The Various (37 page)

‘What today? Now? Can I come with you?’

‘Well, come and give her a ring. She wants to talk to you.’

Her mum didn’t sound like her mum. Her voice was different, very calm – super-calm and dreamy almost.

‘You sound . . . different,’ said Midge.

‘Do I?’ her mum laughed. ‘To be honest, it’s probably the pills, darling. The doctor said I should take them – but I really don’t think I shall bother anymore. I’m not
that
bad. It’s just the playing. I’m OK till it comes to the playing. Now that I’ve made the decision not to do it – for the time being anyway – I feel a lot better. Really, lots better. It’s like having a phobia – fear of flying or something. There’s nothing wrong with you, as long as someone doesn’t make you get on a plane. I’ve decided to get off the plane, that’s all. I’ll tell you all about it darling, and don’t
worry
, I’m not frothing at the mouth or anything. And I’m so looking forward to seeing you. Really looking forward to it. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to just . . . stop. Can you understand that?’

‘Yes. Can I come up with Uncle Brian?’

‘You could – but there’s something I want to talk to him about. Nothing drastic – well nothing to be concerned about – but, Midge, it’s a long journey, and I’ll be with you by teatime anyway. Can you bear that?’

‘OK. If you’re sure you’re going to be all right.’

‘I’m fine. But how have
you
been? What have you been up to?’

‘Oh, well . . . I’ll tell you when you get here.’ It was the first time she could remember her mum calling her Midge.

They hovered about the hallway while Uncle Brian got ready to go. He went through his list: ‘Car keys, glasses, credit card . . . um . . .’

‘Timetable?’ said George.

‘Don’t really need one,’ said Uncle Brian. ‘I shall just leave the car at the station and catch the first available train. They’re pretty regular at this time in the morning. Now listen, Katie’s in charge, though I doubt you’ll see her before midday, and I’ll be back –
we’ll
be back – tea-timeish I should think. Has your mum got a mobile, Midge? Yes, of course she would have. So you can contact us if you need to. Well, I’m off. Keep safe, now. I
mean
it, George – remember all those promises you made.’

‘OK. Dad. Don’t worry.’

‘Well, just be careful. Oh, and I’m expecting a phone call from a land agent – Dunmow’s. Tell them – oh I don’t know – tell them I’ll ring them tomorrow. Makes no difference now anyway – the sale’s fallen through.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Midge.

‘The sale of the land – it’s fallen through – for the time being anyway. Had a letter yesterday. There’s trouble with the planning permission. Looks like we may not get it after all.’ Uncle Brian patted his pockets and began to hurry down the front path, stepping automatically over the wellington boot. Midge and George followed him to the car. Midge, absolutely bewildered now, said, ‘Does that mean that the . . . woods . . . aren’t going to be cut down?’

‘Looks like it,’ said Uncle Brian, grimly. ‘At least, not by me. Some future owner may have better luck.’

‘Future owner of what?’ said George.

Uncle Brian yanked open the door of the old estate
car
. ‘Future owner of Mill Farm, old son. If I can’t get planning permission, then that bit of land’s not worth much. And that means no money – so I might just have to sell the lot for whatever it’ll fetch.’ He glanced guiltily at George’s confused expression. ‘Fact of life, George. Fact of life.’ He started the engine and put the car into reverse, the gears making a high whining sound as he backed the vehicle round the yard. George and Midge watched in silence as the battered red estate bumped over the pot-holes in the gateway and disappeared down the lane. The exhaust fumes hung, blue and acrid, on the still morning air.

George was desperate to tell his news – notwithstanding the bombshell that his father had dropped on departing – and he could be silent no longer. He grabbed the cotton sleeve of Midge’s shirt.

‘I’ve
seen
one!’ he said excitedly.

Midge was still gazing at the empty lane. Her mum wasn’t well, and now the forest had been saved, only to be . . .
not
saved, again. Maybe. Everything was turning upside down and round and round. She couldn’t take it all in.

She became aware of George, tugging at her sleeve. His eyes peered wildly at her, through the tumbling fringe of thick hair. Why didn’t he just get it cut?

‘What?’ she said.

Chapter Twenty-two

IT HAD TAKEN
some courage for Little-Marten to launch himself from the high trees of the North Wood. He had scarcely flown further than from the Perch to the ground before today – seldom having had the need – so now the steep falling-away of the hillside and the sight of the distant Gorji settlement amid the hazy wetlands below, made him wonder whether he had the strength and control to attempt such a distance. But he thought again of Henty and laid aside his fear. She may be facing worse things than this. He leaned forward and sprang from the topmost branches of the sycamore, immediately wheeling to the right, in an attempt to set himself on the most direct line that he could. The manoeuvre lost him more height than he had anticipated, and he flapped hard, in order to try and regain a little. It didn’t seem to help much – he felt that he was dropping at an alarming speed, and would never reach the far-off copse that he had set as his goal. The Ickri hunters, bigger, stronger, and longer in the wing than he, had made a much better show of it. Well, so be it. Provided that he could only
land
on soft ground, then he would be able to walk the rest of the way – as Henty had done.

He came to earth, in the event, not so very far from the belt of trees, and was pleased to find himself unhurt. Pushing his way through the reedy undergrowth, he made progress as quickly as he could towards the copse. The sun had risen over the hill, and the dry crackle of last year’s vegetation seemed frighteningly loud in the misty silence of the early morning. Exposed and easily visible on the open ground, he was glad when he reached the copse, and was able to creep beneath the sheltering comfort of trees once more. He dodged among the bushes and in between the ivy-covered trunks, pausing frequently to look and to listen. It was the first time he had ever left the Royal Forest, and he felt very vulnerable. Everything smelt different. The damp grass underfoot, the woodland plants – the very trees smelt different. They smelt of the Gorji and of danger.

The sudden jabber of loud voices made him drop into a crouching position, beneath a rhododendron bush. He could hear the deep boom of a full-grown giant, and then the lighter sound of childer. The voices apparently came from above, and squinting up through the leaves of the rhododendron he was able to see three figures descending from some sort of dwelling in the trees. This surprised him. He had not thought that the Gorji were tree-dwellers. Perhaps this was a different tribe to the land dwellers. But then he recognized Midge as being one of the three, and was even more puzzled. The Gorji departed, talking
loudly
, and made their way towards the big stone dwelling – just visible beyond the deep shadows of the copse.

He reasoned that perhaps the safest place to begin his search for Henty might be where he was certain that these giants were
not
, so he approached the tall cedar from which the Gorji had just descended. Perhaps they had Henty already captured, and she was up there in their strange pod? He would see.

Ignoring the rope ladder – though he could divine its purpose well enough – he flapped up into the lower branches of the cedar and climbed to the platform.

It was a good place to be. Crouching low on the strange smelling wooden floor, he could view the stone dwelling through the trees, and much of the surrounding area. If danger should suddenly present itself, he had a fair chance of escaping it. He sniffed the air, and listened. All was quiet. Emboldened, he turned to glance at the interior of the three-sided dwelling. The sun was still very low, and Little-Marten had to move into the shadow in order to see. It was immediately apparent that Henty was not there, but his curious nature could not resist a brief exploration. The little time he had spent with the cave-dwellers had taught him, at least, to recognize what were likely sleeping arrangements, and he guessed the purpose of Midge’s air mattress and George’s similarly shaped camp bed. The wind-up record player that stood, with its lid open, on the ammunition box was a mystery however. He touched the shiny chrome arm. It looked like tinsy, before it became aged and blackened. The
arm
swung gently outwards, and Little-Marten hesitated, then touched it again, gingerly, making it swivel back and forth. He found that part of the swinging arm moved in another direction, up and down, and he experimented with that for a while too, fascinated. After a while he couldn’t remember exactly how it had been when he had found it – whether the arm had been positioned up or down, in or out – but in any case, there were more important considerations, and he felt guilty for having momentarily forgotten them. He took a final glance round, and crouched once more at the front of the platform, thinking now that he could hear voices again. Vague sounds drifted up through the trees from the other side of the dwelling. Eventually he heard the noise of a Gorji contraption – one of their
vrumavrumas
– as it began its terrible racket, and then gradually faded into the distance.

He continued to watch and wait, patiently listening for some indication of what the Gorji were doing. There was no more noise. Perhaps they had all gone and it would be safe to continue his search? But there was something else niggling in his head. Something . . . half-remembered . . . something that he had seen before the shiny metal thing had attracted his magpie attention. Turning around once more, he scanned the dim interior of the dwelling. He hopped over to the ammo box, remaining in a crouching position. Then he saw it. The tinsy cup. He picked it up, realizing – certain – that
this
was what Henty had given to the Gorji maid,
this
was what she now sought, and that he
had
found it! He was elated. All he had to do now was find Henty, and bring her safely home.

Thrusting the cup up towards the sky in glee, he overbalanced slightly and put out a hand to steady himself. His fingers brushed the shiny metal thing, and something began to move. A slow roaring sound came bursting from the contraption, speeding up and blaring at him: ‘ . . . Onnn tthhhe rroad to Mandalay-ay, where the flying fishes play . . .’ Little-Marten leapt off the platform in terror, and swooped down into the bushes.

Midge leaned against the warm towel rail, torn in confusion between the things she wanted to think about, and the things George wanted to tell her. She gathered that he must have seen an Ickri archer, but she wanted to think about her mum . . . and all that business about the land sale having fallen through. And now there were still more – and worse – possibilities ahead, if the house had to go . . . She tried to concentrate on George.

‘I just couldn’t
believe
it,’ he was saying. ‘And all that time I thought you were making it up – especially when I saw what was on the bowl . . .’

Midge was even more puzzled. ‘The bowl? Did you look at it, then? What
was
on it?’

‘Well, it’s like . . . it’s like
you
,’ said George. ‘Haven’t you seen it? There’s all these little people, a whole crowd of them, with their mouths open – and then there’s a picture of a girl, a big person. Standing in the middle of them. It’s just like
you
. I mean, it doesn’t
look
like
you, exactly – sort of more old-fashioned. But
I
thought that’s where you got the idea from; saw this picture and then made up the whole story about yourself.’

‘Thanks,’ said Midge, huffily.

‘Yeah, I know. I’m really sorry, Midge. Really, I am. I thought you were . . .’

‘Nuts. You can say it. Having hallucinations . . . like . . . her.’

They both looked at the picture on the wall. The dark eyes of Celandine gazed past them, through them, seeing something, maybe, that nobody else could.

‘That’s what the bowl is all about, isn’t it?’ said George. ‘It’s a picture of her, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Midge, quietly. ‘It must be. I haven’t seen it properly – couldn’t make out what it was. But the . . . girl . . . who gave it to me, said, “Are you Celandine?” She thought that I was her. And so Celandine must have been there, in the forest, years ago. She must have seen them too. But now they’re
here
? On the farm? I wonder who it was you saw, and what they want . . .’ There was a long silence as they both thought about it.

‘What are you two
talking
about?’ Katie stepped quietly around the doorway, her head swathed in a pink towel. She was wearing bright red jeans and a blouse that might have featured in a soap-powder advert. There had been no sound of her approach, and it was obvious that she must have been listening. George looked at Midge, ready to take his cue from
her
. Midge could see no point in trying to conceal things further. ‘There are these . . . people, living in the forest,’ she said. ‘Little people.’