Too Close to the Sun

by Jess Foley

  ‘Very good, sir.’ The driver touched his hat, flicked at the reins, and they were starting off again.

  Dr Ellish had come to the house only to find that his supposed patient was not in residence, and had departed in high dudgeon. Edward, on his return not too long afterwards, had found that Grace was missing and had flown into a rage. How, he asked Rhind, could he have been so idiotic as to go rushing off for a doctor when that had been such an obvious ploy to get him out of the house. And now his wife had gone away, and there was no telling how he was to get her back. Rhind had seen his master angry before, but it had been nothing to the fury that he now found turned upon him. It had occurred then to Edward that perhaps there was a way. Perhaps, he thought, the boy was still in school.

  ‘Do you know which direction Mrs Spencer took when she left the house?’ he had asked.

  ‘The maid said she saw her going east, towards Corster.’

  ‘Then perhaps she didn’t go to the boy’s school first.’ Rhind then had been ordered to get the carriage and drive to Culvercombe and see if Billy was still there. As it turned out he had been, and it was no difficult business to get him out of his class and into the carriage. Now the boy was safely in the house, shut in his room.

  Getting hold of Billy and bringing him back had done nothing, however, to diminish Spencer’s anger towards Rhind. Leaning across the desk, he had said to him, ‘Now get out, but stay handy in case I need you. And let me tell you one thing: if ever you let me down again like this you’ll be out of my employ.’

  Rhind could scarcely believe that he was hearing such words, and had left the study with his humiliation burning and his resentment building. His own anger was not directed at Mr Spencer, however, but at his master’s wife – who had spelt trouble from the very first day.

  As he walked along the passage he glanced to his left where a maid had left the door open and he found himself looking in at the first Mrs Spencer’s studio. He pushed the door wider and stood for some moments in the open doorway, gazing in. Then, after glancing swiftly around him to see that he was not observed, he went inside.

  The portrait was the thing that had attracted him. The first Mrs Spencer’s portrait, unfinished, of the companion.

  He stood before it for some minutes and then stepped closer. Nearby, on the painting table was a candlestick and a box of Lucifers. He took up the small box, opened it and took out a match. He held the match in his fingers for several seconds and then struck it.

  He put the match’s flame to an old rag that had been left near Mrs Spencer’s palette. The rag flared and, using a paintbrush, he pushed the burning rag acrosss the table so that its burgeoning flames licked at the corner of the painted canvas.

  The journey, just over three miles, seemed to Grace so very long. She reminded herself that Billy walked it both ways on every one of his school days, but on the other hand his route would not have been the same. He would not have kept to the roads but would have taken shortcuts on footpaths across the fields. Further to Grace’s increasing desperation, the pair of cobs that drew the cab were old and made their way slowly, one of them occasionally wheezing in a disturbing way. Just after the crossroads near Coleshill they came to a long, very steep hill, and looking at the climb before them the driver pulled the cab to a halt, then turned and apologetically asked Grace and Kester if they would mind getting out and walking. Otherwise it would be too much of a strain on his animals, he added. At once the pair agreed to his request, and Kester helped Grace down and began to walk up the hill beside the horse-drawn cab. Walking behind Kester, up the long, steep incline, Grace sometimes felt that the journey seemed unending. But then at last they reached the top and the carriage came to a halt and Grace and Kester got back into their seats. Moments later they were off again.

  In the studio Rhind watched rapt as the portrait was consumed. But the flames did not stop with the picture. In a very short time they had spread, first igniting the easel on which the canvas had rested, and then taking in the table on which was held the array of painting materials. So quickly the fire was getting out of hand, and all at once Rhind’s gleeful fascination was gone and he was trying to put it out. He took cushions from chairs and tried to beat out the flames, but it was not now possible, the flames had taken hold and would not readily relinquish their grip. And already now the flames had spread and were rushing up the curtains at the nearby window.

  And now Rhind could see the futility of his efforts and, after turning helplessly on the spot for a moment, he dashed from the room, terrified of being observed near the scene of the growing disaster.

  It was several minutes before one of the maids ran to find Edward and told him that there was a fire.

  The light was beginning to fail as they neared their destination, and then, turning a bend in the road, Grace saw the dark shape of Asterleigh on the side of the hill. At the sight she gave a little cry, her hand flying to her mouth, while Kester gasped. ‘Dear God!’ Grace cried, ‘the house – it’s on fire!’

  The servants were out on the forecourt as the cab stopped and Grace and Kester scrambled out. The smell of burning was almost overpowering, and the roar of the flames was a constant terrifying sound. Grace looked quickly around her, and then dashed over to Mrs Sandiston’s side. ‘Where’s Billy?’ she asked her, raising her voice to be heard above the noise of the flames. ‘Have you seen Billy?’

  ‘No, I haven’t, ma’am. Not lately, anyway.’ Mrs Sandiston, usually so in control, wrung her hands, while tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘I saw him come in earlier and go upstairs with Mr Rhind.’

  Grace looked around for Rhind, but he was not to be seen. ‘What about Mr Spencer?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen him anywhere?’

  ‘I think he must be still in the house, ma’am. Mr Rhind too. I think they’re trying to save whatever they can.’

  Kester said, ‘Has anyone gone for the fire brigade?’

  ‘Mr Johnson rode off,’ Mrs Sandiston said. ‘But it’ll take ages for them to get here.’ She waved a hand at the burning building. ‘And then what will they be able to do? It’s spreading so fast.’

  As Mrs Sandiston spoke the last words Grace turned and ran towards the house. She was joined immediately by Kester.

  It was the left, western part of the house that was burning, great flames belching out of the broken windows all along its lower face, the smoke, dark and thick, coming out in great clouds. The front door had been left open by the servants, and Grace and Kester ran up to it, quickly looked inside and then dashed into the hall. On entering they saw at once that the fire had spread along the ground floor passage and was licking at the left flank of the stairs, threatening to spread up to the first floor.

  The air was full of smoke, and it burned the backs of their throats and stung their eyes. Kester, followed by Grace, ran towards the right flanking stairs and bounded up, a hand covering his mouth. Reaching the first-floor landing, he turned and said to Grace who came hurrying after, snatching for breath after the dash up the stairs, ‘You look in the rooms here, and I’ll go on up to the floor above.’

  She nodded at him, her eyes smarting, and turned and dashed away. In the same moment Kester swung about and continued on up the stairs.

  Grace’s first destination must be Billy’s room, and she hurried towards it. The fire had not reached this part of the building yet and she was able to make good progress. She had to be quick, however, for she feared that the fire would catch up at any time.

  Reaching Billy’s room, she flung open the door. It was empty. His unfinished kite lay on his dresser as he had left it. There was nowhere he could be hiding. She turned and ran on to the next one. She flung this door open too, and found it empty also. On the landing she turned in a circle, for a moment at a loss as to which way to turn. Then, with direction once more, she set out to look in every room in the eastern wing.

  Kester, reaching the floor above, had immediately run around the gallery, dashing past the two figures in their niches. They,
fixed, unmoved by the scene of the disaster, stood looking out over the hall, their gazes focused on infinity, untouched, unaffected by the smoke that drifted over them. In between them the empty niche stood thrown in deeper shadow.

  Kester finished his dash around the gallery and ran on towards the western wing. He was growing more desperate now, as the flames here were terrifyingly threatening, and he knew there must be so little time. With the crackle and roar of the flames and smoke coming up through the well of the wide hall, he turned from the gallery and dashed along the landing, calling out as he went: ‘Billy! Billy!’

  One who heard the call of Kester crying out was Rhind, who arrived at the other end of the gallery just as Kester ran from it onto the landing of the west wing.

  So, Rhind thought, the man Fairman had come into the house looking for the boy …

  Kester called again, and had got almost to the end of the landing when he heard a voice cry out from behind a door, ‘I’m here!’ and he turned at the sound and found the door with a key turned in the lock. In seconds the door was open and he was going in. Billy came towards him with eyes wide with fear.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Kester said as the boy wrapped arms around him. ‘It’s all right.’ He held him tightly, reassuringly, just for the briefest moment, then said, ‘We’ll get out of here now. Come on.’

  Holding Billy by the hand, he hurried to the open door and looked out along the landing. He could see that smoke was now pouring onto the landing, while he could feel the heat growing by the second.

  Opposite the room in which they stood was another room, with its door open. Kester could see that it was a bathroom. At once he took off his coat and, snatching at Billy again, ran across the landing. Inside the bathroom he wasted no time but at once bent over the tub and turned the taps on, so that the water came gushing and splashing into the tub. Without hesitating, Kester threw in his overcoat, saturating it in seconds. Then, lifting the heavy coat out, he called to Billy, ‘Come here. We must keep you safe from the heat and the flames …’

  Billy immediately stepped to Kester’s side and Kester knelt down and lifted the wet, heavy coat to wrap it around the boy’s body.

  And then suddenly the room was filled with a greater movement, and Kester and the boy turned and saw that Mr Spencer was there, terrifyingly close, his eyes the eyes of madness, rushing in with hands outstretched and screaming Kester’s name in fury. Kester had no chance at all. Before he had time to react, Mr Spencer was upon him, all his weight behind the attack and, seizing Kester by the shoulders, was slamming him back against the bathtub. With a crack that rang in the room, Kester’s head struck the tub and he fell, toppling sideways onto the floor.

  Mr Spencer, barely spending the time to observe the result of his attack, looked back over his shoulder onto the landing and saw the smoke hanging in the air, felt the great heat from the nearing flames. Then, looking back from Kester to the boy, he snatched up the wet coat and wrapped himself in it, the cloak section up over his head like a hood.

  Grace, having looked in every room in the eastern wing of the house, came running from the landing back towards the stairs. Her heart was thumping in her breast, and her breath came in gasps. As she reached the stairs she looked out into the well of the hall and saw that the fire was consuming the tapestries and the curtains. The flames seemed to be strengthening by the second and were now right up the western staircase, past the first-floor landing, and halfway up the next flight.

  Where was Billy? And where was Kester?

  High above in the cupola the brilliant windows cracked and shattered in the heat and now came crashing down onto the marble tiles below. Grace turned; she must go up to the third floor. As she put her foot on the first step to start up, she glanced upwards at the gallery on the floor above, high above which the cupola filled with the billowing smoke. And in spite of her panic and terror a part of her mind registered that the dark figure was back in his niche: Rigoletto, crouching there, partly hidden behind the shifting veil of smoke that passed before it. But for some reason, perhaps due to the smoke, or the heat haze, it looked somehow unfamiliar. It was larger now, and its stance was slightly different.

  And then a movement beyond the figure caught her attention and she saw the figure in the familiar grey ulster come out of the landing entrance onto the gallery, and she called out, ‘Kester! Kester!’

  The man turned at the sound of her voice and looked towards her and at the same time the statue in the niche moved.

  It moved. She could see it move. And seeing it her heart lurched and she screamed out. Before her eyes it seemed to straighten a little, and as she watched it balanced itself and then leapt.

  ‘Kester!’ she shrieked again. ‘Look out! Look out!’

  But as the figure in the coat took the warning and spun, Rhind was already upon him, leaping across the small width of the gallery and catching him even as he himself was seen.

  And in that same moment Rhind saw his mistake. But it was too late, and as he clasped his master’s body to his own they fell against the rim of the railing. Grace heard Edward cry out, ‘Christ! Oh, Christ!’ and watched as for a moment they hovered there like dancers executing a delicate manoeuvre. For a moment it appeared that they might yet gain safety, but it was not to be, their imbalance had gone beyond saving. Another second, and with their actions appearing almost in a motion that was slower than in reality, they teetered against the rail and then toppled over.

  Grace, her hands to her mouth, saw them fall with a thud onto the marble floor below.

  She heard then a cry that brought her gaze upwards again, and now she saw Kester coming staggering through the smoke, pulling Billy by the hand. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. But the next moment they were through, and dashing round the gallery to Grace’s side. She saw at once that Kester was bleeding from his head, but she made no mention of it; there would be time later.

  ‘Quick,’ she sobbed as they reached her, gasping from the smoke and the heat, ‘we can get out the back way.’

  And the three turned from the burning hall and gallery and dashed back along the landing. Here the air was relatively clear, and was so much easier to breathe. Moments later they had reached the top of the servants’ stairway, and with Grace ensuring that Billy was all right, they hurried down.

  Reaching the ground floor, they dashed through the passage near the kitchen and out into the air.

  There, outside, moving away from the house, well away from any perceived danger, they came to a stop and huddled together, their arms around each other.

  Now, now at last, they were safe.

  Epilogue

  A gypsy has called at Birchwood House, selling paper flowers, clothes pegs and little sprays of heather for good luck. She has come to the rear door, and by chance has caught the master of the house as he goes towards the garden, a tray in his hands. He looks at the basket holding the caller’s goods and shakes his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be any help to you at all,’ he says. ‘You’ll need to speak to my wife.’ And Grace comes immediately behind him, and he says, ‘Please, ma’am, talk to my wife,’ and, freed of responsibility, murmurs a ‘Good day,’ and moves on towards the garden.

  On the grass of the green lawn Billy and Sophie are lounging on rugs, taking in the sun of a glorious September. They are dressed in their oldest clothes, clothes suitable for lounging in the garden without having to heed the risk of grass stains. There is a tray nearby, bearing glasses and a pitcher that has recently held lemonade. And there are tea plates too, now holding only crumbs. In a few days the two children will be starting back to school.

  Kester appears, sets down the tray of tea things and takes his seat in a garden chair.

  ‘Where’s Mama?’ Sophie says.

  Kester replies: ‘She’s talking to a visitor, a caller.’

  ‘Who?’ asks Billy.

  Kester lowers his voice to answer, ‘A gypsy lady – selling things.’

  ‘What is she selling?�
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  ‘Oh, all kinds of things. She has a basket full. Clothes pegs and paper flowers and things. I’m a coward, so I left your sister to deal with her.’

  After a couple of minutes Grace comes from the house and takes the vacant chair facing Kester’s.

  ‘Did you buy anything, Mama?’ Sophie asks.

  Grace nods. ‘A few pegs, that’s all. Mrs Lovegrove said we could do with them.’ She looks at Kester and says, lowering her voice, ‘She said we’re going to have a boy.’ As she speaks she lays her right hand on the swell of her belly. ‘She said she can tell.’

  Kester chuckles. ‘And did that bit of information cost you?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Was she talking about the baby, Grace?’ Billy says.

  ‘Of course. What else.’

  ‘I hope it is a boy,’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ says Sophie, ‘so do I.’

  As Grace pours tea for herself and Kester, Sophie says, ‘Was it the same gypsy woman who had the birds?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ Grace says.

  ‘What birds?’ asks Billy.

  With contributions from Sophie, Grace tells of buying the birds, the golden oriole, the thrush and the skylark, and letting them go. ‘You remember,’ Grace says. ‘I told you about it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Billy says. ‘I wish I’d been there.’

  A minute passes, and Sophie says, ‘I can’t wait for the baby. Oh, it’ll be so exciting.’ She looks over at her father. ‘Won’t that be exciting, Papa?’

  ‘It will indeed,’ he says.

  ‘What will he be when he grows up?’ Sophie asks. ‘Will he be an architect like you, Papa?’

  Kester laughs. ‘Oh, not necessarily. He can be anything he wants to be.’

  ‘Anything?’ says Billy.

  ‘Anything,’ says Kester. He pauses, then adds, ‘As with you two. If I had my way you would be whatever you want to be in life.’