The Tale of Hawthorn House (23 page)

But this cannot mean that these elemental realities do not exist. Take a simple analogy—the water in Wilfin Beck, for instance, the picturesque brook that flows along the eastern border of Hill Top Farm. In the summer, it sparkles in the bright sun, chuckling happily to itself about the delicious fun it will have when it reaches the wild freedom of Lake Windermere, whilst in the winter, it turns to solid ice, cold and silent under the leafless willows. Which of us, in the summer, would deny the existence of ice? or in winter, the fact of sparkling, chuckling water?

But that, alas, is exactly what Captain Woodcock is doing when he denies the existence of the Tree Folk. And that is why Mrs. Overthewall is laughing at his poor, pitiable foolishness, and teasing him and taunting him for his blindness. (I may as well tell you now that it is a good thing she is amused, for when she is
not
amused, she flies into a temper and hurls things about and—well, it is not something we should like to see!)

To a great many people, it has seemed entirely natural that the trees—which are, after all, of such vital importance to our life and well-being—were inhabited by nature sprites, who were generally kind-hearted and well intentioned toward humans. This ancient belief reaches back many centuries, to the times when people all over the world worshipped trees; celebrated them in legend and lore; burned their wood for fuel and used it for many necessities; employed their roots, bark, and leaves for healing; and found in trees the deepest and truest mystery and magic of the natural world. For the Lakelanders who lived so companionably with Nature and understood her so well, it seemed the most natural thing in the world that the trees were inhabited by Folk. They understood it to be indisputably true in the very same way that we understand the land to be inhabited by people and animals, the lakes and streams by fish, and the air by birds.

And just as there are all sorts of trees, there are all sorts of Tree Folk. In the Land Between the Lakes, three were most loved and respected: the Beech Folk, the Oak Folk, and the Hawthorn Folk. The beech was known as the “Magical Mother of the Woodlands,” for it nurtured and sheltered smaller trees and its leaves, nuts, and wood were used in divining; its folk were respected for their ability to see far into the future.

The oak, the sturdiest and strongest of trees, was used for boats and bridge timbers and the rafters of houses; its Folk were regarded for their strength and resiliency. In fact, Miss Potter herself wrote a story about an Oak Fairy, for two little girls in New Zealand. In the story, the Oak Fairy was dismayed when her oak was cut down and sawn into timbers to build a bridge. But when she saw what a fine, brave bridge her tree had built, and how it served the people who used it, she went to live there contentedly—“and may live there through hundreds of years,” Miss Potter added, “for well-seasoned oak lasts for ever—well seasoned by trial and tears.”

But it was the hawthorn, the symbol of fertility and new birth, that held a special place in the hearts of Lakelanders. The thorn bloomed at May-tide, when flower festivals and weddings were celebrated with the “gathering of the May,” as the thorn’s lovely white flowers were called. Thorns were planted beside the village well to protect its waters, and since a thorn could live for four hundred years, the villagers could be sure their water would be safe for a very long time. Planted beside a house, a thorn protected the dwelling from lightning. Its berries, brewed in a tea, were known to comfort and protect the heart. It was called the “bread and cheese” tree, for its leaves were thought to be as physically sustaining as a hearty meal and as spiritually sustaining as a prayer. And since the thorn presided over childbirth, a sprig was always hung over the cradle or in the byre where calves and foals were born. It was regarded as the protector of all newly born creatures, human and animal alike.

It is no wonder, then, that the people held hawthorn trees (and their Folk-dwellers) to be sacred, and cared for them and celebrated them at particular times of the year. They understood that a very high price would be exacted from any who cut down a thorn without a very good reason and without first asking permission, both of the tree and the tree-dwelling Folk. In this scheme of things, cutting down a living tree was the equivalent of committing murder.

But that is exactly what Major Villars had done—out of ignorance, of course, although that is certainly no excuse. When he bought Hawthorn House, there were three very old, very large hawthorns growing in front. The major decided to cut them down in order to have a wider view of the lake. Two men came in a pony cart loaded with saws and chains and bill-hooks and other instruments of destruction, and whilst the major looked on, giving orders, began their work. The Hawthorn Folk, who had been taking a nap (it was March, and still weeks away from bloom-time), were wakened by the sound of the trees sobbing and crying as the axes and saws bit into them. And then all three trees came down with a crash, and the Thorn Folk were out of a home.

And when the trees were gone—well, how would you feel if your house was pulled down suddenly around your ears, and when it was reduced entirely to rubble, you were left with no place to go? And not just your house, either, but your best friend! “Surely it’s cruel to cut down a very fine tree!” Miss Potter wrote in
The Fairy in the Oak
. “Every dull dead thud of the axe hurts the little green fairy who lives in its heart.”

Hurts? Why, of course it hurts! Imagine having your arms chopped off, and then your legs, and then . . . well, we don’t like to imagine it, not at all, so we won’t. But the Thorn Folk not only felt the pain of their trees but had to watch them being killed and then, enraged and saddened beyond the telling of it, took refuge in several younger hawthorns at the edge of Thorny Field, where they immediately began crafting their curses. And can we blame them? Their dear, familiar trees were gone, destroyed, murdered— yes, murdered!—without so much as an apologetic “I am very sorry I must do this, but it’s all for the best, you know.”

Now, while Tree Folk are generally beneficent, they can be spiteful and vindictive when the occasion demands. And since this occasion certainly seemed to demand retribution of some sort, the Thorn Folk rolled up their sleeves and set to work with a will. They cursed the house because they had never liked the ugly, ill-proportioned hulk. They cursed the garden, which had never grown anything worth eating, anyway. And they cursed Villars, the arch-criminal, the villain, the murderer.

And the sad fruit of their curses gratified them. The house sat vacant and derelict after Villars was recalled to the Orient. It became the Folk’s favorite haunt, especially on moonlit nights, when they brought hammers and pot lids and willow whistles and rattles and made a great din, to discourage human habitation. Nettles and thistles and groundsel invaded the garden and (brutes that they are) elbowed out the roses and lilies. And when, some three years later, the Folk heard that Villars had been run over by a carriage in Bombay and had his leg cut off, they felt enormously gratified, as I daresay you and I might feel, if we were not such civilized and noble human beings.

Oh, but I’ve almost forgotten the most important thing! The Folk made a vow (which is different from a curse) concerning babies. Hawthorn trees are known to protect infants, so the Folk decreed that any baby born in Hawthorn House would come under their special protection. If they didn’t like the way the child was being treated, they would fetch it and raise it as their own, or give it to a human of their choice, or even (since Folk magic can be quite powerful) turn it into something quite nice, like a baby hawthorn tree, and plant it where it would get plenty of sunshine.

And that is why, when Mrs. Overthewall heard Baby Flora crying for several hours on end, she came and took her out of her cradle. She intended to give her to the Suttons, since they were already experienced with babies. But when that idea was rejected by the unanimous vote of the three oldest Sutton children (“No more babies!”) and by Deirdre Malone, their young nursemaid, Mrs. Overthewall agreed that Miss Potter was an excellent alternative choice. And even though she was saddened when she heard that Miss Potter could not keep the baby and had given her to Miss Woodcock, she knew she had done the right thing. Babies definitely did not belong at Hawthorn House.

There is more to be learnt about Mrs. Overthewall and about the Thorn Folk of the Land Between the Lakes. But I expect that you are anxious to be getting on with our story. And since it is about time for Deirdre to hear from an absent friend, that is what we shall turn to next.

21

Deirdre Receives a Letter

At ten every morning, rain or shine, Mrs. Sutton sent Deirdre across the village to the post office in Low Green Gate Cottage. This was an important task, as you might imagine, since Dr. Sutton was the only veterinarian in the district and sent and received a great many invoices, payments, and supplies by post. It was a pleasant chore in fine weather, and usually involved taking a small Sutton or two in the perambulator for a breath of fresh air.

On this day, which would be Wednesday, in case you’re keeping track, the weather was as fine as it could possibly be. The Tuesday afternoon and evening rain had ended, the air was sweet, with a just-washed smell, and the houses and gardens looked as fresh and pretty as watercolor paintings under a blue sky flecked with whipped-cream clouds. There was no perambulator to push today, since the smallest Suttons had gone with their mother to visit a friend, but Libby had come along. And as the two girls swung down the hill past the Tower Bank Arms (playing Alice and the Rabbit), they were joined by Rascal (who had to become the puppy that Alice played with after she ate the cake in Rabbit’s house and grew very small).

At the post office, Deirdre handed over the outgoing letters and waited while Mrs. Skead, the postmistress, collected the post for Courier Cottage. Libby stopped outside to see what was growing in Mr. Skead’s garden (and whether there was anything they might pretend was Alice’s mushroom), while Rascal had a brisk encounter at the door with Mrs. Skead’s calico cat, Cleo, who reminded Rascal very much of the Cheshire cat.

“These fer Dr. Sutton,” Mrs. Skead said, handing the bundle across the counter, and then a single envelope. She sniffed. “And this’n fer thi, Deirdre. All t’ way from Lon’on, and marked ‘PRIVATE,’ as if a body ’ud snoop in t’ mail.” She frowned at Rascal. “Leave that cat be,” she said crossly, “or tha’ll get thi nose clawed proper.”

Rascal, who had once experienced Cleo’s sharp claws, felt that discretion was the better part of valor and followed Deirdre outdoors. Besides, he wanted to know about Deirdre’s letter.

“Look what I have,” Deirdre said, holding up the envelope so Libby could see it. “From London!”

“From London!”
Rascal barked.
“Ripping!”

“I wish someone would send me a letter,” Libby said, forgetting all about Alice and the mushroom. “Who wrote it?”

Deirdre turned it over in her fingers. This was the very first letter she had ever received in all her life, and she had no idea who in the world might have sent it. Perhaps it was meant for someone else, and Mrs. Skead had given it to her by mistake. (Mrs. Skead had many fine qualities, but she was sometimes careless. The Suttons’ post often included letters to someone else, and the Barrows and the Llewellyns were forever returning letters that should have come to the Suttons. People had got into the habit of going through their letters before they left the post office, so the wrong ones could be handed back.)

But there was no mistake this time. The handwriting and spelling were not of the best, but the envelope clearly bore Deirdre’s name, with “Courier Cottage” written underneath and in the lower left corner “VERY PRIVATE.” Which was probably meant to keep somebody from trying to read what was inside by holding the envelope up to the light, as Deirdre had seen Mrs. Skead doing once or twice before.

Deirdre opened the envelope carefully, not wanting to tear it, and took out a folded piece of thin notepaper. Glancing down at the bottom, she saw that it was signed “
Yrs. Friendley, Emily.
”

Deirdre shivered with pleasure. Why, the letter was from Emily! And all the way from London!

Emily had worked as a housemaid for Lady Longford at Tidmarsh Manor, where Deirdre’s friend Caroline lived. Emily sometimes had tea with Deirdre and Caroline in Mrs. Beever’s kitchen at the manor—that is, until late last spring. One afternoon, when Caroline had been summoned to the drawing room to wind yarn for her grandmother, Emily told Deirdre that she had given in her notice. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure that Mrs. Beever wasn’t listening, she whispered excitedly that she had a new place, at Hawthorn House.

“Hawthorn House!” Deirdre had exclaimed, shocked. “But it’s been empty for years. And it’s haunted!”

Emily shook her head pityingly, as if Deirdre had said something childish. “Haunted? Don’t be silly.” And then she had glanced at Mrs. Beever, who was beating eggs at the opposite end of the kitchen, to make sure she couldn’t hear. “Promise not to tell,” she had whispered. “The lady I’m to work for insists on bein’ private.”

Of course Deirdre had promised. In fact, the confidence had made her feel very proud, for Emily was already sixteen and quite grown up, as anybody could easily see. She had been a chubby girl, but she now possessed the curvaceous figure of a woman, and a pretty woman, at that. One afternoon in early spring, she had whispered to Deirdre and Caroline about a certain gypsy lad who loved her passionately and begged her to go off with him, which she might have done, if Mr. Beever had not chased him away.

“Oh, how sad!” Caroline cried and clasped her hands. Deirdre, though, was not so sure. She felt that sometimes Emily made things up, although she didn’t hold it against her. Romantic fancies could be much more satisfactory than the bleaker realities of everyday life.