Clouds among the Stars

by Clayton, Victoria

  The lights of the car were not less welcome than Ithaca must have been to the travel-weary Ulysses. Archie put the heater full on and soon the inside of the car was as steamy as a Turkish bath. Cordelia was inclined to be indignant with the world in general and the wood in particular.

  ‘I never want to see a tree again. I’m surprised both my eyes aren’t stuck on twigs. Look at my hands!’

  They were muddy and scratched and there was a long red mark on her cheek.

  ‘I think we should all pay homage to Dirk.’ I was delighted to be able to feel proud of him. ‘Without him you’d probably still be lost.’

  ‘I have to admit,’ said Rupert, turning in his seat to view Dirk with favour, ‘much must be forgiven the hound from hell.’

  ‘Give the dog a mint,’ said Archie. ‘I think my shoes may recover with some polish and buffing.’

  ‘Ah, but Dirk was the reason I got lost in the first place,’ said Cordelia. ‘He was chasing a rabbit and I ran after him to save it only I couldn’t keep up and then somehow I got lost.’

  Dirk began to pant, no doubt wondering why our smiles had turned so swiftly to frowns.

  ‘If there is one scratch on the upholstery …’ The rest of what Rupert had to say was lost in a fit of sneezing.

  We continued our journey. The snow drove itself horizontally into the windscreen in a distracting, hypnotising way, and Archie was forced to slow to something just above a crawl. The road became slippery and we slewed round bends as though on skis. Whenever we came to villages with streetlights I tried to see what the houses were like but my view was blurred by rivulets of snow sliding down the glass and forming themselves into miniature mountain ranges on the windowsill.

  My thoughts did their customary round of the people who were always on my mind. I hoped my father was reasonably cheerful and that Maria-Alba was calm, that Portia was happy with Suke, that Ophelia was steeped in luxury and that Bron was enjoying the sophistication of l’alta moda. My mother had telephoned before we left to say that the hotel in Cornwall was surprisingly comfortable and attractive. They had rooms overlooking the bay and the food was good. I wondered whether there was snow in London and if Mark Antony was asleep in his favourite place on my bed or perhaps on his cushion in Loveday’s potting shed.

  My train of thought drifted from those who were dearest to me and turned to Max. When he had telephoned to ask me to have dinner with him again I had refused, explaining that I had work that must be finished before I went away. He had said, quite reasonably, that one evening could not make that much difference. I had remained firm and at last he had rung off, unable to hide his disappointment.

  I was flattered. I lacked the courage to tell him I did not want to have dinner with him because he was married. For one thing, it would have sounded prim and ingenuous. And for another, it would have been an admission that I had been thinking of something more than friendship. What a pity, I reflected, that honesty in human relations is so rarely possible. We are compelled to approach, circle and retreat as though performing the steps of a complicated dance, neither trusting the appearance of truth nor daring to speak it.

  ‘We should be turning right somewhere along here,’ said Rupert. ‘I just saw some lights.’

  I peered into the night. For a second or two I saw something twinkling and yellow, impossibly high up.

  ‘Is it a mountain?’ I asked, feeling thrilled.

  ‘It’s called the High Peak,’ said Rupert. ‘It goes up to two thousand feet. We’ve been climbing for some time.’

  I turned to Cordelia. ‘How exciting, darling, isn’t it?’ But she was asleep.

  NINETEEN

  After the village of Pyenock, the road dwindled to a lane with what appeared to be high banks or hedges on each side. It twisted alarmingly and at one point rose at such a steep angle that the wheels began to spin and I was afraid we were going to slide backwards. Archie growled, gripped the steering wheel and with a scream from the engine we shot forward.

  Stone pillars and then trunks of trees flashed past as Archie negotiated what must be the drive to the house with a final burst of speed that made Dirk lose his footing and by mistake strike me painfully on the temple with his bared teeth.

  ‘Here we are!’ Archie slammed on the brakes and Dirk plunged into the foot-well on Cordelia’s side. Archie snapped on the interior light and grinned round at us triumphantly. ‘Safe and sound.’

  Rupert gave him an expressive look.

  The snow streamed into our faces as we staggered stiff-legged from the car and stumbled up some steps. I had the impression of many windows, extravagantly lit. I thought I could hear, above the wailing of wind, the sound of rushing water. Rupert tugged at the bell pull and without waiting for an answer, opened the front door. Accompanied by a whirl of snowflakes that left wet marks on the stone flags, we walked in. A small vestibule gave on to a substantial inner hall. On a stepladder by the foot of the stairs a woman was reaching up to fasten a star to the pinnacle of a glorious, glittering Christmas tree.

  ‘Rupert, my dear! And Archie!’ She descended the ladder with surprising agility for she was no longer young. I guessed about fifty. ‘What a night to be out in! You must be chilled to the marrow!’

  She came to welcome us, putting out her arms to embrace Rupert. My first impression was of a large-boned woman, broad-shouldered and unfeminine, but her eyes, owlishly magnified behind thick-lensed spectacles, were mild and affectionate. She must have been nearly six feet tall. Her apron covered a generous expanse of hip, but she was muscular rather than fat.

  ‘Pretty nearly.’ Rupert kissed her cheek. ‘How are you, Maggie?’

  ‘Very well, dear, and all the better for seeing you.’ She patted his face tenderly with a large hand. ‘And Archie! Oh, you’ve caught me in my apron.’ She undid the strings of it as she spoke, rolled it up and stuffed it into the pocket of her shapeless brown cardigan.

  ‘Hello, Maggie.’ Archie kissed her hand. ‘You’re as beautiful as a buttercup.’

  This was a reference to Lady Pye’s yellow dress.

  ‘Get away with you, you flatterer!’ But she looked pleased.

  ‘This is Harriet Byng,’ said Rupert. ‘And attached to her a troublesome animal by the name of Dirk.’

  Lady Pye took my hand and pressed it between both of hers. Her face could never have been called beautiful, for her nose was large and her teeth were prominent. Her mousy hair was fastened back in a bun from which curls like wisps of cloud escaped over her forehead. But her face was set in lines of gentleness and good humour, and I liked her at once.

  ‘How d’ye do, Miss Byng. It’s ever so kind of you to come and visit us. And in this weather!’ Her voice was soft, with a strong northern accent.

  ‘It’s very kind of you to have us, Lady Pye. And so good of you to let us bring our dog.’

  ‘I’d like it best if you’ll call me Maggie, my dear.’ She bent to pat Dirk’s head. ‘It’s a grand breed, the St Bernard. There’s something noble about them going out after folks in the snow. But Sir Oswald only likes pointers.’

  Dirk panted and dribbled a bit, looking anything but noble.

  ‘This is my sister, Cordelia.’

  ‘What a pretty child! You’re very welcome, dear. But you’ve hurt yourself!’ Cordelia’s face had dried blood on it and by the light of the huge brass lantern that hung from the rafters, her skin looked waxen. ‘And you’re wet through! You must come upstairs this minute and get out of them clothes. Oh, but I must introduce you … Janet, where are you, love?’

  Janet stepped out from the behind the Chrsitmas tree, her hands full of coloured baubles and tinsel. They looked incongruous with her plain black dress, grey hair cropped to the top of her ears and her expression, which was unsmiling, almost sullen. Her only ornament was a silver cross on her unadorned bosom, which instantly made me think of the nuns. I felt guilty at once, though I knew it was irrational. It was easy to see that she had once been handsome but something – character
or misfortune or both – had worn her face into harsh lines. Maggie took the decorations from her and laid them in a box on a nearby table. ‘This is Mrs Whale, my dear friend and companion and someone I wouldn’t know how to do without.’

  Mrs Whale extended her hand so I offered mine but instead of taking it she stooped to pick up my suitcase. She kept her eyes lowered, not looking at me.

  ‘That’s right, my dear, bring the doggy.’ Maggie went ahead of us up the stairs. ‘He’ll feel strange downstairs on his own till he’s got to know us.’

  Dirk took the steps two at a time and showed none of the shy uncertainty his hostess attributed to him. I hoped his claws would not scratch the wood which, despite worn hollows at the centre of each tread, was polished to a deep shine.

  At the head of the staircase was an extensive landing – like pictures I had seen of long galleries in large country houses – with windows in deep bays down one side. The sky was black and starless and the lights on the panelled wall opposite the windows were placed at distant intervals, dividing the landing into pools of brightness and shadow. Maggie’s feet, shod in large corduroy slippers, made a slapping sound on the bare floorboards. I remembered that this was said to be the most haunted house in England. Something made me look round. Mrs Whale was some way behind us, leaning heavily to one side to balance the weight of my suitcase. I felt guilty again.

  ‘Is this house very old?’ I asked.

  ‘Ever so old, my dear.’ Maggie stopped at the first window, pulling on a pair of white gloves as she spoke and drew the curtains across the embrasure. ‘The first Oswald Pye – he was plain mister – built the house in 1598. A clever man he must have been for he started life as a cowherd. When he died he owned all the mines hereabouts.’

  She carefully stroked the folds of crimson brocade into place, then ran her gloved hand over the lower edge of a picture frame and examined the fingertips for dust.

  ‘What sort of mines?’ I asked.

  ‘Lead, dear,’ was the disappointing answer. I had been thinking of gold, perhaps even rubies and sapphires. ‘Here he is. The founder of the family fortunes.’

  We paused before a portrait of a weasely looking man with small eyes, a yellow, leprous skin and a dingy white ruff.

  ‘Isn’t he the saucy churl that slips his ice-cold, invisible members into one’s bed without invitation?’ said Archie.

  Maggie drew in her breath, her eyes growing large behind the thick lenses. ‘I wouldn’t joke about it, my dear. Really I wouldn’t! “Mr Oswald, hear my prayer, please don’t give me a nightmare. Cease your groans and ghostly murmurs And keep your hands off my pyjamas,”’ she muttered, half under her breath.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ asked Rupert.

  ‘It’s something the children used to say before going to sleep. Jonno made it up when he was a lad. I say it myself whenever I start feeling a bit – nervy.’

  ‘But it’s terrible,’ objected Archie. ‘It doesn’t even scan.’

  ‘Well, no, but to my mind it’s more comforting than a fine bit of verse’d be. Shakespeare and that – they’d be too grand to come to your aid if you needed them.’

  I was interested in this point of view, having been brought up to consider Shakespeare as a reliable source of truth and wisdom, an infallible reference book for the human heart, a faithful friend and alter ego. I wondered who Jonno was.

  I stopped before the next portrait. The subject was less, perhaps, of a scurvy knave. He wore a dashing plumed hat and his eyes were not so close together. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Sir Galahad Pye, the first Oswald’s son.’

  ‘He seems to have benefited from his father’s social elevation,’ said Archie. ‘A brow less villainously low. All the same, I don’t much care for him.’

  ‘Ssh!’ Maggie glanced up and down the landing as though she expected someone, or something, to spring out from behind a tapestry. ‘Old Gally everyone calls him, so as not to muddle him with the Galahads that came after – he was a very fine gentleman. He fought bravely in the wars and didn’t deserve to come to such an end.’

  ‘Which wars?’ I asked.

  ‘The ones against King Charles. That nasty Oliver Cromwell ought to have known better.’

  ‘What was his end – Galahad’s, I mean?’

  ‘His head was cut off by Commonwealth soldiers during the siege of Pontefract Castle and his body thrown into the river. What a way to behave!’ Maggie sounded as indignant as though it had happened yesterday.

  ‘What’s this?’ Cordelia pointed to a glass case on a chest beneath the portrait. It was fastened with a chain wound twice round it, the ends padlocked together. I could just make out something tube-shaped, perhaps eighteen inches long, that was ginger with rust.

  ‘That’s Old Gally’s arm. He lost it fighting for Prince Rupert at the battle of Marston Moor. Hacked off at the elbow. That was four years before he died at Pontefract, you understand. Old Gally had this false arm made to his own design. Quite revolutionary it was, for in those days artificial limbs weren’t up to much. It was said he could pick up even little things, like a playing card or a coin. He spent his last years trying to invent a way of putting them down again. That’s why the family motto is “Hold Tight”.’

  I looked more closely and saw there were jointed metal fingers attached to one end. ‘Why is it kept here in this box?’ I wanted to know. ‘It’s a bit gruesome, isn’t it?’

  ‘The visitors like it.’ Maggie took the apron from her cardigan pocket and used it to dust the top of the chest. ‘We get a lot in the summer. They pay fifty pence to go round the house and you’d be surprised how it mounts up. Then there’s the teas. I give them a good long talk about the history of the family and the estate so they’ll work up a thirst and an appetite. The chocolate cake’s always the most popular. Last year we had a local history group act scenes from the Civil War on the front lawn. We made near a hundred and fifty pounds that afternoon. Of course we can’t compete with Chatsworth and the other big houses. We’re a bit out of the way and the parking’s not easy. But the visitors like to hear tell of the hauntings and Old Gally.’ She gave an extra hard rub to the glass. ‘There’s no accounting for taste.’

  ‘Why is it chained up?’

  ‘The story is that after Old Gally was killed at Pontefract his groom went to look for his master’s remains, to give them a decent Christian burial. But all he found was the artificial arm, caught in a bramble bush on the river bank. A branch of thorns beneath a clenched fist is the crest of the Pye family. The servant brought the arm back to Pye Place and it were put in the chapel so’s folks could come and pay their last respects, for Old Gally was a big man in these parts. They cleaned it up, of course. But the next morning it were rusty. Every time they dried it and cleaned it up, it was always rusty and wet the next time. So they reckoned it was the work of Old Gally’s spirit from beyond his watery grave. That’s what we tell them anyway.’

  ‘How fascinating,’ I enthused, beginning to construct the rudiments of an article in my mind. ‘But that doesn’t explain why it’s chained up in a case.’

  Maggie glanced at me and then at Cordelia. ‘No reason. Just silliness, my dear. Now, where’s Rupert and Archie?’

  ‘I’m here.’ Rupert had been examining a tapestry of the three Gorgons. Their snaky heads, fat scaly bodies and tusklike teeth made them look like walruses with unsuccessful perms. ‘Archie’s gone to change. I presume we’re in our old rooms?’

  ‘You’ll have heard all the stories before,’ said Maggie, ‘and you know how daft folk can be.’

  ‘The willingness of otherwise sensible people to be gulled into believing a lot of unsubstantiated nonsense never fails to surprise me.’ Rupert looked at me sternly. ‘But as Harriet’s career may depend on it we had better be grateful that they are.’

  ‘I’m writing a series for a local newspaper about haunted houses,’ I explained to Maggie. ‘Would you mind if I did a piece about Pye Place?’

  �
�Not at all, my dear. I’ll be glad to give you all the help I can. It might bring more visitors, you never know.’

  ‘And have you ever actually seen a ghost?’

  ‘Look at the time!’ Maggie peered at her watch. ‘Dinner’s at eight sharp. We’d best get a move on. Here we are, my dear.’ She opened a door. ‘I thought you and your sister might like to share a room, this being a terrible place for noises in the night. It’s nowt but the house being so old and so high up. There’s a bitter wind most days. I hope you’re both good sleepers.’

  I assured her that we were. Our bed was a four-poster in which four could have slept quite comfortably. It had hangings of green silk embroidered with flowers and birds. A handsome stone fireplace threw out heat and light from logs that burned with the sweet scent of apple. The walls and floor were made from planks twisted and silver with age. If you discounted the light bulbs and switches there was nothing to show that any time had gone by since the house was built.

  ‘This is such a beautiful room!’ I moved closer to the fire to examine a painting of a house among hills that hung above the chimneypiece. ‘Is this Pye Place?’

  ‘It were painted in the seventeenth century. You can see how little it’s altered. The chapel’s a ruin now,’ Maggie pointed to a building with a tower, ‘and the garden’s nothing like as fancy but the yews are still here, though growed out of shape.’

  ‘It’s the most wonderful house.’

  ‘It’s a fine old place.’ Maggie stroked the gold and blue threads of a fanciful needlework bird. ‘I used to come here sometimes as a little lass and make believe I were a fine lady. I had to keep out of the way of the gentry and be careful not to scuff the floor or put fingermarks on the brass locks.’ She put a log and some fir cones on to the fire and poked the embers. With her apron she whisked away some flakes of ash that had drifted on to the floor. ‘This is the closet for your clothes.’ She opened a jib-door hidden in the panelling.