The Secret of Nightingale Wood

by Lucy Strange

‘Your brother died,’ she said, after a short while.

  ‘Last summer,’ I said.

  ‘You miss him very much.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. No one had thought to say that to me before now. ‘Yes, I miss him every day.’

  I waited to hear his voice in my head – saying something sardonic, but he remained silent.

  ‘We used to argue a lot,’ I said. ‘He would snap at me and I’d snap back . . . It’s the silence that’s hardest to get used to. I feel like . . .’

  Moth waited. What did I feel like?

  ‘I feel like half a double act,’ I said at last. ‘I’m so sad he’s gone. He was clever – good at numbers, at building things. He wanted to be an engineer like Father . . . I’m so sorry he didn’t get to grow up and be a man and do all the wonderful things he wanted to do.’

  The light of the fire danced in Moth’s eyes. It was as if everything that was witchy and weird about her had just fallen away; she became more gentle, more real.

  ‘A shorter life is still a life, Henrietta Abbott,’ she said. ‘I’ve thought about this a great deal. A shorter life burns briefly but brightly . . . A bright star.’

  This made more sense to me than some of the other things I’d been told by well-meaning neighbours and vicars: ‘He is in a better place now’; ‘It was his time . . .’ I turned the meaningless phrases over in my mind and felt the same blunt anger I had felt in those weeks after Robert’s death. A bright star, I thought again, and a little of the anger melted away.

  I remembered running with Robert through piles of leaves in Hyde Park on a sunny autumn day, both of us falling over and laughing so much we could hardly breathe. I thought about the way my imagination had conjured him here at Hope House – a voice in my mind, a shimmer of bright, golden light . . .

  ‘Bright Star is the title of a poem by John Keats,’ Moth said. ‘A beautiful poem. A love poem.’

  ‘I should like to read it.’

  ‘He wrote Ode to a Nightingale too.’ And she looked up into the trees above us. When she spoke again her voice was even softer. ‘There is no cure for grief, Henrietta. But there is something that can lighten the darkness – just a little at a time – and that is life itself. You know this already, I think. You know your mother needs stories, music, sunshine, birdsong, the smell of a rose, the smile of her daughter . . .’

  ‘But the doctor, the pills . . .’ I said.

  Moth just nodded quietly. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But there will be a way to help . . .’

  The sun sank lower and there was a moment of peace, as if the forest were holding its breath.

  ‘The nightingale will sing soon,’ Moth said. ‘Whistle to him, Henrietta.’ And she showed me how to make the soft, low sound.

  I copied her. Nothing happened.

  ‘It will come,’ Moth said simply.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, staring up into the darkening branches.

  ‘Try again,’ Moth said. ‘Listen for the things that can’t be heard.’

  I listened and listened until I could hear petals closing, clouds moving across the sky and tree roots creeping through the ground – then a very soft fluttering high in the branches above. My heart fluttered with it.

  I lifted my head and whistled again – long and low. It wasn’t an imitation of Moth this time, it was my very own sound.

  And to my astonishment, the bird answered.

  Moth smiled her crooked smile and I smiled back. We listened to the nightingale together.

  ‘You see?’ Moth whispered.

  I was just coming down the stairs for breakfast a few days later when I heard the engine of a motor car growling into our driveway.

  Nanny Jane was standing in the hall, ready to open the front door. I looked at her with raised eyebrows – Are we expecting anyone? Nanny Jane’s eyes slid away from mine. Her face was closed. Her lips were tight.

  I heard the sound of two car doors slamming loudly, almost in the same instant. Then I heard Doctor Hardy’s voice and my heart sank. Wait – two car doors? Has he brought the other doctor with him – Doctor Chilvers? My heart fidgeted in my chest and I strained my ears to hear the voices drifting in from outside. But the second voice was a woman’s.

  Doctor Hardy strode through the front door, swiftly followed by an equally tall, grey-haired woman. She towered over Nanny Jane, who closed the door behind her. They all stood in a line, looking at me, and I stood there looking back at them.

  The tall woman came forward.

  ‘You must be Henrietta. I’m Mrs Hardy,’ she said. ‘Doctor Hardy’s wife.’

  Doctor Hardy’s wife? What on earth was she doing here?

  She stretched out a hand to shake mine. Doctor Hardy’s hands were fat and crushing, but his wife’s were cold and scaly, and her fingernails were thick, yellow claws. I felt as if I had just shaken hands with a giant lizard.

  Nanny Jane was giving me one of her looks: Manners, Henrietta! I remembered the letter Doctor Hardy had written and his concerns about my emerging symptoms. Perhaps I ought to show him just how sane and reasonable I could be.

  ‘How d’you do, Mrs Hardy,’ I said, and I nodded and smiled at her husband. It was a particularly sane smile, I thought. ‘Good morning, Doctor. Won’t you both come in?’ I said. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Charming!’ Mrs Hardy said, and we trooped through to the dining room. Nanny Jane did not follow us; she went quickly up the stairs. I craned my neck to see where she was going. I did not want to be left alone with Doctor Hardy and his lizard wife.

  Nanny Jane was only gone for a moment. She came straight back downstairs, but now she had Piglet in her arms. The baby was grumbling and rubbing her eyes. She did not appreciate having her morning nap interrupted, and I could not think why Nanny Jane would have got her up. Waking a sleeping Piglet was never a good idea.

  Automatically, I reached out to take the baby from Nanny Jane, but she walked straight past me. Her face was pale and rigid. She plonked the poor, confused Piglet into the arms of Mrs Hardy and turned quickly away. ‘I’ll just ask Mrs Berry for some fresh tea,’ she said, and headed for the kitchen.

  Doctor Hardy had made himself comfortable at the end of the table, in Father’s place. Mrs Hardy had taken the chair Nanny Jane usually used, with her back to the window. I offered them both some toast and marmalade.

  ‘No, we’ve breakfasted, thank you, Henrietta,’ Mrs Hardy said. ‘Just tea for me, please. Black, no sugar.’ And she smiled down at Piglet in her lap. It was then that I noticed the expression on her face. Hungry was the word I thought of. Mrs Hardy may well have ‘breakfasted’, but she was looking at Piglet as if she wanted to eat her up.

  Mrs Berry brought in a large, steaming teapot and Nanny Jane followed with the cups and saucers. I noticed she had chosen the best china – the set painted with roses.

  ‘Black, no sugar,’ Mrs Hardy said again, although no one had asked. Mrs Berry poured tea for everyone and left. Nanny Jane sat down beside me, on the long side of the table facing the window.

  Mrs Hardy was tickling Piglet’s chin with a scaly finger. I saw the warning signs of a tantrum on the horizon. Piglet batted Mrs Hardy’s hand away. She frowned and started turning crimson. Then she opened her mouth and let out a shrill, miserable scream. I stifled a smile. Piglet had excellent instincts about people, I thought.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Hardy, standing up and putting Piglet over her shoulder. She tapped the baby’s back in what she clearly imagined was a soothing manner. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. You were right, Charles. She’s not a happy little thing at all, is she?’

  ‘What? Piglet? Not happy? Piglet’s the happiest baby in the world!’ I exclaimed, so surprised at her words that my own tumbled out rather aggressively. What did she mean by You were right, Charles? What had Doctor Hardy been telling his wife about my sister?

  ‘I believe the child’s name is Roberta, not Piglet,’ Mrs Hardy said in a caustic tone. ‘Honestly, the poor little thing! Spoken about as i
f she’s an animal.’ And she clutched the baby to her bony shoulder. Piglet screamed even louder.

  I felt rage boiling inside me. Who was this woman? Who was this woman who didn’t know my family at all and felt able to criticize us?

  I stood up. I had no idea what I was about to say, but before I could say it, Nanny Jane’s arm shot out and yanked me back down into my chair.

  ‘Have some more toast, Henry,’ she said curtly.

  ‘And Henry?’ scoffed Mrs Hardy. ‘Henry is a boy’s name. Henry and Piglet! I ask you! Your parents gave you both fine girls’ names; you really ought to use them. We had our own little girl – Ruth. A beautiful child she was too. But the Lord took her before she was six months old.’ Her eyes met Doctor Hardy’s and I felt a wave of guilt for all the terrible things I had wanted to say the moment before. ‘We are blessed with our sons, of course,’ she went on. ‘All grown-up now! Benjamin is the vicar of St Anne’s in Ellorybelow-Stave, and since dear Clarence returned from the war he has been working at Gibbons – that beautiful new department store in Norwich. He says he’ll be managing the place by Christmas!’

  ‘How lovely,’ murmured Nanny Jane. She obviously felt something needed to be said in the pause while Mrs Hardy drew breath. Piglet, meanwhile, had got herself into such a state that she now brought up a little bit of milky sick on Mrs Hardy’s shoulder. I tried not to laugh. I thought it was odd that Doctor Hardy wasn’t saying anything. Then I realized why. He didn’t appear to be listening to his wife at all. He was looking at me with a very serious, concerned expression on his face. Had he seen me trying not to laugh? Perhaps I should say something . . .

  ‘How lovely,’ I said, echoing Nanny Jane, and I stuffed a piece of toast in my mouth so I couldn’t reasonably be expected to say anything else.

  The Hardys stayed for another hour or so, during which Mrs Hardy tutted at my father’s absence, pointed out the stains on my pinafore (tea, from when I had been startled by the telephone), said Piglet was far too plump, and finally suggested that Mama really ought to pull herself together for the good of her daughters. By the time the Hardys left, I was trembling with fury – ready to erupt. Why hadn’t Nanny Jane defended us? Why had she allowed poor Piglet to go on squawking in that awful lizard woman’s arms?

  Nanny Jane closed the front door, an exhausted Piglet curled against her chest like a miserable pink grub.

  ‘What was that all about?’ I demanded.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to talk to me like that, Henry,’ Nanny Jane snapped. ‘And how dare you be so rude? It was simply a social visit from the doctor and his wife. She had expressed an interest in meeting you and the baby.’

  There was something she wasn’t telling me.

  Simply a social visit? No, I didn’t believe it. Doctor Hardy was up to something and – for some reason – Nanny Jane was on his side.

  ‘You’ll have to get to the bottom of it, Hen,’ said Robert that afternoon. I was lying by the pond at the end of the garden where no one could see me.

  I nodded, digging at the lawn with my bare toes.

  ‘If you were a boy,’ he said, in a thoughtful voice, ‘if you were me, you would be “the man of the house” while Father is away.’

  ‘I’m not a boy, though, am I?’

  ‘No. But that’s no reason why you shouldn’t be the man of the house, Hen. Someone needs to be.’

  He had a point. ‘Do you think I should confront Nanny Jane? Do you think I should tell Doctor Hardy to go away and leave my family alone, and take his pills and his spies and his awful wife with him?’

  Robert twisted his mouth to one side in that familiar way. ‘That probably wouldn’t be wise,’ he said. ‘You need to be clever about it, Hen . . . It’s like David and Goliath. They’re bigger than you, so you need to be cleverer. What do you know that they don’t know? And what do you know that they know, but they don’t know you know?’

  ‘What?’ I took a moment to untangle his questions. What did I know?

  I knew about the secret attic room; I knew about Moth; I knew about the key around my neck, and the pills they were giving Mama, and Doctor Hardy’s letter, and a place called Helldon. I knew that something was being plotted behind my back. I knew that they were spying on me. And if they could spy on me, I could spy on them too: I was very good at being unseen and unheard.

  ‘Miss Henrietta!’ Mrs Berry exclaimed as I entered the kitchen and sat down at the table. ‘The very girl! Have a snack, dear.’

  She plonked a jug of fresh lemonade in front of me and started cutting a wedge of bread from a newly baked loaf. I was just about to ask her if she knew the real reason behind the Hardys’ visit when she suddenly said, ‘Goodness! I must give this to you now before I forget.’ And she handed me a very small parcel, done up in creased brown paper and frayed twine. It was addressed to me in an elegant, feminine hand.

  Miss Henrietta Abbott,

  Hope House,

  Little Birdham

  ‘Found it on the back doorstep,’ Mrs Berry said, drying her hands on her apron and clattering about the place as she filled a large saucepan with water. ‘Hand-delivered . . . Right little mystery, eh? Who do you suppose it’s from?’

  I walked to the back door and stood there in the sunshine, weighing the parcel in my hands for a moment before unpicking the tight little knot. The paper came away to reveal an old green book. It looked loved, like a child’s threadbare toy. Golden letters spelt out the single word Keats on the spine.

  I cradled the book in one hand, and allowed the pages to part and fall as they wished. They fell open at a poem called Ode to a Nightingale. I smiled my first real smile of that day. This book was a gift from Moth. I read the poem, whispering some of the beautiful words to myself: ‘Light-winged Dryad . . . shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease . . .’ I didn’t understand all of the words but I thought that I somehow felt their meaning. The poem seemed to be about escaping from sorrow – yes – that was what I wanted too. I drifted away into a daydream of forests and nightingales, and moths fluttering in the moonlight . . . I imagined the young poet, John Keats, in Nightingale Wood. He was lying on a great cushion of moss beneath an oak tree, staring up into the canopy above and listening to the nightingale’s song. His face was as pale as the moon and his eyes, brimming with tears, were two bright stars . . .

  Something startled me then – a loud, metallic banging noise – one, two, three. For a moment I was caught between my daydream and reality – was it a man swinging an axe – a woodcutter in the forest? No, Hen, don’t be silly.

  ‘Was that the door?’ asked Mrs Berry. I closed the book of Keats, tucked it into my pinafore pocket and crept after her as she waddled out of the kitchen and across the hallway. She pulled the front door open and there he was – the limping man. It must be him, I said to myself. It must be Doctor Chilvers – sent to observe my strange behaviour . . .

  I shrank back into the kitchen, afraid that he would see me. I could still see him, though. He was shorter than I remembered. His clothes were dark, smart and well-fitting. His face was very strange indeed – the skin stretched too tightly and pulled over to one side. His eyes were small and dark. A shiny hand gripped the top of his walking cane. He spoke very quietly and it was only from Mrs Berry’s responses that I could follow the thread of the conversation.

  ‘Yes, Jane said you’d call back . . . Yes, of course . . . That’s her, yes . . . She certainly did, I remember very well indeed . . . No, I’m sorry – I can’t help you there . . .’

  What is she talking about? Is she talking about me? I saw that the limping man was writing something down on a little notepad. Then he turned away as if to leave. Mrs Berry started to close the door, and I took a slower, deeper breath. The limping man frightened me horribly. He was spying on me. He was creeping around, asking people questions. I wanted him to go away and leave us all alone.

  But then Mrs Berry called him back: ‘Oh, now – wait a moment, sir! You should talk to Truman Pi
ckers-gill. He’s the solicitor in Little Birdham – a nice chap. I do a bit of cleaning for him sometimes. He’s in charge of leasing this house, you see, so he will know all about her . . .’

  Solicitor? What would the solicitor be able to tell him about me?

  ‘Pickersgill. Yes, the firm is Solomon and Pickers-gill. Just off the High Street, Little Birdham . . . You’re most welcome, sir. Good afternoon to you, too.’

  I gripped the kitchen door frame tightly, waiting for the limping man to walk a little way down the drive. I felt like a fox must feel when the hound has missed its hiding place.

  ‘Did he give his name, Mrs Berry?’ I said, aware of a slightly hysterical note in my voice. If he really was Doctor Chilvers, I needed to know.

  She shook her head absently. ‘No, I don’t think he did, Miss.’ She waved cheerfully to the village postman as he passed the limping man on the drive and approached the house. ‘Afternoon post is it, Michael? Thank you!’ She closed the door, passed the bundle of letters straight to me and waddled back into the kitchen. ‘Have a quick look through, will you, Miss Henrietta? I need to hang out the washing . . . If there’s anything for Nanny Jane there, will you take it straight up to her in the nursery? She said she’s expecting something from your father.’

  From Father? I felt a pang of jealousy that he was writing to Nanny Jane and not to me.

  I shuffled through the letters and almost immediately found one addressed to Miss Jane Button. It was in Father’s handwriting.

  I needed to get to the bottom of things. I thought about what Robert had said by the pond: You need to be clever about it, Hen . . .

  I waited until Mrs Berry had taken the washing outside, then went into the kitchen and looked around, my heart bumping guiltily against my ribs. Could I slice the letter open with a knife and reseal it so Nanny Jane wouldn’t notice? No. I couldn’t.

  The kettle had started boiling on the stove. I picked up a cloth, lifted the kettle and set it down on the kitchen table so that the steam whistle wouldn’t bring Mrs Berry back inside. I stood there for a second, the unopened letter in one hand, the warm handle of the kettle in the other. Of course . . .