Darkwater

by Dorothy Eden

  Aunt Louisa was the other person who thought the trip to London a piece of extravagant folly.

  ‘Why can’t Fanny write to Mr Craike?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘Because she wants to see him and talk to him. It’s very understandable.’

  ‘Then why don’t you have the old man come here?’

  ‘Because he is quite beyond travelling. I gather he has only a short time to live. One can’t refuse a dying man’s whim, my dear.’

  Aunt Louisa tossed her head impatiently.

  ‘Oh, you and your sense of duty! Do you ever stop to consider the inconvenience caused to others by it? Fanny has already spoiled those children until the servants can scarcely manage them. There’ll be trouble the moment she’s gone, and the brunt of it will fall on me. Really, Edgar, I seem to have spent the whole of my married life coping with your obligations. What other woman would have done it—no less than three strange children—the house practically an orphanage—’

  Uncle Edgar bent to press his lips against his wife’s plump neck.

  ‘You have been an angel, my love. Angels are sometimes rewarded.’ He gave his throaty gurgle at her face suddenly full of anticipation. ‘Not another word at the moment. But you haven’t the worst husband in the world’—his fingers found her breast—‘I assure you…’

  Once again Fanny packed her neat carpet bag with the essentials for a journey. But this time she could leave out her most precious possessions, for she very definitely was coming back. She would have liked to have had the opportunity to tell Adam about her journey. She fancied he would have been pleased for her. But he had not called lately, and it hardly seemed sufficient reason to write to him since she would be back within three days. Two days for travelling, and one to visit Mr Craike. Yet it would have been a wonderfully satisfying thing to write a note to Mr Marsh. Even forming his name on paper would have made her lips curve with pleasure. So he was to marry Amelia was he! She would see about that!

  ‘Cousin Fanny, why are you always smiling? Is it because you are leaving us?’

  Nolly’s eyes were black with hatred.

  Fanny began to laugh, and shook the child gently by the shoulders.

  ‘If you continue to look like that I will be very glad to leave you.’

  ‘Marcus says you won’t come back.’

  ‘Marcus says nothing of the kind. And you are to be good children while I’m away. If Dora tells me you haven’t been, there will be no gifts in my bag.’

  Marcus immediately began to clamour for a toy trumpet.

  ‘I need one to blow for my soldiers. Cousin George says there must be a trumpeter to sound the alarm. What does alarm mean, Cousin Fanny?’

  ‘It means when the enemy is in sight.’

  ‘Then you mustn’t blow it, Marcus! You mustn’t!’ Nolly cried, in agitation.

  Marcus, five years old, was at last beginning to realise his superiority over a mere girl. He strutted about saying derisively, ‘You’re scared. Cousin Fanny, Nolly’s always getting scared of something.’

  Nolly made a wild dash at him, to tug at his hair.

  ‘I am not scared! I am not scared!’

  ‘Lawks!’ cried Dora, running to separate the screaming children. ‘Miss Nolly, you’ll be going to bed without your supper.’

  Nolly stood glowering.

  ‘I am not scared at all. I am only over-sensitive. Great-aunt Arabella says so. She says I must be treated gently and not frightened. She says this house is enough to frighten any child.’

  ‘And now that speech is over,’ said Fanny, ‘what is there about the house to frighten a child?’

  There was a red spot in each of Nolly’s cheeks. Otherwise her face was paper white and looked alarmingly delicate. She was a bunchy little figure in her starched petticoats and her wide-skirted gingham dress, but Fanny knew that when the clothes were stripped off her she was far too thin and light. And her flat little chest was the storing place for too many conflicting emotions.

  ‘Nolly,’ Fanny said, ‘I will be back for my birthday. You know that, don’t you?’

  This was suddenly, to Nolly, an irrefutable argument. Her face lit up, showing its infrequent dazzling prettiness.

  ‘You will have to be, Cousin Fanny. Because I am making you a present. You wouldn’t be too stupid not to come back for your presents.’

  In spite of that victory, Fanny was still not entirely easy about leaving the children. It was only that she wanted so badly to go and see Mr Craike, and besides Hannah had assured her that she was wrong to let the children possess her too much.

  ‘You’re only making a rod for your back, Miss Fanny,’ she said. She looked round quickly to see that no one else was within hearing, and added, ‘You know what it’s been, running errands for Miss Amelia all your life, and now being tied to the nursery when you should be living your own life. All this nonsense about not getting a husband. You had only to see how that gentleman from China was turned silly about you, so why shouldn’t others be. You ought to be thinking of children of your own, Miss Fanny.’

  ‘Bless you, Hannah. I don’t know why I worry about Nolly when you’re here. It’s only if she gets one of her frights—’

  ‘And them all imagination!’ Hannah said briskly. ‘It’s a pity she ever heard that old story about the bird in the chimney. I know it can be scary for a child. You found it scary yourself when you were a little one. But if you ask me, half Miss Nolly’s frights are invented.’ Hannah shook her grey head wisely. ‘She sees she gets plenty of attention from them.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, Hannah. Anyway, she’s convinced, for some reason, that I’m stupid. Perhaps that’s the reason.’

  Fanny wanted so much to be convinced that she allowed herself to be. The children could come to no harm in three days. Dora would sleep in the nursery with them. Hannah would be within call.

  But in the late afternoon of the day before her departure everything changed. Nolly and Marcus went to Lady Arabella’s room as usual, Nolly to work on the mysterious birthday present, and Marcus to amuse himself with whatever new fascinating object Lady Arabella might produce.

  A few minutes later there were piercing screams.

  When Fanny rushed into the room it was difficult to get a coherent story from anybody. Lady Arabella was just shuffling on her sticks from her bedroom, the lamps had not been lit, and the living room with its claustrophobic collection of furniture and knick-knacks was in gloom. Nolly was standing in the middle of the room screaming with terrifying regularity. Her figure was rigid. As that other day by the lake, she obviously was in no condition to say what had happened, and it was left for Marcus, beginning to sob with infectious fear, to stutter that Nolly had touched the bird.

  ‘What bird?’ Fanny demanded.

  Marcus pointed towards the empty birdcage. ‘In there.’

  Lady Arabella shuffled forward. ‘There’s no bird in there. The cage has been empty for months. Didn’t I tell you about my parrot. He died—but my goodness, Fanny! Look! There is a bird.’

  The white shape, wings outspread, was clearly visible. It was hanging motionless against the bars of the cage. All unawares, Nolly must have brushed against it and it had pecked at her.

  Marcus had caught Nolly’s fear, and now, in an unreasoning overwhelming wave it swept over Fanny.

  There was only a not very large white bird hanging motionless in a cage in a gloomy room yet the atmosphere was heavy with dread.

  ‘Where are those lazy servants?’ cried Lady Arabella. ‘Why aren’t the lamps lit?’ She fumbled for the bell rope, and suddenly, from the deep chair in the corner, George began to laugh.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho! You’ve all been nicely taken in. It’s only a dead bird.’

  Fanny spun round on him.

  ‘George! Why are you hiding there? Is this a horrible joke you’ve played?’

  ‘I didn’t play the joke. I didn’t put the bird there. But it was funny to see Nolly jump. You’d really think it had bitten her
.’

  Lizzie had come hurrying to answer the bell. Lady Arabella turned on her angrily.

  ‘Why haven’t you lit the lamps half an hour ago? You know Miss Olivia comes here to sew. Do you expect her to do it in the dark?’

  ‘But I did light them, ma’am!’ Lizzie protested. ‘Really I did. They must have gone out. Look, this one’s still warm.’

  Nolly’s face was buried hard against Fanny’s breast. Fanny only hoped her own rapidly beating heart was not further upsetting the child. But she couldn’t help her feeling of unexplained dread. Someone had played a horrible trick on the children, put a dead bird in the birdcage, blown out the lamps…Why?

  ‘Then didn’t you fill them?’ Lady Arabella snapped. ‘Can’t you be a little more thorough in your work? Here I fall asleep on my bed, and am woken by banshee shrieks all because you’ve been too lazy to see that the lamps were burning properly. The child wouldn’t have got a fright if she could have seen this bird properly. Let’s have a look at it.’

  Lizzie, muttering something under her breath about the lamps being properly attended to, re-lit them, and in the soft glow the poor mute motionless creature was clearly visible. It wasn’t even a real bird, but just a realistic concoction of feathers, with a small sharp beak. Fanny remembered seeing it somewhere before, and suddenly recognised it as belonging to one of Aunt Louisa’s bonnets. She had used to wear it to church last winter, nestling among veiling and ribbons.

  It was only someone who knew Nolly’s phobia about birds who realised how much of a fright this would have given her. But who, apart from George with his retarded sense of humour, would have wanted to frighten a child?

  The disturbance had brought Aunt Louisa and Amelia hurrying upstairs.

  Aunt Louisa was furious.

  ‘Who has been destroying my bonnets? Mamma, surely—’

  Lady Arabella’s eyes went completely cold.

  ‘I’m not senile yet, Louisa, much as you might like to think I am. No, I don’t go about blowing out lamps and frightening children.’

  But she had always enjoyed frightening them with her stories, Fanny remembered, and then comforting them with sugar plums. She had enjoyed her power over them.

  ‘George! Amelia—’

  ‘Mamma, don’t be idiotic,’ said Amelia. ‘A silly old artificial bird. I wouldn’t even think of such a thing.’

  George was laughing again, the snigger of a schoolboy who has enjoyed a practical joke.

  ‘I don’t know who did it, but it was deuced funny. I say, make the child get over it, Fanny. She can’t have been that scared.’

  But Nolly, Fanny realised, was not going to get over this last shock. Too many shocks had been accumulating inside her. She had gone suddenly limp in Fanny’s arms, and seemed as if she were really ill.

  ‘I’m taking her to bed,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Louisa, but I think this time the doctor ought to be sent for.’

  There was a great fuss about that. Aunt Louisa pooh-poohing pandering to what were probably only tantrums, but at that moment Uncle Edgar came upstairs to see what was going on and was instantly alarmed.

  ‘The child’s sickening for something. By all means, the doctor must come. I’ll have him sent for immediately.’

  ‘She isn’t sickening for something, Uncle Edgar,’ said Fanny. ‘She’s merely had a very bad fright. But can we talk about that later?’

  She was carrying Nolly’s limp, too light body back to the nursery, Marcus clinging to her skirts whimpering. She heard Uncle Edgar’s loud voice as she went, ‘God bless my soul, Mamma, what next! If you want a new parrot I’ll buy you one, but to play games with dead birds!’

  ‘If I play a game, Edgar,’ came Lady Arabella’s voice, slow, distinct, and far from senile, ‘it will be a much cleverer one than that. And one that I will win.’

  By night-time Nolly had a high fever. The doctor had been, and given her a sedative which had sent her into a heavy sleep. He had heard the story of what had happened and said that contrary to sickening for some disease, the fright, to such a highly-strung child, might well bring on a brain fever. The utmost quiet and good nursing were essential. And there must be no more shocks. Her short life had held too many already.

  Leaving Hannah (Dora was infected with the uneasiness in the house and jumped every time a door opened or a curtain billowed in a draught) beside the sleeping child, Fanny went downstairs. She didn’t want dinner, she was too distressed for that, but there were things that must be said. She had reached a conclusion in the last hour that made her more angry than afraid.

  The meal was over, and the family was in the drawing room.

  George sprang up eagerly at her entrance, and Amelia asked, ‘How is poor little Nolly?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ said Fanny briefly. ‘Uncle Edgar, I shall not, of course, be able to accompany you to London tomorrow.’

  Uncle Edgar pushed aside his glass of port, and said in distress, ‘My dear child, is that sacrifice really necessary? You had set your heart on this expedition.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle, I had. But someone is equally determined that I shouldn’t go.’

  Now she had everybody’s startled attention.

  ‘Whatever is this, Fanny?’ Aunt Louisa demanded. ‘I admit I never thought that extravagant journey to see an old man who has probably lost his memory was at all necessary. But this stupid childish joke with the bird in the cage was meant only to amuse the children, surely. It had nothing to do with you. I never heard anything so extraordinary.’

  ‘I think it had everything to do with me,’ Fanny said clearly. ‘Someone must have been jealous of my going, or perhaps had an even more serious reason for stopping me. Anyway, you all knew Nolly’s fear of birds. Whoever put the bird in Great-aunt Arabella’s room was quite aware that the child would be scared out of her wits, and probably ill. And that consequently I wouldn’t leave her. It’s really very simple indeed.’

  As they all stared, she added, ‘If it was only meant to frighten the children, then that’s even worse. I think whoever would do that is a devil.’

  She rubbed her hand across her forehead, wearily, and heard Aunt Louisa saying in a put-out voice, ‘Edgar, surely it isn’t necessary to question the servants. Fanny is making a mountain out of this silly business. After all, I should be the one who is upset. It was my bonnet that was ruined.’

  ‘It isn’t a trifling business, Aunt Louisa,’ said Fanny. ‘Nolly is seriously ill.’

  Uncle Edgar was on his feet, looking as perturbed as his comfortable after-dinner flush would allow.

  ‘Now come, Fanny, if you’re finding hidden meanings in a prank, I can surely find one in your implication that neither your aunt nor Amelia nor any of the servants, even Hannah who has seen you all through enough illness, is capable of looking after that extremely spoilt little girl. Stop talking nonsense, and prepare to leave for London in the morning, as we arranged.’

  ‘You know I can’t. You know I won’t. You must have heard the doctor say Nolly could develop brain fever. She has already been crying for Ching Mei. She hasn’t mentioned her amah’s name for weeks. Next she will cry for her mother. And if I disappear, too, then what do you imagine the consequences will be? No’—her eyes went round the room—‘if someone played this horrible trick to keep me here they have succeeded very well. I will write to Mr Craike explaining the position.’

  Nobody had wanted her to go to London, she knew that. They had all had their separate reasons. Even Uncle Edgar hadn’t wanted to miss the hunt. But now, because she had made the accusation, they all had smooth astonished faces, as if incredulous that she could think herself so important.

  The fact that no one could deny was that the bird had been put in the birdcage, and had succeeded far too well in providing the necessary upset.

  George was the most likely culprit, and yet it seemed at once too clever and too simple a plot for him. Perhaps he had had his grandmother whisper in his ear. Aunt Louisa had grudged the money spent on Fann
y, and Amelia the attention. Uncle Edgar’s seeming acts of generosity were not usually such unselfish ones…

  ‘Oh, poor Fanny!’ Amelia cried, suddenly springing up and throwing her arms round Fanny. ‘It is true, she gets all the worry. Let’s make up to her for her disappointment, and give her a really wonderful birthday next week.’

  ‘A splendid idea,’ said Uncle Edgar in a relieved voice. ‘And you write a letter to Craike, Fanny. Ask him all the things you want to know. He’ll answer them as well in writing, as in an interview. Get it done tonight, and give it to me. I’ll see it gets away by the post in the morning.’

  ‘And Fanny, don’t sit up with that child all night,’ Aunt Louisa ordered. ‘I’ll look in before I go to bed, and the servants will take turns. You’ve really brought this indispensability on yourself, by your own behaviour.’

  ‘If Ching Mei hadn’t died, it wouldn’t have happened,’ said Fanny, and again the blank faces looked at her.

  ‘Well, you’d better have that out with Sir Giles Mowatt,’ said Uncle Edgar. ‘He let the prisoner escape. He’s tightened up regulations now, he tells me. Vows there’ll be no more escapes. Fellow’s away to Australia by now, I believe.’

  ‘Aus-Australia!’ echoed Amelia unbelievingly.

  ‘That’s what they think. A ship bound for the Antipodes sailed from Plymouth a day or so later. And there goes a murderer scot-free. He’ll probably make his fortune in the goldfields. Ah well, life’s a funny thing. Most unfair at times. Most unfair.’

  Amelia made a movement as if to say something, men stopped. Her face was white, her eyes darkened.

  ‘Papa—’

  Her father waited indulgently for her comment. When none came, he said, ‘What is it, my dear?’

  ‘Are you all right, Amelia? You look pale.’

  ‘I’m quite all right, Mamma. It’s just that talk of escaped prisoners makes me nervous. Sometimes at night—the ivy taps on my window—and I almost scream.’