The Fair Folk

ALSO BY

SU BRISTOW

Sealskin

THE FAIR FOLK

In th’olde days of the Kyng Arthour,

Of which that Britons speken greet honour,

Al was this land fulfild of fayerye.

The elf-queene, with hir joly compaignye,

Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede.

This was the olde opinion, as I rede;

I speke of manye hundred yeres ago.

But now kan no man se none elves mo . . . 

From The Wyf of Bathe, The Canterbury Tales

—Geoffrey Chaucer, 1392

Newnham College, Cambridge

April 1969

Dear Professor Edgerley,

Enclosed is the next instalment of my story. I’m sorry it’s taking so long, but coursework has to come first, and I feel the need to be careful where and when I work on this. The Faculty Library is good, I’ve found, and so is the University Library. So far, I think, it’s been fine, and I have no sense that They have any suspicions about what we are doing. Touch wood!

Thank you for taking the time and trouble to help me in this way. I know you say it’s of great value to your work, and I’m glad of that, of course. But making myself remember and record everything that happened—even things I’d forgotten about until now—is helping me too. There are things I took for granted as a child that I wonder about now, and some things make more sense in hindsight. Most of all, though, this unburdening, as you called it, is something I desperately needed. It’s such a relief to share what I know, and to be able to talk about Them with you. So thank you for that too.

You asked me last time where I thought my story began. The best answer I can give is Once upon a time, and certainly long before I was born on a small farm in the Surrey hills. And of course I can’t tell you where it ends.

You told me that you have never met anyone else like me, but I’d be very sad to think that there are no others, and that perhaps the time is coming when They will be gone from the world.

I hope, despite everything, that somehow, somewhere, it’s still going on.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts,

Felicity Turner

PART ONE:

THREE TIMES THE CHARM

There was once a farmer who took his goods to market, and did well. He started home late in the day, so that it was already dark by the time his cart entered the woods. The horse was ambling along, when some way off between the trees he saw lights, and heard the sound of merrymaking.

Now, who can that be? he wondered. Getting down from the cart, he set off through the woods; but as he got close, lights, music and people all vanished, leaving him alone in the dark. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he was about to turn back when the lights appeared again, some way off.

He took great care this time, moving as quietly as he could, but still, just as he got near enough to see that there were a great many strange folk seated around a bonfire, once again they disappeared. And now, in the dark and far from the road, he did not know which way to turn. But as he stood there, tired and befuddled, what do you think?

There was the bonfire, and there were the folk drinking and laughing, just a little way off among the trees. And this time, when he stumbled into their circle, they did not vanish away but led him to an empty seat, offered him food and drink, and welcomed him to their company. And so he feasted with them far into the night, until at length he was overcome by sleep, and they covered him with a fine embroidered cloth and left him to his slumbers.

Well, it was long past daybreak when he awoke. Gone was the bonfire, gone the merry folk. He was lying in a pile of leaves, stiff and sore. He had a deal of trouble finding his way back to the road and, when he reached it at last, the horse and cart were nowhere to be found. That old horse had a lot more sense than her master, and she had made her own way home.

Traditional tale, British Isles

CHAPTER 1

Well Farm, Surrey, 1959

Best get on. My father put down his mug, scraped back his chair. Crouched on the landing, I watched with my mind’s eye as he swiped his hand across his mouth, dried it on his overalls. There’s another gap in the hedge down on Low Field.

I need you to run me into town this morning. I told you.

Holes don’t mend themselves. He went out, leaving the kitchen door ajar. There was a heavy silence, then Out! Out with you! and the sudden clatter and squawk of escaping chickens. While my mother was occupied, I made it to the front door, wrestled with the latch and got out onto the front step, pulled it shut and was away before she could stop me. Once I reached the trees, I’d be safe.

I’d only got my school plimsolls, and by the time I’d crossed the yard and passed the barns, they were already wet and muddy. The cats came, picking their way between the puddles, but I had nothing for them today. Malkin followed me right to the edge of the woods, but she wouldn’t come any further. She curled her tail around her feet and sat up tall, watching. They all said the same; her unblinking eyes, my mother’s scolding, my father’s hand. Don’t go there. It’s not for you.

When I can’t see the buildings any longer, I stop. Let the woods enfold me, the quiet that’s never really quiet, full of the huge slow life of trees, the quick busy life of insects. And if I’m lucky, other things too. This is the boundary.

In the hollow where the woodpeckers nested last year, I leave my watch, tucked in so it won’t get wet. My birthday present—So you won’t have any excuse for being late now, will you?—and it has a stupid cartoon picture of Cinderella on the face. They don’t like cold iron; all the stories say so. And I don’t like it either.

Today I’m going to the clearing again, where I found the hazelnuts last time. A perfect circle in a place swept clear of leaves, each one right way up. Squirrels never did that. I had to hunt around to find the hazel tree, with its roots in black water hidden under layers of rotten leaves and dead branches, and I got scratched and smeared with green mould before I found one, whole and nearly ripe, and put it right in the centre so they’d know, so they’d understand.

When I get there, I close my eyes and wish as hard as I can, but when I open them there’s nothing, nothing but leaves and the sound of birds. No sign of hazelnuts; all gone. Surely that means something?

I’ve brought you apricots, I say, and my voice sounds small and shaky. Stupid. Stupid kid. Why would they be interested in you? But I clear a space and make a circle, with a little pile in the middle. The dried apricots look too bright, as though the sun is shining on them. Already, ants are coming; but maybe something else will come too.

I lie down on the dry leaves, looking up through those still growing, hanging on for the first big wind of autumn. Today it’s misty, nothing moving up there; the top branches disappearing into greyness. Not a breath of wind, Mum says, and the wind is a huge animal, somewhere far beyond the horizon, that wakes and roars across the land; but today it’s sleeping. Waiting.

Already the damp is seeping into my t-shirt, and the ants are beginning to explore me. Maybe spiders, too. There’s a root under my back, but I’ve trained myself to sink into the ground and be part of it all. I’m a tree root, an ant path. I’m leaf litter. I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

Time goes by, and it doesn’t matter. When I grow up I’m going to be a naturalist, and you have to know how to stay still for hours, maybe all day, so the forest doesn’t know you’re there any more. And you have to use not just your eyes. What things look like, that’s only a little bit of what they are, and it’s maybe not even true, because caterpillars try to look like leaves, and insects try to look like sticks, and leopards look like sunlight falling through trees.

So why are foxes red? I’m wondering about that, feeling the scratch and tickle of tiny feet finding their way through the hairs on my arms, up under my t-shirt, when there’s a sudden sharp pain in my side. My eyes fly open, and there’s something right close to my face, too close to see properly, and next second it’s gone, so I can’t be sure I saw what I thought I saw—

An eye. A blue eye, looking straight into mine!

I’ve jumped up before I realise, shaking ants out of my clothes, trying to see everywhere at once, even though there’s nothing to see. Just the trees and the mist, and my circle of apricots, just the same, only the heap in the middle is gone, and there’s something else, something brown like the leaves, that blinks at me.

A toad. It begins to crawl, not in a hurry, but wanting to be somewhere dark and wet. Out of the circle, towards the stream. Apricots have nothing to offer a toad, and the toad has nothing to say to me. Except, somebody put it there, and that means it’s a message.

I lift my t-shirt and look down at my side. On the pale skin there are two red marks, and the curved imprint of fingernails. I put my own finger and thumb over the marks, and they fit almost perfectly.

Somebody pinched me, hard.

I lost my nerve, then. I ran, slipping and skidding in the black mud under the leaves, splashing through the puddles in the yard. There might have been laughter; I couldn’t be sure at the time, though now I’ve no doubt at all. I climbed up the hay bales in the barn, and curled there in the prickly scent of summer. The marks were still there; there’d be bruises later. And I had my answer. I knew for certain.

They were out there. And I had found them.

CHAPTER 2

Of course, I know better now. All that time when I was playing cat and mouse, leaving little treats and traps, thinking I had to lure them out of hiding and make them trust me. Who was the cat, and who was the mouse?

There came a day when I got home from school to find my mother clearing out the larder. Damp had got in, turning sugar into solid rock and flour into sour-smelling paste, and the kitchen table was covered with jars and cans. She looked at me over her shoulder, reaching down something from the highest shelf.

Go and get changed and you can give me a hand. Then she looked again. What have you done to your glasses?

I took them off, and the jagged lines across my right eye went away. Dropped them.

Let me see. She got down off the steps and came over, dusting off her hands. As she took the glasses, her hand touched mine, just a little. And then she took both my hands in hers, turned them over, looked at the grazes and beads of blood.

How did this happen?

I fell over. But the stupid tears welled up, and I couldn’t pull my hands away.

Fliss. Have you been fighting again? She wouldn’t let go. Answer me!

They started it! The words burst out of me now. They waited on the path home, and they took my bag and tore my library book, and the librarian said if it happens again I might lose my ticket. All the way home I had kept the sobs at bay—there was always someone watching—but now I wailed aloud.

The sound appalled both of us. My mother shook my hands, quite hard, and then let go, stepped back.

Oh, Fliss. When will you learn? Just don’t give them cause. Ignore them and they’ll soon get bored. If you weren’t so—

She seemed to run out of words, then. If I weren’t so—what? But as soon as she let go of me I ran for the stairs. She called, once, and then gave it up.

Behind the locked bathroom door, I washed gravel out of my hands and knees and stuck on plasters as best I could. The landing floor creaked as I crossed it, but there was no sound from below. I got out of my school uniform, put on trousers and a long-sleeved top. As an afterthought, I stuffed the blanket off my bed into my backpack. It gets cold in the woods at night.

I’d miss tea, but there were some supplies in my den, if the mice hadn’t got to them. It would only be eating up the out-of-date cans from the back of the cupboard, anyway. I hoped she wouldn’t notice that things had gone missing, but it didn’t really matter; they wouldn’t come looking for me, I was sure.

It wasn’t that hard to climb out of the bedroom window, slide down the back porch roof and land in the yard, but the kitchen window looked that way, and my hands were still stinging, so I just went quietly down the stairs. But the front door always stuck, even in summer, and we only opened it for company. I had to pull with both hands, and then it came open suddenly and a swirl of dust and hot air blew in. I heard Mum call out Fliss? but I pulled it shut behind me and ran.

Since the day I first knew for sure, I’d done everything the same way, in case it was part of the magic. In through the hole in the fence along Low Field, where the oak tree has swallowed up the barbed wire, and wriggle through under the hedge, where foxes and badgers have made a secret tunnel. Leave my watch in the hollow tree, and step off the path into the deeper woods. With eyes closed, I took nine steps, and turned around three times.

In the woods, you leave behind the heat and the glare. You leave behind the sweet smell of cows and the hum of insects. It’s somewhere else, even if you don’t manage to step into Somewhere Else. And when you open your eyes, you’re never quite sure.

I went to my den by a roundabout way, because they don’t like straight lines, and when I got close I didn’t go in right away. The feathers were there just as I’d left them, woven into the bushes as though the wind brought them: black crow and the barred brown of a tawny owl, and a white gull feather. You never saw gulls here, this deep in the woods, but the white stood out well against the undergrowth.

The dry grass and sticks were undisturbed, too, and I pulled them back into place behind me. Boys sometimes passed through, even though it was our farm and there was no public right of way. They used the Trespassers will be prosecuted sign for target practice, and they took all the eggs from the blackbird nest by the gate that year.

Inside, you couldn’t see out much, but you would start to listen in a different way, as though you were reading a map made from sounds. I curled up in my blanket against the tree trunk, and ate some of the biscuits I left there in the old cake tin that Mum used to keep buttons in. She never sewed on buttons any more. The biscuits had gone soft, but they were ginger nuts so they still tasted good, and I had an apple as well.

I could hear a few birds calling, and the little rustle of voles in the grass, and the deep, slow sigh of the trees overhead. If I put my ear to the ground I would hear when the deer came out, though it was hard to tell where they were. The scent of me was masked by layers of leaves and branches, and sometimes they came really close. Once, a fox nosed his way right into my den. He stopped when he saw me, and we just looked at each other, and then he turned and went on his way. I closed my eyes and let myself drift out into the wood, like an owl that flies soundlessly, ghosting through and never touching.

When I wake up it’s almost dark, the time when badgers and foxes come out. I’m not sure what woke me. There’s no sound nearby, no rain pattering on the leaves overhead, and the wind has died down. But there’s a listening feeling, as though the whole wood is waiting for something. And then—

Right on the edge of hearing, and gone almost before my ears can make sense of it; a brief thread of music. And there it is again, coming in snatches, broken pieces that can’t quite make a tune. It can’t be men, out lamping for deer or rabbits; they try to be quiet though you can hear them a mile off. And it’s not like any wireless music I’ve ever heard. A pipe or a whistle, rising and falling like lark song. No one round here makes music like that.

As quietly as I can, I untangle myself from the blanket and crawl towards the entrance. The dry leaves I put there to warn me if anyone comes near are my enemies now, but I try to move like a badger, stopping and starting, deliberately scrunching about. Badgers have nothing to fear, except men and their dogs.

Every time I pause, I wait to hear the music again. And when I’m finally out of the den, I stay crouching low, turning my head like a fox catching the scent, until I’m sure. That way.

It’s no good trying to be quiet, but I can’t help it. One step at a time, testing before I put my foot down. There’s light as well as music now; flickering firelight between the trees, and the little pulsing lights of glow-worms. Someone talking, though I can’t make out the words, and then a burst of laughter.

Could it be people camping, here in our woods? But I know already, by the prickling of my skin and the singing in my ears, that this is something else. And when, finally, I get close enough to see, through the yellow sparks from the fire and the green dance of the glow-worms, those faces! Some young and beautiful, like heroes from a book of legends, and others . . . 

Even now, remembering, it’s so hard to put into words. They are seated in a circle around the fire, except for one, standing back and half in shadow, playing that little piping tune. There is a feast, the wonderful stomach-wrenching savour of roast meat, and piles of perfect fruit, grapes and peaches and other things I can’t name. They are drinking from sparkling goblets, laughing and talking. I have time to see that their clothes gleam with jewels, catching the firelight as they move.

Then one who sits on the far side of the fire, so that I can clearly see the fantastic shadows made by that nutcracker face as he turns to his neighbour, that one raises his eyes in the act of lifting a grape to his mouth, and for one eternal second, our eyes meet.

The next instant, up goes the fire in a great whoosh of sparks and flame, and up goes a great screeching and laughing so loud that I cower down with my hands over my ears.

And when I look again, there is nothing.

No fire, no feast, no faces. Only the after-images burned into my eyes, and the quiet sounds of the night; no alarm calls from birds roused from their roosts, no deer crashing away through the undergrowth. I am cold, and wet, and alone.

For a long time, I don’t move. The darkness presses down on me, and even my ears don’t know how to listen any more. I bring my hands to my face, smell leaf-mould and dank mud, and crouch there, hearing only my own heart jumping in my chest like a trapped animal. Slowly, slowly, hearing and seeing come back to me. It’s never completely dark outdoors, and now I can see the shapes of the trees around me. At long last, I get up, and walk forward a few steps into the clearing where they had been.

The ground is cold. I crouch again, put my hands down flat, and there is no ash. No fire, no feast, no sign that anyone had ever been there. But inside, my whole body is full of singing. If only for an instant, I had seen them, face to face. I raise my head and speak into the dark.

Thank you.

There is no response, but I don’t really expect it. I stand up again, meaning to go back to my den, and then realise I have no idea which way to go. Where had I come from? In the dark, off the path, there is nothing familiar. And that joyful singing inside me gets stronger, as I realise how they have led me on, just as all the old stories say. Only this isn’t an old story in a book; this is happening now, to me.

And as I think that, I hear the music again.

CHAPTER 3

Knock three times, and you shall enter." That’s what it says in all the old stories. Three times is the charm. So now, standing there in the dark, I take my courage in both hands. Not lost, but on a path I can’t see. Well, then.

I close my eyes, take a moment to listen for that elusive thread of music, and then turn around, slowly, full circle. And again, until I am sure the sound is clearest from that direction. Then once more, because there must never be two without three. I open my eyes, take a deep breath, and set off again.

They lead me on a merry dance, through brambles and across a stream, by ways that feel completely unfamiliar. I know these woods better than anyone, but I am no longer in any place I recognise, and that in itself is a sign that I am on the right track. Many times, the music fades, and I have to stop and wait, trusting that it will return. And at last I begin to see the lights again too, flickering between the trees. I am almost there.

And yet, knowing how the stories go, I stop again, just short of the circle of firelight. I am scratched and bruised, wet and tired, and I want to prolong the moment before the inevitable. But then, standing there on the threshold, neither in nor out, I find a courage that amazes me. The bullies in the playground would not have recognised this Felicity—not that I give them a thought, as I step forward, right into the circle, and say, loud and clear,

Here I am.

There is one moment of stillness; time enough to notice her as she turns her face towards me. The queen, crowned with mayflowers (May blossom? In August?). Her long dark hair floats around a narrow face and laughing eyes, and she opens her mouth as though to speak, and then—

Uproar! Once again, a great screeching and a rush of flames, so that I step back despite myself. It seems to go on for longer this time, and I feel—or imagine I feel—people jostling me as they pass. There is laughter, and someone pulls my hair. Without meaning to, I crouch down again, and put my hands over my ears until the tumult has died down.

When at last everything is quiet, I venture once more into the place where the circle had been. This time, I don’t expect to find anything; but there to one side is a gleam of white in the near-darkness. Lying on the moss, impossible and perfect: the mayflower crown.

I kneel down on the cold, damp ground, and put out my hand, half expecting it to vanish at my touch. But it is real; the flowers are fresh, newly picked, the scent strong as I bring it to my face. Mayflowers, in August.

The scent drifts around me as I put it on. Is that the wrong thing to do? Nothing ventured, nothing gained; and I’ve come this far, after all. Her hair had been smooth and dark, and it wouldn’t sit well on my springy curls, but even so. She’d left it for me, and that must mean something.

The third journey is the hardest of all. They lead me into a bog, and then the music vanishes and I stand there amid the marsh lights, fighting terror as the cold mud creeps up almost to my knees. Later, there is a grove of ancient, twisted oak trees, all hung with swags of lichen, that reach out for me as I stumble among the rocks. I twist an ankle, and sit down and cry, until the sense of eyes watching in the dark gets too much to bear. What might there be, in this wood that was no part of the everyday world? I think of wolves, and bears, and maybe worse things, and fear drives me onward.

It feels like hours, long enough for the moon to set and the sky to grow paler, before I see firelight again. The trees are further apart here, and there is nowhere to hide, but this time I don’t even pause. They are sitting in an open area, almost like a lawn, and the sound of singing comes to me as I step out from behind the last tree and limp forward into the firelight.

Their faces are all turned towards me as I approach, but the singing never pauses, and the music goes on until I come to the circle itself, and pass in between two seated ones, and around to where she stands, waiting, with an empty place at her side.

I stand there before the queen. She’s not much taller than me, and our eyes are almost level as she steps forward and takes my hands. There’s a thrill like the prickle of pins and needles as we touch, and I look down, almost expecting my hands to transform into paws or claws; but there they are, brown and scratched, resting in her own slim, perfect ones. It’s only for a second and then she lets go, but the prickling continues as she says,

Welcome, little firefly. She reaches out to touch the mayflower crown, all askew on my tangled hair. Then she gestures to the seat beside her, and there’s a grand flourish from the piper, and a chorus of voices raised in welcome.

Before me there stands a little man, bowing low, presenting me with a crystal goblet and a plate of food. But I’ve no attention to spare for that, as he straightens up and meets my gaze. How to describe that face? I’ve tried to draw it a hundred times, and it’s always a caricature; a cartoon goblin with a long and twisted nose, huge misshapen ears, and bushy eyebrows almost meeting in the middle. But those eyes! Young and sparkling with mischief, and a smile full of small, perfect teeth. He makes me a low bow, and then suddenly cartwheels sideways and out of the circle, and while I’m looking to see where he went, I’m grabbed from behind and almost spill the drink I’m holding.

Hob. Let her be. The queen is watching, smiling, and now she gestures to the moss-covered log beside her. I take a step forward, but she holds up her hand.

A moment, Felicity. Shall you attend our revels looking like a vagabond?

While I’m wondering how she knows my name (my real name, not Fliss or Fizz or any of the names they call me at school), I’m surrounded by glow-worms. They whirl around me, faster and closer, until I close my eyes against the streaks of light. And when I open them—

You move differently, when you’re clothed in green silk that floats around you, shimmering with silver thread. Your feet dance when they are shod with little silver slippers. I’m no longer cold, or weary, or scratched and bleeding, as I sit beside her. But I am hungry, and I eat everything they bring to me. Don’t eat the food, the old stories say, or you’ll be in their power forever. But if that’s true, then I’m already lost. Sitting there, surrounded by marvels, I’m at my journey’s end, and I never want to leave.

For a long time, I only watch, and listen. They offer me one delicacy after another, and I try them all, and when the feast is done there is more music, fiddle and drum and pipes, and dancing beside the fire. When a young man, tall and lordly like a knight in a storybook, stands before me and offers his hand, I rise without hesitation and join the dance, and it’s almost like flying, so fast and fearless, and no one stumbles or bumps into anyone else. I have time to see that none of them is much taller than I am, and that some are very far from beautiful, but in that first encounter I am beyond observing and judging, beyond anything but being there, in that magical present that I hope will never end.

But there comes a time when I am seated again beside the queen, watching the revellers in the firelight, and I feel her eyes upon me. The question is out almost before I’ve thought it:

Your Majesty, how can I repay you?

There is a wild cackle from Hob and some of the others nearby; some clap their hands, while he rolls on the ground and kicks his feet in the air. Your Majesty! Your Majesty! he says, gets up and makes a low bow that turns into a somersault.

The queen smiles. You shall, in time. For now, your own sweet presence is payment enough.

Your Majesty! says Hob again. Will you join the dance with me? And he’s off again, capering through the dancers who never miss a step.

I grow a little bolder. So what should I call you, O Queen?

The night is getting old, she says, as though I haven’t spoken. I’ll learn this, in the times to come: if the question is not the right one, she simply ignores it. And now the music is softer, slower; a gentle lullaby to which the last dancers tread a slow and stately measure. Another young man with a face like Apollo in my book of Greek myths comes over and places a cloak around my shoulders. It’s light and soft as thistledown, and as soon as it envelops me I feel wonderfully sleepy. The queen looks down as I curl up beside her, and her hand just touches my hair. I yearn, then, for her to sweep me up, to hug me close the way my parents never do, but she only smiles, as if from a long way away, and says, Sweet dreams, little firefly.

It’s a sleep full of dreams, both sweet and strange, and sometimes there are goblin faces that leer at me in the dying firelight, but somehow I have never felt safer. This is where I belong, and here I shall stay, for ever and ever.

Well. Poor little Felicity! It still makes me smile, thinking of that night; that marvellous night, and the morning that followed. Waking stiff and sore and gritty-eyed, not wrapped in a cloak of thistledown but half-covered in last year’s dry, scratchy leaves. Waking hours after first light, hot and thirsty, with no crystal goblet to hand filled with nectar. My scrapes and bruises were gone, though. And tangled in my hair were the long-withered flowers of May.

CHAPTER 4

It took me a long time to find my way to a familiar path. To be sure, I was back in the ordinary, everyday world, but they had left me in a place ringed by bogland and brambles. By the time I emerged into Low Field, I had a new set of scratches and bruises, and the dank smell of marsh-water hung about me. And as I started to cross the barnyard, my father was there.

He grabbed my arm and towed me across the yard towards the house. He never spoke a word to me as he dragged me to the kitchen door and pushed me in. Only then, just before he shouted for my mother, did he look me in the face.

You stay out of them woods. You hear me? And he was off down the garden again, leaving me to my mother’s scolding. Fliss, look at the state of you! Those shoes are ruined! I don’t know what gets into you, really I don’t. And your hair! One of these days, my girl, I’ll take the scissors to it, and serve you right. What’s this? She pulled at the tangles, and then suddenly went still.

Out! Out of my kitchen! You know better than to bring may into the house. She shooed me out into the garden like a marauding cat and backed away, wide-eyed. You stay right there while I fetch the hairbrush, and you don’t set foot in this house until you’ve got rid of every last flower.

Left blessedly alone for a few moments, I sat down on the back step. She was angry, yes, but there was something else; I’d never seen her look at me like that before. I hadn’t brought flowers into the house since I was very young, but I did remember once making a bouquet from the hedgerow on the way home from somewhere, and presenting it to my mother. She was in the garden, pegging out washing, and she looked down at me, took the limp bunch from my hand and threw it aside. The chickens came running to shred the flowers, campion and stitchwort, meadowsweet and may.

Never bring mayflowers indoors. Don’t you know it’s bad luck? she said. And that was it. Not anger, or not only that. She was afraid.

She had words enough for both of them, and questions too, but they dried up soon enough. I suppose, looking back, my shining eyes and lack of response must have unnerved them; I had something that was beyond their reach.

I felt now that I could bear anything. The bullies at school, my cousins looking down on me; even—if it came to that—being banned from the library. I had something far more precious and wonderful, and now that I had eaten and drunk and danced with Them, I knew that next time, the way would not be so hard. I had found my own people at last, and they had crowned me with may.

CHAPTER 5

Of course, it was not so simple. Coming and going was at their behest, always. Two days later, when I slipped out to my den with neither food nor drink—why would I need everyday food, after all?—I fell asleep to the calling of owls, and woke to the whisper of rain all about me the next morning. I went home cold and wet and hungry, wondering if I’d ever see them again. That happened many times. The button tin became the place to store my library book of the moment, because after all, I could not simply sit and wait.

You’ll have to pay for a new one, Mrs. Hutchings the librarian had said when I took back the torn book, though I know she mended the cover with sticky tape and the book stayed on the shelves. So I forfeited my pocket money for the rest of the summer. An easy price to pay, for an excuse not to go to the holiday activities in the school playground, and not run the gauntlet of the school bullies afterwards. I went to the woods every time I could get away, and after that first time my father let me be. I thought he had given up. Where else, after all, would a child go? He must have done it himself in his time, though of course I never thought of that.

I’m not sure how long it was until the next time, though I remember very clearly what came before. Even now, I don’t want to look directly at that memory. You’d think a child growing up on a farm would be used to the everyday brutality of it. In those days, you could slaughter your own beasts and carry out the butchery in your own kitchen, though regulations were coming in that made it harder. Neighbours would come to help, and everyone had a job to do. I hated the whole business, the stink and the blood that got everywhere, the boys with their hot eyes leaving fag-ends outside the back door, the younger children that I was supposed to look after while their mothers were up to their elbows in guts.

But it wasn’t the bull calves and the ram lambs I minded so much; that was just farming. I had no link with them, really. But I did have a link—a kind of kinship, in fact—with the barn cats, scruffy and half-wild as they were. You couldn’t pet the working dogs; they answered only to my father and would never come to hand when I called. But the cats did. Little grey Malkin the grandmother cat was my friend, and that meant that when I went into the barn and made the special low crooning call, they would come running. To a child starved of touch, their soft fur and shining eyes answered a hunger that was direct and simple. To lay my head gently on the flank of Mitten the tortoiseshell or Big Ginger, and awaken that deep throbbing purr, was a joy that never failed.

I was there in the barn that evening, after all the neighbours had gone at last. I’d kept back some of the offal for the nursing mothers; there were two that summer, and six kittens who tumbled about in the straw, suckling from whichever mother was nearest. Until now they’d mostly stayed hidden, deep among the hay bales, but after the feast they were all sleeping, round-bellied, in the scattered straw. And I fell asleep too, briefly, curled up among the cats.

It was the urgent calling of the mothers that woke me, in time to see my father slipping out of the barn door with a sack hanging heavy in one hand. Not the first time, of course, but usually he’d leave it until I was at school. Just one more necessary job on a farm, and the less fuss the better. This was something else, though. This felt like punishment.

What could I do? The cats were clawing at the door, mewing desperately. Oh yes, I knew they’d get over it, I knew they’d call for a few days and then give up, and next year there’d be more kittens. But this time, it felt like my fault.

I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I sobbed. Malkin came and butted me with her hard little head. How many kittens had she borne and lost? Most of the barn cats were her children and grandchildren; usually he left one, at least. But they were all gone.

Much later, long after milking, when the owls were calling and the poor cats, exhausted, had fallen asleep, I crawled out of my hiding-place in the straw, and went off down to Low Field. My face felt stiff from crying, and my head ached. I didn’t even look back at the house, though it was getting cold now and a light rain was falling. My mother had called, once or twice, when tea was ready, but after that they’d left me