The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (130 page)

She asked very little in return. All she wanted – all she’d ever wanted – was to live out her days at the House, and to see him now and then.

And for a time, it had looked as if she would get her wish. The War had been kind to her. Wicked even to think that, when so much had been taken away from so many – when Adam himself had lost all three brothers. But it was true. She had mourned the boys, but she hadn’t felt the same closeness to them. Adam was the one who had to be saved.

Then poor old Randolph had died. Such a relief. It had even been a relief to learn that he’d left her penniless, for if he’d left her a competence, she would have felt obliged to live as he had lived.

That was when Adam had stepped in and offered her Cairngowrie House.

The
freedom
of it! The unbelievable luxury of keeping house for no-one but herself – of stepping out of the door and going for a walk
whenever she chose
!

Then suddenly Adam was home on leave, bringing Julia with him, to change Maud’s life for ever . . . Oh, yes, for a time it had looked quite promising.

But now, in the space of a month, it was falling apart. An old schoolfriend of Erskine’s had written to ask if he could rent the House. And since the needs of a young family must always override those of an elderly spinster, Adam had suggested that Maud might care to move up to the Hall.

She had lacked the courage to speak up, even to him. All her life she had been ruled by men. She was too old to change.

And now – the final insult. That girl.

Maud heaved a ragged sigh. The future stretched before her like the cold, cold sea. She would have to leave her beloved House, and go up to the Hall for good, and once again she would keep house for others. For in time, Adam would marry that girl, and then Maud would have to move again. She would be packed off to the tithe cottage with the Clyne boy. The final indignity. To end her days caring for someone else’s child.

A huge wave leapt at Max, and he raced up the sand. The sea had nearly got him that time. He would have to watch out.

The beach was a wilderness of terror and strange beauty. Max still couldn’t believe that he was being allowed to face it
on his own
. At Rowan Lodge he hadn’t been allowed into the garden on his own, and in cold weather he hadn’t been allowed out at all, because of his chest. He’d tried to tell Miss McAllister this, but she’d told him not to be such a ninny, the sea air would do him good. What she called ‘sea air’ was a cold, angry wind that tugged at his muffler and made his throat hurt. He couldn’t see how it would do him good.

‘You may walk to the rocks beyond the tithe cottage,’ Miss McAllister had said in her singsong voice that Captain Palairet said was ‘lowland Scots’. As she’d said it, she’d pointed to a distant speck. ‘But keep within sight of the House, and stay out of the water.’

Stay out of the water
? Max stared at the heaving grey sea; at its white foam claws raking the sand like an angry cat. Did Scottish boys go
into
that? They must be incredibly brave.

He plodded on. You
have
to keep going, he told himself grimly. You
have
to get past the tithe cottage and all the way to the rocks, or you’ll be a coward for ever and ever.

But in his heart, he knew that he would never reach the rocks; that he was doomed to be a coward all his life.

‘My other charges,’ Mrs Shadwell always told him, ‘were brave, brawny lads, Boy Scouts every one of ’em. And of course, with the War, they’re keeping so busy. Helping in air raids. Guarding the railway bridges against the Enemy Within.’

I could guard a railway bridge, thought Max as he plodded on. And maybe there’d be an attack, and someone would be wounded . . .
The Huns fought gallantly, but dogged British pluck won through, and Max the brave Boy Scout succeeded in rescuing his wounded pal, although he himself expired of wounds soon after, with a heroic smile on his lips
. . .

But Max knew that this was a double falsehood, because he was not brave, and had never had a pal.

And now he cringed whenever he thought of Boy Scouts, because of the one he’d encountered at St Pancras.

The Boy Scout had approached them as Max had stood with Mr Granger on the platform. Mr Granger had bought a flag in aid of the Soldiers’ Comfort Fund, and Max had summoned all his nerve and said, ‘Hello’, in what he’d hoped was a jolly sort of way.

The Boy Scout had drawn himself up. ‘Don’t you know,’ he’d said coldly, ‘that we’re not permitted to talk to civilians while on duty?’

Max, the civilian, had been crushed.

And of course he knew what had really caused that withering look. The Boy Scout had seen through his disguise.

‘Your papa was a
Boche
,’ Mrs Shadwell had once told him. ‘Oh, yes. He changed his name from Klein to Clyne. As if
that
would fool anyone.’

That was why the Boy Scout had scorned him. Because he was half German. Almost as bad as being a spy.

The rocks didn’t seem to be getting any nearer, and the sand had given way to greenish-grey pebbles strewn with clots of knobbly brown seaweed that smelt of fish. Max stopped for breath, and glanced back the way he had come.

Miss McAllister was still sitting on the bench in her garden, watching him. He tried a small wave. She did not wave back. He plodded on.

It did not surprise him that Miss McAllister disliked him, or that she kept a monster in her house. Ladies who look after children always do, so that they can punish the children if they are bad. Mrs Shadwell had kept a terrible orange cat who could scratch faster than a blink. And as Max had lived on the top floor of Rowan Lodge, there had been no-one to hear him cry.

So in one way, Cairngowrie House was better than Rowan Lodge, because now he slept on the first floor, with the grown-ups. But he didn’t expect it to last. He would do something wrong, and be sent to the attic. Either he would make a noise and disturb beautiful, ill Miss Lawe; or he would do something to annoy Captain Palairet, who’d had a bad time at the Front.

And always there was Miss McAllister, pinching in her mouth like a drawstring bag. Max couldn’t decide if she was more terrifying than Mrs Shadwell, or about the same. Miss McAllister had big red hands with ropy veins like a man’s, and she didn’t like Max. But then, the only person who ever had was Uncle Freddie, and he’d been killed at the War.

A seagull landed in front of him on a clump of seaweed. He froze. The seagull had dazzling white wings and a gleaming dark eye ringed with orange. Max was entranced. He loved birds. They were so beautiful and skilful and brave, flying so high and never getting scared.

Uncle Freddie would have liked the seagull. He’d liked birds. He’d even looked a bit like one: like a friendly ostrich with tired eyes. Max had sobbed every night for weeks when he was killed. It still hurt to think about him, but it was also strangely comforting.

The seagull lifted up into the sky and flew away, and Max watched in awe. He resolved to look up its name, if he could find the right book. And perhaps if he saw it again, he could give it a piece of seaweed to eat.

He plodded on. He was level with the tithe cottage. Beyond it the rocks were suddenly much nearer. They were grey and strangely humped. Max felt a flicker of fear.

Then one of the rocks moved.

Max’s heart lurched.

In horror he watched its head swing round to look at him. The wind roared in his ears. He couldn’t breathe. What if it came after him?

There was no-one to help him. Miss McAllister was too far away. Besides, she wouldn’t help a ninny.

Slowly, so as not to alert the monster rock, Max turned his head and stared at the tithe cottage. If he could make it up that little stony path, then maybe a kindly cottager would give him sanctuary, like in ‘How They Saved The Pets’.

The monster rock slid into the sea with a splash. Then another and another. A herd of monster rocks. Max’s nerve broke and he raced up the path.

He pounded the door. No-one came. He ran to the window, trying not to step on the heather that grew beneath it in clumps.

A lady stood in the parlour with her back to him. She wore a flowery print gown, and looked very sturdy and strong: like Mrs Shadwell, but with short hair. Surely she would defend him against the rocks?

He tapped on the window.

The lady turned.

Max gave a terrified yelp and fell backwards into the heather.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Come quickly!’ gasped Max, careening into Belle. ‘There’s someone – I think they’re hurt!’

‘What do you mean, hurt?’ she said.

Max gulped and tried to speak at the same time. ‘There’s blood on his mouth.’

Belle glanced from the white-faced boy to the cottage, and then to the distant speck of Cairngowrie House. Now what do I do? she thought. After the long walk over the sand, her knees were trembling; what help could she be? Wretched Miss McAllister was right. She’d walked too far.

‘You stay here,’ she told the boy, ‘I’ll go and see.’

‘Here on my own?’ said Max. ‘But what about the rocks?’

‘What rocks? There aren’t any rocks. Just stay here.’

Dreading what she might find, she went up the garden path and lifted the door latch. ‘Hello?’ she called.

There was no-one in the hall, but she could feel that the house wasn’t empty. The door to her right was ajar – presumably it opened into some sort of front room. From inside came the sound of someone breathing.

‘Are you all right in there?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but the boy said—’

‘I’m fine,’ said a deep, masculine voice. ‘Please go away.’

Belle frowned. Something about the voice was familiar. ‘Hello?’ She put her hand on the door. ‘Are you sure you’re—’

‘No, don’t—’

The door swung open, and there was Drum Talbot hunched on the sofa in an orange flowered tea-gown, with a smear of scarlet lipstick beneath his moustache.

‘Oh God,’ he groaned, and burst into tears.

He cried for ages. Great choking sobs that seemed to tear up his chest.

After the first blank astonishment, Belle went to the sofa and sat down beside him, and put one arm awkwardly round his beefy shoulders.

Eventually the sobs lessened. He pulled a large handkerchief from his flowery sleeve, and blew his nose. Then he wiped off the lipstick. ‘I’m so – dreadfully sorry,’ he said hoarsely.

Belle didn’t know what to say. She’d heard of effeminate men, but she’d never met one; or not knowingly. She felt sorry for him. It must be awful, to be found like this. She couldn’t see why he was apologizing.

‘Such an appalling shock for you,’ he said without meeting her eyes.

She glanced at his tear-ravaged face. He’d missed a bit of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. She repressed the urge to wipe it away. ‘Not a shock,’ she said. ‘Just a surprise.’

He sniffed and tugged at his handkerchief, then ran a hand through his thick fair hair. ‘That poor little tyke. Is he all right?’

‘Max? He’s out in the garden. I’m sure he’s fine.’

He frowned. ‘Good. Good.’

‘Drum – it’s all right, you know. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.’

He heaved a ragged sigh. ‘Thanks most awfully. You see, if it ever got out, they’d send me to prison.’

‘Oh, surely not. Not for getting dressed up.’

He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Darling Belle, what a sweet way of putting it! No, not for that. For being – what I am.’

There was an awkward silence.

Then Belle said, ‘I never guessed, you know.’

His lip curled. ‘Oh, I’m good at hiding it. I ought to be, I’ve had enough practice.’ Then his face contracted. ‘Everything about me is a lie. Even my nickname. “Drum”. So hearty and masculine.’ He swallowed. ‘I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’ve never actually done this sort of thing before. I mean, getting dressed up.’

‘I believe you.’

‘You see, out in France, things changed.’ He swallowed. ‘I – I fell in love. It was the real thing. An NCO in my unit. Although of course I never said a word. I couldn’t. He’s a big, rough, masculine man. A real man. If he ever found out what I am, he’d be disgusted.’ He rubbed a shaky hand over his face. ‘I should have been over the moon when I got my blighty, because it prevented me from doing anything foolish. But all I could think was, I’ll never see him again.’

She put her hand over his.

‘And then, like an idiot, I got into trouble. Had to leave Town, as they say. At least, until things quieten down.’

‘How did you fetch up here?’

‘What? Oh, Adam, of course. He’s been an absolute brick. He knows, you see. He’s the only one who does. He lent me this place so that I could sort myself out. And now look at me.’ He shut his eyes. ‘Don’t tell him, will you? I mean, not about this.’ He tugged at his sleeve.

‘Of course not,’ said Belle.

‘The worst of it is, I still can’t forget that NCO.’ He paused. ‘All my life I’ve wanted to be loved by a man like that. And yet I
know
that that’s an absolute impossibility, because a man like him – a real man – would only ever love a woman.’ With a brawny hand he smoothed the flowered silk over his knee. ‘That’s why I tried on this frock. I wanted – just once – to see what I’d look like as a woman. To see if – in some other life, perhaps – I’d stand a chance of attracting him.’ His face crumpled.

‘Oh, Drum,’ said Belle. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I’m sorry too. Sorry that you had to see this.’

‘Don’t worry about that.’

‘And I didn’t even know you were in Scotland.’

‘I’m staying at the Hall.’

‘With Adam? He didn’t say anything. In fact, I had no idea you were even friends.’

Belle coloured. ‘We’re not. Well, we’re not anything else, either.’ She thought about that. ‘It’s complicated.’

Drum nodded without understanding.

To change the subject, she told him about Osbourne’s being married, and about Sibella, and about falling ill herself.

‘I can’t believe Osbourne would do that,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And then not even to write. To
try
to make amends.’