by A. M. Howell
A small noise flew from Florence’s lips and she rested her cheek on her father’s chest.
Helena looked away, thinking of the telegram she had found in Katherine’s hotel room. Mr Westcott had kept it a secret that his wife was due to return, yet his sister had known about it all along. Maybe now was not the time to tell him this – perhaps Florence should do that later, when things between them had settled a little.
“Squawk-squawk-squawk,” Orbit cried from the trees on the opposite side of the riverbank. It was an urgent cry – an alarm call.
Helena’s thoughts whistled in time with the wind, her senses jangling. She stood up, saw the brush of a green and blue wing looping away on the other side of the river. “No,” she cried, her voice reed thin. “Come back!”
Mr Westcott and Florence had turned, were staring at her.
“Orbit’s cry – I have heard it before,” said Helena. “He is frightened of something.”
Florence and Mr Westcott looked at Helena blankly.
“Maybe he has been spooked by a swan, or a moorhen,” said Mr Westcott. “I am truly sorry, Miss Graham. I will do anything you suggest to coax him down.”
“I know Orbit. Something is wrong,” Helena said, her chin tilted to the sky and Orbit’s fading wings.
Florence pulled on her father’s hand. “Come on, we must follow him.”
“But it’s impossible…birds can fly, and we can’t,” said Mr Westcott.
“Nothing in this world is impossible,” said Helena firmly. “I’m going to follow him, even if you don’t come with me. I think he’s trying to tell us something.”
“Impossible,” murmured Mr Westcott again.
“Helena’s right, Father. Think of my drawings. Think of the Wright brothers!” said Florence.
The near-constant hazy look in Mr Westcott’s eyes was clearing.
Helena didn’t wait to see what decision he made, there was no time. She turned and began to sprint in the direction of Orbit’s cries, as if her life depended on it.
The riverbank was slippery from the recent rain, and Helena’s boots squelched in the mud, causing her to lose her footing more than once. Florence helped her up and grabbed her hand, as Mr Westcott lurched and slid some distance behind them.
Helena stopped at the water’s edge. Face-high reeds and willows blocked them from continuing along the bank.
“Squawk-squawk-squawk,” Orbit screeched from up high. Helena saw a flash of blue and green as he swooped above the trees on the other side of the river.
A dull clunking sound was coming from the riverbank. A boat bobbing in the water, tied to a post.
Mr Westcott arrived, panting. “There is no way forward. We must go back and take the carriage.”
“No,” said Helena. “Look!” Mr Westcott and Florence followed her pointed finger. On the other side of the river was a faint light coming from within a small copse of trees. “Whatever has scared Orbit is over there. We need to get to him.”
“But…it’s across the water,” said Florence.
“It will be fine, Florence. Look – we can use this boat,” said Helena.
“We…can’t just take someone’s boat, Miss Graham,” said Mr Westcott incredulously.
“No,” Florence said firmly. “I’m absolutely not getting into any boat.” She flopped down onto the grass, wiped her nose with the back of a hand.
Helena stared at the riverbank and the post the boat was tied to. This must be bringing back lots of horrid memories for Florence – about the accident and poor Bertie.
Orbit spiralled and sang above the copse. “Squawk-squawk-squawk.” The cries appeared to be getting even more urgent. What could he see from up there?
“Please, Florence…I know Orbit. He would not behave like this for just any old reason.”
Mr Westcott still looked more than a little disbelieving. He scratched his chin as he peered towards the light on the other side of the riverbank. “You said something earlier, Miss Graham…you thought I was taking Orbit to my sister. Why would you say such a thing?”
Helena’s fingers fumbled with the rope attaching the rowing boat to the post. “A man at the University Arms Hotel said Miss Westcott had leased a cottage in Grantchester.”
“Really…? But why do I know nothing of this?” asked Mr Westcott, his brow creasing.
“What are you doing with the rope, Helena?” Florence interrupted. Her voice was threaded with panic.
“We have to get to the other side of the river, to Orbit,” said Helena, jumping into the boat, which rocked and swayed.
“Now, Miss Graham…I really don’t think—” said Mr Westcott.
“There is no time for thinking,” said Helena. “You will be fine in the boat, Florence. I won’t let anything happen to you. Father and I have rowed many times on the Serpentine – in London.”
“But rivers are different and dangerous,” whispered Florence. “They have currents and reeds and rocks which can take you to places you can’t come back from.”
Mr Westcott stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on Florence’s shoulder.
Helena held out a hand to her friend. “Please come. Remember what you said about impossible things?”
Florence’s face was pale in the gloom.
“Well I can’t very well let you row over there on your own,” sighed Mr Westcott, giving Helena a tense smile. “I somehow sensed when you arrived with that parrot of yours that things would be…different.” He stepped into the boat, which bobbed under his weight.
Helena gave him a small smile in return, thrust out her hand again to Florence.
“Come, my dear,” said her father, holding out a hand too. “Don’t be afraid.”
Florence took a tentative step towards them, then stopped and shook her head. “I can’t. I just can’t,” she whispered.
Helena reached over the edge of the boat and held out both her hands. “Don’t let the past stop you from moving forward, Florence.”
Mr Westcott gave a small nod. “Miss Graham is right. That is a sound principle to live by.”
Helena swallowed. If only she was better at taking her own advice. But her words and Mr Westcott’s encouragement seemed to have the desired effect. Florence took another step forward and slowly reached out for Helena and her father. They gripped Florence’s elbows, helped her step aboard. They all stood for a second in the dark, the water slapping against the wood, Florence’s breathing heavier than the air around them. Loosening her grip on Florence’s arm, Helena guided her to sit in the stern of the boat, as low and far from the water as possible. There was a folded blanket under the bench. Helena shook it out and draped it over Florence’s trembling knees, checked for both oars, then cast off the rope.
Mr Westcott pushed them away from the bank.
Florence’s eyes were shut tight, her head resting on her shaking knees.
Helena sucked in a breath of damp river air as she heaved the oars through the weight of the water.
“Squawk-squawk-squawk.”
Florence’s eyes sprang open. The boat rocked furiously as she sat up and peered in the direction of Orbit’s cries.
Helena’s right oar bumped against the riverbed. It was shallow and her arms ached with the effort of keeping the oars steady against the drag of the water. She tipped the right oar back until it was resting upright inside the boat, let it go and rubbed her shoulder.
“Helena,” Florence said anxiously, darting forward to grab the oar.
The boat wobbled and swayed, and water swished against the hull.
Florence’s face was sallow in the gloom, as if she was suffering from a terrible bout of seasickness. She twisted her body around until she was sitting beside Helena on the narrow bench, their arms nudging. She slid the oar back into the water with a gentle splash.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” Helena asked quietly. Florence gave a quick nod, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“That’s my girl,” said Mr Westcott, leanin
g forward and giving Florence’s knee a squeeze.
“One, two, three, row,” said Helena. Their oars were not synchronized, bumping and jolting as the bow of the boat edged a path through the water.
Florence’s grip on her oar tightened.
Helena waited for her to pull again, tried to match her rhythm.
Gradually their oars relaxed into a regular swing, leaning forward and pulling back, leaning forward and pulling back.
Helena glanced over her shoulder. They were nearing the other side of the river.
She pulled harder on her oar, Florence matching her stroke for stroke, a blaze of both determination and fear in her eyes.
Helena guided the boat to the mooring point, the bow hitting the muddy bank with a clunk. The noises and smells of a summer evening on a riverbank filled her ears and nose. The slosh of water against wood. The whistle of the breeze. The splash of a river-dwelling mammal as it slipped into the water. The smell of woodsmoke. Woodsmoke?
“Look,” said Mr Westcott pointing through the trees.
The glow of lights from a small cottage, Orbit screeching and squawking above it.
Helena held the boat steady while Florence leaped out. She swayed a little then sank to the ground as if her body had morphed into liquid. She had been brave to face her fears in such a quiet and determined way.
Helena swallowed. She needed to face her own fears in the same manner. But what if Orbit would not come down?
Tying up the boat, they set off through the small copse of trees blustering in the wind. There was a well-worn muddy path, as if people had passed this way many times before them, tramping on the nettles and pushing aside the tangled brambles.
The glow of the light through the leaves beckoned them forward. The sound of raised voices hit Helena’s ears. Katherine Westcott!
Helena broke into a run, Florence and Mr Westcott close on her heels. Florence tripped and Helena yanked her to her feet and onwards, until they were standing in a small clearing in front of a white thatched cottage. Two half-moon windows in the cottage’s eaves were lit like sleepy cat’s eyes. A blade of light from the half-open front door shone onto the doorstep.
“Squawk-squawk-squawk,” Orbit cried above the cottage roof.
Helena surged forward, clattered up the shingle path and followed the voices through the door.
“That blasted bird will not stop screeching,” shouted Katherine.
“It must have escaped…be someone’s pet…” said another, lighter voice. “The poor parrot must be terrified.”
Both of them turned at the creak of the door.
Katherine’s cheeks were stretched as taut as a sheet pegged to a washing line. She stood beside a woman wearing a floaty white dress edged with lace, her fawn-coloured hair pinned into a loose bun.
Florence blinked as if she was seeing an apparition.
Katherine sucked in a giant breath and reached for the wall to steady herself. Her mouth falling open (in a most unladylike fashion).
“Florence?” The fawn-haired woman said, her voice as light as a nightingale.
Florence grabbed Helena’s arm, her nails biting into her skin. Four words carried from the doorstep into the hallway on the whisper of her breath. “Mother? Is that you?”
A cacophony of voices in the woodland cottage, louder than all of the ticking clocks in Mr Westcott’s house.
“Florence. Oh, my darling girl – you’re here! Are those Bertie’s clothes you are wearing? Whatever have you done to your hair?” (Florence’s mother)
“Oh, Mother! Father and I thought you had forgotten us…” (Florence)
“What…? How…? Oh…” (Katherine)
Florence dissolved so fully into her mother’s arms, Helena could not tell where she ended, and her mother began. Her chest ached, and she folded her arms until the pain dulled a little.
“Evangeline?” Mr Westcott whispered from behind.
Helena turned. He was holding onto the doorframe, his face as pale as a piece of Stanley’s chalk.
“Edgar,” said Florence’s mother, her lips breaking into a broad smile. “My love. Are you recovered?” Taking Florence’s hand, she brushed past Helena to her husband. The three of them formed a tight huddle.
“Well…this is rather…unexpected,” said Katherine, her face flushed. Her brown felt hat wobbled on her head. Around its mustard-yellow sash, emerald-green Bird of Paradise feathers had been artfully arranged. Except it wasn’t just the feathers. As Katherine turned, a single yellow eye glared at Helena. The whole bird had been wound around the hat, head, neck, body and feet all on display. Helena swallowed the acidic sickness burning at the back of her throat as she listened to Orbit’s warning squawks outside. Orbit had been distressed by Katherine’s hats – by the feathers and stuffed birds. No wonder he protested so whenever she approached him. But her brave bird had led them to this house – had helped bring Florence and her family together again.
“Katherine,” said Mr Westcott, in a voice Helena had not heard before. It was firm and as calm as the sea on a still day. He pulled away from his wife’s embrace. “What is my wife doing here, in Grantchester?”
Katherine pulled back her shoulders and looked her brother straight in the eyes. “I can explain, Edgar…”
“We’ve been to the hotel,” interrupted Helena, her indignation at Katherine’s hats still bruising her thoughts. “I found the telegram from Florence’s mother that you were using as a bookmark. I saw your hats…you want my parrot!”
Katherine’s features tightened. “You have been searching through my things? And whatever do you mean I want your parrot? I like dead birds – not live ones.”
“And Helena found a letter from Dr Barrington, saying Father was to be sent to an asylum,” said Florence, pulling away from her mother’s embrace.
“Telegram? Asylum?” said Florence’s mother, her forehead creasing. “Whatever is going on?” With a small shake of her head, Florence’s mother steered Katherine through an open door into a room with easy chairs and a fire burning in a grate.
Katherine stood looking out of the window towards the twisting river which had brought the Westcott family so much heartache.
Florence joined her mother on the small sofa, grasping her hands tight.
Mr Westcott stood in front of the fire rubbing his jaw, his eyes locked on to his wife and daughter, as if he would never let either of them stray from his sight ever again.
Helena perched on the arm of a chair, her knees jiggling. As desperate as she was to coax Orbit down, she first needed to learn the reason why Florence’s mother was here, why Katherine had taken the telegram and why she had arranged for Florence’s father to be sent away.
“Well, Katherine?” said Florence’s mother, leaning forward. “Can you explain what is happening here?”
Katherine was mute, tapping a finger against her lips, her eyes glassy.
Florence’s mother puffed out an impatient sigh. “Katherine said you were…not yourself, Edgar. She said you thought it best I did not return home immediately. She took the lease on this cottage. In truth I was thankful to be back near the river, close to where Bertie…” She paused, her eyes flooding with tears. “I’ve been so very weak, and Katherine said Florence was being well looked after and was happy. She was very persuasive.”
“But I wasn’t in the slightest bit happy,” exclaimed Florence. She pulled from her pocket the telegram Helena had found and laid it on her mother’s lap. “Helena found this in Aunt Katherine’s hotel room. Why were you not at the station when Father went to meet you?”
Mr Westcott took a step forward, picked up the telegram. His face paled as he skimmed the words. “I went to meet you at the station, Evangeline, as you requested. But you were not there. When I returned from the station I searched for this telegram, thinking I must have been mistaken about the arrangements, but it had vanished.” He turned to his sister. “You took the telegram from my house, Katherine? Why do such a thing? And what is my wife
doing here in this cottage?”
Helena balled her hands into fists on her lap. Florence threw her an anxious glance. Was this the moment they would finally learn the truth?
“It’s perfectly simple,” said Katherine lightly. “Since Bertie’s accident, Edgar has proved himself quite unfit to run the family printing firm, and you, Evangeline, have proved quite incapable of caring for Florence.”
“Now hang on a moment…” blurted out Mr Westcott.
The colour slowly drained from Florence’s mother’s cheeks.
“Wait,” said Katherine, holding up a gloved hand. “You want me to explain, so I shall.”
Mr Westcott’s lips thinned. He nodded for her to continue.
“After Bertie’s dreadful accident, I was happy to look after Florence – she is an easy child to care for, not that either of you seemed to notice. It’s terrible that poor Bertie is no longer with us, but you have a living, breathing and incredibly intelligent daughter, who to all intents and purposes has been pushed aside by your own self-indulgent grief and insecurities.
“Edgar’s superstitions about the clocks stopping are ridiculous. We make our own fates. They are not governed by pieces of metal and cogs and springs. It was a coincidence our mother took her last breath the night her clock stopped, and our father soon after. But Edgar was blinded by his nonsensical beliefs, when in fact he should have considered more obvious explanations.”
The idea clapped into Helena’s head like a thunderbolt. “It was you! You stopped the moon-faced clock the day your mother died.”
Mr Westcott pulled in a sharp breath. “No…no, that cannot be true.”
Katherine puffed out a breath. “Yes, Helena is right. I did stop Mother’s clock the day she died. But you were too blind to see that the clock stopping and her death were entirely unrelated.”
Mr Westcott stumbled to a chair near the fireplace and sank onto it, rubbing his cheeks. “Mother’s clock did not stop of its own accord?”
Katherine shook her head. “It was your job to wind Mother’s clock when we were children. I thought if I stopped it, you would get into trouble. You had everything, Edgar. The expensive boarding school. Conversations with Father about the printing firm. The month-long trips to the Americas. All the while I was left at home and ignored. We grew up in Cambridge. I would come into town with Nanny and see women going to university lectures, books clutched to their chests, their faces wide with possibilities. Do you remember, I broached the subject with you once – asked if I might apply to study there? You laughed; said I should push such ridiculous thoughts from my head.”
