Midnight is a Place

by Joan Aiken

  What was even more remarkable, the little girl evidently understood him. She looked at him with dislike, indeed she put out her tongue at him, and said, "Why should I do what you say? You are only a great ugly boy!" But she allowed him at length to pick her up and put her back on the bed. There she sat and stared at him with hostility through her tears.

  He looked longingly toward the door and wished that Mrs. Gourd would reappear; he was dying to get away, back to his own room. But the silence drew on, and he could hear no footstep in the corridor.

  "What is your name? And where do you come from?" he asked the child presently.

  At first she looked as if she did not intend to answer. But at length she said, "Je m'appelle Anna-Marie Eulalie Murgatroyd." This last she pronounced very slowly and carefully, Mur-ga-troyd. "Et je suis venue de Calais au-jourd'hui"

  "Is that where you have been living—Calais?"

  She nodded. "I and papa at the house of old Madame Granchot. But"—her little face crumpled again in desolation—"papa is dead, and Madame is too old to look after me, and a lady brought me from Calais to here, and Sidi fell off the boat, and the man would not stop it to go back, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh—"

  "Who is Sidi?" Lucas asked, hoping somehow to stem this new outburst.

  "My cat—he is my cat. The boat frightened him, and he was strong—he got away from me—"

  With a sudden pang, Lucas remembered his dog Turk, left behind in Amritsar last year.

  "Have you come to live here? I daresay Sir Randolph would let you keep a cat—" He was not at all sure about this, but in any case the comfort failed to work.

  "I do not want another cat, I want my Sidi!"

  "Oh, don't be so silly," Lucas snapped, his patience evaporating. There is nothing so tiring as a person who cannot be comforted, and Lucas already found himself much more tired than usual. Too many things had happened.

  Luckily at this moment Mrs. Gourd reappeared with a mug of hot milk. She clicked her tongue in disapproval at sight of the child's tears.

  "It's not my fault—" Lucas began rather defensively.

  "Oh, I daresay not. She's been going on like this all the time about her papa and some Seedy she keeps calling for, I don't know who Seedy is—"

  "Her cat."

  "Oh, is that it? I can't make head or tail of what she says. We'll have to get Mr. Oakapple to teach her English right off; she won't get far with that lingo living at Midnight Court. And not a bite of food have I been able to get down her since she set foot in the house. Come, miss, drink up your milk like a good girl. Milk," she repeated loudly and slowly, holding out the cup.

  The child, who was evidently hungry after her nap, did finally begin to drink the milk, holding the cup in both hands, looking first at Mrs. Gourd, then suspiciously at Lucas over the rim.

  "I'll be going then. Good night. Bonne nuit," said Lucas, seizing his chance to escape. Mrs. Gourd looked as if she had half a mind to ask him to stay on and interpret Anna-Marie's talk, but he had had quite enough. He slipped out and closed the door behind him.

  Not until he was halfway to his own bedroom did the full blow of his loss and disappointment strike home.

  A portrait hung at the head of the back stairs which led up to the room where he slept. It was a picture of some bygone son of the house, a faded representation of a boy in Cavalier dress who stood smiling, holding up a falcon on his wrist. This boy, with his dark hair and laughing eyes, had, though Lucas hardly realized it, formed the model on which he had built his imaginary friend. Passing it now, he was suddenly stabbed by a sense of loss, a feeling that he had been cheated. The pain was so sharp that he involuntarily pressed his hand to his chest with a kind of sigh that was almost a groan. Hardly aware of what he did, instead of proceeding to his own room, he turned in the other direction, passed along a complicated series of landings, galleries, and corridors, and came at length to Mr. Oakapple's door.

  A light showed underneath, and he knocked.

  "Come in?" called the tutor's voice. He sounded surprised.

  Lucas, pushing open the door, stopped short in almost equal surprise, forgetting the urgency of the impulse that had drawn him there.

  The tutor lay half-reclined in an armchair, facing the door, with his feet on a stool; a violin rested on his left arm and shoulder, in the position for playing, and his right hand held the bow. But Lucas was certain that he had not been playing. No sound of music had been audible as Lucas approached the door.

  "I—I didn't know you played the fiddle, sir?" Lucas blurted.

  "I don't," Mr. Oakapple replied shortly, putting the instrument on a table with a somewhat hasty action, covering it with a velvet cloth.

  "Are—are you learning?" Confusion made Lucas want to fill the silence.

  "Don't be a fool," said the tutor with great ill humor. "How could I possibly play with two fingers missing?"

  Only then, far too late, did Lucas recall the injured fingers which Mr. Oakapple invariably kept concealed by a leather glove. The tutor himself never alluded to his disability, but Bob the groom had told Lucas of a household rumor that it was the result of a duel, fought long ago when Mr. Oakapple was younger; now he was quite old—at least thirty-five.

  "I—I ask your pardon, sir. I didn't think," he stammered, hot-faced.

  "You never do think about other people, do you? Always shut up in your own world."

  The tutor's tone was depressed, weary, not angry. To Lucas, staring abashed at his own feet, a novel thought came pricking through his depression: Was the somewhat chilly relationship between them his own fault, rather than Mr. Oakapple's? Would the tutor really prefer it if he, Lucas, tried to be more friendly?

  "Anyway, it's of no importance," the tutor added dryly. "I used to play—once—that's all. But what brings you here? Why aren't you in bed?"—with a return to his usual severe manner—"Did you not see Sir Randolph?"

  "Yes, sir, I saw him." A recollection of his grievances rushed back over Lucas, and momentarily forgetting this new light on his tutor, he exclaimed, "Was it you, sir, who told Sir Randolph I'd been complaining about being lonely?"

  "Not exactly," Mr. Oakapple said coolly. "I have certainly said to him that it might benefit your studies if you had a companion."

  "Then was it your idea to bring that—that girl—that child who has just come? to be a companion for me?"

  "Oh, Anna-Marie?" Mr. Oakapple began to laugh. "No, no, I am not quite such an optimist as to hope that ¿he might encourage you in your work. Was that what Sir Randolph suggested? He likes his little joke."

  "Who is she? Why has she come here?" Lucas demanded.

  "Well, as you have begun learning the business at the Mill, I don't imagine there is any reason why you shouldn't hear the whole story," Mr. Oakapple replied, looking at Lucas thoughtfully. "And it might give you something to think about besides your own fancies. She is little Anna Murgatroyd, granddaughter of the original owner, Sir Quincy. But I suppose I had better make sure that Sir Randolph has no objection before I tell you about all that—he might prefer you to hear the history from him."

  "Oh I'm sure he wouldn't," Lucas said hastily. "At least, I would much rather hear it from you."

  "Well—you may be right. But at any rate, I had better obtain his permission. And tonight is too late. Look at the time! Nearly one. Go to bed, and if Sir Randolph agrees I'll tell you about it tomorrow. Run along. You must be tired after the visit to the Mill—and hungry. You missed your supper. Do you want a piece of pork pie?"

  "Why—thank you, sir." Surprised, awkward, mumbling his thanks, Lucas took the solid heavy hunk of meat wrapped in pastry.

  "I get them in the town. Old Gourd's cooking doesn't tempt me above half. Good night then."

  With a nod, dismissing his pupils stammered thanks, Mr. Oakapple almost pushed Lucas from the room.

  Deep in thought, absently biting off chunks of meat as he walked, Lucas wandered back through the long bare stretches of passage until he reached the schoolroom
.

  So many things had happened to him since that afternoon—since he wrote his name and the words "I'm lonely" on the window—that he felt as if half a year had gone by, as if he were six months older than the boy who had looked out so hopelessly at the driving rain. He was still lonely, true, but his thoughts had taken a different turn. They were now reaching out in all directions; like the tendrils of Jack's beanstalk, they had found things to grasp and grow on.

  He pulled his leatherbound book toward him, righted the fallen bottle of ink, found with relief that it still contained enough to write with, picked up his quill, and began:

  Dear Greg: So many things have happened since I last wrote to you. yesterday that I hardly know what to tell you first. But perhaps I'll start with the Mill. This afternoon Mr. Oakapple suddenly came into the schoolroom....

  He wrote on for almost an hour, until his hand was numb with cramp and the last of the ink was gone.

  Then, closing the book, he went upstairs to his bedroom, undressed, splashed his face and hands with cold water, climbed into his lumpy bed, and blew out the last of his candle stubs.

  Faces, faces, faces, swam before his mind's eye—smiling Mr. Smallside, the mocking Scatcherd with his sidelong look, the haggard, tear-streaked face of Mrs. Braithwaite, rocking herself on the milestone. And the little girl, the snatcher, who had darted out so intrepidly as the press descended. And Sir Randolph peering with brandy-reddened eyes into his smoking cap. And that other sad waif, little Anna-Marie, with her pale cheeks and her great black eyes.

  But all the time, behind all these faces, were the never-ceasing wheels, the relentless hammers and pistons of the Mill, and those were what he saw last, for a long, long time, before he finally slept.

  Lucas had hoped to hear the story of Anna-Marie Murgatroyd from his tutor first thing next morning, before lessons began for the day. But he was only halfway through the basin of porridge with black treacle on it, which Pinhorn had brought for his breakfast, when she returned to say, "Missis Gourd asks if you'll be so good as to step along to the Oak Chamber, Mester Lucas. Seemingly, she's having a bit of trouble making herself understood wi' the little lass."

  "Why doesn't she get Mr. Oakapple?" Lucas rather peevishly inquired, shoveling down his last three spoonfuls.

  "Mr. Oakapple's not to hand; he's with Sir Randolph, reckon."

  When Lucas arrived at the Oak Chamber, he saw that last night's scene of confusion had not greatly altered. The traveling gear had been tidied away, but the room was still littered with immense quantities of small garments—muslin chemises, petticoats, fichus, heaven knew what; the place looked as if a hurricane or snowstorm had blown through a forest of handkerchief trees. In the midst of this chaos, the small Anna-Marie sat like a white double hollyhock, in two petticoats and a cambric jacket, with a sulky, rebellious expression on her wan face and her mouth set in a mutinous line.

  "I declare, I'm clean out of patience with whoever packed up for this child to send her to England," Mrs. Gourd exclaimed to Abby, the chambermaid, who was searching through a wicker hamper of thin white dresses, which seemed to be all different sizes. "Don't those French know what the weather's like over here? Not a frock in that lot would keep out the cold for ten minutes; there's a reet nip in the air today."

  It was true. Yesterday's relentless rain had stopped in the night, and a sudden frost had transformed the view of the park, for once, to immaculate beauty; each blade of grass, each twig of the chestnut trees, shone outlined in dazzling brightness against a pure, pale sky. The air was crisp and icy.

  "Look at yon!" In disgust the housekeeper held up a diaphanous gauze underskirt of pale pink. "What good's that to a body?"

  Although it was evident that the child did not understand the exact meaning of her words, Mrs. Gourd's countenance was so expressive of disapproval as she held up the little garment that Anna-Marie indignantly snatched it from her and carefully smoothed out its folds.

  "I—will—this," she announced slowly and emphatically. "This, and this!" She found a pink muslin dress and began taking off her jacket.

  "No, miss!" The housekeeper was scandalized. "Why, you'd clem, before you'd even set foot outside. Haven't you anything that's made of decent linsey-woolsey or alpaca or even merino? How do you say those words in French, Mester Lucas?"

  Lucas had not the least idea. "Have you no thick woolen clothes?" he asked Anna-Marie.

  She put out her tongue at him. "I will not you. Go away!" she informed him.

  "Besides, the pink color's not fitting, even if it were warmer," Mrs. Gourd said to Abby in a low voice, removing the unsatisfactory pink dress from Anna-Marie, folding it, and returning it to a dressing basket.

  Anna-Marie snatched it out again. It tore on the wicker edge of the basket, and she began to cry.

  At that moment a bell started ringing elsewhere in the house.

  "Dear! Servants' dinner—is it that time already?" exclaimed Mrs. Gourd. "I'll have to go—else the grooms'll be throwing bread pellets at the kitchenmaids—there's no one to keep them in order since Master turned off Mr. Flitch—you'd think whoever he dismissed he'd keep the butler. But I'm in a fair puzzle what to do about this child. We can't leave her in her shift all day."

  "I've a notion," said Abby. "What about Madge Pickens, the undergardener's wife? Didn't she lose a little 'un at t'Mill a couple o' weeks since? She might still have some things put by."

  "True for you. And she's a decent sort o' woman—her yoong ones were dressed none so badly. Roon down to her, Abby, and say I'd take it as a kindness, if she's any things yet, if she'd let us have them—they'd be the right color, any road," with a significant look. Abby nodded, and hurried off.

  "Mester Lucas, do you please to bide here a few minutes, and I'll send back Miss Pinhorn with the little one's breakfast—she slept so late I didn't like to wake her before. I declare, things are all at sixes and sevens in the Court these days"—and Mrs. Gourd bustled off, shaking her head over her difficulties.

  Finding that no one regarded her, Anna-Marie had stopped crying. With a resigned, business-like air, which impressed Lucas against his will, she inspected the torn dress, evidently decided that rt could not be worn, so folded and carefully put rt by.

  Almost immediately the door opened, and a bent old man entered, carrying a tray of breakfast. Lucas was surprised to see him there; normally he was employed out of doors as a yard man and log carrier. It was believed that long ago he had been the butler, in old Sir Quincy's day, until he had taken to drink. His name was Gabriel Towzer.

  He came in very slowly and carefully. From somewhere—Lucas could not imagine where—he had managed to find a number of silver dishes and had carefully arranged them on the tray; they were somewhat dented and battered, but lovingly polished until they shone like satin. There was a silver porringer, containing the same oatmeal-and-treacle mixture that had been served to Lucas, a silver mug of milk, a silver plate with slices of brown bread and butter, a withered apple in a silver fingerbowl, even a torn but clean napkin in a silver ring.

  Gabriel's fingers were black with silver polish, and so was the front of his ancient baize apron.

  "There!" he said proudly, setting down the tray. Then he came round to stand in front of Anna-Marie.

  "Be you really little Missie Murgatroyd?"

  He knelt down and put his hands on either side of her face—leaving black marks—and carefully tilted it up. "Yes!" he said after a long, grave scrutiny. "You've a look of the old man, owd Sir Quincy, an' a touch o' the young one, young Mas'r Denzil, too; ah! 'tis a comfort to have ye back among us, Missie, even if there was broke hearts as'll never be mended now."

  "I don't understand," said Anna-Marie in French. "What is the matter with the old man?"

  "She speaks no English," Lucas explained to old Mr. Towzer.

  "Eh, my! That I should see the day when a granddaughter of owd Sir Quincy couldn't pass the time o' day with Gabriel Towzer," the old man said mournfully.

&nbs
p; "Say to him, 'How do you do,'" instructed Lucas. "That is the proper thing to say to a person in England when you first meet them."

  "Quoi? I cannot say it." Anna-Marie seemed inclined to resent Lucas's suggestion, but then, on a sudden change of impulse, she turned to the old man and said, "'Owdoo eeyu doo?"

  "Spoken just like young Mas'r Denzil!" he said triumphantly. "Just like his own self! Now eat your breakfast, do, Missie, afore it gets cold."

  "Bah! What is this lump of earth?" inquired Anna-Marie, inspecting the porridge. "It looks like stuff they mend holes with. I cannot eat it."

  "Try it. It's not so bad," Lucas advised. "You might as well. You won't get anything else."

  "Be quiet, you!" She turned on him in a sudden flash of fury. "I do not need you to order me. You do not like me, I know, and I do not at all like you. Go away! You are a great ugly boy, of no use at all, and I do not want you in my room."

  Fortunately at that moment Mrs. Gourd returned, so Lucas was able to take his departure.

  What a spoiled brat, was his main conclusion about Anna-Marie, apart from the continuing bitter regret that she was not older, that she was not a boy, that she was so hopelessly unsuited to be his friend or companion. Anyway a few days in Midnight Court would soon knock the vapors out of the self-willed little thing. Pampered and coddled all her life, no doubt. Well, no one would pay much regard to her whimsies here; she'd have to learn to stand on her own feet.

  He dismissed her from his mind.