Midsummer's Eve

by Philippa Carr

  I heard my mother say: “I don’t think she should have visitors … yet.”

  Then they were talking about the crisis. There were many people in the room … faces which swam vaguely before me … voices which came from a long way off. My mother was trying to smile, but I knew she was crying and I thought: I am dying.

  And then the fever had gone and everyone was smiling and my mother was bending over the bed and saying: “How are you feeling, darling? You are better. You will soon be well.”

  I was like a new person—not a child any more. I had grown up. The world in which I had complacently lived before that day at the pool had evaporated. It was a different place now—a world in which terrible things could happen. The fears of the past had been shadowy … something one only half believed; they were for other people; not for me. I had my parents, my secure home, and nothing could harm me. Ghosts and witches, cruelty and horror, pain and murder, that might happen to other people, but not to me and those around me. They were something to talk about, to frighten oneself about … but with the delicious fear of childhood … when you terrified yourself knowing that mother was close behind and you could run to hide yourself in her skirts and the bogey would go away.

  But I had left all that behind now. I had come face to face with horror. I knew a little of what that man would have done to me before he killed me. The awful realization had come to me. It could have happened to me!

  My mother would not let me look in the glass for some time, and when I did it was a stranger who looked back at me. Pale and thin, my eyes seeming bigger, but my hair … it was short like a boy’s.

  My mother touched it gently. “It will soon grow. And look, it is wavy. We had to cut it off because of your fever.”

  I could not stop looking at that face in the mirror. There were secrets there. Those were not the innocent eyes of childhood. They had looked on the fearful realities of life.

  I felt older. My illness had changed me. While I had lain there in limbo, I had grown up. I knew now that what we did was the only thing we could have done. Ben had been right. He had killed a man but it was something which had had to be done; the man was a murderer; he would have committed more murders. It was not like killing an ordinary person.

  But I had to stop going over it. I had to accept what was done. Ben had said I had to believe what we had said had happened and he was right.

  I was feeling better. I was sitting up now.

  My mother said: “Watson was down at the quay this morning and found this John Dory. He thought it would be just the thing to tempt you. Mrs. Penlock has done it in a special way. You’d better eat every scrap of it. You know what they are.”

  I smiled. I cherished every aspect of normality, of the return to the old days.

  I heard my mother whisper to my father: “Better not say anything about the accident. It seems to upset her.”

  I was glad of that. I didn’t want to have to talk of it. I did not want to have to lie more than was necessary. That was a great help.

  I learned that I had been very ill for three weeks.

  “Jack has been so upset,” my mother told me. “He’s been wanting to bring you his train and you know that is his dearest possession. You should have seen the glum faces in the kitchen. Mrs. Penlock is full of ideas as to what she is going to give you to eat. She says she is going to ‘build you up’ as though you are some sort of edifice. You would be the size of a house if she could have her way. We’ve all been so worried … every one of us, and we are so happy now that you are getting well. But don’t think you are going to rush it. You’re going to spend another week in bed; and then we are going to take it very slowly.”

  “I must have been very ill.”

  She nodded, her lips trembling.

  “You thought I was going to die.”

  “Pneumonia is very serious … and there was a fever. You seemed to be so disturbed. But it is all over now.”

  All over? I thought. It will never be all over. He will always be there … lying at the bottom of the pool.

  I said: “How is Ben?”

  “Oh, he has gone. He waited to see if you … he waited until he knew you were going to recover. He couldn’t go till then. Well, you know, he was only coming here for a month or so.”

  “He didn’t come to say goodbye.”

  “No. I didn’t want you to have visitors … and you seemed a little upset when he came.”

  “Didn’t I speak to him?”

  “No … not really. You muttered something we couldn’t understand … and I said that I thought too many people in the room was not good for you. He went back to London about a week ago. There is a lot to tell you when you are stronger.”

  I was feeling a little better every day. Nothing had been discovered then.

  How right Ben had been! It had happened. It was over, and we had to forget.

  I was very weak and was surprised how tottery I felt when I got out of bed.

  “It will take time,” said my mother.

  She would sit with me during the afternoons. Sometimes she read to me; at others she sat at her sewing … and we talked.

  It was some little time before I could bring myself to say: “Mama, I haven’t heard anything about … that man … that convict who escaped.”

  “Oh him. That all died down. They never caught him.”

  “What … what do they think happened to him?”

  “They think he must have got out of the country.”

  “Would he be able to do that?”

  “Oh yes, it’s possible. I expect he had friends to help him. There was quite a little bit of news about his background. It was most extraordinary. He was apparently quite a well-educated young man. He had been tutor to a family not far from Bodmin, Launceston way. Crompton … I think was the place. How dreadful to think he had been in charge of children! I think his late employers must be feeling very grateful just now.”

  “A tutor,” I murmured.

  “Yes … to a young boy about your age. There was a little girl in the family, but I think she had a governess. There was quite a story about them. His employers were astounded. They had always thought so highly of him.”

  “You don’t think he might have been … innocent?”

  “Oh no … no. No question about that. He was caught red-handed as it were. It was some local village girl.”

  I shivered.

  “Apparently something suspicious had happened to him before … but it hadn’t been proved. That was a pity. If it had been, that poor girl’s life might have been saved.”

  “And he escaped?”

  “Yes. He had a knife. They don’t know how he managed to have that. They think it must have been cleverly smuggled in to him. He attacked a warder with it. The poor man was badly hurt and is now slowly recovering. He got keys from him and just calmly walked out of the jail. They traced him to Carradon … not very far from here. Then they lost the trail and he disappeared into the blue.”

  Oh no, Mama, I wanted to say. Into the pool.

  “It was a nine days’ wonder. I think it is something the authorities would rather forget. But the press won’t let them … not until people get tired of the case. They do of course get tired of reading about chases that go on and on and never get anywhere. It’s rarely mentioned now. They accept the fact that this was one who got away. I think it is almost certain that he left the country.”

  There was no need to worry, I thought. He will never be found. Ben is right. We have to forget. We did nothing wrong. He was a man who was going to die in any case and we had made it easier for him.

  My mother went on: “Grace has been wonderful. She is more than a seamstress. She is an educated girl. I always think it is hard for those who have been brought up in a genteel family suddenly to be confronted with the need to earn a living. She dressed my hair the other night. She has quite a flair for it. Not that I need a lady’s maid. But when we go to London I always feel I could do with one. And she was wonderfu
l … so wonderful when you were ill.”

  “She seems such a pleasant woman.”

  “I am so glad we were able to help her. She is so very grateful and can’t do enough for me.”

  “It has been a case of casting your bread upon the waters.”

  “I am glad to see you remember your Bible,” said my mother, lightly planting a kiss on my forehead.

  When Grace came to see me she told me how pleased she was by my recovery.

  “Praise be to God, you are on the mend now.”

  “Thank you for what you did. My mother said you were very helpful.”

  “It was the least I could do after all your kindness to me. I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you have been getting a little better every day.”

  “I know I have been very ill.”

  “You were indeed … apart from the fever. You seemed so distressed. You kept muttering to yourself. You mentioned the pool once or twice.”

  I felt a sharp shock run through me. What had I said when I was delirious?

  “Pool …?” I repeated foolishly.

  “I suppose it was St Branok. Well, there was talk about it. The usual. People hearing the bells down there. Who ever heard of bells underwater?”

  “Have they been saying they heard them … lately?”

  “I did hear it mentioned once. Someone was going past at dusk and thought he heard the bells. It’s in their minds, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, I expect so. There have always been people fancying they hear the bells.”

  I changed the subject. I did not want to talk about the pool; but I was disconcerted that she had noticed my preoccupation with the place.

  A few weeks had passed. I was out of my room now. I took walks round the garden. My hair was beginning to grow. It clustered round my head giving me the appearance of a boy; but my mother said she was sure it was growing very fast indeed. Everyone was so pleased when I came downstairs. I rode out with my father who would not let me go alone. Nor did I want to. I did not ride Glory now. She was in disgrace, poor creature, having been accused of throwing me. I muttered an apology to her and would have preferred to ride her, but they insisted that I did not. My father was anxious that I should not be overtired; so the rides were short.

  There was news from London.

  “They have all been so upset by your illness,” my mother told me. “Your Aunt Amaryllis has not let a week go by without writing. She is so delighted that you are getting better and always sends love and good wishes from them all.”

  “Dear Aunt Amaryllis,” I said. “She is so good to everyone.”

  “My mother always used to say that she sailed through life quite unaware of evil and therefore evil passed over her; and she never saw it even when it was very close to her.”

  “It is a good way to live. But then if you don’t see evil how can you avoid it?”

  “It is true. But Amaryllis is so good herself that she thinks everyone else is the same. So she sees no evil, hears no evil and speaks no evil. Therefore for her it does not exist.”

  “It is wonderful for her but everyone cannot be like that.”

  I wondered what she would have thought if she had been confronted by a murderer as I was at St Branok Pool.

  Everything came back to that. I must stop myself brooding on it. I had to remember Ben’s instructions. “Tell yourself you fell from your horse when you were riding along the shore. Make yourself believe it.” But I could not make myself believe something which did not happen. Even Aunt Amaryllis would not have been able to do that.

  My mother came to my bedroom. I had to rest in the afternoon—doctor’s orders—although it was not necessary to sleep unless I wanted to. My mother used to sit with me.

  It was one of those occasions when she brought Aunt Amaryllis’ letter to read to me.

  “Dear Annora,” she had written:

  We are all so absolutely delighted that Angelet is recovering so well. Poor darling, what an ordeal for her. But she is young and healthy and I am sure will soon be quite well. We are longing to see her … and you all, of course. I was thinking that when she is a little stronger, Angelet might like to come up to London and stay for a while. It is not in the country, of course, but a change is always good. Do think about it. We’d love to have her … and you, of course. Peter joins in my good wishes and says he hopes Angelet will come to see us. He always had a soft spot for her, you know. He says she reminds him of Jessica of whom he was really very fond.

  Benedict has left us, so we are missing him rather. Such a lively young man!

  My mother smiled thinking, I was sure, how like Amaryllis it was to take the result of her husband’s youthful indiscretion to her heart.

  He did enjoy his stay with you, but he was so upset about Angelet’s accident and illness. I gathered he was the one who was with her when it happened and that he brought her home. He seemed really unhappy about it, and he hated talking of it. It seemed to upset him.

  Although he enjoyed being with you, I don’t think he wants to go into estate management. Peter thinks it would be too quiet a life for him. What do you think? He’s gone back to Australia. He has a project. You may not have heard of all the excitement there has been about the discovery of gold in Australia. Well, Benedict has gone back to find gold. He expects to come back a rich man.

  Peter didn’t really want him to go. After all, he has only just found him, but he did not want to stand in his way. He said it was just the sort of thing he would have wanted to do himself when he was young. Peter thinks the chance of making a fortune from the Australian goldfields is a remote possibility—as all the good stuff must have been found long ago, but he thinks it will be good for the boy to have a try. He said he would regret it all his life if he didn’t go. He would imagine he had lost opportunities. So he has gone out there and we now await the return of the golden millionaire.

  I suppose he is almost there by now. Benedict does not let the grass grow under his feet. Peter says he reminds him of himself when he was young—which is rather nice.

  Well, don’t forget. We should be delighted to see Angelet and you in London to stay for a while. I am sure it would do her good.

  With much love, Amaryllis

  So Ben had gone away to a new country. I supposed that was the best way of forgetting. I felt a tinge of resentment, as though the burden of our secret had been left to me to bear. That was foolish. He had to make his fortune. He would come back.

  And then I shall see him again, I thought. In the meantime I must keep our secret.

  We did not go to London that year. I know my mother was very worried about me. I had changed so completely. The impulsive, rather garrulous girl had become a quiet, secretive one. It must have seemed strange that my illness should have changed my character. Sometimes I was on the verge of confessing for if they only knew what had happened to me they would understand.

  But I was resilient and ebullient by nature and I gradually found myself forgetting my secret for long periods at a time. Then I would have a dream or something would remind me and memories would come back to me and I would revert once more to the quiet withdrawn girl.

  I knew they were puzzled and was deeply touched by their concern for me.

  Mrs. Penlock tut-tutted at the sight of me. “A beanpole, that’s what you are, Miss Angel. You want to get a bit of flesh on them bones of yours. I could make you a beautiful taddage pie. That’ud put some life into you, that would.”

  I used to enjoy her taddage pies, made with young suckling pigs; but I had no desire for them now. She was always trying as she would say “to tempt me,” as though food was the cure for all ailments.

  They were all very kind to me and when they saw my spirits lifted were so obviously pleased that I felt I must cast off my melancholy to please them.

  In any case I was coming to terms with it.

  We were getting very friendly with the Pencarrons who owned the tin mine close to the moor. They were a very old Cor
nish family and had originally come from somewhere near Land’s End. They had owned a mine there which had been worked out and that was why they had come to our neighborhood. They had acquired the mine which was now known as Pencarron Mine, and their house was Pencarron Manor. Since they had arrived some ten years before, they had become part of the community.

  Morwenna was a quiet girl, rather serious; she suited my mood at that time; she did not ask questions and although she was a year older than I she would follow me. She was very good-natured and hardly ever ruffled her governess. Miss Derry was friendly with Miss Prentiss and they took pleasure in comparing their pupils. I was sure I suffered in the comparison.

  Morwenna was a great help to me at that time. She was so undemanding. We used to ride together round the paddock. My mother did not want me to go out without her or my father, or at least a groom; that made me restive, but I was too listless to protest at that time.

  One day my mother and I rode over to the Pencarrons’ to have lunch with the family—a fairly frequent occurrence. We were passing through the town as my mother wished to call on one of the old ladies in East Poldorey to take her some wools for her tapestry which my mother would have to buy when it was finished. We had quite a stack of this kind of work in one of the store rooms. My mother felt in duty bound to buy the wools and silks and then the finished product.

  As we rode through the town young John Gort came running up to us. His grandfather, Jack Gort, had been one of the leading fishermen of his day and he was still to be seen on the quay supervising the family as to the best way of conducting the business they had inherited from him.

  Young John looked rather anxious.

  “What is it?” asked my mother.

  “I’ve just been wondering, me lady,” he stammered, “about that there boat by the old boathouse.”

  “Oh?” said my mother. “Why?”

  “Well, ’tas been there for years and ’as no one wanted it like … I thought as how … if no one wanted it like … I thought as how …”