Authors: Gillian White
‘We must have courage,’ said Tabby moving forward silently, eyes aglitter and cat-like in the moonlight.
They moved stealthily on, following Honesty’s shadow, cursing the undergrowth. ‘No wonder she rides here during the day, you’d lose all the skin on your legs if you came here on foot too often.’
They stopped at the meeting hut and watched as Honesty went on in. Already something was going on, they could hear the chanting, like a low, rumbling grumbling, and feet were being stamped on a hard earthen floor.
The crickets chirped as the muted drum started to beat. ‘G-o-d,’ whispered Tabby, drawing out the word dramatically, ‘it sounds like a slave-rising, the song of the drums, a message to fellow conspirators in a still, American night.’
‘In the deep South,’ said Pan, shivering, though the night was warm and the decaying scents of the woods flooded the air with a primeval musk. Musk mixed with decaying rubbish. ‘Machetes. If they found us d’you think they would kill us?’ she asked her sister breathlessly.
‘No,’ said Tabby sensibly. ‘Because of who we are.’
‘We don’t count now, now there’s a son.’
‘Of course we count. We are the Hons. aren’t we? And rich.’
‘So what if they kidnap us?’
Tabby gave a withering look, she wasn’t going to bother to answer such childish foolishness.
‘Yuk. It smells awful round here.’
The chanting and dancing from within gradually became more frenzied.
The twins stared at each other. ‘You know what this is, don’t you, Pan?’
‘What is it?’
‘This is black magic.’
‘In Hurleston Woods?’ She has read about it of course, who hasn’t, and they’re always on about rituals in the papers. No proof though. Pandora turned to go but Tabitha pulled her back. ‘We’re not in any danger, we’re OK while we stay here. As soon as there’s any real danger we’ll go. Believe me.’
When the chanting died down there was one single voice, it seemed to trail from the chant as a wisp of smoke drifts from a dying bonfire. The hoot of an owl behind them made the twins’ hearts nearly burst from their chests. And then the weird congregation wandered out in a line, hand in hand, and formed a circle in front of the hut. It was like PE at school with Miss Davidson-Wills when she had one of her purges on deportment. Neither Pandora nor Tabitha dared even to swallow.
Nobody wore any clothes, not even a wispy scarf.
It was so incredibly horrid.
The girls at school, most of whom fancy some stupid pin-up like Hugh Grant or Mel Gibson, some even make out they have boyfriends and produce letters and photographs as proof, well, they should see what the twins can see now. How could anyone bear to let a man put something like that inside them? It was too desperately awful. They’ve seen pictures of pricks in magazines smuggled in by Lavinia Heathcote-Drury but those looked pink and interesting, almost tasteful, while these seem to be grey, purply and wrinkled, and the moonlight probably doesn’t help. At least women are all tucked privately in, except for their disgusting bosoms.
How could Honesty bear to do this?
If only Daddy could see his prudish daughter now. So self-righteous, so prissy. Well, she looks like a wild woman with her hair down over her face like that, and swinging her head up and down like a loony and she’s hardly got any boobs at all. Why does Callister bother with her when there’s some sitting there with breasts like balloons?
The whole thing ceased to be funny.
Under some hypnotic spell the group swayed slightly, the rhythm of their bodies moved as one. But the man in the centre of the ring commanded all the attention. The twins had seen Callister before, rutting in the woods with Honesty, but now the Brute appeared in a different light. He blazed with a savage glory. He gleamed, he glinted, as if he’d rubbed oil over his body, or had it rubbed over him by one of his admirers, most probably. There was an awesome majesty about him. His chest was broad and imposing, swelling out to his shoulders and narrowing sharply to his flat-muscled belly. Pandora gaped, then bit her lip. Virile was the word, virile and reckless. He seemed to be chanting some spell while his arms were raised to the moon like a statue, or one of those brass vases Elfrida buys at car boot sales, and when he had finished he went round the ring like a priest giving communion, stroking the women’s long hair—most of the men had long hair, too, save one, small and out of place with a short haircut and owlish glasses—and handed out what looked to be joints. Everyone started puffing like smokers deprived of a fag for too long, like Tina when she’s on the phone—oh yes, the twins know she smokes but luckily Daddy or Nanny Barber have never seen her.
They thought they could smell a sulphurous smell, like after a match has gone out. This was no mere dabbling in the occult, this was the real McCoy.
There was no sign of the travellers’ children. At least they weren’t into ritual abuse. Tabby felt cheated. They could have made names for themselves shopping an abusive coven. And there’d be money in that, no doubt.
The twins withdrew when it became obvious that the group was pairing off, the couples were disappearing into the woods and it would be sod’s law that someone would come their way and stumble upon them.
The game would be up, as Miss Davidson-Wills likes to say.
They travelled some distance at snail’s pace and then on their bellies, struggling through thickets of brambles and twisted rhododendron bushes, terrified they might be seen or heard.
When they finally reached the safety of Hurleston House they ran across the daisy lawn, under the spreading oak trees which loomed gigantic in the darkness, and collapsed in the safety of their own bedroom. Gog and Magog, asleep on their beds, woke up and kicked up one hell of a racket.
‘Even Mummy would not have approved of that,’ said Tabitha, still trying to breathe without coughing her guts up.
‘No,’ wheezed Pandora, giving the matter some thought. ‘But I never imagined a man’s dong could be that size.’
‘Oh don’t,’ said Tabby, distressed, closing her eyes,
‘please don’t.’
So in view of all this no wonder the twins have more to concern them than whether one baby looks like another.
Honesty has been taken over by the powers of darkness. She is quite obviously no longer her own person. When Helena used to visit the travellers, who were originally invited to Hurleston by her, they used to be into flower power and the music of the pipes, innocent frisky behaviour more in tune with the Sixties, a bit of dope smoking, weaving and much contemplation and love. The twins can remember happy times spent in the gentle grove on the steps of some rickety van, singing, playing happily in the woods but always aware of the snapping dogs that came up slinking, silent behind you.
They can vaguely remember Callister, a long lanky boy with a haunted look who spoke little but spent hours strumming on his guitar.
Since those balmy days there has been some malevolent transformation.
‘We really ought to say something to somebody,’ said Tabitha. ‘She would, Honesty certainly would if she caught us up to no good.’
Pandora was not so hasty. ‘Perhaps we should try and find out more for ourselves first. I mean, as far as we know all that was perfectly harmless. Now we’re making him out to be some kind of incubus.’
Tabitha gives her a quizzical look. ‘That’s not what you said at the time.’
‘Maybe we were too influenced at the time, by the atmosphere and the terror.’
‘Don’t give me that. You just want to go again, don’t you?
You like being frightened,
go on, Pan, confess!’
‘Well what else are we going to do for the rest of the holidays? There’s no hunting. Daddy is roaming the grouse moors with Papa’s old gun dog and when he comes back he’ll be mostly in London, even if he wasn’t we’d hardly see him he is so enamoured of his issue.’
‘And Angela’s so boring. Sweet. But snoringly boring.’
At least their fears of too much interference by a scheming stepmother have not transpired. Angela is totally taken up with the dratted Archie, forever going off with Nanny Tree and those common kids on excursions, driven by the sexy handyman. She doesn’t even work any more, Daddy was forced to give her an allowance, and when you think how independent she was when she first came.
‘Poor Archie’s in danger of growing up thinking he is one of the
hoi polloi,’
laughs Tabby.
‘Not for long,’ said Pandora. ‘He’ll be sent off to prep school when he is seven, like Honesty was, but he will go because he’s a boy and he will go to Daddy’s school and then on to Winchester.’
‘Angela’s not going to like that.’
‘I’m afraid that Angela,’ replied Pandora knowingly, ‘will have no choice in the matter.’
‘Grandmama,’ says Pandora, when next they are with Elfrida in the ancient Daimler, laying out their wares in the boot in the playground of Hurleston infants’ school. Over the years there have been attempts to persuade her not to drive because Lady Elfrida is somewhat erratic having learned before testing began, with the fire service before the war, and she’s not going to give up now, not while she can still see. ‘What would you say if you thought some sort of black magic was going on in the village?’
Elfrida snorts. ‘I’d ask them to weave a few useful spells for me.’
Her black wool stockings must feel itchy in all this heat. ‘No, seriously, Grandmama, what would you say?’
Elfrida holds up a child’s post office set. ‘Ten pence, or twenty? What d’you think midears? It is rather battered. I think ten would be fairer.’ The twins sell, while she buys, with a good eye for anything which would be enhanced by a bit of canal art. Pitchers, bowls, jugs, even candelabra and she has found that Ercol furniture takes the colours quite well… turns a sow’s ear into a silk purse in no time, so to speak, and she passes on her work to the RSPCA. ‘Why d’you ask me, Pandora?’
Pandora looks shiftier than usual. She catches the eye of her twin. On their noses the freckles have darkened in the sun giving them an elfin look. ‘Do you believe in black magic?’
‘No I do not, mumbo jumbo, sort of nonsense that died out centuries ago. If it hadn’t, you two would be burned as witches, that’s for certain, with your funny ideas.’
‘Well, d’you believe in hypnosis then, or any form of brainwashing?’
‘No doubt about that, look how warlike we all become as soon as an enemy’s spotted, it doesn’t have to be one of ours, either. We Brits’ll fight anyone. Propaganda of course. Quite extraordinary what it can do. But then, dears like Evelyn have always had a fondness for war, in the old boy’s blood, part of the death and destruction that’s been our heritage since time began. When there’s no human enemy there’s nothing he likes better, even now, than to go out and bag the odd hare and Fabian started off early of course, nailing skinned rats’ tails to the game larder door.’ And Elfrida smiles fondly, remembering. ‘Evelyn used to pay him and his friends sixpence a dozen.’
Today they have brought a hamper so they can wait and not get tangled in the queue of departing vehicles at lunch-time. They will put down their tartan rug. In the hamper, packed by Susan, is cold ham, chicken, pastries, baked potatoes, jaw-stretching sandwiches, salads, biscuits, fruitcake, apples and pears, home-made lemonade and one small bottle of port. Enough to feed an army.
‘Grandmama?’ It is Tabitha’s turn. ‘Have you ever known a witch?’
‘Oh plenty, in my time. Well darlings, your own mother, God bless her, was as near to one as dammit.’
Tabitha frowns. ‘But surely that was white witchcraft.’
‘Well, there we have it, if we are going to believe in white we have to believe in black, I suppose. God and the devil. High and low. Why? Thinking of forming a coven? The cemetery would be an excellent spot for dancing in the altogether.’
‘Is that what they do?’ Tabitha asks innocently.
‘Well of course. With all three nipples exposed. Now you two take charge here while I go off and see what I can find. I did hear that old Mr Hewitt was bringing his ancient wringer along. If I could get my hands on that it would look spectacular, painted up and put in the garden with some cheery pots on.’
The Limes,
10 January
…‘Love as ever, Aunty Val.’
A
ND THEN SHE WENT
back to the start of the letter, forcing back her eyes again and again and again, gripping the blue-lined writing paper and taking it as far away from her body as she could, in case of contamination by something way beyond reason.
‘Dear Angela,
Just a quick note to thank you for the beautiful blue bedjacket which arrived just in time, I opened it at breakfast and everyone greatly admired it. In this chilly weather it will be an absolute boon when I want to sit up in bed and watch television. Normally I have an evening bath, and that warms me nicely, but on the occasions when I do not I need something extra or else the bed feels so cold and as you know I don’t hold with electric blankets. I have known so many nasty accidents caused by those reckless devices.
We all had a most wonderful Christmas but then the Limes does pride itself on its ability to put on a show when required, the Easter point-to-point picnic being a splendid example. Of course we had the carollers round, thirty girl-guides with lanterns and they came in and sang before the fire in the hall where the Christmas tree always stands, and we ate hot chestnuts which burnt our fingers and drank rather too much of Mrs Hornblower’s mulled wine, she does tend to overdo the brandy.
They always take us to the pantomime and in past years I have refused, despising this nauseating habit of the powers that be to treat us as if we are all in our second childhoods. But this year I was persuaded to go by Mrs Mackie and I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it, Cilia Black was terribly good as the prince and afterwards we dined at the theatre, a shocking meal, the sort of thing Mrs Hornblower would never dream of serving up here. I often wonder why, as I grow older, people spend such huge sums dining out when really, nothing you get can compare with good old home cooking, although I’m afraid cooking was something at which I consistently failed to excel.
I do hope the dear house in Hampstead continues to stand and is not suffering too much from damp. Do keep the heating up high at this chilly time of year, won’t you, dear? My secret hopes that one day I will return there are growing dimmer, as with each year I settle more comfortably into life at the Limes and benefit from all the opportunities on offer here. My dear friend, Potterton, the one who had palsy, is taking an Open University course and I must say I am rather tempted although the late nights and early mornings are rather off-putting. Instead I have put my name down for raffia work with beads, because in this way I can make enough gifts to give out for birthdays throughout the year, save plodding round the shops or poring over catalogues hour after hour.
Tomorrow we are visiting Longleat in the specially adapted bus which makes us all feel as if we are sitting in our own armchairs it is so superbly luxurious. Potterton and I are taking a little flask along in case the nip in the air is too much. If it looks too bad, of course, we won’t get out. You can see most of the animals from the bus window.
Well, dear, I must let you get on. I am sorry to hear you have given up your work, but then being a mother is a full-time job in itself, and I know how terribly fond you are of your little Archie, although I understand he is quite the opposite to Jacob in temperament. That’s genes for you. In our day we called it character.
Looking forward to your next visit although I do realise that you must be terribly busy. Take good care of yourself, and your beautiful boys. What a pity it is that one will inherit so much while the other has so little to look forward to.
Love as ever, Aunty Val.’