Midnight is a Place Page 3

  A barefoot girl dashed out onto the carpet, snatched up the bit of wool with a pair of metal tongs, and leapt back to safely on the steps just before the great press thudded down again. She slipped a little on the steps, but recovered by throwing herself forward onto hands and knees, while two mates grabbed her arms.

  Lucas took off his hat and rubbed his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

  "O' course, they gets paid a bit extry for snatching," Scatcherd said "Ha'penny an hour danger money. Most of us has bin snatchers at one time or another when we was yoonger, but not for long—you can't keep on long at it—you gets nervous. You begin to dream at night, then your legs begins to shake and you can't run so fast."

  Lucas could imagine it. Just having seen the snatcher at work made him sick with fear. Mr. Oakapple evidently shared this feeling.

  "We have to go back," he said abruptly. "We have seen enough for this evening. Thank you."

  Scatcherd nodded; with a shrug that showed he perceived how they felt, he began moving away toward a pile of unopened bales of wool.

  At that moment a man in a wheelchair spun past Oakapple and Lucas with almost uncanny speed. Veering his chair toward Scatcherd, he called, "Ey, Davey! Coom to t'singsong at t'Mason's Arms tonight?"

  Scatcherd turned. Without replying to the invitation, he said, "Two o' thy lazy, feckless, cack-handed swivel hands left clots on this afternoon. Has tha heard aboot t'Braithwaite kid?"

  The man in the wheelchair made no reply; the silence between him and Scatcherd seemed condensed, like the air before thunder. Then the wheelchair turned and shot away. Mr. Oakapple walked into the forecourt, and Lucas followed.

  "There will be no need to say good night to Mr. Smallside—he's busy," Mr. Oakapple said, and untied the mare. They climbed silently into the trap. The mare was eager to be off and broke into a trot, jolting the wheels over the cobbles and the tram tracks. They rattled briskly through the open gates and then slowed down for the long climb out of Blastburn.

  Halfway up, on the other side, stood the Blastburn Municipal Infirmary, which, Lucas knew, had been built at the expense of Sir Quincy Murgatroyd. As they passed the gates, he wondered if the Braithwaite child was in there.

  But near the top of the hill he was surprised to perceive ahead of them what seemed to be still the same sad little procession of men and woman, still slowly carrying the hurt child.

  "Where can they be going?" he demanded of Mr. Oakapple. "No one lives up here so far out of town—do they?" he added, as his tutor remained silent.

  "No—nobody lives up here," Mr. Oakapple said reluctantly, after another pause. "I suppose they are going to the cemetery."

  The cemetery gates, guarded by large granite pillars, each topped with a stone angel, stood to the right, just over the brow of the hill.

  By the time the governess cart had reached the gates, the group of mourners had passed through, but the shawled woman whom Mr. Smallside had addressed as Mrs. Braithwaite remained outside. She was sitting on a milestone by the roadside, rocking herself back and forth, repeating the same words over and over. "They got my Jean; they got my Nance; they got my Jinny. But they shan't get Sue; they shan't get Betsy—I'd sooner see them starve. I'd sooner see them starve."

  One of the men returned from the graveyard. "Coom along, then, missis?" he said awkwardly. "Doesn't tha want to be there?"

  "Coom on, Emma lass," said another woman, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder. But Mrs. Braithwaite shook her head.

  "I seen it three times. I know what happens," she said. "I said my good-bye to Jinny the day she went through the Mill gates." And she returned to her rocking and murmuring.

  Mr. Oakapple whirled the reins sharply and slapped them against the mare's withers. She had been going slowly but broke into a trot, and soon the cemetery gates were left behind.

  Neither of the passengers in the cart said anything more until they were back in the stableyard where Garridge, the head groom, was waiting to take the mare and rub her down.

  "Sir Randolph wants Mester Lucas in t'stoody," he said briefly.

  Lucas felt his spirits, already lowered by the evening's happenings, decline still further. Would Sir Randolph be waiting for an account, a report of all they had seen? Would Lucas now be obliged to answer a whole series of questions on the carpet-manufacturing process? He tried in vain to assemble his thoughts and to recall the sequence of actions that turned wool into carpets. All he could think of was the snatcher, dashing out from under the murderous weight of the press, and Airs. Braithwaite, sitting huddled in her shawl by the graveyard gate.

  "Well, bustle along then, boy," Mr. Oakapple snapped with a sudden return to his usual impatient manner, which had not been evident during their visit to the Mill. "You know Sir Randolph can't abide being kept waiting. Here—I'll take your hat and coat. You may go up the front stair, it's quicker."

  Lucas nodded, with a dry mouth, and made his way to the main hall. His heart had begun thudding uncomfortably in his chest. Slowly climbing the marble stair he was weighed down by the whole burden of the day, which seemed to have been going on for about twenty hours already. For a moment he stood outside the study door, reluctant to knock. He had not entered this room above three times during the year he had spent at Midnight Court, and on none of these occasions had his guardian appeared at all friendly or pleased to see him. There seemed little chance of any difference on the present occasion.

  It must be very late—nearly midnight. But Sir Randolph kept late hours, everybody knew: he was a poor sleeper; often throughout the hours of dark, his lamp could be seen shining out over the blackened grass of Midnight Park.

  No sound came from behind the door, and Lucas tapped softly with a stifled hope that perhaps his guardian had dozed off since issuing the summons, but the high irascible voice called, "Come in—come in. Don't dawdle on the threshold, damn you!"

  Lucas quickly opened the door and walked in.

  The study—a room almost as bare and shabby as the schoolroom—was lit by only one candle, which had burned down to a stub. A couple of red coals glowed faintly on the hearth. An almost empty decanter and tumbler stood on the desk by the guttering candle. There was a powerful smell of brandy in the room.

  Sir Randolph, with all his face and body in shadow, sat half curled, half crouched, in the big leather chair by the desk, with the folds of a plaid rug wrapped round his shoulders and spread over his knees. His two knobbed canes leaned against the arm of the chair.

  "Well—don't just stand there. Come forward, boy!" he ordered sharply in his high voice that was like the croak of some angry bird.

  "Shan't I put some more coal on the fire, sir?"

  "No, rot you! Coal costs money—perhaps you hadn't heard? Leave it alone! Stay—you may light another candle. Then come here."

  Lucas found a candle, set it in place of the stub, and lit new from old. As the yellow flame grew taller, he noticed with part of his mind that the carpet on Sir Randolph's study floor was of the very same brown and gold pattern as the one he had seen an hour ago on the floor of the pressing room.

  "Well—have you been down there? Have you been over the Mill?" Sir Randolph demanded as the light was placed in front of him. The strength of his voice seemed to rise and fall with a variability like that of wind or the sea. He leaned forward abruptly and drank, splashing some of the contents of his tumbler onto the leather top of the desk.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Understand it?"

  "Not—not altogether, sir—" Lucas began.

  "Be quiet then! I don't want to hear about it. Don't—want—hear 'bout it," he repeated in a kind of snarling singsong, though Lucas had not ventured to speak. "Jus' learn 'bout it—that's all. You are to go there every day until you do understan' 'bout it—every day—that's what you have t'do."

  "May—may I go now, sir?" Lucas was confused and alarmed by his guardian's manner, which seemed half angry, half absent, as if his attention were directed to matters far away in t
he distant past.

  Sir Randolph was gazing at the new candle dreamily. In the dim light little could be seen of his deeply-lined face but the outline of the hooked nose, heavy eyelids, and thin mouth, of which the lower lip was set somewhat behind the upper one, making his profile even more like that of a bird of prey. Although not much above sixty, Sir Randolph could have been taken for a man ten or fifteen years older than that. Troubles, and his own nature, had aged him early.

  "Go? No! Who said you could go? Stand still—don't fidget." Sir Randolph's head lifted sharply. He took off his worn black-velvet smoking cap and looked into it as if he hoped to find a memorandum written inside. "I'll tell you when you may go, and it isn't yet. 'Was something else I had to say t'you."

  He fell into a brown study again.

  Lucas waited nervously.

  "Ah—know what it was—yes." Sir Randolph roused himself again. "Fellow said you'd been complaining of loneliness. Wanted comp'ny—something of th'sort—" His next words sank into a mutter, but "puling milksop" seemed to be detectable among them.

  "Loneliness? Sir—I never—" Lucas began, very much startled. Whom could Sir Randolph have meant by that "fellow"—surely not Mr. Oakapple to whom Lucas had never spoken of his longing for a friend or companion of his own age?

  "Quiet, boy! I don't fesh—fetch you here t'entertain me, do I? Deuce knows you don't do that. Where was I? Yes, comp'ny. Well, now you've got comp'ny, due t'that fellow's int'ference. Company you have got. So don' let me hear word'f any more complaints, d'unnerstan'?"

  "I have company? What company, sir?" Lucas was completely puzzled.

  "Turned up today's evening. Old Gourd been seeing t'arrange ments. Oak Chamber. So no more moaning, no more grouching, hear? Now, go—d'think I want you staring at me with that cheese-faced look all evening? You put me in mind—can't stand it. No matter. But ¿he was beautiful," he muttered to himself; then looked up at Lucas and said, "Get out of my sight."

  "May I—may I go to the Oak Chamber?"

  "Oh, certainly—go an' play billiards t'll cockcrow if you wish, don' let me detain you," snarled Sir Randolph, dragging savagely at his crimson wool bellpull. "Skate, play marbles, ride the farmhorses, break the windows, pull the whole house down—only clear out of here!"

  Lucas waited no longer. Leaving his guardian muttering, cursing, and hauling on the crimson rope, he slipped out of the room and sped along the passage in the direction of the Oak Chamber, from which he had seen Mrs. Gourd emerging earlier that evening.

  It did briefly cross his mind that the hour might be somewhat late to disturb the newcomer, but his eagerness and his loneliness were too great to bear any delay. A companion! A friend with whom he could share lessons and exercises, a friend to talk to, read with, accompany on scrambles up Grimside, the great black hill to the north of the town—perhaps even farther. If the other boy was older, and sensible, they might, at holiday time, be allowed to take the governess cart out by themselves with food for the day. They could go fishing or crag climbing, things Lucas had never done but dreamed of doing. They might even get as far as the sea. They could play tennis and battledore in the old tumbledown court; they could climb the sooty chestnuts and explore the old icehouse in the park—there seemed no end to the possibilities that might be achieved, with a real companion.

  In the most secret corner of his mind, Lucas already had such a companion, an invented one. When he went out for his solitary trudge across Midnight Park to the town moor, when he munched his lonely meals, when he lay sleepless at night with the silence of the house around him, words inside his head automatically flowed into an accustomed pattern:

  Once upon a time, Lucas and Greg started out for a walk. They had left their horses behind for once, because they were going to cross the dangerous quagmire known as Scroop Moss; in their knapsacks they carried a scanty but sufficient repast of bread, dried meat, and a handful of dates; their quest was to locate the huge and dreadful monster said to lurk at the bottom of Grydale Water....

  The features of Greg were as clear to Lucas in his mind's eye as those of Sir Randolph or Mr. Oakapple. Greg was tall, with dark hair and blue eyes; he was fifteen or sixteen, quick-minded, with a ready smile, fond of riding, reading, and swimming, better at some things than Lucas—algebra; knew more about wild birds and music, but didn't know so much French and couldn't draw so well....

  Of course it would be stupid to hope that the exact image of Greg would be waiting in the Oak Chamber. Lucas knew better than that, but still—And whatever he was like, almost certainly the poor fellow would want cheering up, Lucas thought, knocking gently on the door, remembering his own solitary and uncomforted days when he had first arrived at Midnight Court, the period of utter misery before even Mr. Oakapple had been brought in to instruct him.

  I'll just go and introduce myself, he thought, simply say a friendly word or two, and then I'll leave him to sleep. He's possibly come a long way. I wonder where from?

  He knocked at the chamber door. To his great surprise he heard Mrs. Gourd's voice rather tartly bidding whoever it was to come in and not make too much noise about it.

  Lucas turned the handle and entered. The Oak Chamber was one of the few bedrooms in which any furniture was left. What remained was somewhat stiff and old-fashioned: a four-poster bed with thick dark hangings, an iron-bound chest, a carved oak grandfather clock, a high chair, a large old clothespress; the walls were covered by aged, worn tapestries over which Lucas had occasionally exercised his mind, if Pinhorn chanced to be in a good mood and let him in while she cleaned the room, but he had never decided to his own satisfaction if the embroidered scenes depicted Hannibal crossing the Alps or the Israelites crossing the Red Sea.

  The Oak Chamber was looking slightly more cheerful than usual, due to the fact that a bright fire blazed on the hearth. In other respects the somewhat somber furnishings were unchanged. But an air of gay disorder was given by the quantity of clothes and belongings which were strewn about the room. Several boxes, uncorded, spilled their contents onto the carpet; traveling wraps hung over chairs; hairbrushes and shoes lay scattered at random; a bottle of rosewater, set down by the fireside, sparkled in the light of the flames; a canary in a half-covered cage let out a sudden, loud, sweet snatch of song.

  "My gracious, Mester Lucas! What in the plagues name are you doing here at this time of night?" demanded Mrs. Gourd in a tone not much above a whisper. "I thought you were the maid with the warm milk, or I'd never have bidden you come in—"

  "It's all right. I have leave from Sir Randolph," Lucas put in quickly. "Where is—"

  "However, now you are here, I daresay it's for the best," Mrs. Gourd pursued without heeding him. "You can stay a moment while I go below stairs, for I forgot to ask Fanny to put a pinch of spice in the milk. Any road, you study the French lingo, don't you—wi' that tutor of yours?" she added cryptically as she made for the doorway and passed through it. She put her head back to say, "Bide till I come again—I'll not be long," and then vanished from view.

  Lucas moved toward the fireplace, mystified by this reception, looking about him for the newcomer. At first he thought that no one else was in the room; then he perceived a shadowy shape on the bed, huddled among cast-off capes, shawls, and pelisses.

  Who lay there? Was the person asleep? He waited silently by the fire, unwilling to disturb whoever it was, but also itching with the wish to speak, to start the new friendship. His problem was solved by a half-burnt log, which broke in the middle and fell on to the hearthstone with a sudden crackle and blaze. Lucas heard a movement from the bed, and a yawn that was half a sob, followed by a low cry: "Papa?"

  Wholly taken aback by the sound of this voice, so completely different from what he had in his mind, Lucas nevertheless started a step or two in the direction of the bed. There, illumined by the blaze, he saw a child, a tiny girl, who looked—to his inexpert guess—not more than five or six years old, staring at him with huge black eyes. Her dark hair was cut in a straight li
ne across her forehead, and dangled on either side of her small face in two untidy plaits; the traces of recent tears showed on her pale cheeks, and as she saw him, she began to cry again.

  "Oh," she wept, "you aren't my papa. Go away, go away, I hate you! My papa is dead; he is dead! And Sidi fell off the boat, and I wish I was dead, too. Go away, hateful boy!"

  Lucas had turned almost as white as the child on the bed; the shock of this reality, after his hopeful imaginings, had been very great. Who was this strange ghostly little creature? Where could she have come from? He stared down at her with a feeling of something like rage—wretched, useless little midget—who wanted her here? Could she really have been the company Sir Randolph had promised him? Was the whole thing a kind of hateful joke on his guardian's part?

  But the little girl had thrown herself down on the floor and was crying so wildly, in such frantic hiccuping sobs, that Lucas felt a twinge of compunction mingled with his shock of disappointment. If Airs. Gourd were to come back now, she would be sure to think that he had said something unkind to her and been the cause of this outburst.

  "Come," he said curtly, "You can't lie there, get up! Stop crying so and get back on the bed. I'll move some of these things—"

  He did so, and tried to lift her up, but she shook her shoulder out of his grasp and flung herself away from him with more abandonment, crying, "Papa—Papa! I don't want you—I don't want anybody but my papa!"

  Only then did Lucas realize with total astonishment that she was speaking in French. But what amazed him even more was that, although she had spoken French, he had understood her. True, for the past ten months he had studied French for two hours every day with Mr. Oakapple, but the lessons had not seemed to add up to anything or make sense to him. Now, suddenly, he realized that French was a real language in which people spoke, and thought, and understood one another—and it also suddenly struck him that perhaps Mr. Oakapple might be quite a good teacher. But all this passed through his mind with great speed; meanwhile he was leaning over the child, and saying, in a tone that sounded more reasonable than he felt, "Don't lie there, you will get cold and make yourself ill. It is stupid to lie on the floor, it does no good. It is useless. C'est inutile," lie repeated, listening to himself in amazement. He was speaking French; and much more fluently than he ever had when conversing with Mr. Oakapple. With his tutor it had seemed like a silly game, since they could understand each other so much better in English.