The Runaways (22 page)

‘So you read no more of the book than that one spell?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘And only part of that,’ said Lady Alicia. ‘She had not finished copying it. It was only later, much later, when I knew more about Emma, that I realised I had done something she would never forgive. There, Nan, that is the explanation of the book in the cupboard. I beg you, my dear, to destroy it now.’

‘It is burnt already,’ said Nan.

‘I am glad to hear it,’ said Lady Alicia.

‘In these enlightened days,’ said Uncle Ambrose politely but firmly, ‘we have learnt that spells and charms and so on are mere superstition. Those who fear them fear no more than a bad dream.’

‘How fortunate we are then that we now live in days
in which bad dreams have lost their power,’ said Lady Alicia, but she said it dryly and changed the
conversation
to mushrooms, which she said she had loved to gather in her youth in the fields near the Vicarage.

After tea they went to the library, where Hugo Valerian’s cloak still lay over the back of the chair and his gloves and riding-crop on the desk. Lady Alicia picked up the gloves and drew them through her hands caressingly. Her face looked suddenly as soft and bright as a girl’s. The room felt quite different today. It seemed alive and so full of a sense of
expectancy
that for a moment or two no one said anything, and Uncle Ambrose half-turned towards the door, as though ready to bow to someone who should come in, but no one came in and he turned his attention to the Egyptian treasures in the glass cases. These fascinated him, and so did the pictures and books. He and Lady Alicia discussed them together, while Nan stood at the window looking out on the garden of the fountain.

The sweet-smelling flowers of June were in bloom now, bergamot, lavender, roses, and honeysuckle. She opened the window and leaned out and the voices of the two elderly people in the room behind her died away. The man in the fountain was grave, serene, and still, but not sad today, and she listened as he bade her to the sharp staccato cries of delight made by the little brown bird who was sitting on his hand and talking to him. Other birds were flying around, sometimes perching on his knee or shoulder and all singing their special songs of delight, but it was the little eager sharp-voiced bird in which he was particularly delighting at this moment, and wishing her to delight. But
she could not at this distance see what sort of bird it was and he wanted her to see. He leaned a little forward and lifted up the hand on which the bird was perching, and she leaned forward too and held out her hand, and the bird flew up and came to her finger with soft whirring wings. It was a very small speckled bird, cheeky looking, with a very bright eye, a sharp beak, and a perked-up tail. It chatted to Nan in a high, trifling voice which matched its appearance, and Nan and the man in the fountain looked at each other across the sun-warmed space of blue that separated them and laughed to hear it. Then they were both silent, listening. And then the bird flew away.

‘I am sorry, my dear,’ said Lady Alicia, in the room behind Nan. ‘I moved.’

Nan drew back from the window and saw that Lady Alicia and Uncle Ambrose were close to her, and looking at her lovingly. To her surprise she saw that Lady Alicia had tears in her eyes. Uncle Ambrose took out a large clean handkerchief, unfolded it and
trumpeted
loudly. But in mid-trumpet he suddenly paused, peering over the top of his handkerchief. Then with rather shaky hands he polished his spectacles with the handkerchief and stared again. And then he smiled and nodded as though to a friend.

‘A beautiful statue, is it not?’ said Lady Alicia. ‘My husband bought it in Italy, but the sculptor was a Greek.’

Uncle Ambrose struggled for composure, cleared his throat and began to discuss the statue with Lady Alicia. But he did not stay much longer after that. They went back to the parlour and he and Lady Alicia bade each other a protracted Edwardian farewell, the silver bell
was rung and Moses and Abednego summoned. They were conducted down the stairs and seen off with all proper ceremony.

But at the corner of the house, instead of turning towards the garden to go home, Uncle Ambrose stopped and said, ‘Nan, will you take me to call on the gentleman whom you call Daft Davie?’

Nan was very much taken aback. ‘But it’s up through the woods and then a long climb,’ she said. ‘Ezra can’t manage that climb.’

‘I retain the use of both legs,’ said Uncle Ambrose severely, ‘and am less aged than I appear.’

‘But he may be out,’ said Nan.

‘In that case I will leave my calling card,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘Whether the gentleman’s cave is within the boundary of my parish or not I am not quite sure, but in any case I reproach myself that a human creature in his unfortunate condition has remained unvisited all these years. I may be able to be of assistance to him.’
Full of misgivings Nan led the way up through the woods. She went first up the rock, glancing anxiously behind her every now and then to see how Uncle Ambrose was managing, and each time it was very well, for his long legs made light of the steep steps that nearly defeated her. Sometimes indeed he gave her a shove up from behind and always his tall hat remained in position. Right at the top, looking out over the murmuring sea of green leaves below them, she found that he was as moved as she was by this mounting up and up from floor to floor of one of the mansions of the world.

‘To have the clouds lapping against one’s feet, like the leaves do now, wouldn’t it be wonderful?’ she said ecstatically.

‘I have experienced that on mountain tops,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘These ascents are not only physical, Nan. The world of the spirit too has many mansions. We live upon a staircase.’

They climbed on over the Lion’s paw and down into the little valley beyond. Uncle Ambrose looked about him and seemed to have no words for his delight. Dragonflies were darting over the stream and foxgloves with speckled bells grew in the lush green grass as tall as Nan herself. The Lion’s head was golden and glowing in the sun.

‘Who’s that singing?’ asked Uncle Ambrose. They stopped and listened. It was Moses’ song, but it was not Moses who was singing. Moses had a deep voice like rolling thunder, but this man sang like a tenor bell, every note ringing out clearly above the sweeping
rhythm of some strange musical accompaniment. Nan began to run and Uncle Ambrose strode after her, and in a moment or two they saw a tall bearded man sawing and singing as he worked. ‘It’s Daft Davie,’ gasped Nan. ‘Davie! Davie!’ she cried.

He put down his saw, shaded his eyes against the sun and then saw who it was. He strode a few steps down the valley and held out his arms. Nan jumped into them and he lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all, holding her up at arm’s length and laughing at her round eyes of astonishment. He’s not old as I thought he was, Nan thought, he’s quite young. And how can he sing? Is it a miracle? She had heard of
miracles
, but she had not met one before, and when Davie set her down on the grass again her knees nearly gave way. But it steadied her to hear Uncle Ambrose saying, ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ and to see him raising his hat and holding out his hand just as though this were a perfectly ordinary afternoon call.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Daft Davie in a clear voice. ‘Will you come up into the house?’

‘Thank you,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘But first I must offer my apologies for having been so long in calling upon you. The fact is, sir, that I have only lately become aware that you are resident here.’

‘I have been something of a recluse,’ explained Daft Davie courteously. ‘Shall I lead the way?’

‘Lead on, sir,’ said Uncle Ambrose.

Daft Davie led on and Nan whispered to Uncle Ambrose, as they climbed up the steps at some little distance behind him, ‘He isn’t dumb any more.’

‘So I perceive,’ said Uncle Ambrose.

The cave, when they reached it, seemed full of light, for the westering sun shone straight into it. It was also full of colour, for there was a pot of foxgloves and honeysuckle on the table and a wooden dish of red cherries, and, best of all, the sun shone straight on to the painting on the wall. Nan saw Uncle Ambrose look at it attentively, but he did not yet speak of it, for Daft Davie was delightedly doing the honours of his home. Uncle Ambrose and Nan were already full up with Lady Alicia’s cakes and
sandwiches
, but they could not refuse the spring water and cherries he offered them, or the thin biscuits baked on a red-hot stone, because he was so happy that he had them to offer. They sat on wooden stools and ate and drank, and the painting on the wall grew brighter and brighter as the sun’s light upon it grew more deeply golden.

‘That was a charming song, sir,’ said Uncle Ambrose politely.

‘I learnt it from an African servant who used to play with me as a child,’ said Daft Davie.

‘Indeed?’ asked Uncle Ambrose calmly. ‘You were born in these parts?’

‘I do not know,’ said Daft Davie. ‘You see, sir, I have two sets of childhood memories, divided by a pit of darkness, and the first belonged to a place and time of which I have no knowledge.’

‘I see,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘Can you tell me of the time when your memories became consecutive?’ And then, as Daft Davie seemed puzzled by the long word, he added, ‘When they ran together like beads on a thread.’

‘When living with foster parents at the forge at
Pizzleton,’ said Daft Davie. ‘They told me they had rescued me from gypsies who were ill-treating me. But I only remember the gypsies as a vague nightmare.’

‘And the black pit of which you spoke?”

‘It was an illness which I suffered while living with the gypsies. I remember nothing of it except fever and distress and trying to speak and finding I could not. My illness, they told me, was the cause of the dumbness from which I have suffered for a number of years.’ His intensely blue eyes suddenly blazed like lamps. ‘But not now,’ he said with joy. ‘Now I speak as easily as though I had always spoken.’

‘And the first set of memories?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.

‘I remember the African servant who played with me and taught me to sing,’ said Daft Davie. ‘I remember my father and mother, and my mother’s room is as bright as a picture in my mind, and the picture in my mother’s room is a picture within a picture. I remember, I think, what I loved, but nothing else. I should have thought those memories to be a dream but for that love, and for the song. Can you carry love and music away with you from a mere dream?’

‘Hardly,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘nor so vivid a memory of a picture as you have painted on that wall. For I imagine that that is the picture you loved?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Daft Davie.

‘I fear you must think my questions impertinent,’ said Uncle Ambrose.

‘I am glad to answer them,’ said Daft Davie, ‘for words taste like honey on a tongue that once was bound and now is free.’

‘Their sound too has sweetness,’ said Uncle Ambrose. ‘They come to you, I think, from the time of your early memories, not from the forge at Pizzleton. Sir, I am deeply interested in your history and that must be my excuse for asking you one more question. Was your tongue bound for long?’

‘It was freed, sir, only last night. I was sitting by my fire at evening. It was a dying fire, but suddenly the flames leapt up like the fires of spring and they were all the colours of the rainbow. The sight was of such marvellous beauty that I cried aloud, “Glory glory alleluja!”’

‘You might well do so,’ said Uncle Ambrose, ‘for your recovery is remarkable. May I look more closely at the pictures round your walls?’

He got up, adjusted his spectacles and walked round the cave with Daft Davie, giving Nan time to recover from her dizziness. For she had felt like an acrobat at a circus all the time Uncle Ambrose and Davie had been talking. Sometimes the ceiling of the cave had seemed over her head and sometimes it had seemed under her feet. But she had come right way up again when Daft Davie had spoken of the rainbow flames leaping up and his speech coming back, for it had been at the time when they had been sitting round the fire and Ezra had been pulling the pins out of the little boy’s tongue. The little boy and Daft Davie were the same person, Lady Alicia’s son Francis, who hadn’t been drowned in the Weeping Marsh after all. Nan wondered why she had not known they were the same when she first saw that the picture in Lady Alicia’s boudoir was like the picture on the wall of the cave.
Uncle Ambrose, she realised now, had had his suspicions just from hearing about the two pictures, let alone seeing them. But then Uncle Ambrose was very clever. She got up and joined the two men and slipped her hand into Daft Davie’s, and he looked down at her as though she were Helen of Troy and the Sleeping Beauty rolled into one.

‘Nan, you are the most wonderful little girl in the world,’ he said.

‘She will not remain so if you cause her head to swell,’ said Uncle Ambrose severely. ‘Your drawings of birds and animals are excellent. You have, I see, a great love for them.’

‘I love all creatures,’ said Daft Davie simply. ‘I go round the woods destroying the traps and snares set for them.’ Then his voice became thick with anger and his face crimson. ‘If I could catch the man who snares my rabbits and pheasants I’d fling him over the roof of the Manor.’