Shaman of Stonewylde (33 page)

‘There’s no connection whatsoever,’ said Sylvie. ‘Now I must get back to the Village and my children. I’ll leave you in Harold’s capable hands.’

That night Sylvie lay in her bed trying to get to sleep. She could hear the owls calling outside and then the cry of a fox, and she hoped the girls had shut the chickens in properly. She imagined Yul on the sofa in his office, where she assumed he was sleeping whilst the Aitch crew were in the grand apartments. It was a strange thought knowing that their private rooms were full of other people, but Sylvie found that she didn’t mind at all. She’d never felt comfortable in those rooms and she realised then that she wanted to stay in the Village permanently. She wondered if Yul could be persuaded to move back here? If only
they
could have their own little cottage in the Village, just her, Yul, Celandine and Bluebell . . .

Sylvie slowly drifted towards sleep with that delightful thought growing in her imagination. She pictured herself working at the loom with a casserole bubbling on the range, whilst Yul chopped wood in the back garden and the children weeded the vegetable beds. But then, something that had been tugging at her mind all day suddenly re-emerged and dragged her back from the brink of sleep. It was to do with Faun and her success at being chosen as one of the very few Stonewylders to join the photo-shoot in the morning.

Benjy had brought the list to Harold, who’d tried to find the half dozen youngsters on it to tell them the news. They were scattered around, some, like Kestrel, working in the fields and others in class. Sylvie had been in the School Wing when Harold had located Faun in the corridor. She’d witnessed the girl’s smug lack of surprise at being chosen, in such sharp contrast to her friends’ disappointment at being passed over. Sylvie had wished then that, despite her prettiness, Faun had been rejected too. It would have done her inflated self-esteem no harm at all. But now, lying in the darkness and half asleep, the thing that had been bothering her all day popped into her head.

She thought of the day when the scouts were doing the mug-shots in the Village, and Faun had been making a fuss about having to queue up. She recalled Faun’s words, which suddenly didn’t make sense. Previously, Harold had said that someone from Aitch had e-mailed him about supplying goods for their fashion show
after
Rainbow had returned to London; she’d shown her Stonewylde photos to friends in the fashion industry, who’d been impressed. And yet . . . on the audition day Faun had complained about wasting her time having to queue because Rainbow had
already
promised her a modelling part in the photoshoot. Had Harold lied to her and the whole thing been a setup all along?

‘Have a lovely day, my darlings!’ said Sylvie to her daughters as she left them at the Nursery gate.

Both girls kissed their mother goodbye, skipping up the path and into the building with all their friends. Bluebell turned at the door and waved again, and Sylvie stood for a moment in thought. Should she pop in and ask Rowan about Faun’s strange remark? Maybe she’d misheard, but it was bothering her, making her worry that there was some kind of subterfuge going on. But when she asked one of the women inside for Rowan, she was met with a laugh.

‘She’s not in today!’ said the Nursery teacher. ‘ ’Tis the photo thing with them photographers and Rowan’s off.’

‘Really? Why?’

‘On account o’ Faun being a model.’

The woman rolled her eyes at Sylvie and smiled.

‘But surely Rowan doesn’t need to be there? I’m sure none of the other mothers will be.’

‘ ’Tis the girl’s big day and Rowan wanted to look after her. That girl’s the apple of her eye and don’t we all know it!’

Sylvie queued in the Bakery with a wicker basket over her arm, chatting to other women waiting their turn. The aroma of fresh bread was wonderful, and Sylvie took her loaf with a grateful smile. She stopped off at the Butcher’s next, as Maizie had asked her to pick up some beef for tonight’s supper. She also wanted to pop into the General Store and get some more candles as she’d noticed Maizie only had a couple left in the drawer. When she’d finished these errands, she’d have a quick cup of tea and then go up to the Hall to see if Finn had arrived yet.

Chelsi had explained they’d be doing the models’ hair and make-up in the Hall, and having a photo-session up there first. They liked the exterior of the Hall and the courtyard with its ancient cobbled yard and old water-butts, with the walled Kitchen Garden in the background. Later they’d be setting up in the Village for a longer session around the Green, outside the Barn and the Jack in the Green. Sylvie hoped that Rufus would
enjoy
it – she was surprised he’d been chosen, given his freckles and gangly limbs, but he was a good looking boy and perhaps his unusual colouring and skinny height were what they wanted.

It would be strange seeing the minibuses and all the equipment down in the Village, and a whole group of Outsiders too. Sylvie had a moment of doubt – had she made the right decision encouraging this? It had only really gone ahead because she’d supported it so whole-heartedly; certainly Yul had made no secret of his distaste for the entire venture. But the money was desperately needed; apart from the revenue from the boots, clothes and accessories they’d ordered, Aitch were paying handsomely for using Stonewylde as a location for this shoot. Really, there hadn’t been a choice.

With her basket over her arm, Sylvie walked back from the General Store across the cobbles and started off up the lane leading to Maizie’s cottage. She knew Maizie was out and about today, liaising with the people working on the goods for the Aitch order, and making a couple of her welfare calls. She’d have left the cottage beautifully tidy, with the floor swept, the tops dusted, the kitchen scrubbed and the beds made

Sylvie walked up the path and opened the front door, stepping into the shady parlour which smelt strongly of lavender. Maizie had put jam jars of it in every window sill as it was good for keeping the flies away, a necessity in this heat. Sylvie put the beef and bread in the cool pantry and made sure the catch on the old wooden meat-safe was secure before shutting the door. If any insects got into Maizie’s pantry there’d be trouble. The tiny room was immaculate, with rows and rows of preserves lined up, all neatly labelled in Maizie’s careful writing.

Sylvie decided against a cup of tea after all – it was just too hot. Instead, she poured herself a glass of precious water and stood at the kitchen window gazing out over the long back garden. The sun blazed down and everything looked so dry. The chickens were scratching around in their enclosure and Bluebell’s favourite, which she’d named Lucky Clucky, was enjoying a good dust bath. The pig lay on its side in the shade panting, and the bees
were
busy. Sylvie tried to imagine Yul here as a little boy, out in the garden helping Maizie grow the vegetables and tend the animals. She loved the fact that the girls were now doing the same. Even though she and Yul hadn’t had a son, at least Rufus was enjoying his time here. She must try and work on bringing him and Yul closer, as Miranda had asked her last year.

She’d turned away from the garden to put the new candles in the dresser drawer, when there was a frantic knocking at the front door. She was surprised to see one of the young women whom she’d noticed earlier going into the Barn to begin work on the felt hats.

‘Oh Sylvie, there’s a message for you! You got to go up to the Hall – ’tis very urgent.’

‘What’s happened? What’s the matter?’ said Sylvie, grabbing her sun-hat.

‘I don’t rightly know the details,’ said the woman, hurrying alongside Sylvie as they headed back into the Village. ‘I were just starting on the felt with the others when the phone rang. ’Twas Harold, and he sounds in a right state!’

‘Harold? Oh dear, I hope it’s not some issue with this photoshoot!’

‘Aye, I think it is! He said there were trouble and you must come quick as you can. He sounded terrible!’

‘Nobody’s been hurt, have they? I hope it isn’t some horrible accident!’

Leaving the woman at the Barn, Sylvie dashed up the track, wishing for once that there was some form of transport available. The old painted cart still brought old folk down from the Hall to the Village and back, but it wasn’t in use today. Why hadn’t Harold sent down the models’ minibus to collect her if it was such an emergency? She hurried along, clutching onto her floppy straw hat as her thin cotton skirts flew out. Where on earth was Yul when he was needed? This galloping off into the sunset on Skydancer would have to stop. She knew Clip was away for a couple of days, sorting out the estate with the lawyer. But Miranda and Hazel were up at the Hall, not to mention
Martin
. There were people already around who could make decisions in an emergency.

As her sandaled feet sped along the dusty way, Sylvie became more and more concerned, imagining the worst. Why had Harold sounded terrible? What sort of trouble meant she must come up so quickly? Had anything happened to Yul or Miranda? Perhaps the woman had got it wrong and it was nothing to do with the photoshoot. She knew that her girls were safe in Nursery – who else could it be? Leveret? Or had some call come through about Clip? Maybe he’d been taken ill in the town or the lawyer’s office.

At last the long, tree-lined drive came to an end, and she rushed between the huge stone pillars to the enormous gravel turning circle in front of the Hall. Its beautiful facade glowed in the sun, the hundreds of mullioned windows glinting. The minibus and transit van sat parked outside, looking completely out of place; since Magus’ demise the only vehicles here were old, work-related ones. Then she saw a vehicle even more incongruous – a large and very aggressive-looking red sports car. Sylvie had no idea about cars, but this one looked very expensive indeed – all jutting angles and big shiny bits. She grimaced; this must belong to Finn, the photographer that Chelsi and Benjy had been going on about. Or maybe even Aitch, the owner of the fashion label. The last thing she needed, if there was an emergency, was to be worrying about being hospitable towards them; they’d all just have to get on without her.

Feeling hot and sticky, her bare legs dusty and her hair falling all over her flushed face under the straw hat, Sylvie hurried across the gravel and into the dark entrance porch. She heard the raised voices immediately, and Harold’s voice the loudest.

‘No! We must wait till Sylvie gets here! She’s in charge, not you!’

She dashed across the stone flagstones of the porch, so worn and shiny, towards the open door. Then came Martin’s voice.

‘
She’s
not in charge, you fool! And besides, you’re nothing but a jumped-up pot-boy! I tell you, we—’

Sylvie walked in, blinded for a moment by the shadows after the brilliance of sunshine outside. She heard the arrogant drawl even before her eyes had adjusted to the dark interior, and smelled the alien stench of cigarette smoke.

‘Do stop your squabbling, the pair of you. Really, I have no problem waiting for Sylvie to arrive. Aha! Here she is at last!’

Sylvie stopped dead in her tracks and her mouth went completely dry. Before her stood Finn the photographer and Aitch the fashionista. Sylvie realised that they themselves were the emergency that poor Harold had been unable to cope with. She stood and stared in absolute shock, unable to speak but finally understanding what Aitch actually stood for.

17

A
fter all those years, it was bizarre to find Holly and Fennel in the entrance hall behaving as if they belonged at Stonewylde. Flushed, sweaty and covered in dust, Sylvie slipped straight back into her old role of gauche misfit and stood there awkward and tongue-tied. Holly, in contrast, had fulfilled her early promise and transformed into the soignée, sophisticated “Aitch”.

‘Sylvie, I never knew!’ Harold squeaked. ‘I’m so sorry! If I—’

‘Hold your tongue, boy!’ snapped Martin, looking as if he might actually strike Harold. ‘ ’Tis not your place to speak, and besides, why should anyone apologise for Hallfolk taking their rightful place again!’

This galvanised Sylvie into action. She turned on Martin and gave him a withering stare.

‘Neither is it your place to speak to Harold like that, or use the term
Hallfolk
in that context. I suggest you get back to whatever you were doing, Martin, and leave me to speak to our visitors.’

Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned her back on him and smiled at Holly and Fennel. Holly was draped on a carved settle by the great fireplace, smoking a cigarette and flicking her ash towards the flower arrangement placed in the empty hearth. Fennel lounged against the mantelpiece over the fireplace, and both stared at her in bemusement.

‘Welcome back to Stonewylde!’ said Sylvie brightly. ‘This is a surprise, as you knew it would be, and I can’t pretend I’m not shocked. But let’s go into the office and have some coffee, shall
we?
Martin – would you please arrange that with Cherry right now. Harold, do join us.’

She gave nobody time to demur but swept off towards the office, snatching the straw hat off her head. But then she turned and spoke over her shoulder.

‘And Holly – absolutely no smoking anywhere in the building, if you please. That’s one rule that’ll certainly result in your early expulsion, should you break it again.’

There was complete uproar in the kitchen and Martin walked in to virtual mutiny. Cherry and Marigold were both a-quiver with indignation and outrage, which made Martin’s championing of the visitors even stauncher.

‘They got NO right to be here, not after all that happened!’

‘How
dare
you say such a thing!’

‘Bloody Hallfolk! Old Greenbough were right all along – let one in and they’ll all be flooding back!’

The three older Villagers stood glaring at each other, the women’s faces bright red with explosive anger, and Martin’s grizzled face very white and grim. Finally, Martin broke the silence.

‘Sylvie said to bring coffee for them all. So you better get to it, Cherry.’

Marigold clattered the kettle on the range and searched in a high cupboard for the best silver coffee pot.