The Runaways (21 page)

‘Don’t be afeared,’ said Ezra. ‘Us’ve but to follow the track, an’ if presently us can’t see it, Rob-Roy will take us ’ome.’

Rob-Roy neighed and tossed his head in confident pleasure and when later they found themselves
travelling
blind, thickly wrapped up in cotton wool and unable to see a yard in any direction, Ezra let the reins go slack and the pony went slowly but steadily forward on his own. All the same, it was rather alarming
travelling
in this strange chilly no man’s land of nothingness, and Ezra struck up Moses’ song of the wind and the sea and the bees and they all sang the chorus. When they paused for breath Timothy asked, ‘Ezra, did you make up the tune, or Moses?’

‘Moses,’ said Ezra. ‘’Tis ’is song, but I makes up fresh verses to it to suit meself.’

‘What words were you singing that first night?’ asked Nan. ‘We hummed and stamped in the chorus, but we didn’t catch the words.’

The children could not see Ezra’s face, but they fancied he was looking a little sheepish. ‘I weren’t what you would call dead sober that night,’ he said. ‘Mind you, I weren’t drunk, but I weren’t dead sober.’

‘Come on, Ezra,’ said Robert. ‘Tell us what you sang. Come on!’

‘I sang a drinkin’ song, an’ now I don’t drink no more it ain’t suitable as I should sing it,’ said Ezra obstinately.

‘Why don’t you drink any more?’ asked Timothy.

‘The Master said I ’ad to set an example to
youngsters
,’ said Ezra gloomily. ‘Aye, it were a black day when you come to the ’ouse.’

Though they could not see his face, they knew he was smiling and they laughed and said, ‘Come on, Ezra! Sing us the song.’

‘Only this once, mind,’ said Ezra, ‘for it puts such a thirst on me as ee wouldn’t believe.’ And he lifted up his voice and sang.

The children sang too. They were roaring out the last chorus when Rob-Roy suddenly swung left into the stableyard and they found they were at home.

They stabled Rob-Roy and groped their way up the steps to the garden, Ezra carrying the basket. The lamp was already lit in the library and they could see Uncle Ambrose pacing up and down the terrace with his hands behind his back, his tall figure sometimes blocking out the light and sometimes revealing it again, like a cloud passing backwards and forwards over the moon. They gave a shout and saw him straighten himself with relief. Then he came down the terrace steps and caught Betsy up into his arms. He appeared to be extremely annoyed, but they remembered that Father had always lost his temper when he had been anxious about them, and then suddenly wasn’t, and they were not alarmed.

‘This child is chilled to the bone,’ he said angrily. Actually it was only Betsy’s face and hands that felt cold, because she had been well wrapped up, but she put on the shivering act she had learnt from Absolom and vibrated in Uncle Ambrose’s arms for all she was worth, leaning her head against his shoulder. Absolom shivered against Uncle Ambrose’s leg and Timothy produced a perfectly genuine sneeze.

‘I’ll poke up the kitchen fire an’ give ’em supper round it, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘Mutton broth an’ baked apples an’ an ’ot posset each when they’re in bed, and then there won’t no ’arm come to ’em. I’m sorry, sir, if you’ve been worrited.’

‘Worrited? Who said I was worrited?’ snapped Uncle Ambrose. ‘Had you gone across the moor I might have suffered some slight anxiety, but on the main road from town you were in perfect safety.’

They trooped indoors and drew the curtains, shutting out the mist. ‘It came up with remarkable suddenness,’ he said.

‘Took me by surprise, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘Never known it come up quite like this afore.’

‘Where were you when it caught you?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘Lookin’ the other way, sir,’ said Ezra. ‘If you’ll excuse me I’ll see to that fire. An’ the children better come with me.’ He glanced at the pages of manuscript littering the library table. ‘You’re at work, sir, I see. Come on, children, don’t disturb your uncle.’

Some while later, with Betsy already in bed and asleep, Ezra, Nan, Robert, and Timothy sat on the settle by the kitchen fire, with the lamp burning on the mantelpiece, and Nan had the book of spells on her lap.

‘Now then,’ said Ezra. ‘There ain’t no time to be lost.’

‘It seems a shame to be doing this without Betsy,’ said Robert.

‘She’s young yet,’ said Ezra. ‘Might be scared. It’s best it should be just the four of us.’

His coat was hanging over the back of a chair and he took from the pockets the little figures they had found in the cave and put them in a row on the kitchen table. ‘They be carved from mandrake roots,’ he said, ‘well carved too. I will say for Emma, she can get a good likeness. Mandrake be an evil root. It’s likely to bring bad luck to folk by itself, let alone ’avin’ pins stuck into you.’

‘But they aren’t real people,’ said Robert. ‘They’re just little figures.’

‘They be figures o’ real people, lad,’ said Ezra. ‘An’ what Emma did to these figures she did to the people.
She ’as the power. It be all in the mind, lad, the mind an’ the will, an’ Emma she’s strong-minded an’
strong-willed
. Now, maid, you read out o’ that book the spell for bindin’ the tongue.’

Nan found the place and read it out and Ezra picked up one of the little images and brought it to the light. Held in his hands, it seemed almost to take on life. It was of a little boy about eight years old and he had his tongue out.

‘He’s showing it to the doctor!’ said Robert.

‘That ’e’s not,’ said Ezra. ‘Look closer.’

They looked closer and saw that pins pierced the tongue. They had been thrust in while the mandrake root was still supple and now it was like hard wood and they were rusted in firmly.

‘You’ll never get them out!’ cried Nan in distress.

‘I shall,’ said Ezra. ‘’And me the pincers from the kitchen drawer, Robert.’

Robert gave them to him and, gripping the head of one of the pins, he began gently moving it to and fro, murmuring as he did so,

Ezra clapped his hands and Nan threw the little figure into the fire. The flames roared up and they were of marvellous colours, red and gold and pink and green and purple.

‘’E ain’t dead yet!’ said Ezra in satisfaction.

‘How do you know?’ asked Timothy.

‘’Ad ’e gone to heaven the figure would burnt ’ave quietly, ’appy but gentle, but when the flames roar up with all them lovely colours, you know the man or woman be still on earth.’

‘Let’s do another,’ said Robert.

Ezra took a second figure from the table. It was a tall bearded man, whose figure seemed to take on grace and elegance when Ezra took it into his hands. There were pins through his feet and his head.

‘What do they mean?’ asked Nan.

‘Don’t ee call to mind the spell for makin’ a man lose memory an’ wander away an’ be lost?’ asked Ezra. ‘Find it, maid, an’ read it.’

Nan found it and read it, the two rhymes were repeated, the pins removed and the little figure cast in the fire. The flames leaped up as before, very bright and gay. ‘So they’re both alive still,’ said Nan, and they all sighed with relief.

‘Who are they?’ asked Robert.

‘I can’t say, lad,’ said Ezra, adding, ‘not yet.’

‘Why were they hidden in that cave?’ asked Nan. ‘The spell said to put the figure of the lost man in a far place, but why was the little boy there too?’

‘Might be for convenience’ sake,’ said Ezra, ‘if the two of ’em was made at the same time. But there could be another reason. It ’elps on a wicked spell to put the images in an unlucky place. The Castle Rock, though it can look fine when the sun be on it, ’tis an unlucky place. The Lion be good, but not the Castle. ’Tis too near Weepin’ Marsh to be lucky. And a king
was found buried there at the top, some old king who died ’undreds an’ ’undreds o’ years ago. That’s not lucky neither.’

Robert and Timothy glanced at each other,
remembering
the king they had imagined living in the Castle when they stormed it, and then Robert said, ‘There are more little figures, Ezra.’

‘Let’s look at ’em,’ said Ezra, and Nan noticed that his eyes were twinkling. ‘Stand in a row on the ’earth.’

Robert picked them all up and stood them in a row. There were seven of them, a tall man with a top hat, a little man in a bunchy coat, four children of varying sizes and a dog. Each figure had a pin in the chest. The faces were not recognizable, but the figures were.

‘It’s us!’ gasped Timothy.

‘That’s right, lad,’ said Ezra, and he roared with laughter, slapping his knee. ‘But there ain’t no ’arm come to ee, for about the same time Emma made ’er figures I made mine. Do ee recall me makin’ some figures out o’ Timothy’s plasticine?’

The children laughed too, and Timothy asked, ‘Where are they now, Ezra?’

‘In a good an’ lucky place,’ said Ezra. ‘They be in the church in an’ ’idy-’ole I knows on be’ind the altar. But don’t ee tell your uncle. ’E’d say it were superstition. I reckon the cleverest men be ignorant at times.’

‘Let’s burn ourselves!’ said Robert.

‘You can if you’ve a mind, but there ain’t no need,’ said Ezra.

‘It would be better to burn ourselves,’ said Nan a little anxiously.

So they roared out the rhymes and burnt the seven little figures, and the flames were like rainbows leaping up the chimney.

‘Just one thing more,’ said Ezra. ‘There be a spell in that there book I didn’t take to, a spell for makin’ a coolness come between a man an’ a woman. I ’ave a feelin’ as Emma used that spell an’ I’d like to undo it.’ He got up, went to the dresser and came back with two little figures fashioned out of Timothy’s plasticine. ‘I made ’em last night,’ he said. They were of a man and a woman, not recognizable as anyone in particular, but as beautiful as a pair of young lovers on a
valentine
. He took a piece of red wool out of his pocket and handed it to Nan. ‘Now ’old ’em together, maid, breast to breast, an’ wind the wool round ’em while I says me rhyme,’ he said. Nan did so and he repeated,

Ezra took the figures from Nan and put them back on the dresser. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘they’ll go in me
’idy-’ole
with t’others I made. Now, children, we’ll burn the ’ole nasty book an’ be done with un for ever.’

They put the book on the fire and the pages writhed like snakes in the flames and then were consumed to nothing but glowing ash. Ezra raked them away and they were gone. ‘Now up you goes to your beds,’ he said, ‘an’ when you be there I’ll bring ee your possets.’

They ran upstairs, undressed and washed and then curled up in bed, waking up Betsy, who was already asleep with Absolom beside her, so that she could enjoy hot posset too, and presently Ezra came in with four steaming cups on a tray. It was the same posset that he had given Nan and it tasted wonderful. They were buried in their pillows again and already half asleep when Nan asked, ‘Is everything coming right, Ezra?’

‘Everythin’ be comin’ right, maid,’ said Ezra.

‘But what is it that’s coming right?’ asked Robert.

‘When ’tis come right you’ll know,’ said Ezra. ‘Now I be off to make an ’ot posset for your uncle. ’E’s
properly
shook up with worrit. Good night, children.’

‘Good night,’ they murmured drowsily and they were asleep by the time he reached the door.

chapter thirteen

singing in the wood

Next day at breakfast there were letters from the children’s father, one for each child and one for Uncle Ambrose. Breakfast was much prolonged while they read them aloud to each other, even Uncle Ambrose reading aloud bits of his, which was very long. One bit said that Father was glad that the children were living at the Vicarage. Knowing his brother’s desire for solitude and frequently expressed dislike of children, it was not an arrangement he would himself have dared to suggest, but now that it had come to pass he was delighted, and he looked forward to the day when he should retire from the army and they should all six of them live together. ‘The more the merrier’, wrote Father, and at this there were loud cheers from the
children
, not damped by Uncle Ambrose’s voice announcing in trumpet tones above their clamour, ‘With no proverb do I more profoundly disagree.’

‘Now here’s an interesting bit,’ he continued when the noise had subsided. ‘Nothing to do with us, but
interesting
. Your father says, “I am, as you know, in the Valley of the Kings, among the tombs and temples of ancient Egypt, and deeply interested in all the discoveries that are being made here. And also in the discoverers.
To one man in particular I am much attracted. I am told he has lived here for years, earning his living as a worker in the excavations, but a man of considerable intellect, for he speaks several languages and is a fine Egyptologist. But he suffers from a curious form of amnesia.”’

‘What’s amnesia?’ asked Robert. ‘Is it measles?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘Amnesia is loss of memory and you should know that at your age. Where was I? If there is one thing I dislike more than a boy, it is an interrupting boy. Ah, here we are. “He does not know who he is or where he came from. Memory for him begins when, a young man, he found himself sailing down the Nile in a native boat. He had no luggage with him and nothing in his pockets that could give him any clue to his identity, or even to his nationality, for he found he could speak English, French, Italian, and the lingo of the Egyptian workers with equal ease. A most curious case and a most interesting man.”’ Uncle Ambrose folded the letter and put it away. ‘Well, we must get to our lessons. Come along, children. Hector, come to the Parthenon.’

Lessons that morning seemed to the children, and possibly to Uncle Ambrose too, little more than an interlude. They were all glad to find themselves once more in the dining room, especially as it was beef steak and kidney pie and treacle tart. After a moment of silent and happy repletion between courses, Uncle Ambrose drew breath and said, ‘Nan, I have received Lady Alicia’s permission to visit her this afternoon and I shall take it very kindly if you will give me the pleasure of your company.’

Nan flushed with delight. ‘Just me?’ she asked.

‘Just you. The entire family would, I think, be somewhat overwhelming for an old lady. Robert and Timothy will take great delight in entertaining Betsy in the garden while we are out.’

He fixed his stern eyes upon his nephews and such was his authority that their glowering glances were fixed on their plates only. Betsy, looking very smug, kicked them under the table. They dare not kick back lest she yell, but Timothy glanced up briefly with such a
you just wait
expression on his face that Ezra, handing the potatoes, sighed. It would be his part to keep the peace.

‘Until now I have respected Lady Alicia’s Wish to live unvisited,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘but I asked her in my recent note if once only I may do myself the honour of waiting upon her. I do not feel it right that her kindness to you children should remain unacknowledged on my part.’

Uncle Ambrose sounded pompous and Nan privately thought there was more in this than met the eye. She believed he was burning with curiosity to see Lady Alicia and her picture. Especially the picture. Then she saw that he was also a little embarrassed. He cleared his throat and Hector on his shoulder cleared
his
throat and scratched behind his ear in a self-conscious way. ‘Boys,’ went on Uncle Ambrose, ‘I may possibly be late home for preparation.’

His nephews lifted their transformed faces and fixed their eyes on his face in bright and wicked glee. Their mouths trembled, but they did not laugh.

‘Don’t worry, Uncle,’ said Robert. ‘If you’re very late and we get anxious we’ll come and fetch you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Uncle Ambrose dryly.

After his nap he and Nan set forth, Uncle Ambrose in his Sunday frock-coat and top hat and carrying a
silver-headed
walking stick, Nan wearing a clean pink linen smock and her Sunday hat wreathed in roses, for this was an occasion. When they reached the green they saw William Lawson lounging in the door of the Bulldog, smoking his pipe. When he saw Uncle Ambrose he straightened himself and touched his cap.

‘Good morning, Mr Lawson,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘I trust your toothache is less troublesome?’

‘Yes, sir, thank ee,’ said William Lawson. Eliza and the bulldog were not to be seen, and neither was Emma, or Frederick. Nan thought to herself, if they’ve gone up to the cave to see if the little figures are still there, and find that they are gone, what will they do? The iron gates into the shrubbery were difficult to open and William Lawson came over and helped them, swinging them wide with one great brawny arm.

‘Thank you, Mr Lawson, I am much obliged,’ said Uncle Ambrose, and he stalked through into the
shrubbery
without looking back. Nan did not look back either, but all the way through the shrubbery she had a shivery feeling up and down her spine for fear William Lawson had slipped through after them. But when they were out in the wild garden she forgot her shivers, because Uncle Ambrose was so interested in all he saw. The japonica flowers and the apple blossom had long ago drifted away on the wind, but there were tangles of roses everywhere and foxgloves growing in the grass.

‘What a very beautiful house,’ said Uncle Ambrose, and he stopped still to look at it where it stood deep in the wild overgrown garden, shuttered, lovely, and blind.

‘But the front door is open!’ exclaimed Nan. ‘It hasn’t been opened for years and years, and now, look!’

It was wide open and under the gracious portico stood Moses in his Sunday livery. When Uncle Ambrose and Nan reached the terrace he stood aside and bowed, and the visitors walked in. He was, Nan realised, in a state of trembling happiness, as though he longed to believe the old days were coming back and yet dared not believe it. His hands were shaking as he took Uncle Ambrose’s hat and stick, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

‘This is an auspicious occasion, Moses,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘I am honoured that her ladyship is willing to receive me.’

‘Her ladyship is waiting, sir,’ said Moses. ‘Will you be pleased to come this way?’

He led the way up the stairs, with his bowed
shoulders
straightened and his head held high. The glory of the swinging cobwebs had disappeared and Nan felt a pang of sorrow, realising for the first time that every gain carries with it corresponding loss. Moses was happier, but he had swept away the cobwebs.

Lady Alicia received them in her boudoir in a very gracious and queenly manner. The weight of her years seemed to be weighing less heavily on her. She looked so much younger that Nan suddenly wondered if she was as old as she had thought she was. There was a sparkle in her eyes that matched the sparkle of her diamonds. It was wonderful to watch Uncle Ambrose bowing to her
and kissing her hand, and to hear the exchange of
elaborate
old-fashioned courtesies that flowed between them.

Then a marvellous and ceremonial tea arrived. Moses entered first, carrying a large silver tray shoulder high, and Abednego, with Gertrude slung in her hammock on his back, came behind with another, also held shoulder high. Abednego was very much smartened up. He appeared to have brushed his face and was wearing his footman’s livery of worn green velvet. On the silver tray were not only iced cakes, but delicate sandwiches with lemon curd filling, scones, and sponge fingers. While the tea were being set out under Lady Alicia’s critical eye, Uncle Ambrose looked about him, not with vulgar curiosity, and not really appearing to do it, but doing it all the same. Nan watched his hawk’s nose turn here and there, and noticed the gleam in his eyes. He wasn’t missing much, she thought. His glance lingered long upon the tapestry.

But when Moses and Abednego had left the room he did not comment upon it, and somehow or other he led the conversation round to his youngest brother, the children’s father. ‘An army man, but an amateur Egyptologist,’ he said. ‘He is now in Egypt for a while before going on to India.’

‘My husband travelled a great deal in Egypt,’ said Lady Alicia. ‘Before you leave I will take you into his library. There are some Egyptian treasures you might like to see.’

‘I should be honoured,’ said Uncle Ambrose.

‘Since my husband left home for the last time,’ said Lady Alicia, ‘Moses alone had entered the room until Nan and
Betsy went there by mistake the other day.’ She smiled at Nan. ‘As they have seen it I find I do not mind you doing so too.’ She turned her bright glance to Uncle Ambrose. ‘These children, sir, are working havoc with my habits.’

‘With mine too, ma’am,’ said Uncle Ambrose with deep sympathy. ‘But I hope you feel the benefit?’

‘I believe that I do,’ said Lady Alicia, and laid her hand on Nan’s, while she continued her polite enquiries into the welfare of the children’s father. Uncle Ambrose told her about the man whom his brother had met, with his vast knowledge of Egypt and his complete
forgetfulness
of his own past. ‘Egypt affects the brain,’ said Lady Alicia. ‘I hope your brother will not stay there too long. My husband was more fatally bewitched by Egypt than by any other country in which he travelled. He was susceptible to witches. Is Emma Cobley still alive?’

Her question shot out so suddenly that Uncle Ambrose was actually taken aback. It was a moment or two before he answered, ‘Very much alive.’

Nan had been sitting quiet as a mouse all this time, but now to her own astonishment she heard herself say, ‘Lady Alicia, Uncle Ambrose has given me the little parlour that was yours. There were some of your books in the cupboard.’

‘Some of my childhood’s books, no doubt,’ said Lady Alicia. ‘I hope you enjoy them, my dear.’

‘Yes I do,’ said Nan. ‘But there was another. A book of spells.’

Lady Alicia withdrew her hand from Nan’s and was silent for a moment, and then she said with horror, ‘That thing? I thought I had burnt it.’

‘It was hidden right at the back of the cupboard,’ said Nan.

‘Perhaps I couldn’t find it to burn it,’ said Lady Alicia, and she put her hand over her eyes. ‘I forget. It is so long ago.’

‘Nan,’ said Uncle Ambrose sternly, ‘this is a painful topic of conversation for our hostess.’

‘No,’ said Lady Alicia with sudden vigour. ‘This must be explained. One day when I was a girl my father sent me to see Emma about some parish matter. She was young, too, then. The front door opened straight into her little sitting room and it was ajar and I saw her sitting writing at her desk in the corner. I knocked and she closed what looked like a diary and pulled her work-bag over it before she came to the door. We talked and she went upstairs to fetch some magazine my father had lent her. For my father, I must tell you, was fond of Emma and would never believe the stories told about her in the village.’

‘Did you believe them?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘I believed the few harmless stories of her cures that had been told to me, but I was not afraid of her. Perhaps if I had been afraid I would not have done the naughty thing I did next.’ She smiled at Nan. ‘I was a young and giddy girl at the time and I was as naughty as Betsy was in the library the other day. What was Emma writing in her diary? I wondered, and while she was upstairs I took her work-bag off the book and opened it, and it opened at the page on which she had been copying out a spell for making a coolness come between a man and a woman. Then I was afraid. I was already very much in
love with Hugo Valerian and I knew that village gossip said Emma was too. I guessed she was trying to
separate
us, and the wild idea came to me that without her book she would be powerless to do so. I hid it in my muff and when Emma came downstairs I was standing at the front door. I took my father’s magazine from her, said goodbye and went quickly away. When I got home the post was in and there was a letter from my aunt in Paris, asking me to come to her as quickly as I could, for there was a ball to which she wanted to take me. I knew Hugo Valerian was in Paris and in wild excitement I packed and went. At that ball he proposed to me and we were married in Paris. I was so happy that I forgot Emma’s book, and when I came home, if I remembered it again, I expect I thought I had destroyed it before I left for Paris, and Emma’s power with it.’