by Joan Aiken
The whole glen, for Lucy, now seemed filled with the cottage’s aura; she could not wait to leave. Craning her head out of the window she backed dangerously fast down the rough track until there was room to turn and rejoin the main village road. Her call on Colonel Linton at the vicarage would have to wait; she did not feel she had the stamina to deal with him at present.
But halfway along the village she braked.
“Aunt Fennel I think I will try to take a couple of your pills—and I’m dying for a drink of water. There’s a girl living in that cottage who’d give me one, I daresay—could you bear to wait another couple of minutes? Or will you come in too?”
“Oh, I’ll wait, dearie, thank you. You can lock me in again. Baker’s Cottage—let’s see, that was empty when I left. Wonder who’s in it now?”
“People called Carados—strangers to the village,” Lucy supplied obligingly, as she relocked the car.
The name appeared to mean nothing to Aunt Fennel, who settled herself placidly.
“—Yes?” said Fiona Carados, opening the door. “Oh, it’s you again, what d’you want?”
“I wondered if you’d be kind enough—oh,” said Lucy, “you’ve had your baby then!”
“It does happen; old Dame Nature’s way,” Mrs. Carados rejoined coolly. “That wasn’t what you came to tell me, however?”
“No; sorry; could you be very kind and let me have a glass of water to take a couple of pills with, do you think? I’ve got a splitting headache.”
“You do look rotten.” A trace of sympathy became apparent in Mrs. Carados’ well-bred voice. “Come into the kitchen and sit down. Sure you wouldn’t rather have a whisky?”
She seemed a great deal more relaxed than on Lucy’s previous visit.
“No, just water’s all I want, thanks.”
The kitchen, this time, was in a slightly less baleful condition of clutter; faintly here and there signs of tidying-up were apparent. A very minute infant slept in a Moses-basket on the floor.
“That’s my bub; isn’t he a funny,” said Fiona, handing Lucy a thick white mug of very cold water.
“You can’t have had him long; isn’t it rather soon for you to be home from hospital?”
“I never got there; by the time I began to feel a bit queer it was too late. Even the old sawbones didn’t arrive till it was all over.”
“Good heavens.” Lucy swallowed the tablets and eyed her hostess with respect. “Must have been scarey for your husband.”
“Oh, he wasn’t here either; I’d slung him out. Horrid little tick. Anyway he wasn’t my husband,” explained Fiona, in whom childbirth seemed to have worked a liberating change.
Lucy found it hard to think of an appropriate comment.
“I see,” she said, and took another swig of water.
“It’s marvellous not to have Robin skulking furtively around being ashamed of my non-marital status,” Fiona confided. “Only thing, I’ll have to find a way of earning some cash. How’s the head?”
“Improving, thanks. What did you do before?”
“Ran a boutique in the King’s Road. Sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, much better. I ought to get back to my aunt, and thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome. Something tells me,” Fiona said, glancing through the window at the desolate main street of Appleby-under-Scar, “that there wouldn’t be much demand for a boutique hereabouts.”
“I guess not.”
“I suppose you couldn’t lend me a fiver?” Fiona remarked suddenly and casually. “Bloody little Robin, you see, doesn’t send me anything at all now, though the baby’s his. But the rent here’s paid up till December, so I’m damn well not shifting till then.”
“Well—” Lucy was not particularly keen to part with her own scanty cash. She hesitated.
“Or we could make it a sale if you don’t like loans,” Fiona went on. “Buy something—anything you fancy—how about my old bit of rabbit?” She gestured towards a shaggy bundle—could it be sable?—slung carelessly over the handlebar of the pram.
“Thanks, but you’ll be wanting it yourself here, come winter. Anyway I’m not crazy about fur.” Suddenly Lucy was visited by a brilliant idea. “Tell you what though—the picture you had over the sitting-room mantelpiece—is it still there? Could I have that?”
“Good God, yes. Can’t think why you want it, but have it, by all means.”
“Your landlord won’t object?”
“If he does I’ll tell him the baby was sick on it. Shouldn’t think he’d notice actually—for one thing he hardly ever comes to the house. Doesn’t care for the set-up,” Fiona said dispassionately. “Here, I’ll reach it down for you—thanks”—as Lucy dug out five pound notes—“that’ll keep us in Cow-and-Gate and Scotch for a week or so.”
“That’s good.” Covetously hugging Adam and Eve and the Serpent, Lucy made her way towards the door.
“By the way,” Fiona said casually, “weren’t you looking for some old girl with a funny name last time you came this way? Culpepper, Fenella Culpepper, something like that?”
“Yes I was.” Lucy paused with her hand on the door-handle. “Why?”
“I just wondered if you’d found her, that was all.”
“To be honest,” said Lucy, “I really couldn’t tell you.”
VIII
The large white metal basket containing Lucy and Dr. Adnan revolved round and then, without ceasing its horizontal spin, turned right over vertically, describing at the same time a complicated figure-eight jiggle.
“Holy cow!” exclaimed Lucy. They were securely strapped in, but she made a grab for the rail.
“Pray do not be discomposed, my dear Miss Lucy Snowe. No harm will come to you, I promise.” Dr. Adnan was laughing at her, a large expanse of impeccable teeth in his pink face. Through the pale strands of her tossed hair, Lucy grinned back.
“I’m not scared, thanks; it’s just that I hadn’t expected it. But I’m glad I didn’t have any lunch!”
“No lunch?” He looked disapproving. “You young ladies have no notion at all of looking after yourselves. Had I known this when we met outside the dentist’s surgery I would have given you some beer and sausages first—”
“Couldn’t possibly have eaten them,” Lucy told him. “I had a headache.”
“A headache?” For the first time his total satisfaction with himself and the occasion seemed shaken. “Had I known that I would never have suggested coming to this noisy place.”
“It’s all right; I thought this might do it good. Kill or cure.” From their loftily revolving perch Lucy looked down at Kirby fun fair spread out below. “And it has; I feel much better. All the fresh air!” She laughed at him as she vainly tried to control her blowing hair; the basket spun over once more.
“What brought on this headache?” Dr. Adnan inquired professionally.
“Oh, my headaches are a bit odd; they often seem to come on for no reason. And then sometimes they go just as quickly. This one did that; I’d had it since yesterday afternoon. It’s gone now.” Lucy avoided mention of High Beck; she still did not want to dwell upon exactly what had happened there—if anything had—and she felt certain that Dr. Adnan would have a strongly sceptical attitude towards any such phenomena.
“Well, let us now go and have a coffee to complete the cure.” Their basket glided down to ground level, and the door automatically opened. An attendant came round, undoing safety-belts. The passengers climbed out unsteadily, giving one another sheepish smiles.
Adnan led Lucy to an open-air lunch bar under a plastic palm, where he bought her a paper cup of coffee and a large rectangle of something that resembled sandstone.
“Parkin,” he explained gravely. “A local delicacy. Oh, but I was forgetting that your forebears came from these parts. And this, I am afraid, is not quite the best cup of c
offee you ever drank. No matter; another time we will do better.”
“It’s okay. It’s hot.” Lucy drank the coffee gratefully and then glanced at her watch.
“Pray do not keep doing that. It gives me a feeling of impermanence when I wish to enjoy myself in your company. Your old lady is safe with Fawcett for a good two hours—he told me he had a lot of complicated bridgework to perform. And he has a very nice little receptionist-nurse who will keep an eye on her should he finish before you return. So relax and have fun!”
“I’m not used to doing that.”
“So I can see. I shall have to teach you.”
Dr. Adnan was plainly an adept at having fun. Today he wore a dark-green suede waisted jacket, a white frilled shirt, buckled shoes, and a lot of rings. Stocky, dapper, and cheerful, he set about the business of their entertainment with immense firmness of purpose.
“Another slab of parkin?” he said, taking one himself. “No? You should get your weight up, you know. In Turkey young ladies as thin as you are not considered sexually attractive.”
“Too bad. Anyway,” said Lucy, “we are not in Turkey now. Dr. Adnan I want to talk to you about my aunt’s paintings. I really want to get hold—”
“A—” He raised a reproachful hand. “Later, later. Let us not mix business with pleasure! I brought you here to give you a good time. Let us continue to do so within the limits provided. What would you like to do next? Bingo?”
“Good grief, no. One of those stalls, perhaps?”
The fun-fair ground was dotted about with circular booths offering prizes for feats of skill: darts, hoop-la, air-pistol gallery, and more esoteric games involving goldfish bowls, ping-pong balls, miniature shrimping nets, and magnetic fishing rods. The prizes were large, shiny, and hideous; the booths ill-patronised; Dr. Adnan looked at them disparagingly.
“I consider those sideshows a gross waste of money, not worth it.”
“Rather stingy with your cash, aren’t you? I thought you proposed to give me a good time?”
“Come, come, my dear Miss Lucy Snowe, a girl of your sense would not wish to fritter money and energy on such stupidities; for one thing the odds against winning any of those ugly objects are weighted at about a hundred to one.”
Lucy knew this was true; however, she gave Dr. Adnan a malicious crossed-tooth grin and said that she wanted to win a goldfish.
“It will be company for me and Aunt Fennel at Wildfell Hall.”
“I doubt if Mrs. Marsham allows pets. I do not at all approve of your dragging this poor old lady up to that place.”
“Oh, and why not?” asked Lucy, receiving eight ping-pong balls in exchange for half a crown, and tossing one of them on to a glittering tableful of goldfish bowls with narrow necks; it bounced into a bowl, bounced out again, and was fielded by a world-weary lad with a shrimp-net.
“Bad luck. It is too solitary, that village. In Kirby, at least there is company and the amenities of civilisation. Up there, who knows what may go on?”
“She likes it up there. It’s her native heath.” Two more of Lucy’s balls went astray.
“Hard luck. Well, we shall see. Myself, I think Mrs. Marsham will change her mind. You will arrive there this evening to find yourself not welcome. Then what?”
“Back to Mrs. Tilney, I suppose.” Three more balls bounced off the table.
“Hard lines. Ah well, I suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, my housekeeper could accommodate you.”
“Oh, so you have a housekeeper, do you?” The last ball shot on to the grass.
“Tough cheese. Naturally I have a housekeeper, a most capable one. She has a genius for cookery (an accomplishment I doubt that you possess, Lucy Snowe); she is also kind-hearted, unmalicious, and intelligent.”
“A perfect paragon,” said Lucy coldly. “As a matter of fact I cook quite well.”
“I rejoice to hear it. Shall we try this roundabout?”
“Yes, let’s. Isn’t it pretty?”
“Remarkably so. It quite puts me in mind of your aunt’s art.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it. Talking of which—”
“A—a! Pleasure first. Allow me to help you up.”
The main roundabout was indeed charming. The seats—gaily painted horses—hung on ropes in rows of three round a central steam-organ whose silvered pipes rose up to a cluster of baroque decoration embodying enormous sequins and fluted glass in gaudy red, green, yellow, and sugar-pink. Dr. Adnan swung Lucy expertly on to a central horse and took a seat beside her on the outer one, nodding significantly as he did so to the man in charge.
“One of your patients?” inquired Lucy.
“Just so. How small you look perched on that fiery steed. Ah well, we have a proverb in Turkey: all excellent things are found in little packets.”
“We have it too; but I thought you said young ladies as thin as I were not considered—”
“Hold tight, we are off!”
Lucy could not help suspecting that Dr. Adnan had bribed his ex-patient to run the roundabout at twice the normal pace, for they soon accelerated to a frenzied, a demonic speed; the fair ground about them blurred into a series of vague stripes, and the centrifugal pull swung their horses out until the cables were nearly horizontal; Adnan must have been a habitué, for he rode nonchalantly, with one elbow crooked round his rope and the other arm gallantly supporting Lucy, who found she had to use all her energy to stay sitting on her horse and to keep breathing; as soon as she snatched in a gulp of air it seemed to be sucked away out of her backwards until she felt like a balloon that has been untied and left to whirl about until it expends itself.
“How you can sit there so calmly—” she gasped, when the mad circuit began to slow down and gravity reasserted its pull.
Dr. Adnan smiled imperturbably.
“It is all those days of youth spent riding a mettlesome camel in the desert.”
“Are there camels in Turkey?” Lucy asked with suspicion.
“If there were not, how could I have ridden them? Allow me!” He lifted her down and supported her solicitously while her endolymph continued to revolve.
“Now, how about a turn on the Dodgems?”
“Good God, no!”
“You may come in a car with me and I shall drive; all you need do is relax.”
“Thanks, but I would definitely prefer not!”
Lucy had already had experience of Dr. Adnan’s driving; after their encounter on the dentist’s doorstep he had swept her down to the fun fair in his Alfa with an insouciant disregard for steep hills, blind turns, and traffic lights; she felt sure that his technique on the Dodgems would be still more uninhibited.
“I’d like a hamburger now,” she said firmly. “All that release of adrenalin has made me hungry. And then I must go back to my aunt.”
“Devoted girl! Very well, if you insist.”
Taking her arm, he piloted her to the hamburger bar where he bought her a Giant Log Cabin Planter’s Punchburger and a Super Kreemy Dairy Nut Maple Butter Swiss Surprise.
“Now tell me about yourself. You interest me greatly, dear Miss Lucy Snowe,” he said, taking an enormous bite of his own Kingsize Yorkshire Bangerburger. “For instance, what is your profession? Something tells me you do not intend to spend your life washing up dishes for old ladies.”
“I’m a pianist; going to be a pianist.”
“Aha! With whom do you study?”
“I’m going to learn with Max Benovek.”
He looked up sharply; studied her attentively.
“So? It is to be hoped that you will prove a speedy and proficient pupil.”
“I shall,” Lucy said with calm certainty.
“And how shall you afford his fees? Players of a reputation such as his, in a state of health such as his, do not teach for chicken-feed.”
�
�He said I was not to worry about his fees. So I’m not worrying. But of course I shall pay him back if I get the chance. In the meantime I’ve sent him one of Aunt Fennel’s pictures; it was the best present I could think of.”
“Good God, my dear girl, what a singularly reckless thing to do!” Adnan appeared startled and not best pleased; he set his coffee mug down with a splashing jolt.
“Why?” It was Lucy’s turn to scrutinise him intently; she pushed aside her fringe.
“Why? Are you not aware that Benovek is a friend of Picasso, of Britten, Kermansky, Writtstein? If he likes this picture—as no doubt he will—in no time there will be a horde of experts and collectors descending like lemmings, like locusts, hunting for every scrap of material that your aunt ever pinned together.”
“So what? That’s what I hope. They’ll pay handsomely, and the old girl will end her days in comfort.”
“Lucy, Lucy, you are a simple, naïve, trusting girl! (That is why I have taken such a fancy to you),” Dr. Adnan said in parenthesis. “But I think it unlikely that matters will work out as you expect, I think it very unlikely. For one thing there is the small but important question of present ownership. All those dear souls in the village who still have pictures; do you think they are likely to endow your aunt with the proceeds if art dealers come offering them hundreds of pounds?”
“Of course they will,” Lucy said stoutly, but she did suffer a slight qualm. Ought she to write a warning to Max Benovek? No, the thing was simply to get on with collecting pictures as fast as possible. Living up at Appleby would facilitate this.
“Then what about the uncle who employs you to hunt down the old lady’s works? If they become international art treasure it will complicate his affairs. Did you know that an export licence is needful if you ship out of the U.K. a picture or bit of sculpture worth more than two thousand pounds? The worthy British are not averse to selling their best art abroad; they just want to be sure they make plenty of cash out of it.”
“I somehow doubt if Aunt Fennel’s pictures would be valued at sums like that. Who decides, anyway?” Lucy took another bite of Planter’s Punchburger.
