Winter Wood (23 page)

‘Oh no! Again? Do you want me to have a look at it? Can I help?' Midge was worried now.

No. This time I will mend – and there will be aid for me when I return to the forest. I have broken nothing and can walk a little. But I durst not fly, for fear that I should make matters worse when I come to earth. I may not be able to meet with you here for a while. But you said there was news?

Midge wasn't at all happy at seeing Pegs so disabled, even if it was only temporary. But she perched herself on the front wheel of the tractor, and said, ‘Yes, I do have news. Amazing news – though it's good and bad. Celandine is alive, Pegs. Can you believe it? I found
her! Almost by accident really, although I'd been trying really hard.'

She lives? Truly lives?

‘Yes! I've seen her three times now. I haven't had a chance to come and tell you before today, what with school and everything. I can only get up here at weekends, at least in the daytime. It's half-term next week, so that might be a bit easier. And anyway, I wanted to be able to talk to her properly first.' She was gabbling, and she could see that words like ‘school' and ‘weekends' and ‘half-term' would make little sense to Pegs.

But she lives. Nothing could matter more, my friend. Nothing.

‘I know. I still can't believe it's happened. The trouble is, though – and this is the bad news – she's
ancient
. Really really old. And she can't remember anything. I've tried telling her about the Various, and everything, but it's hopeless. She doesn't even remember going to the forest – in fact she's sure that she's never been in there in her life. It's like she's just blanked it all out. And so now I don't know what to do.'

Ah. She has forgotten us then. I have heard it said before – that those who see us do not believe what they see, and so forget. Perhaps this is to our good
.

Pegs hobbled a little closer to the light of the doorway, and stood for a while looking out on the world.

The writings that Tadgemole gave you – have you showed these to Celandine?

‘Um . . . no. No, I never thought of that. I don't
know whether it would do any good, though. She's almost blind, so she wouldn't make much sense of it. I could read it to her, I suppose, and see if she recognizes any of the names. I'm going to visit her again tomorrow – as far as I know.'

She is without sight? Then we must seek for some other way to stir her memory. Let me think on this and talk . . . with others. For now it is enough that Celandine is found. I may not be here for a while, Midge, and I cannot fly to you. It would be better you do not come to the forest. Wait, then, till I improve, or if there be aught that needs be more quickly said or done, then I shall try and send word. But now I have other news.

Pegs turned from the doorway and limped over to where Midge sat. Her heart sank to see him in such discomfort, but if he didn't want her help she didn't see what she could do.

Aye, and a poor tiding it is: Little-Marten and Henty have left the forest. None can tell where they have gone. Not to thee, I trust?

‘What? No, I haven't seen them. They've run away? Why?'

They sought leave to wed, but Tadgemole would have none of it. Now he is in yet more of a fury, so that he talks of searching the Gorji lands himself. I have persuaded him to remain in the forest, until I have spoken to you at the least.

‘Well, I haven't seen anything. I'll have a look around the barns, if you like, but there's so much going on and so many people about that I don't think there'd be anywhere for them to hide.'

Ach. Do we not have troubles enough, without this foolish
pair adding to their number? Look for them if you will, then, maid. And I shall try and keep Tadgemole from bringing harm to himself.

‘All right.' There didn't seem to be anything left for her to say or do. ‘Shall I go then?'

Aye. Go now, child, and let me rest a little. I shall wait for darkness to come, then return to the forest.

Midge didn't like to leave him this way. He was so delicate and fragile, so ill equipped to exist in this hard-edged world. And it wasn't just this new injury that worried her – Pegs was thinner, she realized, beneath that coarse winter coat. What did he do for food at this time of year? Maybe she could bring something to the barn for him, next time she came, just to make his life a little easier. Was there even anything for him to drink in here? Her eye fell on the old bucket that she had once used to bathe his wounds.

‘Can I get you some water?' she said. ‘Are you thirsty?'

Aye, some water before you go. That would be a kindness.

CAROL REEVE WANTED
a quick word. In her office.

‘I've noticed a change in your aunt this week,' she said to Midge. ‘And I'm just a little bit concerned about her. She's not eating as she should, and that's never a good sign. But she also seems to be . . . I don't know. I shouldn't use the word “dippy”, I suppose. Excitable, perhaps. Doesn't seem to know what day it is, quite. She keeps asking for you, and we keep explaining that you can only come on a Sunday, but . . . well . . .'

The office intercom buzzed, just once. There was a red light that continued to flash. Midge looked at it, and said, ‘It's still all right for me to see her, though?'

‘Yes, of course. She loves to see you, and the last thing I'd want to do is frighten you off. Sorry, Midge, I'd better just take this.' Carol picked up the phone, and said, ‘Carol. Oh, hallo, Elaine. Yes, she's here now, actually. Yes, with me . . .'

Midge looked around the neat office. It was an odd mixture of old and new. The shelves and cabinets
were all very modern, stacked with box files and hard-looking reference books. But Carol's desk was a big old antique thing, dark wood, with a green leather top. There was a photograph of two young boys – twins, by the look of them – and a little cut-glass vase with a sprig of pussy willow in it. Midge put out her hand and touched the polished wood of the desk.

‘It was here when I arrived,' said Carol. She put down the phone. ‘The desk, I mean. This used to be the headmistress's study, when the building was a school, and I couldn't resist the idea of having a real headmistress's desk. I imagine there would have been a few poor girls quaking in their boots on the other side of this old thing – your aunt being one of them, possibly. Right. Elaine's just on her way down, and Miss Howard's all ready for you. Now I don't want you to worry, but just keep bearing in mind that she is
very
old, and that sometimes old people . . . well, they can be off in a world of their own. OK? Go and say hello, then. I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you.'

Midge felt apprehensive, despite Carol's friendly manner, and Elaine didn't help matters much. In the lift, she said, ‘Well, I've heard Miss Howard come out with some funny old stuff, but nothing like this week. Weird things. And do you know what she's just said to me? “Don't want any toast. What do I want with toast?” Well! We
always
make toast.'

Elaine left Midge at Celandine's apartment door,
and said, ‘You go on in, dear. I've got to pop along and see Mrs Doble. I'll come by in a bit, and just make sure you're all right.'

By now Midge was imagining that her aunt had turned into a mad woman, and was likely to be standing behind the door with a poker. She hesitated, but then reasoned that it might be best to enter whilst Elaine was still within earshot. She turned the door handle.

There had been no need to worry. Aunt Celandine was sitting by the fire as usual, the top of her fuzzy head just visible over the back of her wheelchair.

‘Aunt Celandine?'

‘Ooh! Is that you, Midge?' The head turned slightly. ‘Come and sit down, dear.'

‘How are you?' Midge walked across the room, and sat in the wing-backed chair opposite her great-great-aunt. The little round table that stood between them was empty, she noticed. No tea, and no toast.

Aunt Celandine was already leaning forward, her hand reaching out and vaguely flapping in Midge's direction, searching for her. Midge perched herself on the edge of her chair and took her aunt's hand, surprised as always by the strength of grip in those frail-looking fingers.

‘I've
seen
one! I've remembered. Yes! Yes!' Aunt Celandine squeezed Midge's fingers again and again as she spoke, each squeeze an emphasis of her words. Then she let go, and sat back in her chair.

‘I've thought of his name too. Fin! You were quite right, my dear. Yes. Quite right.'

‘What?' Midge was struggling to catch up. ‘You mean, you remember going into the forest and everything?'

‘No. I don't. I don't remember going in there at all, but I do remember seeing one of them. I was lying in a pram beneath the trees, and I saw a little boy looking down at me, hiding amongst the leaves. He was
very
little. I gave him some cake. Then his father came shouting for him . . .
Fin
 . . .
Fin
. His father had a beard.'

‘Really?' said Midge. ‘And you don't mean that you just saw an ordinary little boy? He was . . . they were . . . you know,
little
people?'

‘Oh, they were tiny. I think I said to someone afterwards – “Who are those little people living in our woods?” '

‘What – you
told
about them?'

‘I think I did. I don't remember that anyone believed me, but I do remember walking around the outside of the woods with Freddie, and shouting up at the trees. We didn't find anything.'

‘Well . . . it's a start,' said Midge. And it was too – a very good start. ‘Anything else?'

‘No, nothing else. But you see, it's
there
, isn't it? It's in there somewhere – and it means that you were right. Oh, if I could just find more . . . remember more . . .'

Aunt Celandine looked smaller, Midge thought. More shrunken into her chair somehow. And yet there was a new restlessness about her, a continual movement. Her fingers tapped the arms of the wheelchair,
and her eyes seemed bigger and brighter than before as they travelled the room.

‘One funny thing that happened . . . yes, that was funny . . . I woke up in my bed the other night and looked at the ceiling and there were all these
things
up there. Like barnacles. I thought I was in a cave. And somebody shouted, “Blinder!” '

‘
Blind
her?' Midge didn't like the sound of that.

‘Yes, “Blinder!” It was a child's voice – as though there were children playing outside in the corridor. And I suppose there
might
have been children playing in that corridor once, when this was a school.' Aunt Celandine gave a little chuckle. ‘The ghosts of 2B.'

Midge didn't like the sound of that either.

‘Oh, and I thought I heard hoofbeats as well, but that was out in the garden. They like to sit us on the patio for an hour if the weather's fine. Yes, I had my eyes closed, and I heard all these little hoofbeats trotting by. Tum-tum-tum-tum-tum. Quite close. Oh, that'll be the horses, I thought. Going off to be milked. Now why would I have thought that?'

Er . . . right. Midge didn't know whether to laugh or be alarmed. She had Tadgemole's letter in her pocket, and had intended to try and use it to jog the old lady's memory. Perhaps now wasn't a good time. Carol was right: Aunt Celandine had changed. Her thoughts seemed to be flitting about all over the place.

‘It's always somewhere between sleeping and waking,' said Aunt Celandine. ‘I can't remember my
dreams any more, but just as I'm waking up there's a sometimes a chance . . . a chance . . .' She closed her eyes. ‘I had a little horse once. He was called Tobyjug. But then he died. That was before I cut off all my hair . . .'

It was as though she were talking to herself, off in a world of her own like Carol had said. Maybe that wasn't a bad thing, thought Midge. Maybe something would come through, if she just left her to it. She was getting a numb bum from sitting on the hard edge of this chair.

‘Big scissors they were . . . and bushes. Oh! A picture in the bushes . . .' Aunt Celandine's head rocked from side to side. Midge watched her, and felt a sudden wave of affection for her. And sadness. She was a such a nice old thing, really – always glad to see her, always sorry to see her go. And she was bright and clever, obviously a person who had been respected for the work that she'd done. It was a shame to be treated differently just for growing old and being a bit . . . dippy. And it was a shame to keep pushing her to remember stuff. Maybe it was time to give it a break, thought Midge. She stood up.

‘Don't worry about it, Aunt Celandine. It'll be OK. Do you mind if I wander about a bit? I've got pins and needles.'