by Maggie Kay
“When all this is over, we’ll do the Swanwick migration.”
We’d talked of this numerous times, those nights in the Wadi and the Chittagong Hills. Hedley believed the unicorns returned once a century, at the time of the Perseid meteor shower. If he was correct, the next migration would be in 1949. Prove this, and he would have a status among paranaturalists akin to that of Sir Edmund Halley, with his comet.
I sighed, and pulled closer to him.
“What if it’s still not over in ‘49?”
Hedley kissed me.
“It will be, Lambie. Keep your pecker up, old girl.”
The sky darkens from pink to purple to black. A frog croaks, splashes. I can see the Evening Star. The Plough. Cassiopeia. I wriggle my blanket higher up my shoulder, unscrew my thermos. Patience. The life of a paranaturalist is one of constant waiting.
Other girls fretted about their sweethearts. Sent off to France, to Norway, to Burma, to the Sudan. Places whose wilder regions I could have described in detail. Dreading the fatal telegram: Missing in Action. And Hedley was shut up in a basement in London. Listening, waiting, observing, recording. I never even thought to worry. A man cannot die of tedium. Then one day in ‘44, he went to the shop for some cough sweets. Never made it to the shelter. Of all the telegrams I decoded, that was the one I couldn't make sense of. One of the girls came and took it out of my hand, eventually. They said I’d been staring for two hours.
I finish the last of the sweet tea, tip the dregs onto the grass. They never found a body. For months, I expected him to walk through the door, in thick, woollen knee socks and a khaki shirt. Binoculars around his neck and a pencil behind his ear. Come on, Lambie. We need to set off, if we mean to catch the migration. Mother wanted me to come back home after the War. I couldn't. Not chintz curtains, the smell of beeswax and mutton. I stayed on with the same landlady for a while. The War Office sent me Hedley’s old equipment and notebooks. I’d read and re-read them, deep into the night, by the light of a paraffin lamp.
I knew I’d end up here. In Swanwick, on 12th August, 1949. Waiting for the meteor shower.
“A herd of migrating unicorns is one of the most magnificent sights in the paranatural kingdom. No description can do justice to the spectacle of flowing manes, galloping hooves, thrusting horns. One is witness to antiquity, a sight that was seen before cities, before humanity itself. One is looking back onto an age of gods and giants. A time of myth and magic, now long gone, but which - who knows? - may one day return.”
The sky is inky black now. The stars are crystalline, littered across the heavens like diamond dust. A chill wind shakes the branches, but my blood begins to warm. A pulse throbs in my ears. There! It is beginning! A single shooting star draws a silver line across the sky. Then another. Then another. I wriggle out of the tent, my binoculars to my eyes. The heavens are alight with silver trails. Beneath my hips, there is a thrumming in the earth. A taste of magic on my tongue. The meteor trails grow longer, coalescing into a starry road. The light draws nearer, grows broader, more alive. From beyond the fields we know, comes the sound of a horse’s whinny.
They are here. Thundering down the path of light, crossing the lake without making a ripple. Unicorns. Hundreds of them. A sea of backs and manes and thrusting horns. White, every one, but so much more than white. Opalescent. Luminous. Shimmering silver glass. Their horns refracting the rainbow like mother-of-pearl. On and on they gallop, across the lawn, past the sleeping house. The largest unicorn migration anywhere in the world. I come out of my tent and stand, my shadow a salute to their retreating backs.
And still they come. On and on, tossing their manes in the starlight, galloping to who-knows-where?
[I was honoured to be asked to write the title story for this anthology in memory of Katy, who I remember best for her Vice-chair announcements and Five Rhythms classes at Swanwick. (Woe betide anyone who turned up late!) I knew I wanted it to be a Swanwick story when I noticed unicorns in the furniture and stained glass windows of The Hayes. And with the 70th anniversary of the Writer's Summer School coming up, I knew that I wanted to set it in 1949, when the school first convened at The Hayes. The Perseid meteor showers are always a magical part of the Swanwick week, so it seemed only right that they should herald a migration of unicorns. I think Katy would like that.]
WHISPER IN THE WIND
Fay Wentworth
Marissa ran down the bank, gorse fronds catching her feet. Tall firs blocked the sunlight as she arrived, breathless, in the dell. Soft grasses swayed in the breeze and, as the firs fell away, the sunbeams caught her bare arms, arms enfolding daffodils; wild daffodils that she had picked from the spinney on the edge of the wood before the firs began and blighted the undergrowth. The frail yellow petals bobbed and bent and sap trickled from the broken stems, staining her skirt.
She drew a deep breath, stilling her gasps and then walked sedately through the door of the chapel, tucked into the corner of the dell, its old stones mellow in the sunshine. It was cool inside, stone floored, wooden pews rotting where the rain had pierced a broken window and left damp patches. Leaves scuttled into corners as the wind followed her footsteps and scurried through dust and debris.
Marissa walked quietly up the aisle, her eyes fixed on the heavy wooden cross, leaning slightly, on the unkempt altar. She leant forward and, very gently, opened her arms and allowed the daffodils to fall, higgledy-piggledy, against the cross; flower heads locked and entwined, stems criss-crossed. The cascade of green and yellow was suddenly caught by a beam of golden light as the sun escaped a cloud and hurried to pierce the grimy window to silhouette the young girl at the cross.
She turned and raised her eyes to the gentle warmth and then, overwhelmed, fell to her knees, her head resting against the damp stems that were tumbling over the altar.
She felt a touch on her arm and raised tearful eyes.
“Come, little one.”
Her eyes filled with fear. He stepped back, a gentle smile softening the intensity of his gaze, a gaze that swept over her as cool as the sun-kissed sea and his hair seemed to sparkle in the sunshine, soft waves the colour of ripe corn. And she found her fear dissipating.
Scrambling to her feet she looked up at him, suddenly trusting, and she felt her heart swell with relief. She knew he was a good man and she laughed, a child-chuckle that echoed round the old stone walls.
He turned towards the altar and gathered her flowers.
“Shall we put them in water?”
She twirled around and then gasped. She pivoted more slowly on her toes, her eyes widening. Sun streamed through the sparkling stained-glass windows, showering rainbows in the dust-mote air. The pews gleamed, newly polished and, as she glanced at her feet balanced on tip-toes, she saw the scrub-washed flagstones.
Wonderingly, she turned and watched as the man lifted the daffodils and placed them in two silver vases, fluted edges splayed wide, either side the cross which rested on a finely stitched golden lace cloth draping the altar and fluttering in the breeze of his movement.
He stood back surveying his arrangements, tweaking a flower head and then looked at her, smiling.
“There, doesn’t that look better?”
She nodded, dumbfounded. Then a whisper emerged: “But..?”
“Come, little one.” He held out his hand. “Come outside.”
She took his hand and walked out through the door. She let out a deep breath. The dell looked normal. Celandines ran riot in the young grass, firs whispered sombrely in the breeze and, below, the river tumbled tranquilly over boulders.
They walked to the river’s edge, to a small plateau, across which stretched the trunk of a fallen tree. A tree she had sat on many times and watched the scurrying water and tiny fishes swirling in the eddy as she sorted her jumbled thoughts and tried to understand...
They sat, not touching, but she felt the warmth of his presence, felt his strength in his silence and felt a great door open in her heart.
He waited. S
he watched a twig float, twirl and rush away and the quiet voice in her head said: “Talk...”
She smiled. The river always brought her peace.
“Gramps said I should talk to...come here...” she tried to explain to the stranger at her side.
“And it was your grandfather you brought the daffodils for?”
She nodded. “He used to carry me on his shoulders,” her eyes became dreamy, “high above the briars. Sometimes,” she chuckled, “he’d forget how tall I made him and a branch would hit me!” She held her hand to her head. “And I’d nearly fall off. He’d laugh and duck and we’d skim the leaves and when we got here we’d sit on this tree and he’d tell me stories about the spirits.”
“The spirits?”
“Of course, the spirits; they live in the trees and grass and flowers,” her voice continued in quiet explanation. “And we’d talk to the spirits and thank them for their beauty and he said whenever...” Her voice wobbled.
“Whenever?”
She coughed and kicked her toes. “Whenever I felt sad I was to come and talk to the spirits.”
“And you’re sad now?”
She nodded as tears welled and trickled gently down her cheeks, dripping onto her arms.
“Because of Gramps?”
“He’s gone.” Her voice choked. “To live in Heaven, Mummy says.”
“Ah, but have you thought that maybe he is here, in the breeze among the flowers he loved and that is why he told you to come back?”
“Gramps, here?” She sounded doubtful as she looked around. She thought for a moment. “Gramps came here as a child, he told me so. And he came to the chapel on Sundays. It was...”
She glanced back at the shadowed walls darkened by trees.
“As you saw it, just now.” His voice was gentle and she shifted uncomfortably on the tree trunk.
“Uh huh,” she muttered.
There was silence while she contemplated the chapel. “Gramps loved daffodils.” She broke the silence. “The first spirits, he called them, the first sign of spring when all the spirits wake up after the winter.”
She wiped her tears away, aware that the stranger was watching her. “Mummy cries too,” she muttered defensively.
“I’m sure she does. It’s all right to cry when you’re sad.”
“It is?”
He smiled and nodded. “It washes the sadness away.”
“Hmm.” She thought about his words. “It takes an awful lot of washing,” she said eventually.
“Does mummy talk to the spirits?”
Marissa sighed. “Her leg hurts and she can’t walk far.”
“Then the spirits must go to her.”
She stared into the foaming river. “So, I can talk to Gramps here?”
“Why not?”
“Because he won’t reply.” Her lower lip drooped.
“His words are in your head. Just listen.”
“Mmm.” She stared at the stones that pierced the rushing water and then sat up straight, “Okay, I’m here, Gramps.”
She waited, her eyes on the stranger as he nodded.
“I miss you, Gramps.”
A blackbird burst forth in song and a breeze brushed the hair from her face.
“It will get easier.” The stranger stroked her cheek and then stood. He turned and walked slowly away, disappearing into the trees.
Marissa stared after him, a frown on her brow; then, with a sigh and a whispered, “Goodbye, Gramps,” she turned and walked up to the chapel.
She stood in the darkened doorway for a moment, her heart beating heavily. Had she really seen...? Taking a deep breath, she crept stealthily forward. She stopped, staring at her feet. A broken twig had caught her shoe, leaves whispered away in the draught, dust rising in their wake, disturbed on the grimy slabs.
Slowly she walked towards the altar, her hand trailing the decaying pews, wincing as a sliver of wood snagged her finger.
The cross leaned on the bare altar but...She caught her breath and tip-toed forward. Dulled black vases were full of daffodils, the bright yellow of their petals lifting to catch the sunbeams that filtered through the hole in the window. Holding her breath, she reached upwards and slipped her fingertips over the scalloped edge. She drew back and stared at her fingers. They were wet.
Chuckling gleefully she ran out. The old door, sagging on its hinges, creaked as she passed. Celandines brushed yellow on her ankles as she skipped up the path.
Panting, she reached the top and entered the spinney. She leaned to snap the daffodil stalks, her arm circling to hold the yellow flowers, the sap dripping from the broken stems to stain her skirt.
She ran across the field and into the valley that hid the nestling cottage where her mother would be waiting.
[I chose this particular story, Whisper in the Wind, because it reflects Katy’s enjoyment of gentle fantasy and her love of family.]
SIR HUMPHREY APPLEBY MEETS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Brian Lockett
A street scene
APPLEBY
Good Lord! It’s the Bard himself! Good morrow, Master Will.
SHAKESPEARE
Say again.
APPLEBY
I said Good morrow, Master Will.
SHAKESPEARE
Why are you talking in that funny way?
APPLEBY
Well, I assumed you would expect me to address you in the style of the sixteenth century.
SHAKESPEARE
What makes you think we talked like that?
APPLEBY
Well, everybody knows. The plays and so on.
SHAKESPEARE
What plays?
APPLEBY
Your plays, of course. Measure for Measure, Henry V, Romeo and Juliet...the Shakespeare plays, of course.
SHAKESPEARE
Oh, those plays. And you say they were written in a special, weird kind of language? I’m surprised anybody understood them if they were.
APPLEBY
But this is your language. The language of Shakespeare!
SHAKESPEARE
Well, not really.
APPLEBY
What do you mean not really?
SHAKESPEARE
First of all, I didn’t write them and secondly, they weren’t written in that funny language. Or at least originally.
APPLEBY
I think you’d better explain.
SHAKESPEARE
Sure. A group of us hacks used to meet in a tavern and over a jar or two we’d kick around a few ideas...
APPLEBY
Just a minute. Which ‘hacks’ would these be?
SHAKESPEARE
Well, apart from myself, there was Kit Marlowe, Frank Bacon, a titled guy whose name I forget and two or three others. Never the same people at each meeting. Anyway, it was great fun and, well, we got a guy to write everything down and get it published.
APPLEBY
But the language! The incomparable language of Shakespeare!
To be, or not to be,—that is the question—
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them ?
SHAKESPEARE
Don’t tell me! Titus Andronicus?
APPLEBY
No. Hamlet. Surely you remember?
SHAKESPEARE
I certainly remember Hamlet. Isn’t that the one where this foreign guy has a thing about his mother who’s married his uncle whose brother died from an ear infection? Boy, did we have trouble with that one. Took us four or five meetings to agree the storyline. I was more comfortable with some of the shorter stuff—sonnets, I think we called them. Do you remember You remind me of when it was hot?
APPLEBY
Do you mean Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
SHAKESPEARE
That’s it! And what about Don’t let me get in the way if you really w
ant to make it together?
APPLEBY
I suppose you are referring to Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediment?
SHAKESPEARE
Bang on. Say, you’re really good at this. But enough of me. What do you do?
APPLEBY
Me? I am Secretary to the Cabinet.
SHAKESPEARE
What’s that?
APPLEBY
Well, I am the most senior civil servant in the country. I attend meetings of the Cabinet, which is a group of the most important Ministers of the Crown, who, under the chairmanship of the Prime Minister, formulate government policy, present it to the nation and monitor its implementation.
SHAKESPEARE
Doesn’t sound a load of laughs to me. But what do you actually do?
APPLEBY
As I’ve said, I am Secretary to the Cabinet.
SHAKESPEARE
Let me try again. Do you make decisions on how the country is run?
APPLEBY (horrified)
No. That is for Ministers.
SHAKESPEARE
Do you give them money so that they can do what they want to do?
APPLEBY
No. That is for the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
SHAKESPEARE
Do you sack them if they make a mess of things?
APPLEBY
No. That is for the Prime Minister.
SHAKESPEARE
Do you write anything?
APPLEBY
Of course, all the time. I am responsible for writing the minutes.
SHAKESPEARE
Ah! So you’re a scribe. You just write down what they say.
APPLEBY
Good Lord, no! Some of them can hardly string two sentences together, let alone produce a coherent and convincing exposition of what passes for ideas. My job is to bring order, balance and structure to what are often inane ramblings in an attempt to present to the nation government policies which will enhance the reputation of Ministers, contribute to the prosperity of the country and ensure, as far as possible, that Her Majesty’s subjects are treated fairly, humanely and consistently in their relations with those responsible for the administration of those policies.
