Celandine (49 page)

Later, before she closed her eyes, she thought of the last words in Micas’s letter.

Thee be our true friend, as we be yours, and we shall not forget
.

That was the only important part, really. Micas knew all along that she had taken nothing from them. And now she knew that Micas had not really betrayed her. She hugged that thought to her as she turned down the gas mantle above her bed.

Chapter Twenty

‘
ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS
,
marching as to war
 . . .’

Celandine barely needed to glance at her hymn book, so many times had she sung ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ since the war had begun. Now the words and the prayers came automatically, so that by the time the Sunday morning church service was drawing to a close she found that most of it had passed her by unnoticed.

Vague pictures came into her head: Micas on her shoulders, replacing the box that contained the Orbis . . . the pine-cone . . . Micas adjusting the straps on her pecking bag . . . Had there been something surreptitious about that?

She saw herself standing at the mouth of the cave on the night before she left, and remembered that she had heard voices whispering in the hawthorn bushes . . .

Who might that have been?

‘
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost
 . . .’

Celandine closed her eyes for the blessing.

‘
Amen
.’

It was time to leave the church.

More glimpses of the forest: Micas, knocking his staff against Corben’s bow . . . Fin, magically there, just when she needed him most . . . and Corben again, down by the wicker tunnel, suddenly distracted by the splash in the stream, just as he seemed about to discover her . . .

But how much of it had been planned, she wondered, and by whom? Was it all Micas’s doing? No. He said that there was another, one who knew more.

Then she thought of Maven – that wild and mysterious figure who had helped her to escape and so saved her life. Maven-the-Green. An ancient spirit of the woodlands, humpbacked and apparently wizened, yet as graceful as a cat. Perhaps she was younger than she looked . . .

Was Maven the one who knew more? Was it Maven who had planned the spiriting away of the Orbis? Why? Who was she, and where had she come from?

Celandine put her penny in the collection dish, and lifted Samuel up so that he could do the same.

‘Will you help me with the jigsaw when we get home?’ he said.

‘Yes, all right.’

She was still confused, but she was feeling so much better. She liked her cousins, she realized, and it was fun to sit together with them, and slowly watch the jigsaw grow. They had managed between them to assemble most of the hay-wain and the mill, and now they were working on the trees and the sky.

Aunt Sarah put her head around the parlour door.

‘A visitor for you,’ she said.

Celandine looked around. It took her a moment to recognize the figure in the doorway – now out of uniform and with shorter hair – but then she jumped up so quickly that her chair rocked backwards and tipped against the wall.

‘Oh – I can’t believe it! Nina! But you look so . . .’

‘And
I
can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were here! Idiot!’ Nina ran across the room and gave her a big hug – an action so out of character that Celandine stumbled backwards against the tilted chair, and sat down on it with a bump.

‘I didn’t think! I didn’t think!’ said Celandine. ‘I don’t know why. I just forgot that you were living in Taunton now. And so much has been happening . . . but it’s so lovely to see you! Peter, Samuel – this is Nina. My
best
friend.’

The boys looked a bit embarrassed, but politely said their hellos.

‘Well, I don’t know about “best” friend,’ said Nina. ‘I do think you might have written, or come to call, or something. I’m only just a few streets away, after all. But what have you done to your leg? You’ve been in the wars, I gather.’

‘Yes. I have. I’m getting better, though.’

Aunt Sarah said, ‘Come into the sitting room, both of you, and I’ll put out some tea for you. I know you’ll want to talk in peace – and these poor boys won’t have to be on their best behaviour then.’

‘She’s nice, your aunt,’ said Nina, when they were alone.

‘Yes, she is. She’s lovely. But Nina, tell me . . . well . . . just tell me
everything
. You look so different!’

And she was different. As Nina talked about her new school, and her friends, and all that she had done since they had last met, Celandine wondered what had happened to the frail and stuttering girl that she remembered. There had always been an underlying strength to Nina, a refusal to give in even to the worst of all the bullying, but now she just seemed so confident and cheerful. And normal. Nina had grown up.

‘But talk about me being different,’ said Nina. ‘What about you? You’re so thin! What happened to your hair? And tell me about your accident.’

‘Oh, my hair. I just cut it off, that’s all.’ It sounded very lame, and Celandine was conscious of what a fright she must look to anyone who hadn’t seen her for a while.

‘You did it yourself? Well . . .’ Nina sought for something nice to say about it.

‘Oh, I know it looks awful. I just got so fed up with it. As for my ankle, I broke it falling down Howard’s Hill.’

‘What, again? Didn’t you hurt yourself there once before? You should stay away from that hill, dear, it’ll be the death of you.’

‘Yes.’

Celandine tried to smile, but the tears weren’t far away. Nina suddenly seemed so strong and full of life, whilst she felt so weak. Once it had been the other way round.

‘And I hit my head. I . . . I haven’t been very well.’

‘I know,’ said Nina. ‘Your mother told me. I wrote you a postcard, you see. To Mill Farm. And then your mother sent a card back, to say that you were staying here for a while. She said that you were ill. Anyway . . . now I can come and visit you – every day, if you like.’

‘Yes, I would like that. Although I’m supposed to be going home next weekend.’

They fell back onto the common ground of the past, talking about Mount Pleasant and all the awful people there – Miss Craven, and the Bulldog, Mary Swann and the ridiculous Pigtail Twins. They could laugh about it now.

‘It wasn’t very funny at the time, though.’

‘No,’ said Celandine. ‘It wasn’t. I thought they’d . . . killed you.’

Nina was silent for a few moments. Then she said, ‘That time – when I was in the san, and you came down to visit me. What did you do?’

‘Do? I don’t know what you mean. I just sat by the bed.’

‘I think you do know what I mean, though. You . . . took the pain away somehow. It was like . . . like it was being drawn out of me. By you. I could feel it happening.’

‘Oh. Well . . .’ Why shouldn’t she just tell the truth? Nina was her friend. Weren’t friends supposed to confide in one another? And she had already told Tommy about it. She couldn’t help the way she was, and it was nothing to be ashamed of.

‘If I tell you, will you tell me the truth about something in exchange?’

‘Yes, of course – if I can. You first, though.’

‘All right, then. It’s . . .’ Celandine sought for the words. ‘It’s as though, sometimes, I can feel what’s inside other people, when they’re sick . . . and animals too . . . but only sometimes. Not always. I mean, if I put my hands over where it hurts, I can somehow feel it too, and help to take it away . . . oh, I’m not explaining this very well.’ But she tried, and when she had said all that she could say about it, she stopped and waited.

‘Gracious,’ said Nina. ‘It’s a good job it’s 1915 and not 1515. They really
would
have burned you for a witch.’

But that made Celandine feel cross, and she said, ‘I’m
not
a witch. And I can’t help it – it’s just what happens.’

‘Sorry,’ said Nina. ‘I’m only teasing. And just a little bit jealous. I wish
I
could do something like that.’

‘Well, it’s not a conjuring trick . . .’ Celandine began, but then decided that she shouldn’t be angry with Nina. It wasn’t easy to explain, and it probably wasn’t easy for anyone else to understand. ‘And anyway,’ she said, ‘now it’s your turn.’

‘All right. What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know the truth about the lockers – that first night at school, when all my things got moved around and put back in their right place. And the sweets and everything – how they got into those other lockers.’ Celandine’s voice was shaking. She had the strangest feeling that this had also been due to some weird capability of her own – some wishing-power that she was unaware of. It was just too frightening to
contemplate,
and she didn’t like it. ‘Tell me the
truth
, Nina. Was it you?’

Nina looked at her with wide innocent eyes.

‘Me?’ Then she laughed. ‘You nincompoop. Of course it was me.’

‘Ohhh . . .
Nina!
’ Celandine felt the relief rushing through her, but then looked round as she heard her Uncle Josef’s polite cough from the doorway.

‘Nina – your mother’s here. She’s come to collect you.’

Nina came to visit every day after school, as she had promised, and by the time Thursday evening came around Celandine was very sad to part from her. Even sadder, in some ways, was the fact that they had begun to run out of things to say to each other – because it was almost impossible to make any future plans together. Celandine had no idea what would be happening to her next, and could only promise that she would make a better job of staying in touch this time. It wasn’t a very satisfactory way of saying goodbye, and both girls were subdued.

‘Oh, I
wish
you could just move the whole of Mill Farm to the middle of Taunton,’ said Nina.

‘Yes. Or perhaps you could learn to drive a tractor and come and be our new ploughman.’

Neither of which flights of fancy raised much of a smile.

The next morning, a half-hour or so before she was due to catch her train, Josef said to Celandine, ‘Come into the sitting room for a few minutes,
Celandine,
please. I wanted to talk with you a little.’

Uncle Josef’s Austrian accent could sometimes make his speech sound rather formal and severe, and Celandine felt uneasy. Was he now going to break his promise and start asking awkward questions? She sat down at the little table by the window and waited.

Her uncle sat opposite her and rested his bearded chin on his hands. He thought for a moment and then said, ‘There will soon be some choices to make, Celandine, over your future – over what will happen to you now. And perhaps when you speak with your mother and father, it might help them if you had some ideas of your own to offer. I wondered whether you had been giving this any thought.’

Celandine shook her head.

‘No. I don’t know what will happen. Perhaps another governess . . .’

‘Hm. It is important to be with friends, Celandine. I do not think that being so much alone is what is best for you. Nina is a good friend, yes? A good friend. So I have two suggestions for you to think about. Here is the first: if you were to return to your schooling, then perhaps you should go to school with Nina, here in Taunton. What would you say to that?’

Celandine could say nothing for a few moments. Here was a possibility that had never occurred to her. It hung before her, shimmering, and yet she hardly dared reach out for it. ‘But . . . I can’t,’ she said at last. ‘Nina’s at a day school now, and it’s too far away from home to travel to.’

‘Well, you could lodge here. By that, I mean that
you
could stay with us during the week, and go home to your mother and father at the weekends. This would be quite practical, I think. Yes?’

Yes, it would be very practical – and suddenly the world was changing. Within the space of a few sentences, a different and more hopeful future had begun to appear.

Celandine blinked, and struggled for something more to say. Uncle Josef had not finished, however.

‘I have also another suggestion for you – but first a question. Do you believe in magic?’

This caught Celandine off-guard, and she shrank back inside herself again, instantly wary. What was he getting at?

‘Magic? No. Not really. Or at least, I don’t think I do.’

‘Good. Nor do I. I believe that there is an explanation for everything – although we shall never
know
the explanation for everything. Not everything in this world can be understood by us, nor should it be. It is not necessary.’

Uncle Josef looked out of the window, watching the market day traffic pass by – the farmers’ traps, and the horse-drawn wagons loaded with produce.

‘Some people have special abilities, Celandine. Why this should be, or how this should be, I do not know. I only see that it is so. I prefer to think of such abilities as gifts, rather than powers. A gift – something given. Rather than a power – something to be wielded.’

He turned to look at her again.

‘I think that perhaps you are such a one. One with
a
gift. I overheard part of your conversation with Nina the other day, and must apologize for that. It is not my habit to listen at doorways. But I have had some thoughts on the matter before. Doctor Lewis, my colleague, has also spoken to me on the subject. You may not have made the connection, but he has a daughter at Mount Pleasant – Margaret Lewis. A talkative young lady, apparently, and quite close to her father.’

Margaret Lewis? Ah yes. Tiny. Tiny Lewis, who had been watching her, that night in the sanatorium with Nina. So Tiny had told her father what she had seen. A talkative young lady indeed.

‘And there have been other instances of course, Tommy Palmer being the most notable.’

‘Tommy? But all I’ve ever done is sit with Tommy, and talk to him. And he talks to me.’

‘Quite so. He talks to you, who would talk to nobody else. I had begun to wonder – for all my magnificent skill as a doctor – whether Tommy Palmer would ever talk again. You have a very nice way about you, Celandine. That is a gift in itself – and it is all that the clinic would require of an assistant. This, then, is my second suggestion: that you should come and help at Hart House. There would be a place there, I think, for a girl like you – a girl who has sympathy for those who have suffered . . . damage. We could pay you, a little, and once again you could lodge here during the week, and go home at weekends. You would also be able to see Nina, of course, which would be good for both of you, I am sure.’