The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (6 page)

On a blustery day in late summer two boys were
fishing near Ponterlally bridge. The eldest, a lad of eight, sat tense

and straight-backed, his
posture indicating deep concentration, left hand grasping the fishing rod,
right hand firmly on the reel, never for a moment taking his eyes off the
little red float riding the surface of the water, alert for the small dipping
movement that would tell him a fish was nibbling at the bait. By his side,
sprawled on his back, legs extended, ankles crossed, fishing rod balanced in
the crook formed by his bare feet, lay his younger brother. His hair was white
blond, his eyes a startlingly vivid blue, the colour of cornflowers, and they
were looking not down at the river, but up at the sky. Keir found his brother’s
constant day-dreaming irritating. ‘Where are you, for goodness’ sake?’ he
asked, for the umpteenth time.

His younger brother did not
answer. Where was he? How to explain that he was journeying to a place so far
away that it was beyond the reach even of his restless imaginings? At this
moment his mind was filled not with reels and floats and worms but with the
vastness of the universe, where millions of solar systems and galaxies roamed,
and black holes lay in wait to trap the unwary.

‘Arthur!’

Some day, he dreamed, he too
might be up there exploring those infinite tracts of space and time – times
past and times future. It was possible, anything was possible if you believed,
wasn’t it? See there! And there again! Way, way up, in a sudden flare of time,
he glimpsed his future in a flurry of white clouds as the wind whirled them
across the sky.

‘
Arthur
!’ The name
cracked like a whip in the morning air.

Arthur’s blue eyes widened as
he sat up sharply. ‘Where on earth are you?’

Arthur thought of trying to
explain that he had not been on earth at all but decided not to; Keir would
never understand. ‘I was thinking.’

A scornful look darkened
Keir’s face. ‘Thinking! Is that what you call it! You said you wanted to come
fishing with me. Why aren’t you fishing?’

‘I am,’ said Arthur. ‘Sort of.’

‘No, you’re not. You’re
dreaming,’ said Keir sternly. Although there was only a year between them, Keir
was very much the elder brother. He took very seriously what he perceived to be
his fraternal duty, a significant part of which was assaulting his younger
brother either verbally or physically, or both. ‘You want a fight?’

Arthur shook his head. He
could never see the point of fighting. Besides, he always got the worst of it.

‘You’re a wimp, you know
that?’ Arthur was silent.

‘You watch out,’ said Keir,
‘or I’ll thump you. You want me to thump you?’

‘No.’

‘Say you’re sorry, then.’
‘What for?’

Keir raised his fist
threateningly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Arthur pulled a handful of
grass from the river bank. Throwing it into the water, he watched the green
threads separate and drift downstream in the current. Watching him, the
exasperated Keir wagged a stern finger. ‘How many times do I have to tell you?
Dreaming doesn’t catch fish. There was one tugging on your line just now and
you didn’t even notice.’ ‘Was there?’ Arthur lay back again, head resting on
clasped hands. He had noticed alright, and was secretly happy that the fish had
got away.

Keir, who always worked
diligently at everything, had no patience with his kid brother. There was
something wrong with him, he never took anything seriously. If there was one
thing Keir had learned from his father – if a thing was worth doing, it was
worth doing well. Why was his brother so lazy? It was shameful. ‘We’ve been
here ages, and you haven’t caught a single fish.’

Though Keir would never understand,
Arthur was here to be with his brother, not to catch fish. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he
ventured.

‘Doesn’t matter!’ echoed Keir
scornfully. ‘If catching a fish doesn’t matter, then what’s the point of
fishing?’ Keir allowed himself a smile of quiet satisfaction; he was rather
pleased with that remark, flattering himself that he had made an excellent
point.

It seemed to Arthur that fish
looked very happy in the river. So why not leave them there? That was his
opinion, at least, but one he kept to himself when Keir was around. On the
other hand, he was quite content to trot along with his older brother and be
part of what he was doing. Despite everything, Arthur loved his brother, which
was something else best kept to himself; Arthur had learned from experience
that Keir was very touchy about anything to do with feelings. Once, when Arthur
was much smaller, he had tried to kiss Keir on the cheek, and Keir had screwed
up his face and jeered at him for being a sissy. Arthur had never forgotten
that, but nevertheless nothing could alter the fact that for Arthur, Keir was
the wisest, the most grown up, and altogether the best older brother any boy
could have.

‘Keir?’ he whispered.

A sigh of exasperation.
‘What!’

A nod up at the sky. ‘Do you think
they
are
watching us?’ Keir looked blank. ‘Do I think who is watching us?’

‘The aliens,’ said Arthur.

Keir was thoroughly
exasperated. His concentration had been disturbed yet again, and his brother
was talking rubbish. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no such
thing as aliens.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Grow up.’ Keir reeled in a
fish. ‘Even if there were any,’ he added disdainfully, ‘why would they waste
time watching you?’

‘I expect you’re right,’ said Arthur.

‘Of course I’m right. They’d
have better things to do.’ ‘Like what?’

Keir groaned with frustration.
That was another irritating thing about Arthur, he was forever asking
questions. Ending a conversation with him was like trying to wipe honey off
your fingers. ‘Like . . . well, you know . . . invading another planet or
something.’

Arthur sat up sharply, eyes
bright with excitement. ‘You think they might invade earth?’

‘Don’t be bloody daft!’ ‘Why
not?’

‘Because . . . ’ Keir
floundered for the definitive response, the one that would wipe the sticky mess
off his fingers for good. ‘Because, stupid . . . because they are so many light
years away from us that by the time they arrived,
we wouldn’t be here any
more
.’

Arthur lay back, closing one
eye and then the other, observing his big toe move first to the left, then to
the right. Why did it seem to move, when actually it hadn’t moved at all? Or
had it? How could you be sure? It was quite hard to be sure about anything. He
was not even sure he understood what Keir meant, though it seemed like the
wisest thing he had ever heard. He regarded his brother with a mixture of awe
and astonishment. It was amazing; Keir was only eight years old, and already he
knew everything.

‘And don’t ask any more silly questions,’ said
Keir, terminating the discussion. He tried hard to focus again on his rod and
line but irritating thoughts crept in to his head disturbing his concentration.
One of the most annoying things about Arthur was the way fish gathered by the
riverbank the moment he appeared. That never happened to Keir. There they were
now, dozens of them, jostling and leaping a few inches from Arthur’s bare feet.
And what was he doing? Taking advantage of his good fortune? No. He could have
bent down and scooped a handful into his basket. Instead, he was wriggling his
toes, gazing at the sky and talking to himself. Once he even saw Arthur reach
into the water, pick up a fish and stroke it. What’s more, he spoke to it! He
actually spoke to a fish as if it were a friend of his! The fish didn’t even
wriggle. He could easily have tossed it in the basket, but no, not Arthur. What
did he do? He threw it back in the river again. What could you do with a ninny
like that?

Keir lived to please his
parents, Hector and Elizabeth. Getting things right was the best way he knew of
earning their approval. Whenever he went fishing, he prided himself on catching
at least five or six good-sized fish. Today, he had caught eight, a record.
Unfortunately it was not in his nature to be satisfied for long. As he heaved
the heavy basket onto his shoulder, he was whistling happily, but on the long
trudge back, his spirits began to fail, and by the time the two boys got home,
Keir was miserable. Why had he not caught more fish? he asked himself. He could
have done, should have done. Glumly, he received his father’s congratulations.
‘Eight fish! And big ones too! Well done, Keir! Well done, indeed! Mum will be
delighted. Run along to the kitchen and show her your catch.’ Hector then made
a big show of rummaging around in Arthur’s basket, pretending to look surprised
that it was empty. ‘I expect they jumped back in the river, eh, Arthur?’

Arthur could come home with an
empty fishing basket and still make his father happy. To Keir it made no sense.
Dad was always going on about how everything had to be logical. How logical was
it to be satisfied with failure? Was he not always telling his sons to use the
gifts God gave them, and how they must do the very best they could? Yet here he
was ruffling Arthur’s hair as if he had done something to be proud of. At times
like this, Keir hated his brother.

Fortunately, Arthur was not
competitive, and excelled at nothing of any importance, though he did have a
natural aptitude for ball games. At the local primary school he was opening bat
for the first team, and much admired as a spin bowler; at soccer and tennis he
also showed considerable promise. In general, though, there was nothing
outstanding about him, except perhaps that he seemed to have a special
relationship with animals; cats and dogs, like fish, followed him around; birds
would fly down from trees and perch on his shoulder as he walked; on a horse,
though he had never had a lesson, he was completely at ease. Some people said
that horses spoke to him, though no one had actually heard them do it.

At school Arthur was
well-liked, though no one took him seriously, least of all his teachers who had
given him up as an academic prospect. Arthur found more to interest him in a
shaft of sunlight than in boring lessons. What, for example, were those
billions of specks of floating dust that appeared and disappeared as the
sunlight came and went? To Arthur, it was obvious they were visitors from
another solar system. Why else would they be beaming down through the classroom
window? And what were they doing in a shaft of sunlight, scaled down to
microscopic size? The only question was, were they friends or foes? It amazed
him that the teachers ignored these sparkling motes floating in the air; or
hadn’t they noticed? He tried to warn his classmates, but knowing Arthur, they
would smile and look away. They were too busy doing arithmetic and French and
all that stuff. He couldn’t help feeling they had all got it wrong, for what
was more important; memorising the angles of an isosceles triangle, or making
contact with a million extra-terrestrials?

Keir suffered no such
distractions; he worked relentlessly, he paid attention, if he got it wrong, he
did it again and again until he got it right. As a result he was invariably top
of the class. No teacher ever said of him what they so monotonously said of
Arthur – ‘could do better’. Never once did Keir bring home a bad report, yet
his demons were never far away; however glowing his parents’ praise, it could
never be enough, and however stern their criticism of Arthur, it could never be
as harsh as he deserved. Had he been challenged, Keir would most vehemently
have denied being jealous of Arthur. What reason could he possibly have to be
jealous of him, when he was constantly proving himself to be better at
everything he did?

The sad truth was, superior as
Keir felt himself to be, that he was convinced his parents loved Arthur best, a
fact which puzzled and infuriated him, especially as he had no idea what he
could do to make them love him more than Arthur. For some reason he could not
explain he had always looked on his younger brother as an intruder, sensing
intuitively that he was born to be an only child, and had somehow been deprived
of his rightful status.

Had Keir only known, his
father was inordinately proud of him. ‘Keir is the clever one,’ Hector would
say proudly. ‘He’s ambitious, and he’s got guts. He’ll be Prime Minister one
day, you’ll see. Arthur . . . ? He’s a good lad. But he’ll never amount to
anything.’

Elizabeth would smile at her
husband’s predictions, and keep her opinions to herself.

Ferdinand Tozer, a wealthy industrialist and
generous contributor to the Conservative Party, was waiting in the library to
see Uther when a young girl walked in. It was Elaine, eldest of the Pendragon
sisters. On her fifth birthday, Elaine had informed her parents that her chosen
profession was the stage. That she was plain and a little pop-eyed did not
bother her in the least. ‘
I shall be a great actress
,’ she had announced.
‘
The
queen
will
make
me
a
dame,
and
I
shall
have
masses
of lovers.
’

She thrust out her hand. ‘I’m
Elaine,’ adding helpfully, ‘I’m fifteen.’

Tozer lifted his corpulent
frame to an unsteady half-crouch, tweaked the proffered hand by the fingertips
and fell back in his chair panting from the effort. ‘Delighted to meet you,
little madam.’

Elaine viewed the visitor
coldly; if there was one thing she hated it was being patronised. She took a
seat opposite Tozer, folding her hands demurely in her lap. ‘My step-father
phoned. I’m to entertain you.’

‘Most kind.’ Tozer sat nodding
his head emphatically, emphasising how kind he thought it was.

Observing her visitor’s
uneasiness, Elaine presumed that he was probably here because he wanted
something. Her step- father was an MP and had important friends, so people
said. They also said he could do things for the right kind of people. ‘Are you
rich?’ she enquired shrewdly.

Tozer’s eyes widened. ‘I suppose I am –
rather,’ he replied, pulling an apologetic face and wiggling his shoulders in
embarrassment, as if to convey how deeply he regretted being rich.

That confirmed it, Elaine
thought to herself. This man definitely wanted something from daddy – probably
a knighthood or a lordship or something. She sized up her visitor, fixing him
with an unwaveringly challenging stare.

Desperate to change the
subject, Tozer observed soapily, ‘You must be the eldest sister. Being so
mature, I mean,’ he added with a flattering smile.

‘I’m fifteen. Margot’s
thirteen.’ Knowing there were three sisters, Tozer was about to enquire about
the youngest, when Elaine continued almost without a break. ‘Would you like me
to tell you a secret?’

‘What kind of secret?’

‘A secret about my step-father. A very important
secret.’

Censure and curiosity battled
in his head. Curiosity won. ‘If you like.’

‘You wouldn’t use it against
him, would you?’ Ferdinand Tozer’s eyes narrowed. ‘Certainly not.’ ‘She’s a
prisoner.’

Tozer leaned forward on his chair. ‘Who is?’

‘My sister. The youngest one.
We’ve been told not to tell anyone if we don’t want the same thing to happen to
us.’ Elaine looked down at her hands and sniffed.

Tozer looked unimpressed.
‘Your father sent her to her room because she didn’t do her homework. Right?’ He
cleared his throat importantly, ending on a high, challenging note.

‘Wrong.’

‘Then why is she a prisoner?’

‘Daddy says she’s mad,’ said Elaine
matter-of-factly.

This time Tozer could not
restrain a chuckle that turned into a guffaw that brought on a prolonged fit of
coughing. ‘Come now,’ he wheezed, red in the face, ‘I wasn’t born yesterday, my
dear.’ Elaine stood up to go. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me. No one does.’
She extended her hand with quiet dignity. ‘Goodbye.’

Ferdinand Tozer prided himself
on being a good judge of character. ‘Sit down. Tell me more.’

Elaine did as she was told.
‘Her name is Bertha Mason. Well, Bertha Mason Pendragon. She’s the baby and dad
picks on her. She howls and moans a lot, and she’s a bit, well, simple. But
she’s quite harmless really.’

‘How long has she been locked
up?’ ‘Ever since she was a baby.’ ‘Where?’

‘In the attic.’

‘In the attic!’ Ferdinand
Tozer was shocked. ‘That’s outrageous! What does your mother say about all
this?’

‘She says this is the
twenty-first century and people don’t do things like that any more. Daddy wont
listen. He says it would ruin his career if people knew he had a mad daughter.’

‘But . . . but . . . ’ Though
Tozer was horrified, his brain was feverishly active, calculating how he could
turn this extraordinary situation to his advantage. ‘Why doesn’t he put her in
a home?’

Elaine’s voice faltered. ‘He’s
afraid someone might sell the story to the press.’

‘Why are you telling me all
this?’ Tozer was suddenly suspicious again. ‘Me, a complete stranger.’

‘It’s only a stranger I
can
tell. Father’s friends won’t listen

to me.’

Tozer nodded. That certainly
made sense, considering what he knew about Pendragon and his cronies. ‘But what
can I do?’

‘You’re rich, so I expect
you’re important. You can talk to father, make him set her free. She has a
right to lead her own life and be happy.’ Elaine gulped. ‘Or as happy as she
can be.’

‘Of course she does.’ This was dynamite. What
would Uther not give to keep his secret safe? ‘Show me, my dear,’ he said
decisively. ‘I want to see her.’

Elaine seemed a bit surprised. ‘Now?’

‘Now,’ insisted Tozer, thrusting out his chest.

Elaine pondered a moment or
two. ‘I’ll need a couple of minutes to make sure the coast is clear.’

It was considerably more than
a couple of minutes before she returned, and as the seconds ticked by, the less
believable her story seemed to Ferdinand Tozer.

Elaine was breathing heavily
when she rushed in. ‘Come quickly!’ she hissed, grabbing his hand and pulling
Tozer out into the hall and up three flights of stairs. It was the most
exercise he had had in years. The top of a fourth flight of much narrower
stairs was blocked by a low door. Elaine knocked a special knock. Rat – tat,
tat, tat! Rat – tat, tat, tat! Ferdinand Tozer leaned against the wall wheezing
and gasping for air. Elaine turned the handle and opened the door cautiously.
‘Come!’ she whispered, beckoning Tozer to follow her.

As his eyes adapted to the
gloom he made out first a network of wooden beams supporting the roof and then
a confusion of objects; a pile of suitcases, a few lamps and lampshades, a
birdcage, a child’s rocking horse, a baby’s bath. The attic smelled musty.
Ferdinand Tozer sneezed loudly, and as he did there came a low moan from the
shadows somewhere to their right.

Finger to her lips Elaine
whispered, ‘She’s very timid.’ In a low voice she called, ‘Bertha!’ At first
there was no response, and then came a faint scraping sound as of a chain being
dragged across the floor. The sight that met Ferdinand Tozer’s eyes was one he
would never forget; a small figure crouched on the filthy attic floor, wrapped
in a torn shawl, trembling arms outstretched, begging for who knew what? Food
or drink, or simply love and understanding? The little mite’s tired eyes were
rimmed with what looked like blue and red welts; they were the frightened eyes
of some tortured spirit that had never known peace of mind.

‘Poor girl! Poor little girl!’
Ferdinand Tozer’s eyes moistened. It was a long time since he had been moved to
tears. He held out his hand but the pathetic creature shrank back into a dark
corner, eyes full of terror, fingers scrabbling at her mouth. It was then he
saw the padlock on her tiny ankle and the chain that shackled her to one of the
rafters.

‘Good God in heaven! This is
inhuman! This is . . . ’ Words failed him.

‘She tried to set the attic on
fire,’ explained Elaine. ‘It was just to attract someone’s attention, but
father said she was a danger to herself and everyone else and chained her up.’

‘Monster! Cruel Monster!’ said Tozer in a
hoarse whisper.

As they descended the attic
steps Ferdinand Tozer heard a sound that made the hairs rise on the back of his
neck and all the way down his spine – peal after peal of demoniacal laughter
that must surely have come not from a little child but from a tormented soul in
hell. He had intended to threaten Uther Pendragon with exposure and offer to
keep silent in exchange for whatever promise of honours he could extract from
him. His conscience now demanded that he abandon that cynical scheme, and do
everything in his power to ensure that Pendragon – brutal, degenerate beast –
was punished for his crime. Life imprisonment would surely not be too much for
him. Never had Ferdinand Tozer felt so good about himself, so righteous was his
indignation, so just his cause.

When finally he confronted the
wicked perpetrator of the sickening crime, the amusement with which Uther
greeted Tozer’s angry denounciation was as unexpected as it was shocking.
Convinced that this monster was the son of Satan, Tozer responded with bitter
insults and solemn threats. Yet in the middle of his righteous tirade, Uther
abruptly left the library and reappeared holding Morgan, his youngest daughter,
by the ear. The sight of Morgan clutching a filthy old shawl, the telltale
smudged red and blue cosmetic circles round her eyes, and several of her front
teeth blacked out, was one that branded itself like a hot iron on Ferdinand
Tozer’s memory.

He was not the first to be
taken in by Elaine, though that was no consolation to him at all. Having gulped
down the best part of a bottle of Uther’s finest twenty year old Malt Whisky,
Tozer’s driver helped him, still shaking his head in bemusement, into his
Bentley.

Uther’s embarrassment was
tinged with secret amusement, for whilst he had little time for his
step-daughters, whom he considered spoilt, wilful and absurdly privileged, they
were at least entertaining. ‘Naughty but funny, eh, duchess?’

Igraine was not so sure. ‘Why
Bertha Mason?’ she asked her husband.

Uther found that an odd
comment coming from Igraine, an intelligent and well-read lady. ‘Quite
appropriate, I thought. A demented female imprisoned in the attic and all
that.’ He grinned. ‘Serve Tozer right. If he had read
Jane Eyre
, he
would have known it was a practical joke.’

‘It wasn’t Elaine’s idea, you know. It was
Margot’s.’

Uther handed his wife a gin
and tonic. ‘How do you know?’

‘She told me. Seemed rather
proud of it.’ Uther opened a can of tomato juice. ‘So?’ ‘You don’t find that
strange?’

‘Should I?’

‘Elaine is the passionate one.
She’s the one who adores wildly romantic novels, not Margot.’

Uther spiced his Bloody Mary
with a few drops of Tabasco. ‘I’m not with you, duchess.’

‘Think about it. Margot is the
most calculating of the three girls. She never acts on impulse, and she never
does anything without a reason.’

Uther sipped his drink
thoughtfully. ‘You think she’s telling us something?’

‘A guilty secret. An abandoned child. Parents
afraid the world might discover the truth. Isn’t it all a little too close too
home?’

A sharp pain stabbed Uther’s
chest. Just for a moment he felt breathless, and then the feeling passed.
‘You’re not suggesting she knows anything?’

‘Bit too much of a
coincidence, isn’t it?’ ‘But how could she?’

Igraine shrugged. ‘She might
have overheard us talking. Margot’s smart. She’s quite capable of putting two
and two together.’

‘Should I talk to her?’

Igraine shook her head.
‘Absolutely not. It wouldn’t achieve anything, and it might make matters a lot
worse.’

‘That girl is going to give us
trouble,’ said Uther, not for the first time.

Not only was Margot smart, she
was also the most beautiful of the three sisters. With her black hair, big
brown eyes and creamy complexion she seemed as pure and innocent as a Madonna.
The reality, as Uther knew, was very different. Margot combined innocence with
sensuality in a way that many visitors to Brackett Hall found remarkable, not
to say disturbing. When she was around, wives and girl-friends watched their
partners closely. Perched on a man’s lap, she would entertain him with childish
chatter, tossing her hair from time to time so that its soft waves brushed his
face. Giggling girlishly, she would bury her head coyly in his neck and whisper
secrets in his ear. She would hold his hand, (she was obsessed with hands),
caressing it affectionately, or touch his cheeks with pouting lips, all the
time confronting the other guests with her eyes as if to say, ‘What’s wrong?
Nothing. Nothing but your nasty mind.’

When Martin, the head
gardener, died, his successor was Tom Beddows, a young man in his early
twenties, good-looking, cheerful and uncomplicated. Margot took a fancy to him
and would trail him round the gardens, chattering incessantly, leaving him now
and then to chase a squirrel or turn a cartwheel on the lawn. At first Tom
found Margot’s constant attentions a distraction, yet to his surprise he missed
his young friend when she went away to boarding school. Distraction or not, he
had grown accustomed to having her around.

With the holidays Margot
returned, as if no time had passed at all. In those few short months, though,
Tom noticed the change in her. Whereas she used to skip behind him turning
cartwheels, now she walked demurely by his side, tossing her black hair,
slipping him an occasional sidelong glance. Before, she had shown artlessly, as
a child does, that she liked him; now he could no longer read what was in her
mind.

The day before her school
summer term began, Tom was eating his lunch on the Victorian ironwork bench by
the big lawn, and she was sitting next to him. He liked that; it was the first
time she had shown her friendship for him in such a companionable way. For a
while she watched him eating, and for some reason this made him nervous.
Pushing aside his last sandwich only half eaten, he wolfed an apple in four
bites, slopped a mug of tea from his thermos flask and gulped it down.