The Cottingley Cuckoo

by A. J. Elwood

  The latest dream I ever dreamt

  On the cold hill side.

  I saw pale kings and princes too,

  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

  They cried – “La Belle Dame sans Merci

  Hath thee in thrall!”

  … And this is why I sojourn here,

  Alone and palely loitering,

  Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

  And no birds sing.’

  My words fade, the feeling of them hanging in the air like the contrails above, soon to be gone. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to think. The poem is full of death and melancholy, but there’s magic in it too. The words are seductive and as I read a kind of greed swept over me, a longing not only for the beautiful fiction but for the language. I’ve missed this. I’ve had so little time for reading since I abandoned my course to return to my mother; and then there was Paul, and now there is Sunnyside. Still, I have no idea why Mrs Favell wanted me to read it. Is she going a little bit mad?

  She murmurs under her breath:

  A fading rose fast withereth too.

  I feel the slightest brush of something on my cheek: her touch? Her breath? I jump and turn towards her, but her eyes are closed and she’s unmoving, though she says, ‘Yes, that’s it. What did it make you think of, Rose?’

  Death. Melancholy. ‘I don’t know.’

  She keeps motionless as a statue, as if waiting for the rest. Then she snaps her head towards me, though her eyes remain in deep shadow. ‘Do you wish to read more of my letters?’

  I open my mouth to speak, to make some instinctive excuse perhaps, or with sudden dizziness at the thought that she possesses more: more lovely artefacts, but most importantly, more of the story. I realise how very much I do want to read them and I say, ‘Yes please,’ like a ten-year-old asking for ice cream.

  ‘Then you need to learn to be honest with me.’

  Abruptly, she stands and walks away. Her figure is as slender as a girl’s and her silver-white hair looks almost golden in the light. She’s as elegant as I’d imagined her to be when I first saw her. It could be a young woman walking away from me and I stare after her. It takes me a while to realise she’s left the book after all. The page is still open in my hands and at the same moment I focus on my name printed there I hear someone calling my name. It’s Patricia, no doubt wondering why the new girl’s slacking already, why I’m not doing whatever I’m supposed to be doing; certainly not this, sitting alone in the sunlight with dreams of fairies floating through my mind. I stand quickly, and for want of anywhere else, shove the little book into the pocket of my tunic. It fits perfectly, almost as if it was made for it.

  * * *

  12th September 1921

  Dear Mr Gardner,

  It was with great pleasure that I received your letter, with your extremely interesting and exciting news. We were especially delighted that it followed on so quickly from my sending you the approximate copy of my missive to Sir Arthur, who unfortunately has not yet been able to reply, being, as I’m sure he is, extremely taken up with the many demands on his time.

  But to hear that we may be included in a book – and one written by Sir Arthur! That is thrilling indeed. Charlotte in particular could scarcely rein in her astonishment and delight.

  Naturally, you will wish to view the fairy first, and you are most welcome to do so at any time you require. I am sure you will be satisfied with it. I can only express how pleased I am that Sir Arthur is undeterred by the naysayers all about him and is desirous only of discovering the Truth. In that, I shall remain his servant, most particularly so should he ever wish to visit in person. I believe it is laudable to turn the light of scientific enquiry upon what some would describe as an unknowable world, as well as upon that of touchable things. If he could achieve his wishes, and prove the existence of a spiritual realm—! But I shall try to set aside my excitement, and answer the questions you put, before turning to another thrilling matter.

  I believe you are quite correct in your supposition that a sunny day is best for catching a sight of the little folk. It was indeed summer, an especially bright day, and almost noon when we had our glimpse, though both of us felt quite well, and there was no question of our being overwhelmed by heat stroke. There was a little haze in the air over the meadows, but once in the glen it was not especially hot, being pleasantly shaded by trees and with the cooling influence of the beck.

  It is an interesting notion that ‘higher vibrations’ may be detected in the noontide shimmer, and indeed that it was some peculiarity of the day or something inherent within ourselves that made us able to see them. It is possible indeed that fairies lie outside our usual visible colour spectrum, though I must say that the little skeleton is quite visible in the shade of our outbuilding, at least with the assistance of my magnifying glass. Do you think there is something special about that lens, and perhaps that of a camera, that has the same effect?

  To your next point, however, that we might have glimpsed some ‘thought-form’, a type of reflection of our innermost imaginings – I think that is what you meant? – I can say that the little body certainly possesses an objective reality, and I am sure when you visit you will come to the same conclusion.

  You also posit that the fairies may be from a different branch of evolution from that of humanity, perhaps even springing from the same line as winged insects. Having seen the remains, I consider that rather likely. Indeed, the fragile wings are veined like those of a dragonfly, although the skeleton itself did remind me rather more of a bird. Perhaps they could be related to both somehow, or indeed neither? Without the examination of someone rather more expert in these matters, I doubt we shall be able to hit upon anything conclusive.

  In answer to your last point, your certainty that Harriet’s tender age and innocence will assist in future sightings is very encouraging. As you say, Elsie and Frances are possibly now too old for such things. I am afraid, however, that the question of whether my granddaughter has some loose-knit ectoplasmic material in her body, giving her a special clairvoyant power, is beyond my ability to ascertain. I am also unsure as to whether the Wright girl and her cousin growing up and perhaps even falling in love should entirely end the possibility of their seeing fairies. I saw them myself after all, though no doubt with less clarity than Harriet, whose eyes are younger and sharper. She was certainly the first to notice them and draw my attention to their presence.

  I so look forward to being able to discuss these matters in person. Until such time, and spurred onward by your news, I have not been idle. I rather felt that I should renew my acquaintance with the fairies, and attempt to find such evidence of the living beings as I can.

  With that in mind I have several times turned my steps towards Cottingley Beck on my wanderings, often accompanied by Harriet’s mother, who is most intrigued by the whole matter. We have naturally encouraged Harriet to go with us, being curious as to what she might espy, but we have been a little hampered in this by her own inclinations. I am sorry to report that my granddaughter has taken a sudden aversion to the place. She insists the fairy man stung her, though I am certain I saw no tiny spear or any possible means by which he could have done so. When asked why he would do such a thing, being a dear little creature as he is, she replies only that he did not like being looked at.

  Sadly, I have not on any other occasion seen a fairy. Charlotte is the only one among us with anything out of the ordinary way to relate.

  She was standing apart from us when it happened, as I had taken Harriet to examine some rather fine fungi that had sprung up at the base of a fallen ash tree. We had persuaded the child to come with us, even to venture close to the spot of her original sighting, but I am afraid she closed her eyes tight shut and refused to open them until I led her a distance away.

  Charlotte remained by the beck, and I last saw her settling upon a low branch to better enjoy the cleansing air of the stream, her face dampened by the cold spray. She appeared quit
e serene, and so I was startled when she began calling for me.

  We hurried to her side. I did not like her look; her countenance had paled, whilst her eyes glittered with almost unearthly excitement. For a moment she could not speak, though I kept asking ‘What is it?’, and Harriet was stricken and pulled incessantly on her mother’s sleeve.

  At length, Charlotte calmed enough to say ‘little dancers!’ and she pointed at the rock where I had found the fairy body. She went on to explain that she saw lights playing over the water, and thinking them nothing but reflections had, rather dreamily, half closed her eyes, when suddenly she made out a brighter flash among them, in the most exquisite shade of lightest turquoise. That was followed by one in soft green and another in lilac; and then she saw the swirl of skirts, the gleam of golden hair, and the points of tiny, bird-like eyes, which, she said, were ‘quite dark’.

  She thought she made out sounds also, as of diminutive pipes almost beyond the range of her hearing, and said she imagined she could have followed that sound all the way to Fairyland. She did admit later that it might simply have been the sound of birdsong combined with the powers of suggestion, but that, of course, is mere supposition.

  That was when she had shouted, and the lights vanished at once.

  The emotion they engendered was very marked and apparent however, for when she finished relating the incident she covered her face and burst into tears. I felt quite overcome myself. I wonder what the feelings of mankind shall be, when all may share in the certainty of the existence of such extraordinary beings! The thrill of it sounds in my blood!

  For a full ten minutes, all my daughter-in-law could add was that they were ‘so beautiful’. Harriet said nothing; she stood scowling by with her arms crossed over her chest, and refused to look for them at all. And so, after I had cast about and found nothing, we made our way home, where we scarcely knew what to do with ourselves for the wonder of it. I resolved to note it all down in my diary, so that I should forget nothing and could later, if called upon, recount it fully. It is by my side as I write.

  Harriet watched as I made my record, though she continued rather sulky and refused to comment. She would only say that she thought the fairies ugly, and that they did not truly dance at all; and she would not be drawn further on the subject.

  That is the whole of our first-hand experience since my last letter. It is not everything however, for I have endeavoured to be your faithful assistant and have made visits to certain of our neighbours to ask their views, concentrating particularly on those with young children or who live nearest the beck.

  I recognise that the newspapers made assiduous enquiries following the article in The Strand which unveiled the photographs, but the villagers here are not the most forthcoming to strangers, and suspicion is easily aroused. Particularly telling, I thought, was their reaction as related in the Westminster Gazette this January (yes, I am rather afraid I saw it). That the local folk dismissed the story as untrue deterred me not at all, since that seemed entirely in character with their bluff way of repelling incomers. Of more interest was the comment that no one else had seen the fairies, but everyone in the village was aware of their supposed existence.

  Of course, that could be taken to mean they all knew of the stories put about by Elsie and Frances. But it seemed to me suggestive of some older knowledge, particularly when viewed against their reluctance to speak of such matters, as if some deeper current prevented them.

  At any rate, I decided to approach them openly, if not as a local of the requisite number of generations at least as a fellow resident, and ask them directly what I had before only alluded to in our limited conversations. I hoped in this way to overcome any reluctance they may harbour, but I am sorry to say they continued, if anything even more taciturn.

  The Wrights would not see me at all, though I suppose I cannot blame them for it. The attention from various newspapers as well as the idle curious and impertinent sceptics must have greatly stretched their patience, and since you have been in regular contact with them yourself, it was scarcely worth placing further pressures upon the family.

  But I found an equal measure of reluctance throughout the village. Heads were shaken; others laughed; one old gaffer, only slightly more talkative than the rest, told me to my face to ‘have a care’.

  Another grandam said not a word and left me standing in the doorway whilst she rustled about within. I had begun to doubt whether she intended to return when she appeared again, as silent as before, and pressed a battered volume into my hand. Then she closed the door in my face. The book was Edwin Sidney Hartland’s The Science of Fairy Tales: An Inquiry into Fairy Mythology, though it is surely too old in its ideas to be of much use now. I suppose she was at least trying to be helpful, but there’s ‘nowt so queer as folk’, as they say in these parts.

  Needless to add, I shall continue my observations until such time as you can come. To that end, and in emulation of your experiments, I have sent for a camera, having made enquiries for the same type as was used by the Wright girl. The Midg quarter-plate should be here imminently, and I shall keep you apprised of the results; I may only hope to be as fortunate as she.

  Again, it is a shame that Sir Arthur is unlikely to be able to see our little elfin skeleton in person. My daughter-in-law has a volume she particularly hoped he might sign; but such a great man must be under terrible pressures. We very much anticipate your own visit. To think that you were here in August, and we did not chance to meet! It is a pity that the Wright girl and her cousin had not then the opportunity to get more pictures, as they had the previous summer. As you stated, there was the most dismal rain. And it is true that a small seam of coal has been discovered in the locality, but there is not so very much disruption, I trust, as to prevent our own enquiries.

  We shall hope for sunshine, and a steady hand to point the camera, and the good fortune to choose our moment; and we look forward to welcoming you to Cottingley as early as you are able.

  Yours sincerely,

  Lawrence H. Fenton

  4

  Once again I stare down, completely bewildered. Mrs Favell had selected the letter from her bureau with care, as if deciding what I might see and what was beyond me, and handed it over as if giving a treat to a dog. This much, and no more. Papers rustled enticingly – on purpose? She sat in silence while I read it aloud and she’s silent now, but she still manages to convey her disdain. She stares at me staring at the letter, and I feel her gaze. I see the dark shape of her eyes in the periphery of my vision, in shadow, since she’s sitting in her place by the window.

  What an odd thought it had been, to think she might bear any relation to the lady in the letters. Charlotte in particular could scarcely rein in her astonishment and delight. That isn’t Mrs Favell. Despite her invitation to read to her again, she remains stern, unsmiling, unbending. It occurs to me to wonder how long she has been alone. Is that why she’s like this – is she lonely and bitter? Did she have a difficult life – has she been treated so very badly?

  I should try to understand, even pity her. If my mother had lived, she might have one day grown frail. I might have been looking after her like this, or someone else would have. But Mrs Favell is nothing like my mother, and it’s not as if I haven’t tried; I did ask Patricia about her. She suddenly looked all interested and I waited for some kind of detail, but she only said, ‘Perhaps, if you’re interested in becoming her keyworker…?’ I swiftly backtracked, saying something vague about my current duties, and both of us clammed up. Everyone does when it comes to Mrs Favell. Is it only that they don’t like to be reminded of her presence? Whatever the reason, I haven’t asked again. I don’t want to be saddled with her any more than I am already.

  But the letter’s weird phrases are circling in my mind like the crows outside the window, pushing all else aside. Mrs Favell’s room overlooks the little band of woodland at the back of the home – they pay extra for that, apparently – and there’s a column of the birds hanging abov
e it now, spiralling over some death they’ve found. A summer’s day. Vibrations. Loose-knit ectoplasmic material. The writer had sounded as if he’d had to rein in his feelings at that part. And Sir Arthur hadn’t responded after all – what a great shame.

  I’m curious and full of questions, and annoyed because I know she won’t answer them. One letter to reel me in, the next to keep me burning with curiosity. I tell myself that at least it’s a break. I’ve been helping housekeeping all morning – one of their team, a young lad called Dan, called in sick – and my back aches from changing beds, the worst of them soiled. Patricia certainly wouldn’t have allowed me to spare the time if Mrs Favell hadn’t asked her directly, claiming her eyes were tired from the sunlight, although she hadn’t even been outside. I was in the lounge with them at the time, but neither of them had acknowledged me and she doesn’t acknowledge me now.

  They’re probably completely fake, I think. Edward Gardner, Conan Doyle’s friend, might never have seen the letters either. Lawrence Fenton might have been judged a lunatic, locked away in an institution not that different to Sunnyside, and the letters were never sent anywhere or meant anything.

  ‘Of course he sent them,’ she says suddenly, her voice peremptory. ‘He sent all of them.’

  I look up, startled, my mind filling with more questions. Why then hasn’t the world heard of the fairy skeleton? How did these letters come into her possession? But none of them are as insistent as: Did she just read my mind?

  ‘I have them here now, all of them I think.’ Her tone is conversational, as if this was what she had intended to talk about from the beginning. And perhaps she had; she can’t be reading my mind, after all. It would be natural for anyone reading these letters to wonder such a thing. It wouldn’t be so hard to work out what I was thinking.

  ‘One wouldn’t just throw away something of such interest, would one?’ she goes on. ‘One wouldn’t simply leave it all behind.’