But that Ratton was, now, a rich and influential personage was beyond doubt. His mills and factories were churning out uniforms, boots, belts and knapsacks, all contracted to the government. He wore a flashy diamond ring on his little finger and drove a number of luxurious motorcars. He often brought a secretary with him, female, a thin, unsmiling individual, who walked a pace behind him, her shorthand pad at the ready. She seemed trained to anticipate his every need, equipped with a lighter for his cigar or a hip flask of brandy to stiffen his morning coffee, and sometimes a handkerchief discreetly proffered to polish the lenses of his spectacles or dab the dew-drop which periodically gathered on the blob of his nose.
Whenever I was in the room, bringing tea or adjusting curtains, Ratton watched me. His eyes seemed attached to me, as though by threads, and wherever I moved, they swivelled in pursuit, unblinking. I avoided being anywhere alone with him, and, at night time, I placed a chair against the handle of my door. Sometimes, in the mornings, I detected something awry in the kitchen - the pans were not as I had left them, perhaps, a pie had been partially consumed in the larder. One morning I found the back door standing open and the kitchen fire stone cold. Another day the kitchen clock had been stopped so if it hadn’t been for my wristwatch I wouldn’t have known if I was going to be late with breakfast.
I had no proof these annoyances were caused by Ratton although I could not imagine anyone else being responsible - they were just the kinds of sneaky, slightly threatening mischiefs he would conceive of as being amusing devilry, calculated to discomfort me and incommode the running of the house.
I told Rose about my worries who in turn, of course, told Kenneth. He appeared in the kitchen hot foot, flushed with annoyance. ‘Should have told me,’ he barked, ‘that bastard. Fix him.’
‘I don’t know that it’s him,’ I warned.
‘Rig something up,’ Kenneth muttered. ‘A bell, something, so you can let me know.’ He spent the rest of the day stringing an electric cable between his place and my rooms and attaching a switch which I could press to bring him running.
‘You’re sweet,’ I said, when it was done, ‘and I do feel safer, knowing you’re on the other end of this wire.’
‘Wish I could attach one to him, and electrocute him,’ Kenneth said, darkly, and stumped off home.
What we could not have anticipated, though, was that Ratton would switch his interest from me to Awan. She was almost five, very talkative and entirely confident - I had brought her up to have none of the shrinking insecurities and low self-esteem which I had suffered, as a child. She would converse without hesitation with anyone she met, be it the butcher’s boy or the Prime Minister, it was all the same to her. She was almost ready for school, and eager to start; indeed I had already taught her the letters and numbers and the school mistress was encouraging her to read by allowing her access to the school library. Perhaps she was precocious? I don’t know. She was happy, that was all I cared about, with full access to the entire house, the state rooms as well as the attics and cellars and dusty, unfrequented passageways and also the gardens and grounds. She was as at home in the woods as I had been - I had no fear for her, having shown her the secret byways, the best stepping stones across the tumbling streams, the concealed access behind the greenhouses and all the places I had played as a child. She knew her boundaries - the places where she was not allowed to go - the moor, the soggy, boggy grounds at the far side of the north wing where the foul water drained, Kenneth’s workshops, the sty where the boar lived. More often than not, in any case, she was accompanied by Bobby in her games.
Ratton seemed amused by her, sometimes bringing her sweets (a rare treat) and toys. I might find him engaging her in conversation by the fountain while the men meandered round the gardens and smoked their cigars after luncheon, or taking an interest in a book she was looking at. One day she referred to him as ‘Uncle Sylvester’ and I corrected her, sharply.
‘He isn’t your Uncle,’ I said. ‘Uncle Colin is your Uncle, you have no others.’
‘Uncle Kenneth is an Uncle,’ she replied, pedantically, pouting her pretty little lip.
She had me there. I bit my own lips to supress a smile. ‘That’s different. He’s an honorary Uncle,’ I faltered.
‘That’s what Uncle Sylvester is,’ she proclaimed, looking pleased with herself. ‘He wants me to show him all the secret places.’
‘But you mustn’t,’ I said, all amusement banished.
‘Why not?’
‘Because…’ I stammered. How could I explain it to a four year old? ‘Because he isn’t to be trusted,’ I said at last. ‘He found out about my secret place once, and wanted to go there all the time. He couldn’t rest until he’d been there. It spoiled it.’
Awan nodded, solemnly. ‘That’s bad,’ she whispered.
One day, towards the end of November 1941, during a particularly protracted visit by Colin and his cronies, Awan disappeared. The weather throughout November had been wet and very windy and outdoor play had been almost impossible. But as the month drew to a close things had brightened, temperatures had dropped and on this particular day Awan had run off to play amongst the piles of frost-rimed leaves at the edge of the woodland. I saw her from a bedroom window at around eleven. Ratton was with her, draped in a greatcoat which dwarfed his diminutive figure although by then a weak sun shone. At one thirty I prepared a cold buffet luncheon for the men. Rose helped me lay it out in the dining room and then I sent her home. Rose and Kenneth took their meals in their own house now. Their baby, Brian, was a sturdy toddler with a voracious appetite who could not be kept waiting at mealtimes. When I was sure the guests had everything they needed I went in search of Awan. She was nowhere to be found.
I was calm at first - she had no idea of the time and had eaten a hearty breakfast - her stomach might not be telling her it was time to eat. I looked in all the likely places - the ice house, the stables, where one of the dogs had recently whelped and there were puppies to fondle, the glasshouses, where a few deliciously sweet late tomatoes still clung to the vines. No sign of her.
I roamed the grounds, noting a shrub which needed pruning, a silver birch which was being strangled by ivy. Still, I wasn’t especially concerned. What harm could she come to here, at home, where she was safe?
Through the windows of the dining room I could see the men on their feet. Would the coffee still be hot? I went in to check if they needed more, hastily brushing twigs off my skirt and changing my shoes in the kitchen. Ratton gave me a peculiar look, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses.
‘A pleasant afternoon for a stroll in the gardens,’ he remarked.
The men finished their lunch and dispersed to their various occupations. I toured the house - the attics and back passages, the little-used bedrooms in the north wing, the library, where a fire and the books might well have enticed a chilly child to take refuge, but there was no sign of Awan. Her coat and stout boots were absent from the place where we always kept them. I went back out into the afternoon. The sun was sinking away behind the trees. Much of the garden was now an envelope of chill shadow.
I shouted in at Rose’s door. Had she seen Awan? A muffled negative came back to me, no, not in the last couple of hours. Kenneth came out from one of the workshops, wiping his oily hands on a rag.
Kenneth was one of the few able-bodied men left behind by the war; he worked hard helping the lone women in the parish, maintaining people’s vehicles and teaching women to drive them. He’d taught Rose and me, to our great hilarity; we’d taken turns burning the clutch out as we bunny-hopped up the drive, crashing the gears and having near-misses with tractors in the narrow lanes. What I had learned about him over the years was this: he was steadfast and stayed calm in a crisis. Of all men on earth he was the one I’d have chosen to help me deal with Awan’s disappearance, an absolute stalwart of a friend and very fond indeed of Awan.
‘Help you look,’ he said, and I felt my anxiety subside just a little.
W
e wandered the periphery of the grounds, calling Awan’s name, our voices weak and somehow ineffectual in the thin air. Kenneth employed a piercing whistle which he produced from between his teeth. It brought the dogs running immediately and also Bobby, who arrived pell-mell from school on his bicycle - was it really that time already? I wondered, distractedly. I checked my watch. Yes, it was half past three. How long, then, had Awan been missing? From inside the woods I could hear the faint, gelid splash of water as it slid down the mossy runnels and fell onto the accumulations of semi-frozen leaves. Boughs in the canopy creaked in the faint breeze. Very high up in the dome of sky above us, a buzzard circled and cried. An icy hand gripped my heart. Something was wrong; very wrong.
Rose joined us, Brian on her hip. ‘We need to spread out,’ I said. ‘I’ll go up through the woods towards the gatehouse. Bobby, could you check all the outhouses and sheds? Look with your eyes, don’t just shout,’ I admonished. ‘She may be unconscious, ill... She may not be able to reply.’
He ran off, eager for the adventure of it.
I glanced behind me at the house. No smoke rose from the chimneys - the fires would need replenishing. A last slant of sun hit an upper window, gilding its leaded panes into amber mirror. From behind that burnished surface two round pennies of light reflected back even more strongly, winking and shimmering as their source moved his head, and I knew without a shadow of doubt Ratton was there, lurking, observing us from the shadows of the room. At that moment a French door below opened and two guests stepped out onto the terrace and lit cigarettes. ‘Rose,’ I said, ‘the men will be wanting tea.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ she replied, shifting the child to her other hip, ‘and I’ll telephone the village, just to make sure she hasn’t wandered that far.’
Kenneth put his hand on my arm - it was unusual for him to make a physical gesture like this and I understood from it he was as deeply concerned as I was. ‘We’ll find her,’ he said, looking at me intently from beneath his fringe (it had grey streaks in it, I noticed, distractedly). Then he turned and headed for the truck, urging the dogs into the back of it. ‘I’ll scour the moor,’ he shouted, his voice thin and strained, and roared off up the drive.
I took to the woods. My voice calling Awan’s name took on a shrill, anguished tone. I hurried along the by-ways I knew so well, and that I had shown Awan in our wonderful wanderings together, looking for - I don’t know what. A shred of material, a hair ribbon, a discarded boot, a small body, prone and bleeding, its brains dashed out on a rock.
The light was fading, the short day hurrying to its close. Beneath the trees the air had a thick, almost tangible quality, a gloom you could almost grasp. It weighed down every sound making all the usual woodland noises maddeningly mute. In my fevered torment I imagined it would smother Awan’s cries for help. I ploughed on, up the slope, dodging beneath branches and over boulders. The forest floor was thick with pine needles; there was no sign anyone else had passed that way. In the clearings the grass was wet with early dew, and unmarked. There was any number of ways Awan could have taken, always assuming I had guessed her destination. I knew where I would go, of course, if chased, or afraid, or bored or lonely. The gatehouse drew me like a lodestar. But there was no certainty that it would be Awan’s.
Very dimly, down through the belt of woodland in the hollow where the house stood, I could hear masculine voices calling Awan’s name; clearly, Rose had recruited the guests to the search. I imagined them, ineffectually thrashing through the undergrowth and getting themselves lost in the labyrinthine passages of the workshops, sheds and stables.
There was a place in a coniferous part of the woods where a serpentine track wove between the slender trunks; Awan had always liked it especially - the soft, needle-strewn floor, the strong scent of pine, the occasional fir cone which could be found. I looked carefully to see if there was any evidence that she had been here, but there was nothing. The light had dwindled to such an extent the trees themselves were only solid shadows in the more nebulous murk.
Sometimes I thought I could hear the soft tread of a little foot, or even a supressed giggle. ‘Awan,’ I said, sternly. ‘This game is over. It is dark, and time to come home.’
But there was no reply.
Finally I reached the rim of the crater, a couple of hundred yards from the drive and the gatehouse. Several vehicles had joined Kenneth’s on the short turf beside the road. Across the moor I could see lanterns and torches like fireflies, and hear dogs barking. It looked as though the village had turned out to help in the search, and I was conscious, even amidst my increasing desperation, of gratitude.
The gatehouse door was never locked, but an accumulation of leaves inside the little portico which sheltered it lay undisturbed. It yielded at my push. The scullery was dark and full of cobwebs; they caught stickily to my hair as I passed. I put my hand in the sink - it was dry - there was no indication anyone had been there for a drink of water. In the main room dust lay over the table - I wiped my hand across the old, scarred surface and it came away furred. The clock which we kept on the mantel was silent - long unwound. The air was chill and un-breathed. I stood for a long time drawing it into my panicked chest, deriving some unnamed comfort from it, as I always had done. The safe embrace of the walls around me, the familiar furniture and little bits of domestic paraphernalia which I could see in my mind’s eye as clear as if it was bright morning, gave me succour. I fell into the chair by the cold fire, the same chair where I had collapsed with Awan in my arms when she was less than an hour old. I needed John, needed him more than I had ever needed him before and, heaven knew, my need of him on those other occasions had been dire enough. My soul sent out a sort of cry - I don’t think I voiced it - it was more spiritual than a mere shout.
I rose from the chair and half stumbled across the room towards the door, my confidence in my surroundings gone. The sole of my boot hit the edge of a raised floor-slab and I fell against the corner of the dresser, jarring my hip and setting the crockery a-jingle on the shelves. As I steadied myself I felt, on my hair and cheek, the slightest possible brush of something, a falling mote dislodged from the wooden ceiling boards which formed the floor of the room above. All my senses tuned themselves to the room upstairs. My ears homed in, my skin was alive to any breath of air or vibration. My eyes, despite the utter darkness turned up.
Then I heard it. Hardly a sound at all, less than a whisper, the slightest slide of one material against another and the tiniest noise that lips make when they part, the susurration of a drawn breath.
Outside, the men of the village must have called their search off. I could hear voices calling farewell, dogs being urged into vehicles. I cursed them, as though their noise could cause whatever was upstairs to disappear into thin air.
Treading carefully, I crossed the room and put my foot on the bottom stair. All my old assurance in the room had returned to me. I reached out and found the banister under my hand, smooth and solid. I mounted the stairs, avoiding the creak in the middle of the third, the loose board on the sixth, the slightly proud nail-head in the next-to-top. Outside the engines of the cars and trucks coughed into life. Lights pierced the darkness. There was the sound of manoeuvring as they reversed off the grass and turned in the road to head home. Suddenly the lights of one vehicle shone straight in through the uncurtained window. It lit up the room and travelled across the space, illuminating John’s skeletal easels and half-finished canvasses, his table of paints, the divan, covered with a heap of bedding, a small child.
She stood in the middle of the room like a marble statue, white and petrified, I saw her only briefly while the light remained. Lit up from behind, I must have looked to her like a dark, advancing monster. She could only have seen my silhouette, briefly, before the car’s lights slid away and the total blackness of the room engulfed us both again.
Awan started to scream.
She continued to scream into my body as I wrapped her in a quilt and gathered her to myself, pressing
her into the void I had felt earlier, filling myself back up with her. She had never felt so small and vulnerable to me since she had been a new-born and her cries, as then, were an out-pouring of emotion she could not articulate; the pent up anguish of her day finding release. She knew me, and clung to me, her granite stillness of a moment before collapsing at my touch; she could not stand, she was as limp as one of her rag dolls. She was cold to the bone, dehydrated, her little lips as dry as paper; I kissed them repeatedly as her screams blasted my face and penetrated my mouth and ears and heart.
Presently I wrapped her into the quilt and carried her downstairs and out of the gatehouse. All the cars but one were gone; Kenneth’s remained. He had not given up the search. I knew he would never have given it up. Cradling Awan, I opened the door of the truck and leaned on the horn repeatedly, until first the dogs and then Kenneth emerged from the thick night of the moor. He was stained thigh-high in peaty water. He must have been wading through bogs in his efforts. At the same time a posse of guests from the house stumbled from the drive. They were not dressed for adventure; most were still in their smart uniforms and indoor shoes which were snagged and muddy from their exertions. Colin was amongst them of course, both relieved Awan had been found safe and well and annoyed about the drama and distraction her disappearance had caused. He would have chastised her, I think, if one of the elder statesmen had not restrained him.
Tall Chimneys: A British Family Saga Spanning 100 Years Page 16
