed harmless enough. He approached the bank and stared into the still, olive-green water. The water was flanked by rows of trees, rich in summer foliage, and Peter found himself thinking that it was nice to see them, he’d seen so few since his arrival on the Marsh. Birds fluttered in amongst the branches, their wings blurring and the air was filled with their melodic songs.

He sighed and began to stroll along the bank, his hands in his pockets. He was enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and he saw no reason why he shouldn’t stroll this way for miles, enjoying the calm and the solitude. And then he noticed something prowling towards him along the bank of the canal: a sleek, dark shape. He realised with a flash of apprehension that it was a wolf. At the moment, it didn’t seem to be aware of him, but soon, he was sure, it would lift its head and those cold eyes would alight on him.

Peter looked helplessly around. He considered running back in the direction from which he had come, but he didn’t doubt for a moment that the wolf, with its long, slender legs, would run him down in seconds. Then he noticed a boat beached on the bank of the canal, a simple wooden skiff with a battered-looking oar lying in the bottom of it. He stood there, gazing down at the boat, remembering that Adam had warned him to stay away from the water, but at the same time reminding himself that a wolf was coming, a ravenous beast that might tear him limb from limb, if given a chance.

Suddenly, inexplicably, he was
in
the boat and it was moving slowly downriver, pushed along by the slightest of breezes. Peter looked up and saw that he was moving on past the wolf and that the creature was standing on the bank of the canal gazing at him, calmly and placidly, and he realised then that the wolf had never meant him any harm. Indeed, the expression in its grey eyes was one of compassion, as though the creature somehow felt sorry for him.

In a few moments the boat had moved on, leaving the wolf behind. Peter decided that now he was here, he might as well enjoy the experience. So he reached out a hand and trailed it in the water, expecting to feel the cold shock of it against his fingers, but it was as warm and comforting as a Sunday night bath. He sighed and laid himself down in the bottom of the boat, gazing up at the shimmering blue sky above him, the flocks of birds wheeling and soaring on the warm air. He felt sleepy and thought that he might have a nap.

And then he felt something bump against the underside of the boat. He sat up in surprise and looked over the side to see that the skiff had become entangled in a straggle of thick green weed, growing just below the surface. He reached out and took hold of a handful of the swaying fronds, tugged at them in an attempt to free the boat. They were thick and fleshy and had a disagreeably slimy feel to them. Peter frowned, renewed his efforts. If he didn’t free the boat, he’d be stuck here and, somehow, he didn’t fancy the idea of swimming through that dark water. He renewed his efforts but couldn’t seem to get a proper grip. And then he noticed something else, something that was tangled in the weeds, long strands of a fine straw-coloured substance that was rippling and swaying in the water. Curious, he leaned closer and, grabbing a handful of it, he gave it a firm tug. He felt something bump again against the underside of the boat, so he pulled harder, and this time, whatever it was, rolled around the curve of the boat and came bobbing to the surface.

He saw too much, too quickly – a bleached white face, the eyes tight shut – and something moving in the open gaping mouth. Some kind of an eel, Peter thought, but he didn’t want to think about that because now the thing in the water lifted a shrivelled arm and pointed a finger at him. Lost in panic, his heart hammering in his chest, Peter registered that the eyes of the face in the water were now open and that they were twinkling with what looked like amusement. Then from the creature’s open mouth came the gurgling, bubbling sound of mocking laughter…

Grandad Peter stops talking suddenly. Helen is sitting forward in the rocking chair, one hand clamped over her mouth, from which has just issued a gasp of pure terror.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks her.

She stares back at him. ‘Weren’t you terrified?’

He shrugs. ‘Not at first,’ he assures her. ‘It seemed real as it was happening, but dreams are always like that, aren’t they? So convincing. So … believable. But then, when you wake up and everything seems normal again … the feeling fades. It’s only later, much later, when other things fall into place, that you realise the dream actually meant something. That it was more than it seemed. A warning, I suppose. And I’ll never know who or what was trying to give me that warning but … I’m convinced now that’s exactly what it was.’

His voice trails away and he studies Helen for a moment. ‘Perhaps you don’t really want to hear any more,’ he suggests. ‘Maybe I should leave it there.’