The Tale of Cuckoo Brow Wood

by ALBERT, SUSAN WITTIG

  She hadn’t gone very far along the footpath when she heard Jeremy calling her name. She turned and waited for him.

  “I saw you walking with the new girl,” Jeremy said. “I thought p’rhaps the two of you were having a private talk, so I didn’t try to catch you up until she’d gone on.”

  “It wasn’t exactly private,” Caroline said, as he fell in step beside her. “We were talking about Harold Beechman. Did you notice that he’s been giving her a wide berth all day? He’s afraid she’s going to turn him into a frog.”

  Jeremy chuckled. “I s’pose it’s that bright red hair and that great lot of freckles. And those green eyes, of course. She does have a witchy way about her, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  Caroline did not remind Jeremy that his own hair had a reddish tint, although his eyes were gray, not green, and fearless and direct. “I don’t have to pardon you,” she replied. “Deirdre’s the one to do that. But I don’t think she’d mind if she heard—not coming from you. She says you’re nice. And clever.” The minute she said it, she found herself wishing she hadn’t, although she couldn’t quite think why.

  Jeremy reddened and ducked his head. “The eye of the be-holder,” he muttered. “How’s she getting on with the Suttons?”

  “I shouldn’t like to have to work the way she does,” Caroline said, sticking her hands in her pockets. “Laundry and dishes and babies’ baths, and only a pallet in the attic to sleep on.”

  “You’ll never have to work that way,” Jeremy replied matter-of-factly. “You’ll be a lady when you grow up, and ladies have servants to do all the work.”

  Caroline colored. She didn’t like to think of it in those terms. In New Zealand, people were more alike than they were in England. It was true that her mother had hired people to help with the house and garden, but she had rolled up her sleeves and worked right alongside them, never too proud to do her own part. It was something Grandmama would never dream of doing, not in a million years. Why, she’d be completely helpless if she didn’t have Emily and Mr. and Mrs. Beever to do for her.

  “What if I don’t want to be a lady?” Caroline asked, lifting her chin.

  “It’s not something you can choose,” Jeremy said flatly. “Hasn’t your grandmother told you that?” His grin was crooked. “Maybe Deirdre could turn all those little Suttons into frogs. Then she wouldn’t have so much washing-up to do.”

  “Oh, yes, frogs,” Caroline said, and told him about finding a frog for Deirdre to show to Harold.

  “I can lend her Thucydides,” he said, “if she’ll promise not to lose him. He’s a toad, but Harold won’t know the difference.”

  “Thucydides?” Caroline frowned. She knew she was supposed to know who he was, but she’d forgotten. “Didn’t he write something?”

  “A history of the Peloponnesian War. He’s the first historian who tried to figure out what really happened, rather than just retelling old war stories.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes, thinking that Jeremy was the only boy she knew who would name a toad for a Greek historian who had been dead for centuries. In fact, Jeremy was the only boy she knew who read the same sorts of books that adults read. Really, it was a great pity about his not being able to go to grammar school.

  “Thucydides is all over warts,” Jeremy said with a grin, as they reached the beck and went along beside it. “Even for a toad, he’s ugly. Ugly enough to scare Harold Beechman out of his wits, if he’s convinced himself that Deirdre’s a red-headed witch.”

  “Poor Harold.” Caroline ducked under a willow, laughing, then stopped herself. “We’re joking about it, but Deirdre doesn’t think it’s funny. Nor would Mrs. Kittredge, I suppose, if she heard what the villagers are calling her.”

  Jeremy shrugged. “You’re right—but that’s not going to stop the Harolds of this world. Anyway, have you seen her? Mrs. Kittredge, I mean. I caught a glimpse of her with the major at the Sawrey Hotel, going in to dinner the other evening. A great lot of flaming red hair, a swirly black cape, and a big black hat with feathers. She must want people to see her as—”

  “Unusual,” Caroline interrupted firmly, finishing his sentence for him. “Lots of people don’t dress the way they’re expected to. And anyway, it’s nobody’s business what she looks like—except Major Kittredge, of course. But he mustn’t care, because he married her.” She paused, considering. “Speaking of witches, Jeremy, how do you feel about fairies?”

  Jeremy raised one eyebrow. “Fairies? Well, there’s Puck.” When Caroline looked at him blankly, he added, “He’s in Puck of Pook’s Hill, by Rudyard Kipling. I read it just last year. Which of the fairies did you have in mind?” He threw out an arm. “There’s quite a lot of them, you know. Giants, trolls, kelpies, brownies, goblins, imps; tree spirits and mound spirits; heath-people and hill-watchers; leprechauns, pixies, nixies, folk, and gnomes—and lots more I can’t remember.” He took a deep breath. “And then there’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, with Titania and Oberon and the rest. And Peter Pan, too, of course, but you must know about him, because didn’t Miss Potter give you the book? Why are you asking?”

  It was just like Jeremy, Caroline thought, to be able to recite a list of all the sorts of fairies anybody had ever described. “Because Deirdre says she can see fairies, that’s why,” she replied. “She got the gift from her mother and grandmother, although she says she hasn’t seen any fairies since her mother died. She wants to go looking for them. She really believes in fairies,” she added, trying to explain. “I thought I would like to . . . well, you know. Help her keep on believing.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, to see if he was going to laugh.

  He didn’t. Instead, he said, with complete seriousness, “Well, the old books say that fairies prefer to live among oak trees. The Druids thought the oak was sacred, and made magic wands from it. So we ought to look for someplace where there are lots of oaks.”

  “I thought of Cuckoo Brow Wood, of course,” Caroline said in a rush. “Deirdre says that May Eve is the very best time to see fairies, but we were wondering whether it might be a good idea to scout out the best places ahead of time. Saturday afternoon, p’rhaps.”

  “Sounds like a good scheme to me,” said Jeremy. He gave her a searching look. “Do you believe?”

  “I’m . . . not sure,” Caroline said. She paused uncertainly. “Do you?”

  “I think it’s like Father Christmas. You only really stop believing when you grow up and have to start acting the part yourself.” His chuckle was edged with bitterness. “And I don’t have to grow up for . . . oh, another few weeks, at least.”

  Caroline supposed he was talking about having to leave school, but she didn’t like to mention it, for fear of making him sad. “Personally, I should like to put off growing up as long as possible,” she said. She kicked at a stone. “When you grow up, you have to do what people expect you to do, whether you like it or not.”

  And if you didn’t do what was expected of you, you made other people unhappy, as well as yourself. Her father, for instance, had refused to become an English gentleman and do the things Grandmama wanted him to do, so he had run away to New Zealand to be a sheep farmer, which hadn’t made him very happy, either. Caroline had given this a great deal of thought lately, for she was beginning to realize that Grandmama expected certain things of her, as well, all in the name of growing up and becoming a lady. She had the feeling she wasn’t going to like doing those things any more than her father had, but she didn’t think she’d have the courage to run away, as he did. And where would she go? The sheep station had been sold and there was nobody left in New Zealand.

  Jeremy chuckled. “That makes two of us, then,” he said, “having to grow up and do things we don’t want to do. So we shall just have to put off growing up as long as we can. Maybe we can do that by believing in fairies.” Now very serious, he leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “And when we see a fairy, we can make a wish and he’s bound to grant it.”

  “I
s he?” Caroline asked dubiously. “I hadn’t heard that.” Jeremy straightened and gave her a crooked grin. “That’s because I just made it up.”

  “But it sounds as if it must be true,” Caroline said, to comfort him. “I’m sure it’s true, Jeremy. I’ll think of a wish for me, and you think of a wish for you, and we’ll find a fairy to grant both of them.” Which was silliness, of course. But she wasn’t going to say that out loud and spoil things.

  “It’s a bargain,” Jeremy said. “But I don’t have to think very hard.”

  “Neither do I,” said Caroline. She had meant to wish that she would not have to be a lady—at least, not the kind her grandmother intended—but she had changed her mind.

  She would wish that Jeremy could have his wish. That Jeremy could go to school.

  10

  Jeremy Discusses the Situation with Rascal

  Jeremy and Caroline came to the place where they always said goodbye, and Jeremy watched as Caroline crossed the beck at the gravel ford and walked up the path to Tidmarsh Manor, which reminded Jeremy of a stone fortress. The sight of it always made him feel sorry for Caroline, for the forbidding old place was built of chilly gray stone, with a gray slate roof and narrow windows—not a bright and happy place for a young girl. And behind the manor, climbing the steep slopes of Claife Heights, rose the mysterious wilderness of Cuckoo Brow Wood.

  Jeremy regarded the woods thoughtfully. He’d heard it said that the Fairy Folk had lived there once. They made their homes in Cuckoo Brow Wood, well beyond the open woodlands of larch and ash, up near the top of Claife Heights, hidden in secret places among the ancient oaks, where the dim forest floor was hummocked with mosses, thick and plush as green velvet. There was a path, although he’d never taken it very far. They—he and Caroline and Deirdre—could start at the gate on Saturday afternoon.

  “Jeremy, Jeremy!”

  A flurry of barks startled Jeremy out of his imaginings, and he turned. “Hullo, Rascal!” he exclaimed, as a small brown dog came hurtling toward him. He knelt down and opened his arms. “What have you been up to this afternoon?”

  “I’ve spent an absolutely ripping day at Oatmeal Crag, digging out rabbits and chasing squirrels!” Rascal enthused, putting his paws on the boy’s shoulders and licking him enthusiastically on the chin.

  The little Jack Russell terrier, who lived at Belle Green with Mr. and Mrs. Crook, often went along with Jeremy as he tramped through the moors and up the fells, looking for animals to sketch. He had been with the boy as Jeremy drew the old badger who lived at the top of Holly How, the pair of frisky red squirrels who lived in the oak at Wise Een Tarn, and the shy pine marten they had found in Colthouse Wood. Rascal often said that Jeremy was the only boy in the village who’d rather draw and study a fox or a stoat than set traps for them.

  Jeremy stroked the little dog’s ears. “How would you like to look for fairies with me on Saturday, Rascal? Caroline and Deirdre are going, too. Deirdre says she’s able to see them, and it doesn’t hurt to pretend.”

  “Fairies?” Rascal barked excitedly. “Oh, ra-ther! There once was a fairy village near Fern Vale Tarn, at the top of the woods. Oak Folk, if I remember right. The Professor would know, or Bosworth Badger.” Rascal knew, of course, that the boy—like most humans—didn’t understand what he was saying. But that might change, he reasoned. It never hurt to try.

  With a gloomy look on his face, Jeremy sat down on a large boulder beside the rippling stream. “I’m afraid we won’t have many more tramps together, Rascal. The spring term will be finished in a few weeks, and school will be over.” His heavy sigh was resigned. “And everything will change.”

  Rascal licked the boy’s face. “Change? I don’t understand.”

  Another sigh. “I’ll be grown up, you see. I’ll have to go to work.”

  “Work?” Rascal gave an astonished yip. Dogs, like a great many animals, live in the present moment and do not give much serious thought to what the future might bring. And Rascal, of course, was fully employed. He monitored strangers in the village, mediated disagreements among the other dogs, and slept with one eye open on the porch at Belle Green, keeping watch against possible trespassers. Still, he didn’t think of what he did as “work,” and he hadn’t thought of Jeremy as needing a job, either. The idea that the boy might not be free to wander the woods and fields forever came as a thunderous shock.

  Jeremy picked up a stone and tossed it into the beck, watching the ripples widen across the surface. “I’m to be an apprentice, Rascal.”

  Rascal stared. “An apprentice?”

  There was an undertone of bitterness in Jeremy’s voice. “I’m not a gentleman’s son, you know. They go to public school, and when they’ve finished, they go on to university. After that, they can do anything in the world they like. But boys of my sort go to the village school, and when that’s done, they’re grown up. No more books or games or tramps through the woods. They go to work.”

  “Oh,” Rascal said. Yes, of course. He knew that the village boys left Sawrey School when they were thirteen—most of them glad to be free of it, too—and went to work, usually doing the same things their fathers did, cutting wood or quarrying slate or burning charcoal or herding sheep. He just hadn’t thought of this happening to Jeremy, who liked books and learning as much as he liked the woods and fells.

  A black grouse rattled out of a nearby ash coppice, tempting Rascal to a chase, but the terrier paid no attention. Of course, Jeremy was very clever, and would likely get on well in the world. But Rascal felt that there was an injustice here. He couldn’t quite get his mind around it, but if gentlemen’s sons were able to continue with their studies, it seemed a bit thick that Jeremy should have to go to work.

  “Aunt Jane has found an apprenticeship for me,” Jeremy went on in a somber tone. He picked up a stick and used it to draw designs in the dust at his feet. “Two, in fact, so I’m to have a choice. Roger Dowling has offered me an apprenticeship in his joinery. And Dr. Butters says that the apothecary in Hawkshead is looking for a boy who is good with sums. I’m sure I should be grateful. Either is better than working in a slate quarry or burning charcoal.”

  “Mr. Dowling would be a good master,” Rascal said tentatively. The joiner’s shop was a warm and cheerful place, with the sharp smell of clean wood in the air and fresh sawdust underfoot. And Mr. Dowling was a generous man, who always saved the family’s soup bones for Rascal.

  “I don’t want to make things hard for Aunt Jane,” Jeremy said, turning the stick in his fingers. “She does the best she can for both of us, so I try not to let her know how much I want to go to Kelsick.”

  Rascal pushed his cold nose against Jeremy’s hand. “Kelsick?”

  Jeremy sighed. “Kelsick is the grammar school at Ambleside. Miss Nash encouraged me to take the entrance examination and I passed with high marks. If I went to Kelsick, I could learn Latin and Greek and study drawing and painting. Some of the Kelsick boys have gone on to university—to Oxford and Cambridge, even.” He glanced up at a jay scolding down at them from the branch of a willow. “But there’s the tuition, and books and supplies. And Ambleside is ten miles away. I’d have to have a room, and there would be the cost of meals. It’s far more than Aunt Jane can manage.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeremy,” Rascal said sadly.

  Jeremy sighed again. “So either I must be apprenticed to Roger Dowling and be a joiner, or go to the apothecary in Hawkshead.” He gave Rascal a crooked smile. “Which would you choose?”

  “Neither,” Rascal barked decisively. “I like to drop in at the joiner’s shop now and then, but I shouldn’t like to spend all day hammering and sawing. I shouldn’t like to count pills and pound powders, either. Both are respectable trades, I’m sure, but they’re not for me.”

  “I thought so,” Jeremy said, reflecting that it was a comfort to discuss the situation with the little dog, who—even though he didn’t understand a word you said—could always be imagined to agree with you, whatever posit
ion you took. He sighed gloomily and fell silent for a moment, trying to picture himself astride the joiner’s bench all day long, a saw in his hand, wearing a canvas apron with pockets full of nails. Or dressed in a white coat, standing behind the apothecary’s counter from dawn until dusk, surrounded by jars of pills and bottles of potions.

  Aunt Jane was right, of course. It was all very well to dream, but he ought to be glad that he had a choice, and that whatever he chose, he would be working indoors, out of the wind and weather, at a trade that earned people’s respect and enough to live on, eventually. She said the other boys would envy him, and he guessed she was right there, too. Harold Beechman, for instance, who was going to work alongside his father in the slate quarry, which was cold in winter and hot in summer and dangerous the year round. Harold would be glad of a chance to sit on a joiner’s bench and wield a smoothing plane.

  But Jeremy wasn’t glad. He didn’t care a fig whether or not he was envied, and he didn’t want to grow up and go to work. He wanted to be a schoolboy, wanted to study and learn, wanted it so urgently that he could feel the desire like a hot, sweet taste in his mouth.

  “It’s too bad that fairies can’t really grant wishes,” Jeremy muttered, thinking of what he had said to Caroline.

  “Why, of course they can,” Rascal replied in surprise. He knew this was true, although he had never had occasion to put it to the test.

  But Jeremy only sighed, stood, and looked down at the little dog. “Tomorrow, then.” He put his hands in his pockets, and turned away in the direction of the cottage he shared with his aunt.

  Sadly, Rascal watched him go. Dogs, as you no doubt know from your own experience, don’t need to be told what humans are thinking and feeling; they have an intuitive sense of it, sorrowing with their favorite people, and taking pleasure in the things that make them happy.