I Capture the Castle (28 page)

How words weave spells! As I wrote of the avenue, it rose before my eyes-I can see it now, lined with great smooth-trunked trees whose branches meet far above me. The still air is flooded with peace, yet somehow expectant-as it seemed to me once when I was in King’s Crypt cathedral at sunset. On and on I wander, beneath the vaulted roof of branch and leaf… and all the time, the avenue is yesterday, that long approach to beauty.

Images in the mind, how strange they are …… I have been gazing at the sky I never saw it a brighter blue. Great featherbed clouds are billowing across the sun, their edges brilliant silver. The whole day is silvery, sparkling, the birds sound shrill …… Yesterday was golden, even in the morning the light was softly drowsy, all sounds seemed muted.

By ten o’clock I had finished all my jobs and was wondering what to do with the morning. I strolled round the garden, watched thrush on the lawn listening for worms and finally came to rest on the grassy bank of the moat. When I dabbled my hand in the shimmering water it was so much warmer than I expected that I decided to bathe. I swam round the castle twice, hearing the Handel “Water Music” in my head.

While I was hanging my bathing-suit out of the bedroom window, I had a sudden longing to lie in the sun with nothing on. I never felt it before—Topaz has always had a monopoly of nudity in our household-but the more I thought of it, the more I fancied it. And I had the brilliant idea of doing my sunbathing on the top of the bedroom tower, where nobody working in the fields or wandering up our lane could possibly see me. It felt most peculiar crawling naked up the cold, rough stone steps-exciting in some mysterious way I couldn’t explain to myself. Coming out at the top was glorious, warmth and light fell round me like a great cape. The leads were so hot that they almost burnt the soles of my feet; I was glad I had thought of bringing up a blanket to spread.

It was beautifully private. That tower is the best-preserved of them all; the circle of battlements is complete, though there are a few deep cracks—a marigold had seeded in one of them. Once I lay down flat I couldn’t even see the battlements without turning my head. There was nothing left but the sun-filled dome of the cloudless sky.

What a difference there is between wearing even the skimpiest bathing-suit and wearing nothing! After a few minutes I seemed to live in every inch of my body as fully as I usually do in my head and my hands and my heart. I had the fascinating feeling that I could think as easily with my limbs as with my brain—and suddenly the whole of me thought that Topaz’s nonsense about communing with nature isn’t nonsense at all. The warmth of the sun felt like enormous hands pressing gently on me, the flutter of the air was like delicate fingers. My kind of nature-worship has always had to do with magic and folklore, though sometimes it turned a bit holy.

This was nothing like that. I expect it was what Topaz means by “pagan.” Anyway, it was thrilling. But my front got so terribly hot. And when I rolled over on to my stomach I found that the back of me was not so interested in communing with nature. I began to think with my brain only, in the normal way, and it felt rather shut inside itself-probably because having nothing but the roof to stare at was very dull. I started to listen to the silence-never have I known such a silent morning. No dog barked, no hen clucked; strangest of all, no birds sang. I seemed to be in a soundless globe of heat. The thought had just struck me that I might have gone deaf, when I heard a tiny bead of sound, tap, tap-I couldn’t imagine what it could be.

Plop, plop-I solved it: my bathing-suit dripping into the moat. Then a bee zoomed into the marigold, close to my ear—and then suddenly it was as if all the bees of the summer world were humming high in the sky.

sprang up and saw an airplane coming nearer and nearer—so I made for the stairs and sat there with just my head out. The plane flew quite low over the castle, and the ridiculous idea came to me that I was a mediaeval de Godys lady seeing a flying man across the centuries—and perhaps hoping he was a lover coming to win her.

After that the medieval lady groped her way downstairs and put on her shift.

Just as I finished dressing, the postman came through to the courtyard, calling: “Anyone home?” He had a parcel—for me!

Rose had gone back and ordered the “Midsummer Eve” scent; I thought she had forgotten. Oh, it was a fascinating present! Inside the outer wrapping was another-white, with colored flowers on it—and inside that was a blue box that felt velvety, and inside that was a glass bottle engraved with a moon and stars, and inside that was pale green scent. The stopper was fastened down with silver wire and silver seals. At first I thought I would open it at once;

then I decided to make the opening a prelude to the rites, something to look forward to all day. So I stood the bottle on the half of the dressing-table that used to be Rose’s and sent her waves of thanks-I meant to write to her after my “goings-on on Belmotte,” as she called them, and tell her I had worn the scent for them. Oh, why didn’t I write at once his What can I say to her now his …. I was hungry but I didn’t feel like cooking, so I had the most beautiful lunch of cold baked beans—what bliss it is that we can now afford things in tins again! I had bread-and-butter, too, and lettuce and cold rice pudding and two slices of cake (real shop cake) and milk. Hcl and About sat on the table and were given treats—they had had their own dinners, of course. They both took to baked beans at once—there is precious little they don’t take to, Heloise even accepted salted lettuce. (during our famine period she became practically a vegetarian.) Then, all three of us very full, we had a sleep in the four-poster, About curled up at the foot and Hcl with her back against my chest, which was rather hot but always gives one a companionable feeling.

We slept for hours—I don’t think I ever slept so long in the day time; I felt terribly guilty when I woke up and found it was nearly four o’clock. Hcl thumped her tail as if I had just come back from somewhere and About gave us a look as if he had never seen either of us before in his life—after which he jumped off the bed, did a little claw-sharpening on Miss Blossom’s solitary leg and then went downstairs. When I looked out across the courtyard a few minutes later he was high on the curtain walls with one leg pointing to heaven, doing some strenuous washing. It gave me the idea of washing my hair.

After that, it was time to gather flowers for the rites.

They have to be wild flowers—I can’t remember if that is traditional or if Rose and I made it up: mallow, campion and bluebells for the garland to hang round our necks, foxgloves to carry, and we always wore wild roses in our hair. Even since Rose has given up the rites she has sometimes come out for the garland-gathering —I kept talking to her yesterday and hearing her answer; it made me miss her more than ever, so I talked to Heloise instead. We had the most peaceful, companionable walk along the lane and through the fields, with Heloise carrying the flower-basket for several seconds at a time, the whole back half of her waggling with pride. I was glad to find there were still plenty of bluebells in the larch wood. One of the nicest sights I know is Heloise smelling a bluebell with her long, white, naked-looking nose. How can people say bull terriers are ugly? Heloise is exquisite—though she has put on a bit too much weight, these last opulent weeks.

I gave the flowers a long drink-wild ones die so quickly without water that I never make my garland before seven o’clock.

By then I had collected enough twigs to start the fire -Stephen always takes the logs up for me—and packed my basket. When I finished my garland, it was nearly eight and a pale moon was coming up though the sky was still blue. I changed into my green linen frock and put on my garland and wild roses; then, at the very last minute, I opened Rose’s scent.

One deep sniff and I was back in the rich shop where the furs were stored—oh, it was a glorious smell! But the odd thing was, it no longer reminded me of bluebells. I waved a little about on a handkerchief and managed to capture them for a second, but most of the time there was just a mysterious, elusive sweetness that stood for London and luxury. It killed the faint wild-flower scents and I knew it would spoil the lovely smell that comes from Belmotte grass after a hot day; so I decided not to wear any for the rites. I took one last sniff, then ran down to the kitchen for the sack of twigs and the basket and started off. I was glad Heloise wasn’t there to follow me, because she always wants to eat the ceremonial cake.

There wasn’t a breath of wind as I climbed the mound. The sun was down-usually I begin the rites by watching it sink, but trying the scent had taken longer than I realized. The sky beyond Belmotte Tower was a watery yellow with one streak of green across it-vivid green, most magically beautiful. But it faded quickly, it was gone by the time I reached the stones we placed to encircle the fire. I watched until the yellow faded, too—then turned towards the moon still low over the wheat field. The blue all around her had deepened so much that she no longer looked pale, but like masses of luminous snow.

The peace was so great that it seemed like a soft, thick substance wrapped closely round me making it hard to move;

but when the church clock struck nine, I stirred at last.

I emptied the sack of twigs into the circle of stones and put on the small logs that Stephen had left ready. He had brought some long, slender branches too, so I set them up over the logs like the poles of a wigwam. Then I well to the tower for my need fire Real need fire-from which Midsummer fires should be lit—can only be made by rubbing two pieces of wood together;

but when first we planned the rites, Rose and I spent an hour at this without raising so much as a spark. So we decided it would be pagan enough if we took matches to the tower and lit a taper.

Then Rose carried it out and I followed, waving foxgloves.

We were always fascinated that such a tiny flame could make the twilight seem deeper and so much more blue—we thought of that as the beginning of the magic; and it was tremendously important that the taper shouldn’t blow out as we came down the tower steps and crossed the mound—on breezy nights we used a lamp glass to protect it.

Last night was so still that I scarcely needed to shelter it with my hand.

Once the fire is blazing the countryside fades into the dusk, so I took one last look round the quiet fields, sorry to let them go. Then I lit the twigs. They caught quickly—I love those early minutes of a fire, the crackles and snappings, the delicate flickers, the first sharp whiff of smoke. The logs were slow to catch so I lay with my head near the ground, and blew. Suddenly the flames raced up the wigwam of branches and I saw the snowy moon trapped in a fiery cage. Then smoke swept over her as the logs caught at last. I scrambled up, and sat back watching them blaze high. All my thoughts seemed drawn into the fire-to be burning with it in the brightly lit circle of stones. The whole world seemed filled with hissing and crackling and roaring.

And then, far off in the forgotten dusk, someone called my name.

“Cassandra!”” Did it come from the lane—or from the castle? And whose voice was it? Dead still, I waited for it to call again, trying to shut my ears to the fire noises. Had it been a man’s voice or a woman’s his When I tried to remember it I only heard the fire. After a few seconds I began to think I must have imagined it.

Then Heloise began barking, the way she barks when somebody arrives.

I ran across the mound and peered down. At first my eyes were too full of the flames to see anything clearly, then gradually the pale light of evening spread round me again; but I couldn’t see into the lane or the courtyard because a thick mist was rising from the moat.

Heloise sounded so frantic that I decided to go down. Just as I started off, she stopped barking—and then, floating across the mist, came the voice again: “Cassandra—a long, drawn-out call. This time I knew it was a man’s voice but I still couldn’t recognize it. I was sure it wasn’t Father’s or Stephen’s or Thomas’s. It was a voice that had never called me before.

“Here I am” I called back.

“Who is it?”

Someone was moving through the mist, crossing the bridge.

Heloise came racing ahead, very pleased with herself.

“Why, of course—it’ll be Neil!” I thought suddenly, and started to run down to meet him. Then at last I saw clearly. It wasn’t Neil.

It was Simon.

Oh, strange to rememberI wasn’t pleased to see him! I had wanted it to be Neil—if it had to be anyone at all when I was just starting the rites. I wouldn’t blame anybody who caught a grown girl at them for thinking her “consciously naive.”

As we shook hands, I made up my mind to take him indoors without referring to the fire. But he looked up at it and said:

“I’d forgotten it was Midsummer Eve—Rose told me about the fun you always have. How pretty your garland is.”

Then, somehow, we were walking up the mound together.

He had driven down to see the Scoatney agent;

had been working with him all day: “Then I thought I’d come and call on you and your Father—is he out? There are no lights in the castle.”

I explained about Father-and said he might possibly have turned up at the flat.

“Then he’ll have to sleep in my room—we’re like sardines in that apartment. What a glorious blaze!”

As we sat down I wondered how much Rose had told him about the rites—I hoped he only knew that we lit a fire for them. Then I saw him look at the basket.

“How’s Rose?” I asked quickly, to distract him from it.

“Oh, she’s fine—she sent you her love, of course. So did Topaz.

Is this the Vicar’s port that Rose told me about?”

The medicine bottle was sticking right out of the basket.

“Yes, he gives me a little every year,” I said, feeling most selfconscious.

“Do we drink it or make a libation?”

“We?”

“Oh, I’m going to celebrate too. I shall represent Rose—even if she does feel too old for it.”

Suddenly I stopped feeling selfconscious. It came to me that Simon was one of the few people who would really find Midsummer rites romantic—that he’d see them as a link with the past and that they might even help with those English roots he wants to strike.