Celandine (4 page)

Josef held the child’s wrist and felt for her pulse, leaning forward so that his ear was next to Celandine’s mouth. He listened closely. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, almost instantly. ‘She is breathing.’

As if to confirm this, Celandine began to move, rolling her head from side to side and setting up a continuous high-pitched moan. Her eyes were still closed and Josef said, ‘She remains unconscious. But I think there are no bones broken.’

Mrs Howard knelt once more beside her daughter, still distraught. ‘Oh, Josef – what can we do? What can we
do
?’

‘Should we take her down to the house?’ said Erstcourt.

‘Perhaps.’ Josef looked doubtful. It was quite a long way, and he was worried that the child might suffer more from being carried than from staying where she was. It would be good to get her out of the sun though. He glanced up at the crowd of people who were now standing on the slope above them, looking down upon the scene, and then spoke to Lizzie.

‘There was a baby in a carriage. Somebody had a . . . a bassinet. Might we borrow it, do you think?’

‘Oh yes – I’m sure we could. Mrs Svann would never mind, I am sure. Mrs Svann!’ Lizzie called up to Mrs Swann, who was among the crowd up on the hillside. ‘Could we borrow the baby’s carriage? The bassinet!’

Mrs Swann turned and spoke to somebody behind her, and in a few moments Mr Swann and Thos were bringing the big wicker carriage rather clumsily down the side of the hill.

By the time they had gently lifted Celandine into the baby carriage and made her as comfortable as they could, she had begun to regain consciousness. She had not yet spoken, but her eyes were open and she seemed aware of what was happening.

‘I think perhaps we could take her back up to the platform,’ said Josef. ‘You would want to be with her, Lizzie, and it would be a pity to spoil the party if it is not necessary. I also shall be there. We will watch her for a while and see how she is.’

And so Josef, Thos, Erstcourt and Mr Swann carried the baby carriage back up to the platform and let it stand by the top table. Josef mixed a headache powder with a little lemonade – and the fact that Celandine was able to sit up and drink this encouraged her family to believe that she had probably not taken too much harm from her fall. Freddie in particular was hugely relieved, although worried at the same time. Now that the crisis appeared to be over, he feared that there would be trouble – and that the blame for the whole thing was likely to fall upon him. When nobody was looking, he
put
a piece of cake in the bassinet as a peace offering.

It soon became clear that Celandine could not remain where she was for long. Though small, she was certainly too big to fit comfortably into a baby carriage, and Josef had propped her up with her head resting on a pillow placed over the folded-down hood. She was unprotected from the sun, and exposed also to the surrounding hubbub of the party.

‘We could carry her a little further up the hill and place her under the shade of the trees,’ said Josef. ‘Then she would be able to rest properly. And of course we should be able to see her from here. Celandine – how are you feeling? Shall we put you under the trees? Would you like that?’

Celandine was feeling too hot and headachy and sick to answer.

She floated into consciousness once more, from a dream where a thousand Union Jacks were flying and she was heading a great procession of noisy people. They were carrying her in a litter toward a distant abbey, and her Coronation.

Her head hurt and she did not want to open her eyes. She could still hear the sound of many cheerful voices, but knew that she was not in a procession. She was lying, not very comfortably, in a baby carriage and the voices she heard were the voices drifting up from the party below. Birds she could also hear, high above her – wood pigeons – calling to each other softly.

Beneath the trees on Howard’s Hill, that was
where
she was. She opened her eyes just a little, and allowed blotchy shades of green to filter through her lashes. Overhanging foliage dipped down towards her, quite close, sheltering her in a leafy world, cool and comforting, despite the pain in her head. So peaceful it was, to stare up through the patterns of graceful boughs, to watch the gentle shifting colours, to breathe in the woodland scents of leaf and bark and briar rose.

But how fierce and wild those briars looked. A great bank of them climbed to her left, enveloping the trunks of the trees in thorny tangles. How terrible it would be to fall amongst them. Better to look up instead, through the friendly branches of the spreading oak, to let the shapes mingle and blur, shiny as sequins . . . coloured sequins that pulsated slightly, in time with the dull throbbing in her temples.

And now she was dreaming once again, for here were eyes that gazed down towards her – big brown eyes, set wide apart, beautiful eyes that were fixed, not upon her own, but upon something else close by.

The eyes blinked, so huge in such a tiny face, and a small brown hand was nervously wiped over the half open mouth. Celandine squeezed her own eyes shut for a few moments, and then opened them again. Still there – well-hidden among the leaves, but still there.

Calm and dreamy, she felt uncertain now as to whether she was asleep or awake.

Marmoset – the word came into her head . . . marmoset. From a travelling zoo they had taken her to. Marmoset. Like Somerset, she had thought at the time, but a creature rather than a county. A creature
with
big brown eyes, a pretty thing . . . but not clothed. No, not clothed.

So it was not a marmoset. What, then? And what was it looking at? Celandine raised her head very slightly and glanced down at the baby’s coverlet that they had lightly draped over her. A piece of cake lay on a roughly folded napkin, tucked between herself and the inner side of the wicker carriage. Cherry cake. She painfully lowered her head once more, and now the eyes were looking directly at her, peeping from behind the leaves, retreating, then peeping again. Full of curiosity they were, of innocence, and of longing. The eyes moved from her to the piece of cake and back to her again. She might have laughed if it wasn’t for the pain. The wanting was so undisguised, so obvious.

And there was something else in the look of those eyes that she had seen before. Something extra – or something missing. Like Charity Hobbs. Yes, that was it. Poor Charity had just such a look about her. Imbecile, they called her, the carter’s youngest child. Imbecile – though it was said in pity rather than contempt. But Charity did not hang from the branches of trees, brown and skinny, like a marmoset, and dress in bits of feathers and rags and . . . what? Rabbit skins? She couldn’t see properly.

So it was not a marmoset and it was certainly not Charity Hobbs. Celandine did not want to lift her head again – it hurt too much – but she allowed her fingers to search for the cherry cake, breaking a piece off, feeling the soft crumbly texture, sticky from the heat.

‘Cake,’ she whispered, and raised her arm, holding the morsel aloft, reaching up towards the dipping branches. Her tongue was dry and her throat hurt, but she said it once more. ‘Cake.’

Again the flash of a tiny brown hand, the hurried wiping of the mouth, and the deep longing in the wide-set eyes that darted back and forth from her to the cherry cake. After a while it became an effort for Celandine to keep her arm upright and she began to lower it once more. The creature seemed to panic at the sight of the cake apparently being withdrawn, and it moved forward slightly, parting the foliage, revealing more of itself. Feathers, and raggedy bits of cloth . . . fur. A tiny thing – a manikin. A boy.

It crawled towards her, upside down like a squirrel on the hanging branch, the big eyes fearful but eager, a hand outstretched, brown and grubby and as small as a doll’s, yet so near. So near, the trembling skinny fingers. Marching drums beat at her temples and the foliage waved to and fro, bringing the sound of distant laughing voices in and out of focus. There, and not there. And then another voice, closer – hissing – an urgent whisper. ‘Fin!
Fin!
Drat the young fool – what bist doing now?
Fin!
’

Celandine raised her arm again, automatically, and felt the piece of cake being snatched away from her, heard the quick rustle of leaves, a scrabble of movement. Her vision was all wavy, but she briefly caught sight of another face – older, bearded – and a flash of panic in deep-set eyes. A glance in her direction, angry and troubled, as though gauging the
damage
done. Then the leaves were still, and there was nothing more to be seen. But she heard the voice again, just one word, fading into the greenery as the light began to slip away. ‘
Fin!
’

The sound of it bounced around her head, a retreating echo in the closing darkness.

‘Who are those little people that live in the woods?’ she said.

Three figures stood at her bedside: her mother, her Uncle Josef and – most surprisingly – her father. She couldn’t remember that her father had ever visited her room before, not even when she had had the mumps. They had all changed their clothes since she had fallen asleep. The party was obviously over.

Now they stared down at her and her father, his mouth unsmiling beneath his greying moustache, said, ‘She’s awake, at last. Well, I’d better be off. Need a word with Hughes about the grain hoist. I’ll leave her to you then, Lizzie – the child has taken no great
harm,
it would seem. Josef, shall you stay to supper? No? I’ll say good day then.’

Her mother sat down on the edge of the bed, her skirts rustling, and leaned forward, reaching a hand out towards her. Celandine felt the cool fingers resting on her forehead and she closed her eyes again for a few moments. She heard her mother whisper something to Uncle Josef, but the words were in German and difficult to make out.

Uncle Josef’s reply was clearer, easier to understand. ‘
Keine sorge
, Lizzie.
Sie ist stark
.’

Don’t worry, Lizzie. She is strong.

Strong. Was she strong? She didn’t feel it. She opened her eyes again.

‘Who
are
those little people living in our woods?’

She saw her mother look sideways at Josef – a worried glance – and noticed that Josef shook his head slightly. What was the matter? It was a simple enough question.

Josef lifted up the wicker chair that stood in the corner and brought it over to the bedside. He sat on it the wrong way round, straddling it as though it were a horse, leaning his forearms across the hooped back. His bearded chin rested on his arms, so that when he spoke his head moved up and down slightly.

‘You saw some people?’ he said. ‘Where?’

‘In the wood. They were up in the trees. They were very
small
people.’

‘Ah.’ Josef thought about this for a while. ‘How small were they, these people?’

‘Ever so small. Tiny.’

‘So. Like . . . ah . . .
die Fee?
What is the English word . . . fairies? Like fairies?’

‘Oh no. Much bigger than fairies.’

‘I see.’ Josef leaned sideways slightly and lowered one of his hands, palm downwards, until it hovered about a foot above the bedside rug. ‘Then . . . like so, perhaps?’

‘A bit bigger, I think. I couldn’t see very well.’

Josef raised the level of his hand slightly and his eyebrows lifted in comical query at the same time. Celandine laughed and Josef continued to raise his hand in jerky movements, higher and higher, until he was out of his chair, stretching as tall as he could, with his fingers almost touching the ceiling. ‘
This
small?’

He sat down again and lowered his chin onto his hands once more. He was smiling. ‘Tell me, then.’

‘They were just . . . little. Little people. There was a boy, and I gave him some cake. His father – well, I
think
it must have been his father – was angry with him. He said “drat”. He had a beard.’

‘Ah. Like my beard?’

‘Yes. Just like yours.’

‘And you were . . . where . . . in the cart? In the baby carriage?’

‘Yes. They were in the trees, looking down at me. The boy was. He didn’t have many clothes on – just some bits of rags and feathers. And some fur. The father was only there later on . . . he shouted something . . .
Fin!
 . . .’

Celandine stopped talking, realizing that there was going to be no answer to her question. On Josef’s
face
was an expression of concerned curiosity, and on her mother’s a look of open horror. They plainly didn’t know who the little people were.

Josef put his hands together, almost as though he was praying, and touched his nose with his fingertips.

‘Celandine, you must not let this frighten you. And you also, Lizzie – do not be alarmed. This is not at all unusual.’

‘I wasn’t frightened,’ began Celandine, ‘only my head hurt, you see, and it was all a bit blurry . . .’

‘Of course. Your head hurt, and your vision was . . . ah . . . not perfect. You have taken a bad knock, and so it is expected that . . .’ Josef parted his hands and gave a slight shrug. Her mother took her cue from Uncle Josef and turned towards her with a nervous little shrug of her own. ‘Yes. Of course. Is expected. My poor
liebling
. But no more strange peoples, eh? All soon will be well.’