Authors: Emma Carroll
In Darkling Wood (13 page)
Yet twenty minutes later, Dad’s back. It’s me that answers the door to him; Nell’s shut herself up in the library.
‘The car won’t start,’ he says through gritted teeth.
Behind him, the silver car hasn’t moved an inch. Dad holds up a smart-looking phone. ‘My mobile won’t work down here either. Can I use the landline?’
I’m not sure I should let him in. But it’ll only take a minute, and then he’ll be gone again.
‘The phone’s there,’ I say, pointing to the spindly table at the foot of the stairs.
‘Same as always,’ he says. ‘Nothing’s changed here.’
I’m guessing he doesn’t know about tomorrow yet, when the whole feel of this place will change for good.
He puts his mobile and car keys on the table, then makes his calls. I sit on the bottom stair hugging my knees. It seems the garage can’t come out until
tomorrow. When Dad finally puts the phone down, he rubs his hands over his face.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.
‘Sleep in the car, I suppose.’ He picks up the phone again. ‘I’m just calling Lara to let her know where I am.’
This is one conversation I don’t need to hear. I get up just as the library door opens.
‘What’s going on?’ says Nell.
As she sees Dad, her face turns to ice.
‘His car’s broken down. He’s only using the phone,’ I say, then feel cross because it sounds like I’m defending him and I’m not.
There’s a click as Dad puts the phone down.
‘That car can’t stay where it is,’ says Nell.
‘And how do you propose I move it?’ says Dad.
‘I don’t care. Just make sure it’s gone by the morning,’ Nell snaps. ‘I can’t have it blocking the front gate.’
Her hands are back on her hips again, like earlier when she was on the phone to Mr Giles.
‘What’s happening tomorrow that’s so important?’ Dad asks.
‘Nothing for you to ruin,’ she says.
But it’s starting to dawn on me: that’s exactly
it
. Dad being here will hold things up. The fairies are
still working their mischief. They’re still trying to save the wood. And a car blocking the front gate so no workmen can get in tomorrow is a pretty good attempt.
No one speaks. Nell folds her arms. Dad looks like he’s going to say something, then changes his mind and picks up his keys. He slams the front door behind him.
Nell glares at the space where Dad was. Then she turns to me. ‘Your father is not welcome in this house.’
I don’t speak.
‘He forfeited that right twenty-one years ago when he interfered in things he didn’t understand. And now you’re about to do the same with this “Save Darkling Wood” nonsense.’
‘It’s not nonsense,’ I say. ‘Please, Nell, will you listen for a minute?’
She shakes her head. ‘I’m too tired for this. Just don’t make the same mistake your father made. Remember whose woods those are, young lady, and keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you.’
It’s too late. This isn’t just about me any more. It’s bigger than that – bigger even than the woods. It’s about my family and why they’re at each other’s throats.
Whatever Dad did all those years ago, Nell’s still
mad as hell about it. She’s clearly not about to share it either, for she turns on her heel and goes back to the library. Another door slams shut.
The house falls quiet again. But it’s not peaceful any more; the air prickles with bad feeling. I go back to the kitchen, where at least it’s warm.
‘I wish people were as straightforward as dogs,’ I say to Borage as I feed him cold pasta bake from my fingers.
I clear the rest of the food away. Wash up. Sweep the floor. Just like at home, doing stuff calms me down. But then I remember my history homework and my shoulders tense. There’s nothing else for it; I’ll have to give it another go.
I rescue my book from where it fell beside the bin and sit at the table. The blank pages stare back at me. Head in hands, I make myself think of the film we watched in class: the marching soldiers, the hats in the air, all that
hope
for something better. But it’s pointless. All I see is Ella’s colourful mind map, and I think how I haven’t even got a pencil case because it’s in my bag and that’s still with a ticket collector in London. It’s no use pretending I can do this; I can’t.
All that’s left is to go to bed. Crossing the hall, I see Dad’s left his mobile on the table. I pick it up. It’s
a very nice phone. New, slim. Full of charge. Really I should take it out to him, even though it won’t work down here.
I hesitate. Looking at the solid black battery symbol, I remember there
is
a place where phones work. It’s no help to Dad, who’s stuck outside, but I’m inside and a quick call to my best friend might cheer me up.
Assuming Nell’s still in the library, I race upstairs and switch on the lights. And even then it’s still dark enough that Dad’s phone glows. At the end of the passage, the door to the little room is shut. Instead of the red curtain pulled neatly across, it hangs untidily to one side, as if someone in a hurry has been here and forgot to draw it closed.
I dial Lexie’s number from memory. Or what I think is her number. It clicks onto an answerphone that’s not hers. I try again. The same thing happens. I try her landline. No answer. Perhaps she’s out having fun with Bethany Cox.
I hear something else. Holding the phone away from my ear, I listen.
Someone’s crying.
Just like before, it’s coming from Nell’s bedroom. This time I don’t hesitate – I knock.
‘Go to bed, Alice,’ she says.
‘Are you okay though?’
She doesn’t answer. I’m guessing she’s upset about seeing Dad again. After twenty-one years of not speaking, it must be a massive shock. I wait. Wait a bit more. The sobbing goes quiet. Her bedroom light clicks off and I hear the rustling of bedclothes, a cough. It doesn’t seem right to stay and listen.
As I head for the attic, I’ve still got Dad’s phone. I bet it’s full of pictures of Lara and Poppy and I don’t trust myself not to look. So I go back downstairs and take it out to him in his car. He’s not there, though, so I follow the path that runs down the side of the house; he’s got to be here somewhere.
It’s a clear night. The stars are out and the grass is frosted over. Everything is quiet – even the woods – as if it’s all holding its breath. Dad’s leaning on what’s left of the fence, looking at the trees.
‘Oh, thanks,’ he says when I give him his phone.
He goes quiet again for a very long time. It’s like he’s in a sort of dream.
‘When I was a kid I thought there were fairies in this wood,’ he says finally. ‘I never saw any, mind you, though it didn’t stop me looking.’
I shiver a little. Pull my jumper sleeves down over my hands to warm them. It’s strange hearing Dad speak
like this. He’s usually so logical and precise. He likes to make things, plan things. Or he did. Now there’s another ‘Dad’ who I don’t know very well. He’s scared, he gets things wrong, lets people down. And he says he believes in fairies.
‘Why did you believe in fairies, Dad?’ I ask, because today Ella said her mum did too, and I’m wondering now if it’s not just Flo who thinks fairies exist.
He smiles. ‘They were magical, you know? A mystery. They weren’t like frogs or tadpoles. You couldn’t catch one and keep it in a jar. Sometimes I wonder if this is the only magic place still left – here in these three acres.’
I don’t say anything. He doesn’t know about tomorrow and I’m not going to tell him. That’s up to Nell.
‘I’ve never told you, have I, about when you were born?’ he says, turning to me.
‘In the car, on the way back from a New Year’s party. Yes, you’ve told me. So’s Mum, plenty of times.’
‘But not the Chime Child part?’
‘The
what
?’
‘You were born at about three in the morning …’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I know.’
‘… which makes you a Chime Child. The myth
says a child born between midnight on Friday and cockcrow on a Saturday – the chime hours – has second sight. It means you can see fairies and spirits.’
I laugh. Then stop. I get a fluttering feeling in my chest.
Is this the reason the fairies have chosen me? Is this the special gift Ella was talking about today?
‘Are you joking?’ I say to Dad.
One look tells me he’s not. His foot on the lower rail, he’s staring dreamily into the woods again. I feel the hairs lift on the back of my neck. And as I follow his gaze I see two small green shapes dart between the trees. This time I’m sure I’m not imagining it.
Darkling Cottage
Monday 18th November
Dearest Alfred,
Today a Very Important Person came to visit. You’ll never guess who so don’t even try! All Papa said beforehand was that this person was an expert, by which I assumed he meant in photography.
Yet who should arrive? None other than the world-famous author of the Sherlock Holmes stories! Yes, he was HERE in Darkling Cottage! It was thrilling and confusing, but most of all really rather terrifying.
It turns out Papa knew Sir Arthur Conan Doyle through his regiment. He’d also read Sir Arthur’s articles on psychic matters in that magazine he gets called The Strand, and so decided to contact him for advice. When Sir Arthur received Papa’s telegram, he jumped straight in his motor car – a fine shiny green one with a fold-down roof – and drove the hundred miles to our house without stopping. We received the telegram to say he was coming just half an hour before he arrived.
Imagine the panic! And yes, there was a moment before opening it when we thought the telegram brought news of you. Once we’d recovered, Mama insisted I change into my best
blue frock. I didn’t know what was wrong with the one I was wearing; I could brush off most of the mud. But you know how particular Mama is. She didn’t believe my picture one bit, and if Sir Arthur were about to find us out as fakes, then we’d jolly well be tidy ones!
Our visitor arrived just after two. With him was a man called Mr Robinson who, it turns out, really is an expert in photography. Yet all eyes were on Sir Arthur. Have I told you how tall he is? Honestly, his head touched the light fittings! Papa showed our guests to the library. Mama and I followed. Anna and Mrs Cotter were also invited to meet the great man himself, and to see my picture. It hit me then that this wasn’t a secret any more, not even just between Papa and me. Now a whole roomful of people would be in on it, which I confess only added to my nerves.
Before he’d even seen the picture, Sir Arthur said he’d like to ask me some questions. His hands were tucked in his waistcoat pockets – I almost imagined it was Sherlock Holmes about to interview me. Papa looked on, awestruck.
Sir Arthur started by asking what I’d seen in the wood. I didn’t know quite what to say at first, especially with other people in the room, all there to listen. But Sir Arthur was very kind and patient, and said did I know children were more in tune with the spirit world than adults? Mama cut in to say actually I’d had ’flu at the time. Mrs Cotter and Anna shared
a look. But dear Papa patted my arm and explained I was a Chime Child, which Sir Arthur agreed might have a bearing on my case.
Next he was shown the photograph. On picking it up off the table, Sir Arthur first held it at arm’s length. Then he brought it very close to his face. He peered at every single inch of it, top to bottom. It was most nerve-racking to watch.
By the time he invited Mr Robinson to inspect the picture himself, I felt positively sick. Eyebrows went up. Notes were made. Then heads close together, they spoke in low, excited voices. I was desperate to know what they were saying.
Finally Sir Arthur joined us at the fireside. He cleared his throat in a way that made me more nervous, if that was possible. It was his and Mr Robinson’s opinion, he said, that the picture wasn’t a fake. There was a clear sense of movement in what was a single-exposure shot. Strange, too, he said, how the fairy’s figure cast no shadow.
Papa seized my hands. We both started laughing like lunatics. Now, Alfred, I knew that picture wasn’t fake: I’d taken it myself. But to hear someone else say so was the finest thing. He believed me! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed me!
And how did Mama take the news? She looked uncomfortable, but thankfully she busied herself arranging coffee cups and cake. Not that I wanted cake – I was too stirred up for anything!
After forcing down what refreshments I could manage, Sir Arthur insisted I take him ‘to the very spot’ where I’d seen fairies: I desperately hoped we’d see one. The sun was low in the sky, a proper winter sun that dazzled between the tree trunks. It made me think of sunsets, and for a moment I felt sad, like I’d reached the end of a brilliant story. Only nothing had ended, Alfred, in fact it was just beginning.
Even so I was jolly relieved when a fairy did appear. Not only that, she hovered exactly at our FAVOURITE place, where the tree grows strangely. When I pointed her out to Sir Arthur, he seemed unable to see her himself, yet he didn’t think I was pretending. He just said it proved I was a Chime Child.
He said another thing too – this’ll interest you. That strange O-shaped branch? Well, apparently it’s a FAIRY DOOR, a very magical spot where fairies pass between our world and theirs. No wonder we picked that beech tree above all the others.
There’s more.
Beside me, Sir Arthur suddenly flinched. His hands went to his head and he ducked as if warding off a blow. Then something hit me – doof! – right on the forehead. Another hit me on the arm. Then the leg. Then the shoulder. The ammunition, I realised, was vicious little pea-sized stones.
And the sniper?
My fairy, who was invisible to Sir Arthur but who I could
see all too clearly. She was glaring right at us. Other fairies had joined her on the branch, or, should I say, at the fairy door. And let me tell you, scowling and glowering at us, they looked awfully fierce. It was most unsettling. I felt ashamed that my fairy should be unfriendly, and confused as to why she should be so now. They stayed there too, arms folded, staring down at us. It was we who retreated in the end.
Back at the house, Sir Arthur laughed it off. He called it typical fairy mischief and said it only made my case stronger. I don’t know, Alfred. Those fairies didn’t seem happy. Perhaps they just wanted to be left alone. The problem now is that Sir Arthur wants more photographs.
I’m beginning to wonder what on earth it is I’ve started.
More soon,
Your sister.
