“Watch out for that chap!” she called as I left.
Immediately opposite the house was a leveled spot, originally designed to provide parking space for visitors who planned to climb the mountain. Now, as I said, they had to park in the village. From that flat area the hill continued to rise up towards the distant peak of Ingle-borough. We always said living at Tower House developed strong calf muscles if nothing else. You were either straining to go up or bracing to go down. Whenever we found ourselves on flat ground we walked so rapidly nobody else could keep up with us.
On the peak of the mountain were the remains of a Celtic hill fort. The story of the fort was that the last of the Iceni had gone there to make their stand against the Roman invaders. Armed to the teeth behind a heavy wall, they prepared for the attack. But the Romans had taken one look at them and decided to go round on their way to Lancaster and Carlisle. The Celts were nonplussed. After about fifty years of living in the wind and cold of the peak, the remains of the Iceni eventually came straggling down and got jobs on the docks at Lancaster.
I had soon found one of my favorite spots in the common, a dip in the grass where it was impossible to be seen. Here, if it was windy, you could swiftly find yourself in a complete cone of silence. The common was full of such holes, where the ground had fallen in over the cave systems which riddled the entire area. Here and there were deeper, larger holes, where the rock was exposed and which seemed like the entrances of caves but never really led anywhere.
Once below the level of the ground in the inverted cones, you couldn’t hear a thing. There was no better sense of isolation, and yet anyone who knew you could easily find you and you could be back at home within a few minutes.
With a sense of pleasurable anticipation, I opened the covers of The House of Arden, a companion to another favorite, Harding’s Luck. It was all about time paradoxes and people meeting themselves. My earlier exertions must have tired me more than I thought, because I fell asleep in the middle of the first chapter. The next thing I remember is rolling over on my back and blinking up into the late-afternoon sun. As I yawned I saw some large, round object drifting across the sky, a thin plume of smoke coming from it, a bit like the vapor trail of a plane.
Waking up rapidly, I recognized the aircraft as a hot-air balloon. A local group of enthusiasts took visitors up over the Dales during the summer, but they rarely came down this low. Nor, I realized, as the shadow of the basket fell across my hiding place, were they usually so big or so colorful. Next thing the balloon filled up my entire field of vision, and I could smell the smoke. The silk of the canopy blazed in the sun. Glittering scarlets, greens and golds dazzled me. From the rigging flew the cross of St. Andrew, the blue and white Scottish flag. I saw tongues of fire from the brazier in the basket and two very pale faces staring down at me. Then something whooshed past, and I heard a thump, a yell. As I scrambled up and out onto the common, there came the roaring sound of a powerful engine in high gear.
On turning, the first object I saw was the big antique convertible. Not the Lexus containing my parents, as I had half hoped, but a great, dark green monster with massive mudguards and a huge radiator decorated with an ornamental “B,” a single blue-clad occupant, swinging off the road and onto the flat parking space. The driver’s dark goggles gave him the appearance of a huge, mad lemur.
At the sound of another yell I looked back to see the balloon still dragging up the common, the silk bouncing and brilliant, the gasbag booming like a drum. The passengers had leaped from the basket. One of them had thrown out a great iron anchor and was trying to dig this into the ground, seeking to stop the balloon’s progress over the grass-grown rocks. The other passenger was clinging hard to the wicker, clearly not at all happy about his situation.
This happened so swiftly, I could barely take in what was going on. None of the people seemed to need help from me, and none seemed especially menacing. It occurred to me that I ought to duck down and hide, but the driver of the car had already seen me and was waving a gauntleted hand and calling out.
“Pardon me, miss. Could you tell me if I’m at the right place? My name’s Bastable. I’m looking for the residence of the Count and Countess von Bek.” Pushing up his goggles, he began to climb from the car, gathering the folds of his cotton dust coat which covered what appeared to be a light blue military uniform. On his head was a peaked cap of the same color.
“Good afternoon,” was all I could think of to say.
Another voice came from behind me.
“Good afternoon, my dear beautiful young woman.”
Somehow I wasn’t a bit offended by those rich, flattering tones, offered in the most delicious Scottish brogue I had ever heard. I turned round again. Grinning at me, the balloonist, in full Highland dress, including a brilliant kilt, was testing his anchor line now, having stopped the vessel’s drift. His companion was stamping heavily on bits of flaming wood threatening to set the grass alight. Then he reached into the basket and took something out. A black, undecorated oblong box, narrow and long. Clearly an electric guitar case. He was tall and very nifty in what appeared to be European evening dress. I wouldn’t have guessed he was a rock musician. When he faced me, I was surprised. I had seen him before. In my dreams! Though considerably younger, he could have been a relative of my albino grandfather or grandmother. He had the same refined, angular features, the same long, graceful body, the same slender fingers, the same white hair and subtly tapering ears, and he had the same scarlet eyes. He greeted me with an inclination of his head, then shouted across to the Scot.
“You promised us a smoother landing, St. Odhran.”
The man he addressed waved a dismissive hand and removed his befeathered bonnet, revealing a shock of red hair above lively blue eyes. With a broad, charming smile which reflected something of the swagger in his manner, he approached me. Reaching out an elegant hand, he made a deep bow, kissing the tips of my fingers. “You are the young Countess, I take it? I am the Chevalier St. Odhran, forever at your service.”
“I’m not a countess,” I told him, still fascinated by his albino friend. I was a bit distracted. “But I’m pleased to meet you. Would the person you’re looking for happen to be German? If so, there’s another gentleman wants to see him down in the village.”
“We are all British, I fear,” said the driver of the car, also presenting himself in that same charming, old-fashioned way. “Even my friend here”—he indicated the man in evening clothes—“has sufficient residency to claim citizenship.” He saluted. “At your service, Colonel Bastable of the LOTA, ma’am.” His manner was playful and won me over. He reminded me a bit of Sting and Hugh Grant combined. “I must say, we seem to have timed our arrival to the second. That’s not always the case. I wonder if you’d mind my asking a question. Would that house be Tower House, the residence of the von Beks?”
“I’m Oo Bek,” I said. “The youngest in the whole family.”
I was surprised that Mr. or Mrs. Hawthornthwaite had not yet come out to investigate, but if they were at the back of the house, perhaps watching the cricket, they might not have heard the visitors arrive. I had no instinctive suspicion of the three men and in fact trusted the albino just because I remembered someone like him in my old dreams, so I answered perhaps more freely than was sensible. I agreed that the Count and Countess von Bek did usually live across the road but that they had gone to London. My own parents, their son and daughter-in-law, were due back from Lancaster fairly soon.
“Ah,” said the tall albino rather sonorously. “The one thing we had not bargained for!” Putting his long case carefully down, he shook hands with me. His were the strongest, hardest fingers I had ever touched before. “I apologize, Miss von Bek. My manners have become crude.” He introduced himself. “I am usually simply known as Monsieur Zodiac.”
“That’s the name of a conjurer who used to appear at the Palladium,” I said. “You look rather like his picture.” I had seen the programs which my grandfather and grandm
other had kept. “Are you a relative?”
“I had a small reputation on the halls,” he admitted. “But I had not expected to be recognized by someone so young!” His smile was pleasant, melancholy, rather distant. “Your grandfather and I go back sixty years.”
I explained the circumstances while the Chevalier St. Odhran, employing Colonel Bastable to help him, ran back to press the hot air from his balloon’s canopy. “I’m fascinated by all those old theater things,” I told him. “I mean to be an actress one day. Did you perform with the Beatles?”
He regretted that he hadn’t known the group. “I was only once on the same bill. In Preston. In the early days. Now, if I might leave this in your care for a few minutes …” Setting his guitar case down, he excused himself and went to the assistance of the others.
I watched the three press and fold the silk and pack it into the balloon’s basket. They were all tall, athletic men and plainly old friends, exchanging jokes and laughing as they worked. Yet there was a purposefulness to them which gave me a lot of comfort. I could feel myself beaming with inner contentment. Boredom was no longer threatening to spoil my holidays.
CHAPTER TWO
THERE SEEMED NOTHING for it: I must try to be a good hostess and invite the strangers in for a cup of tea. Mrs. Hawthornthwaite entered the big kitchen just as my guests and I reached the hall. She was a bit taken aback, especially when the tall men told her they already knew the von Beks and were here by arrangement.
“I’m surprised,” she said a little stiffly. “Usually Mr. and Mrs. Bek let me know when visitors are expected.” My parents, who under German custom could use their titles, preferred not to be known as Count and Countess.
But St. Odhran soon charmed Mrs. H, establishing his credentials with a reminiscence or two of shared early days with her employers, until the more formal apologies of his companions had her insisting to them that they should stay even when, with perfect manners, they suggested they find a tea shop in the village and return later.
“I should also warn you, Mrs. Hawthornthwaite, that up to four other members of our little band also expect to join us here,” said Colonel Bastable, offering her a salute of thanks. “It would be pure imposition…”
She took this in her stride. I had never seen her so friendly to anyone outside the family as she was to these well-dressed yet somehow battle-scarred men, whom I think we both instinctively understood to be heroes, seasoned in unimaginable wars. “Then I’d better get out the old tea set,” she said with some satisfaction. “We’ve had bigger parties for the Three Peaks race, gentlemen.” She wondered if she shouldn’t try to contact my mum and dad on their mobile. It was sometimes harder to find a signal for Morecambe than it was for London, in spite of what the servers always promised you. I said I’d try as soon as the big men were settled. I got them down in our comfy leather sitting room chairs, admiring our pictures and our wonderful views. Their orders for tea were hearty and manly, though Colonel Bastable generously said that while he would also find Darjeeling or something like that splendid, it really didn’t matter to him if Assam was preferred by the others, so I went off to sort out what I could from our miscellaneous packets of antique teas. All we used at home was Yorkshire Gold. I decided to put that beside the big teapots Mrs. Hawthornthwaite was warming. Then I went up to our tower via the “secret” door through the upstairs bathroom, the highest point in the house, and tried to phone.
I didn’t put the light on in the tower, because I wanted to enjoy the last of the evening. It was getting on for twilight now, and the mist was like a filmy blue blanket over the village below. Yellow lamps shone here and there from under twisted eaves and above rippling slate roofs touched blood red by the setting sun. Ingleton had never looked more beautiful and unworldly. In the other direction were the lights of villages all the way to Morecombe Bay: lights of homes, streetlamps, window displays, all burning the same dense yellow against the deepening blue. I could smell the fells as night came creeping up over the limestone shelves and rooks began to call out the evening roundup and turn for home.
I dialed my mum’s number. It crackled and rang, crackled and rang. Then I thought someone picked up. In the hope that they could hear me, I told them we had visitors and who they were. Colonel Bastable and company had insisted they would not impose on us and had proposed taking us to supper at the Inglenook or, if we could order in time, the Hill Inn. The Hill Inn offered basic ham suppers, about the best in Yorkshire, and my vote was for the Hill. I always voted for the Hill, and I had a feeling I wouldn’t be overruled tonight if all went well. Visitors, especially if from the south, always got the ham tea and the Theakston’s Old Peculier. It was a sort of provincial showing off, I suppose. But it was hard to imagine a decent world which didn’t have at least one of those two things in it.
Just before I opened the door to go down, I saw two figures on the main road up from the village, where it turned radically under the high limestone wall of the police station. It seemed that Sandy, our policeman, really wasn’t in. Usually you could see the light in his back room as he watched TV and pretended he was called on a case. I recognized the heavy cloak worn by one of the figures. He was the man I had met earlier. The second man filled me with alarm because he reminded me of my old dream. He wore that same kind of wide-brimmed black hat. I told myself not to be stupid. The two strangers had managed to meet, probably at the Bridge as I had suggested. I moved away from the window in case they looked up and saw me. Seeing their shadows still unmoving, I stared into the night and wondered what they were up to.
I then went back to attend to our guests, not mentioning the strangers outside. I must admit I enjoyed playing hostess and having all those grown men responding with grave respect as I offered Eccles cakes and refilled their teacups with a brew they all agreed was the best they’d had since the various foreign parts they had all come from. I asked them if they had enjoyed their journeys.
Colonel Bastable said they had all most recently traveled from St. Odhran’s place in the Highlands and before that, in his own immediate case, from Salisbury. They were surprised they had not been expected, since the message to meet had come from the count and countess, my grandparents. Just as they were tucking into a second round of Eccles cakes, homemade by Mrs. Hawthornthwaite, there came a knock at the door, and she went to answer it. Soft masculine voices in the hall. Further apologies. Then my original three visitors were standing up to shake hands with the newcomers.
These weren’t the men I’d seen outside in the shadows. These were clearly all old friends and did not seem to have met for a while. They were careful to include me in their conversation, though much of it, of course, was lost on me. The newcomers were equally impressive. One had silver hair and seemed roughly the age of my grandfather, though not as frail. He was shorter and stockier than the rest, with a square face and light blue eyes, a manner of solid integrity, though a little self-mocking, with a faint accent I took to be German. Herr Lobkowitz embraced one of my tiny hands in both his massive ones. His kindly eyes were intelligent, and whereas the others had the demeanor of men of action, Herr Lobkowitz appeared to be some sort of professor. The man with him had a more pronounced accent and was clearly French. Lieutenant Fromental was a huge, gentle man with a large head, dark skin and black eyes beneath a shock of curly white hair. Although still insisting he was a legionnaire, he wore jeans, a white shirt and an enormous leather jacket, which he was reluctant to remove. As he accepted a china teacup and saucer in his hands the china seemed to turn into the dolly’s tea set I still had upstairs. Herr Lobkowitz looked like a dwarf beside him.
I don’t know why these men seemed familiar to me. Even their names rang a bell. While they behaved like my granddad’s contemporaries, some were too young, but I was sure some of their names were the same as those I’d heard talked about. And, of course, it was actually my grandfather and grandmother these men had come to see. I got the impression they had once belonged to some sort of think tank at
Oxford or Cambridge or maybe Westminster.
“I can’t work out why my grandparents would make such an important appointment and then zip off for London,” I said. “They’re not like that. It’s not as if they get a vast number of visitors. They’d have been talking about your turning up for weeks, normally. Yet I know for certain they won’t be back for at least another day.”
“They could have had a reason for calling us here early,” suggested Herr Lobkowitz. “Something might have to be defended.”
“You mean from those men I saw outside?” I asked.
“Which men? Are you talking about a German chap?” Colonel Bastable came to kneel beside me as I popped the last bit of Eccles cake into my mouth.
“Well, yes,” I agreed, “that man and the one I just saw with his friend when I was in the tower. They were coming up the main road from the village. Not used to that hill, I bet. They had stopped to get a second wind, I’d guess.”
To my surprise, the whole atmosphere changed. Immediately Colonel Bastable was on his feet while someone else doused the lights. Monsieur Zodiac peered cautiously out of the window, from where you could, if you flattened your head against the wall, just see a bit of road. It all seemed a bit melodramatic to me, and I wanted to giggle, yet there was something so serious in their manner that I soon calmed down.
“What is it?” I asked. “Are those the bad guys?”
“Never invite them across your threshold,” St. Odhran said seriously. “They mean you and your family only ill.”
“Grandma would certainly know what to do,” I said. “But meanwhile I suppose we shall just have to be prepared.”
“Prepared it is, my dear,” said Colonel Bastable. “Those are beasts of prey out there this evening, and they are hungry for our blood. But even that evil pair would not come wandering into our territory so readily if they meant to start trouble at once. They are just sniffing around us, I suspect.”
The White Wolf's Son Page 3
