‘What did Mr Geraint say when you asked him about the seaside?’ Nell ventured, when they were safely ensconced
in the kitchen once more, watching Hester make the pancakes in the big black frying-pan. ‘We aren’t to go, I suppose?’
Hester twirled a pancake merrily in the air, fielded it neatly, slid it on to a warmed plate, then put the pan down and gave her daughter a hug.
‘What a spoilsport you must think I am,’ she said lightly. ‘And you’re wrong, for indeed you are to go. I shall make a splendid picnic and daddy will drive you down. You’ll have a marvellous time. Here, Dan, the first pancake is for you.’
‘I wish you could come too,’ Nell said in a small voice, reaching up to kiss her mother’s pointed chin. ‘You don’t have much fun, Mummy.’
Hester looked down at her. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were very bright, almost shiny.
‘I do have fun,’ she said, and there was a teasing sort of laugh in her voice. ‘Indeed I do have fun, Nell.’
The children had a glorious day at the seaside. Mr Geraint had provided them with an elderly shrimping net and a galvanised bucket and he rolled up his trouser-legs and waded into the pools with them, examining, identifying, marvelling. Nell lifted the great, gleaming curtains of weed around the base of the big rocks and exclaimed over the crabs, the quick, flickering fish, the elegant painted shells which were revealed. Dan caught a really big crab, but Mr Geraint advised that it be put back since it was not suitable, he said, to eat. Dan fancied taking it triumphantly home to Hester and his mother, and was disappointed at first, but then he found a sea-urchin’s shell and Mr Geraint said he would show Dan how to mount it over a candle so that the delicate colours showed to their best advantage. Dan decided a crab would have been pretty commonplace after all. A sea-urchin lamp would be a much more acceptable gift.
‘Hello, Dad, we’ve had a topping time, I wish we could go to the beach every day,’ Nell said as she and Dan piled into the back of the car. ‘We did have fun, didn’t we? And the picnic was lovely, but I’m hungry again now.’
Matthew turned in his seat to smile at them.
‘You’ve caught the sun,’ he observed. ‘As for being hungry, your Mum’s made you a big tea, I can tell you.’
Mr Geraint climbed into the front passenger seat and turned to smile at them as well.
‘So you’re hungry? Well, I’m exhausted. I never thought the seaside could be so tiring. I hope Mrs Coburn’s got a big dinner for me as well as a big tea for you.’
‘Uncle, why do you call Matthew, Matthew, when you call Hester, Mrs Coburn?’ Dan said suddenly. ‘Even my mother calls her Hester.’
‘It’s a courtesy because she’s a married woman,’ Mr Geraint said. ‘I call your mother’s friends Mrs Woodley and Miss Blackburn, don’t I?’
‘Ye-es, but you don’t know them very well.’
‘You could say I didn’t know Mrs Coburn very well, old man. Sometimes we don’t see each other for days on end.’
‘Yes, but other times you see her three or four times a day. And Mrs Woodley and Miss Blackburn don’t have a joke with you, do they? Sometimes you and Mrs Coburn have a laugh, and you …’
Nell saw Mr Geraint’s shoulders stiffen slightly. He was tired of being questioned, she guessed. She cut in quickly, ‘You’ve known my dad for ages, haven’t you, Mr Geraint? Right from when he was a little boy?’
‘That’s right.’
To Nell’s relief, Mr Geraint sounded amused rather than annoyed. ‘Who picked up the bucket? Are the seashells safe?’
The difficult moment passed. Matthew and Mr Geraint
began to talk, and in the back of the big car Nell and Dan argued amicably over the shells and wondered whether tea would include an apple and blackberry pudding, made from their spoils of the previous day.
‘Let’s hear you have a bit of a sing-song,’ Matthew said suddenly, when Mr Geraint seemed inclined to snooze. ‘Not too loud, but loud enough. What songs do you know, Dan?’
‘Lots of war songs,’ Dan said with relish. ‘Can we have “Pack up your troubles”?’
They did. And before they reached the castle Mr Geraint had woken up and was joining in with a will.
‘Can I go with you to the station, Dad? Do let me … Mum, can I go with him? It’s the last time I’ll see Dan for ages and ages and I’m going to miss him so much … I won’t blub, I’ll be good, and I’ll wave and wave. Oh, please say I can!’
September had arrived, the days still blue and gold, the heat still intense at midday, but September meant school and that Nell and Dan would have to part.
‘I’ll be back before Christmas,’ Dan had said gruffly the previous evening, shaking hands all round in the kitchen after dinner. ‘The time will soon go. Uncle says when I come back he’ll take us all over the place – to the market in St Asaph, for one. Christmas markets are topping.’
Now, with Mrs Clifton already sitting in the front passenger seat and Dan, pale and stiff in a grey suit and large striped cap, sitting in the back with his luggage in the boot, Matthew looked doubtfully from the vehicle to his small daughter, hopping with impatience on the back doorstep.
‘You won’t embarrass the lad, Nell? No tears or fuss?’
‘I promise – cut my throat and hope to die,’ Nell said, drawing her finger across her throat with some relish. She
loved all Dan’s expressions and used them whenever she could. ‘Ten weeks is years and years!’
Matthew laughed but gestured her into the car.
Nell hopped in. Dan scowled.
‘What are you doing in here? Well, don’t you go letting me down before the chaps. There’s a couple of fellows who live near Rhyl, they’ll be at the station. Are you going to write to me?’
It was threateningly said; Nell nodded hard, gripping her hands tightly in her lap.
‘A letter every week?’
Nell nodded again, swallowing a sudden lump in her throat.
‘Every week, on my honour. Two if you like.’
‘One will do. I’ll write back, of course.’
Nell stared out the window. The trees and meadows shimmered strangely, as though under water. She did not turn from the window until the shimmering had steadied and gone.
The train disappeared down the track and Nell’s bursting tears were allowed free rein. They ran down her face; she rubbed at them with grubby fists and clung to Matthew, shaken with distress. Ten weeks was a lifetime, how would she live without her favourite – her only – playmate? But there was school, and she would help Mum up at the castle, and Mr Geraint, who was a very understanding man, had told her she might have a treat next week: he was going to take her to the Pleasure Beach in Rhyl.
‘Are you all right now, old lady?’ At her watery nod Matthew tucked her small paw in the crook of his arm. ‘Right; then off we go, marching like a couple o’ soldiers … left right, left right, left, left, left …’
5
AFTER DAN’S DEPARTURE
, life seemed quiet and strangely featureless to Nell. School was quite fun; her best friend Bron had joined a troop of Brownies and suggested that Nell might join too, and Hester seemed to have quietened down, to be less annoyed over Mrs Clifton’s presence and various demands.
Mr Geraint kept his promise and took Nell on the Pleasure Beach where she enjoyed the rides, threw hoops over various obstacles and ate a gloriously pink and sticky concoction known as candy floss. It dyed her lips an improbable shade of scarlet and Mr Geraint told her to keep her hands to herself when she clutched him as they climbed into one of the cars.
And then there was the strange affair of the painting.
Years before, Hester told her daughter, the paintings had hung in the Long Gallery, which was where the ghost lived – one very good reason why Nell hadn’t realised that some of the paintings now hung there again. She might never have done so had she not been running with heedless speed (and firmly shut eyes) past the door to the Long Gallery, her arms full of clean sheets and pillowcases for Mrs Clifton’s room, when she distinctly heard the creak of a door opening. Her eyes shot open in time to see a sinister black shadow slide across the unpolished wooden floor in front of her feet.
A ghost or a demon or both? Well, the shadow of one anyway. A confused conviction that if you stepped on a shadow the owner promptly took a share in your soul made Nell skid to a stop. Unfortunately the tottering pile of bed linen, not familiar with superstitions regarding shadows, continued on its way to land in a heap on the
dusty corridor floor. Nell gave a shriek which would have done credit to a steam train at a crossing, tripped over the linen and landed in the shadow-maker’s arms.
‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ Mr Geraint said, catching Nell neatly and standing her upright before bending over the sheets and pillowcases. ‘Did I startle you? I’m sorry.’
‘You frightened me ever so,’ Nell said resentfully, rubbing an elbow which had come into sharp contact with the wall. ‘No one ever comes out of that room … and there’s the ghost … I thought you were the ghost.’
Mr Geraint picked up the sheets and piled them in Nell’s out-stretched arms.
‘Ghost? What ghost?’
‘The one in a long white gown, with her head tucked under her arm,’ Nell said with relish. ‘She’s horrible; her eyes roll when she looks at you and her hair-ends are all bloody.’
‘You morbid little beast,’ Mr Geraint said roundly. ‘And when did you see the lady last?’
‘Well, I caught a glimpse of her white gown once,’ Nell said. ‘But I usually run past the door with my eyes shut. I only opened them today because I heard the door creak.’
‘You’re a danger to man and beast, running along with your eyes shut,’ Mr Geraint pointed out. ‘And you’ve not done the clean linen much good, either. Whose bed are you making?’
‘Mrs Clifton’s,’ Nell said gloomily.
‘Hmm. Well, go and dump the stuff on her bed and then come straight back here. There’s something I’ve been meaning to show you, but we’d better quash this ghost story once and for all. There isn’t a ghost in the Long Gallery, you little duffer, the only ghost stories about the castle centre on the Great Hall and the turret in the West Wing, and no one goes there any more. It’s
falling to bits. So who filled your head with nonsense, eh?’
‘It might have been me,’ Nell admitted. ‘You see I saw the white gown and I thought it didn’t have a head on it, and there was something under the arm which might have been a head. So there really isn’t a ghost in the Long Gallery then?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve been in and out of there for days and I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of a headless haunt.’ Mr Geraint had fallen into step beside her and now they turned into Mrs Clifton’s room. He looked round rather disparagingly, Nell thought. ‘Put the stuff on the bed, then come with me.’
‘I’m supposed to make the bed,’ Nell pointed out. ‘
And
I have to empty her chamber pot.’
‘She can do both, she’s not helpless,’ Mr Geraint said firmly. ‘Come on, follow me.’
‘What’s my Mum going to say?’ Nell said uneasily. ‘She said to make the bed and tidy the room, and to empty the …’
‘Your Mum, if I know her, will probably say it won’t hurt Rosalie to do her own dirty work for once,’ Mr Geraint said. ‘Come on, stop chattering.’
Nell shrugged inwardly and followed. Mr Geraint was the boss, after all, it was scarcely her place to argue with him. So she skipped along beside him, asking questions about ghosts, until they neared the Long Gallery, whereupon she fell silent, glancing uneasily up the long shadowy corridor.
‘What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?’ Mr Geraint said bracingly, opening the door, which creaked, and ushering her into the room. ‘Now does this room look at all ghostly to you?’
Nell clutched Mr Geraint’s sleeve and looked carefully about her. Sunshine flooded through the long windows, a soft breeze carried the scents of the autumn garden to
her, and the room, which had once been leaky and damp, smelled of whitewash, sunshine and late roses.
‘It doesn’t look ghostly,’ she admitted slowly, releasing her hold on her companion. ‘What have you done in here? Oh, haven’t you made it into a pretty room, Mr Geraint!’
Now that she was more relaxed, she saw that the entire wall facing the windows was hung with pictures and portraits, mostly portraits. Beneath them were set out small gilded chairs with spindly legs and round or heart-shaped seats upholstered in glowing velvets and silks. The chairs were clustered in little groups around tiny, well-polished tables, some half-moon shaped, some round, some hexagonal, but not one conventionally square. Looking again, she realised that the scent of roses was not only from the garden; several of the tables had vases filled with blooms on them, as well as small piles of what looked like printed leaflets.
‘Nice, isn’t it? I got what’s left of the picture collection out of the attics and cleaned them up. I’m planning to open some of the house to members of the public but that’s for later, when I’ve more rooms respectable. This is just for the North Wales Water-Colourists. They’re coming, forty of them, to paint, explore the countryside and have lectures from well-known painters.’
‘Golly! Will they pay you lots of money?’ Nell asked guilelessly. She knew from listening to her parents that Mr Geraint had to make money from all his schemes and ventures. ‘Where will they sleep, though?’
‘In the village, this time. But if it goes well then I’m going to get your mother some help and we’ll open up the bedrooms to them, fit them out as dormitories, perhaps. Now take a look at these portraits; most of them are my ancestors. Tell me what you think.’
Rather to Nell’s surprise he sounded as if he actually wanted to know, so she followed him obediently, scrutinising the faces until he drew her to a halt before a
picture of the prettiest of all the ladies. She had the most beautiful blue eyes, set wide apart with the whites like snow and the blue part a very dark, almost violet shade. Her skin was white and her ringlets, threaded through with a piece of white ribbon, were dark and glossy as a blackbird’s wing.
‘That’s my great-grandmother. Her name was Emily Susan Geraint-Hughes and she lived here when Pengarth was in its heyday. What do you think of her?’
‘She’s very pretty,’ Nell said. ‘I like her dress, but you can see through it, can’t you? I wonder if she knew that?’