The Cuckoo Tree

by Joan Aiken

  ‘Better-looking than you, poor old Dapple,’ Dido told her steed. ‘Guess we’d better find somewhere to leave you out of all this mollocking.’

  Following Gusset’s directions she located The Fighting Cocks inn at the end of Middle Street, and asked permission to tie up Dapple in its stable-yard. Then she returned to the central square on foot, for at one side of it she had seen a shop-window containing scythes, fowling-pieces, wooden hay-rakes, stools, ladles and copper cooking-pots. Sure enough, when she approached it more closely, she found a small painted sign over the door which read: Godwit & Son, Ironmongers & Conspirators.

  ‘Humph,’ said Dido, considering this. ‘Well, I reckon the two things does go together, so it’s kind of handy having ’em under the same roof; I s’pose they can fettle you up a riot, weapons, trimmings and all, at wholesale rates.’

  She walked in, and demanded of a thin, wizened little man in rimless spectacles if he had any crutches in stock. He did have a pair, slightly too long for Captain Hughes (whose measurements Dido had taken before setting out). He promised to shorten them, put leather padding on the arm-rests, and have them ready for her in an hour’s time.

  ‘I daresay you can amuse yourself at the fair meanwhile,’ he said with a meagre smile.

  Dido, who had decided that he was a soapy-faced fellow, replied that she had plenty of errands to occupy herself, and asked if he could direct her to an apothecary’s, and also to the lawyers who had charge of the Tegleaze Heirloom? At which Mr Godwit (for it was he) raised his thin grey eyebrows and darted a very sharp glance at her indeed through the rimless glasses. But told her, still smiling gently, that she would find Wm. Pelmett, Chymist & Chirurgeon, on one side of his shop, downhill, and Messrs Pickwick, FitzPickwick and Wily, Solicitors and Attorneys-at-Law, on the other side, uphill.

  Dido did not care for the sound of this. Still, I guess as it’s to be expected they’d all be cousins or kindred in a small place like Petworth, she reflected.

  She went downhill first and bought some ointment which the doctor had recommended for the Captain’s wound, and a roll of bandage, since even in Mrs Lubbage’s exceedingly dusty house, the supply of spider-web was running low. Wm. Pelmett, Chymist, bore a strong and unprepossessing resemblance to Pelmett the footman.

  Next Dido turned uphill towards the lawyers’ office, but before she reached the doorway she was startled to observe, set in a glass-fronted case in the wall of the building, what must surely be the Tegleaze Luck-piece itself.

  But that could never have hung in a doll’s house, she thought. It’s far too big. Then she realized that the whole front of the case was in fact a powerful magnifying-glass; the oval picture painted on a piece of ivory mounted in the case, though appearing to be about the size of a man’s face, was really not much bigger than a gull’s egg.

  It’s a right naffy bit o’ work, I will allow, Dido thought, studying it with interest. I still don’t see how it could be worth such a deal of dibs, but whoever done it put plenty of elbow-grease into the job, I can see that, special considering how tiny it is. Musta been at it for hours.

  The picture showed a very high tower, encircled by a spiral ramp. Hundreds of little people were rushing up and down the ramp, were occupied in building the tower, climbing ladders, at work with trowels and buckets of mortar; others were setting bricks, wheeling barrows or consulting plans. But many others were just arguing, or even fighting, presumably about how the tower should be built; and in any case the tower had been struck by lightning and was falling down, so a great many people were trying to escape from it and trampling over each other in the process. Some devils, down below, were finding the whole affair very funny indeed, and some angels, up above, seemed sad about it. The picture was painted in very bright, beautiful colours, reds and greens, browns and yellows; it seemed even gayer than the merry-go-round horses. The faces of all the little people were done with wonderful skill, no two the same, each with something strange, unexpected, yet lifelike about it. The painter’s name, P. Bruegel, was neatly written in one corner.

  ‘Fancy just leaving it there, where anybody might bust the glass and walk off with it,’ Dido murmured wonderingly.

  ‘Oh, there’s no risk of that. For one thing, the glass is specially strong: you’d need a diamond to cut it. For another, everybody round here thinks it’s unlucky; no one would buy it from the thief.’

  Dido looked round in surprise at this unexpected reply. For a moment she thought that it was Cris standing behind her, then she recognized Tobit in what he plainly considered to be disguise: he had abandoned his black velvet and ruffles; instead he wore a frieze coat and pantaloons. The lower half of his face was concealed by a red muffler.

  ‘Tobit! What the plague are you doing here?’

  Dido was not best pleased to see him. His presence would make it difficult to go into the office of the family lawyers and say she suspected a plot against the family; they would probably think it was just some of Tobit’s romancing.

  ‘Anyway, how in the world did you get leave of your gran?’

  ‘Oh, I took French leave,’ said Tobit boastfully. ‘Pelmett told me Petworth fair was on, and I didn’t see why, as I’m not going to the coronation, I shouldn’t at least come to this; so I put a lot of minced-up Joobie nuts in grandmother’s gruel, and she’s gone to bed with one of her headaches. And now I’m going to have a fine time, I can tell you.’

  ‘Did Sannie know?’

  ‘She kicked up a bit of a dust, but I didn’t pay any heed. After all, I’m nearly of age.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Came with Frill in the trap; he’s doing some errands for Colonel FitzPickwick. Come on – let’s go and look at the shows.’ He grabbed her hand.

  Dido went with some reluctance. She glanced back towards the offices of Pickwick, FitzPickwick and Wily. But at this moment the heavy black outer door opened and two very elderly gentlemen came out, followed by one somewhat younger. The first two were so extremely old and frail that they could get along only by leaning against one another – they looked like ancient hairless mice – while the younger one, presumably Mr Wily, had such an extremely villainous, untrustworthy countenance that Dido at once decided there would be no sense in going for advice and entrusting her suspicions to him.

  All in whatever it is hand and glove together, like as not, she thought.

  Tobit did not wish to go on the roundabout – he said it would most likely make him sick – but he spent a good deal of money at the shooting-gallery and the hoop-la stall. It did not occur to him to treat Dido, who had no cash for such amusements, but he liked her to watch him.

  ‘This time I really will get it over – you’ll see – I am a prime shot, once my eye is in! Oh, confound it! All the stands are just too big for the hoops, if you ask me. That wasn’t my fault. Can I have another six shots for ninepence?’

  ‘How did you come by all the mint-sauce?’ Dido asked noticing his pockets heavy with coins.

  ‘Frill lent me some. Now – this time I’ll certainly get it over – you just watch, you’ll see.’

  But he did not. Presently he became bored with the hoop-la and moved on to a skittle stall.

  Dido, tiring of his unjustified optimism, wandered along to the next booth, which was a kind of Punch-and-Judy show, apparently. A crowd was collecting in front of it. Weird and melancholy music was being played on a hoboy, somewhere behind the booth, by an unseen performer; to Dido there was something tantalizingly familiar about this music, but she could not name it.

  ‘Walk up, walk up, ladies and gentlemen: watch M-Miles M-Mystery’s amazingly m-mysterious Mannikins; what m-makes them move about? See the g-grandest show of its kind in the world – the only show of its kind in the world! And it’s all f-free – free, gratis, not a penny to pay. Watch the M-Mystery of the Miller’s Daughter, the M-Macbeth Murder case, the Strange Tale of the Loch N-Ness Monster; see the dragon s-swallow St George!’

  Since the show was free, D
ido stood on the outskirts of the group and waited. After a while the red-and-yellow curtain was pulled up, letting out a cloud of tobacco smoke, and revealing the little stage, lit by a baleful greenish light. There were some bits of painted wooden scenery and a backcloth representing a mill house with a large water-wheel.

  ‘The Mystery of the Miller’s Daughter! Ladies and gentlemen, you will now be the first spectators of this amazingly blood-curdling drama, the only one of its k-kind!’

  The hoboy played a melancholy and off-key version of ‘The Miller of Dee’.

  ‘L-Ladies and gentlemen, if any of you should have the m-misfortune to suffer from weak nerves, p-palpitations, sympathetic vibrations, digestive disorders, heartburn, high t-tension, low spirits, vapours or m-melancholy, you will be p-pleased to hear that soothing refreshments are on s-sale, at the extremely reasonable price of sixpence a packet.’

  Sure enough, a boy was going round with a tray containing little paper twists. Dido had not sixpence to spare, nor did she suffer from any of the ailments mentioned, but she looked with curiosity to see what the refreshments could be that would cure so many different troubles. So far as she could make out, each packet contained a small quantity of Joobie nuts.

  The Mystery of the Miller’s Daughter was heralded by an extra-flourish of hoboy music. Then two puppets came hopping on to the stage: Rosie, the Miller’s Daughter, and her sweetheart.

  Why, Dido thought scornfully, they ain’t but glove puppets. I can see what makes ’em move. She had to admit, though, that they were unusually large, lifelike glove puppets, with something eye-catchingly strange and wild about their appearance. I know what it is: the bloke as made them had been studying that picture, Grandpa Tegleaze’s Luck-piece.

  The play was very comical at first: all about the efforts of Rosie and her sweetheart to escape the vigilance of her stern father the Miller. They hid in all sorts of ingenious places – behind the mill-wheel, up the apple-tree, in the copper – while the Miller, completely bamboozled, rushed about the stage hunting for them, puffing and panting with fury.

  But Dido soon became more interested in watching the audience than the play. The people in front nearly split their sides at the funny scenes; they staggered about, and bumped into each other, bawling advice to the Miller which he always followed just too late. In their enthusiasm most of them had swallowed down all their Joobie nuts, and the boy with the tray, going round again, did a brisk sale; the six-penny packets, Dido noticed, had been replaced by slightly larger ones which cost a shilling. Having swallowed a few more, the audience became almost hysterical with excitement, shouting, clapping and screaming, as if they had before them the finest actors in the world. It seemed as if they saw more than was actually taking place on the stage and Dido, remembering what she had seen after merely tasting a Joobie nut, was not surprised.

  She glanced at the church clock, set high on a tower, just visible over the red roofs: ten minutes to four. Time to go and meet Mr Gusset’s boy Yan.

  Tobit, luckily, was absorbed in front of a stall where the game was to swing an iron ring hanging on a long cord so as to hook it over a peg on a panel at the back. It looked easy enough, but was evidently not so, judging by his lack of success. The prizes were goldfish, swimming in little semi-transparent bags made of pigs’ bladder filled with water and tied up with twine. Wonder if Cap’n Hughes would like a goldfish to keep him company, Dido thought. But then I dessay it’d hate the coach trip up to London presently. Anyway, Tobit’s happy enough and he won’t notice if I skice off; hope Frill takes him home afore he notices the puppet-show and starts stuffing down Jobbie nuts.

  She made her way back to The Fighting Cocks inn and, following Gusset’s instructions, turned under a low archway at the side, round a corner and up a steep and narrow cobbled alley. This brought her into a little courtyard, where twenty or thirty men were standing in a circle, apparently waiting for a cockfight to begin. Two in the middle were taking their birds out of baskets, looking them over, strapping them into their fighting-gear and talking to them encouragingly, while the crowd laid bets and shouted advice. Dido had seen cockfights in London and did not like them, but this one made a good excuse for loitering in the court, so she stood at the back of the crowd and pretended to be examining her purchases.

  In a minute she heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Arternoon, maidy! Larmentable thick weather, ’tis!’

  ‘Right fretful,’ Dido agreed politely.

  The speaker was a well-set up young fellow in a shepherd’s smock; he had curly dark hair, cut rather short, a brown weathered complexion and very bright observant brown eyes. He gave Dido a friendly grin and jerked his head, indicating that she should follow him in an inconspicuous manner. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the cockfight, now starting, so they slipped away. He did not lead her back into the street; they went up a flight of steps from the alley into a big, bare, barn-like upper chamber, where there were two or three long trestle tables and a quantity of benches and stools.

  ‘’Tis the inn banquet ’all,’ Yan explained. ‘My uncle Jarge, he owns the inn. There’ll be grand junketings here, come coronation day.’

  He sat down on a stool and Dido perched on another. She noticed that he smelt powerfully of clove-pinks and orange-blossom.

  ‘It be the perfume,’ he explained apologetically, noticing her sniff. ‘Do what us may, some of it leaks out. And the mischief is that they Bush officers are training special hounds, now, to goo arter it – like truffle hounds they be.’

  ‘Couldn’t you disguise it with onions or summat? Or strew pepper, to go up their noses?’

  ‘Pepper costs terrible dear, lovie: but ’tisn’t a bad notion. I can see my old gaffer’s right – a nim, trustable little maid you be. So now, how can us Wineberry Men help ee?’

  One look at Yan Wineberry in daylight had assured Dido that here was the right person to help her. She explained that she needed a letter taken to the First Lord of the Admiralty.

  ‘Oh, no trouble about that, my duck. Us takes grog to old Lord Forecastle reglar. Next trip Sunday night. He’ll get it Tuesday maybe, Wednesday for sartin.’

  ‘Not before?’

  ‘Us travels slow, you see, love. For one thing it ’on’t do to joggle the grog – the old Crozier of Winchester created turble one time when the sediment got shook up in his pipe o’ port wine. Then there’s deliveries along the way – us has a private way, slow and sure, what the Bush officers don’t know about.’

  ‘Oh well, guess the Cap’ll be agreeable, so it’s Wednesday for sure. Could you come and see my old Cap? Just so he’ll feel easy about it?’

  ‘I’ll need to wait till arter dark, then, lovie. I’ll come Saturday night – Dogkennel Cottages, ben’t it? Owd Mis’ Lubbage, there-along, be a terrible untrustworthy woman, no friend o’ mine. Dunked in Black Pond she’d a bin, long agone, done she hadn’t bin so thick wi’ the Preventives and the Hanoverians.’

  ‘What are the Hanoverians doing mixed up with the Preventives?’ Dido asked, puzzled. ‘I thought as how the Preventives were government revenue officers? And the Hanoverians are agin the government, surely? My pa used to be one; he was in a plot to blow up Battersea Castle, but he got found out and run off and no one’s seen him since.’

  ‘Oh, it be simple enough,’ Yan said. ‘Nobody likes the Preventives – always clapping gurt dratted taxes on grog and twistycorks that honest folk has taken trouble to fetch over from France; and nobody likes the Hanoverians either, allus a-trying to blow up poor old King Jamie, and now his son that’s a-going to be Dick Four. So as nobody likes either lot, they just nature-ally set up together.’

  ‘I see. Now, how about the letter – will I give it you tomorrow night?’

  ‘That’ll be best,’ he agreed. ‘Now – if you wants to get in touch with me afore then – do ee know the Cuckoo Tree?’

  ‘Yes I do.’

  ‘Well if you wants me, just ee stick a twistycork in the Cuckoo Tree trunk and com
e back there the next noon or midnight arter – someone’ll meet ee. Right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Us’d best leave by onesomes – I’ll goo first and when you hear me whistle, you follow.’

  He gave her ear a friendly tweak and slipped down the narrow steps, quieter than a shadow. Dido waited until she heard his soft all-clear whistle from the street, then silently followed him.

  Even more silently, when she had gone, a tiny figure unfolded itself from under one of the trestle tables and stole away in a different direction: Tante Sannie, aged, bent, frail as a bunch of cobwebs, quick as a spider.

  Dido went back to Godwit & Son, Ironmongers & Conspirators. Mr Godwit had the crutches ready, neatly tied up with cord so that she could sling them on her back. She paid, and was leaving his shop when she heard a disturbance from the upper end of the square, where Miles Mystery had his Mysterious Mannikins. People were shouting ‘Stop thief!’ and a portion of the crowd had broken away and was racing up a small cobbled lane that led in the direction of the church.

  ‘What’s it about?’ Dido asked a fat man.

  ‘Some lad nicked a couple o’ goldfish off of the goldfish stall. Got caught red-handed – or rather, wet-pocketed,’ the man said, with a loud laugh at his own wit. ‘They’re arter him now – they’ll catch him soon enough.’ Too fat to run himself, he filled his lungs with air and shouted, ‘Stop thief! Catch the pesky ragamuffin. Stop thief!’

  By now all the upper portion of the square had emptied; Mr Mystery’s theatre was empty and unattended. Dido took the opportunity for a quick examination of the puppets, which had been left, lolling and lifeless, on the stage. They ain’t bad, she thought critically, but they’re no better than what Pa used to make, when I was little.