Cora Ravenwing (6 page)

“I hear you’re going to be in our class at school,” said Barbara. “Mummy said Mrs. Phillips thought so. It’s Miss
Dingwall’s class
we’re
going into. Have you been told whose form you’re to be in?”

“I think Mummy’s got a letter from the headmistress somewhere but it’s been mislaid during all the chaos of house-moving. That name rings a bell, though.”

“It’ll be nice if you
are
in with us. You must sit with our gang. We usually bag desks next to each other—two side by side and one behind. It’ll be nice to be a foursome so that the one behind doesn’t feel out of it.”

I thought it was very kind of her to include me so readily and wondered if Hermione and Susan Spenser, whom I had yet to meet, would agree. “I’d love that. But perhaps
Hermione
and Susan …”

“Oh, Hermione can be a bit moody sometimes but she doesn’t mean anything by it. We just ignore it. She’s a poetic type, you know. I’m sure Susan’ll take to you just like that. She can be a bit mad and giggly; she’s the one that gets us into trouble now and then. But she’s great fun, a real scream … and ever so good at art.”

Susan and Hermione were waiting for us by the front door. They were sitting on the back bumper of a big white car, scraping the dusty gravel with their feet and looking a bit bored with each other. Susan leapt up and ran over when she saw us and Barbara introduced us. Susan dropped into an elaborate curtsey and Barbara gave her a poke. “Don’t act the goat, Susan. Give Rebecca a chance.”

“Oh, call me Becky,” I said. “Rebecca’s just for people I don’t know very well.”

They both said they liked Becky better and then Barbara nudged Susan and pointed across at Hermione, who hadn’t moved and wasn’t taking any notice of us. “What’s up with her?”

“Goodness knows! She’s been like that since I arrived. Another poem brewing probably!”

“Baggy not interrupt,” said Barbara.

“Nor me,” said Susan quickly. “That leaves you, Becky. Probably best if you speak to her first anyway. She’s bound to be nice as you’re new.”

“Isn’t she always nice?”

“We think she’s a bit spoiled,” said Barbara. “But we don’t really mind because she’s super most of the time.”

Susan said: “It’s just that she writes poetry and
sometimes
she gets a bit superior about it—at least that’s what we think, don’t we, Barb? Bit rude, though, sticking herself in a poetic trance your first visit.” She adopted an
exaggerated
pose, pretending to be lost in elevated thought, and then burst out giggling.

I felt cross on Hermione’s behalf. “Oh, I’ve been before. I don’t mind going up and speaking to her first,” I said. “Actually, I write poems myself, and Hermione and I have read quite a lot of each other’s work.” I left them looking a bit pink-faced and walked over to Hermione. I sat down beside her on the bumper. “Hello, Hermione. It’s another super day, isn’t it?”

“Mmm? … Oh, hello,” she said as if she hadn’t realized till then that Barbara and I had arrived. I thought that was a bit affected and silly, as she must have heard us and she must have been aware of Susan running over to greet us. But she carried it all off with such poise and style that I was still impressed. I could never have attempted a similar display. I was too ordinary; I should have looked ridiculous if I’d tried to seem vague or lost in a reverie. “Oh, hello, Becky,” she said mistily. “It is a super day, you’re right. I’ve been in Paradise all morning working on a new poem and I can hardly clear my mind of it.”

“It seems a pity to try,” I said. “Would you like the three of us to have a walk round the garden and leave you alone for a bit?”

“Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. Mummy’d be awfully cross and say it was the height of bad manners.” She sighed and rose dutifully from the bumper. “No—I’m all right now. I want to come with you. It’s just difficult sometimes to switch moods, isn’t it? You’ll know that yourself …”

“Oh, yes, I know exactly what you mean,” I said,
delighted
to be considered a soul-mate. We went over and joined the others. They were relieved to find Hermione coaxed out of her poetical mood so quickly.

“I didn’t mean to be rude about poetry,” said Susan later, as we wandered across to the paddock to see the horses. Barbara and Hermione were some distance ahead and couldn’t hear us. “It’s just that it’s so embarrassing when Hermione turns herself off like that. I get all unnerved and giggly and that just makes her cross. Barb’s awfully good with her, actually—just carries on as usual right through all the ups and downs.”

“Barbara says you’re artistic yourself,” I said.

“Well, I suppose so,” she said modestly. “I’m not much good at anything else, anyway. Mummy and Daddy both paint, so it’s in the family. Hermione and Barb are both brainy though—you probably don’t know that. Hermione was top in English last term and Barb got ninety-eight per cent in the arithmetic exam. Are you frightfully clever too? It’d be nice to have someone in our gang who was just ordinary like me.”

“I think I’m ordinary,” I said. “If I’m good at anything it’s English. But I don’t see how I could be as good as Hermione.”

“No, I suppose she is rather special,” Susan agreed, and
envious feelings stirred inside me. I wanted to be as good as Hermione.

This time, it turned out that Mr. and Mrs. Phillips were away for the afternoon and there was absolutely no sign of the boys. When we went in for tea we found the kitchen table laid for the four of us. It looked like a party table with flowery paper napkins and straws sticking up out of our tumblers and a white-iced cake and trifle. “Oh goody,” said Hermione. “Horti’s made us our tea. I’ll go and tell her we’re ready.”

“Wait till you see Horti,” said Susan mischievously when Hermione was out of the room.

“Why?” I asked. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Ooh, là, là!” said Susan. “Nothing’s wrong, exactly. She’s just terribly French. She’s the
au
pair,
you know. Very fancy set-up they have here.”

Hermione came back and poured out orange juice and handed round egg sandwiches. They seemed to have some sort of herb flavouring, and at first I found it very off-
putting
. But by the time I’d reached my third I was enjoying the new taste. Then the door opened and in came Horti; she stepped neatly across to the oven and took out a plate of sausage rolls. She was small and black-haired with brown skin and dark eyes. She was wearing a scarlet silk scarf over her hair, a scarlet blouse and black skirt, stockings and shoes. There was a broad shiny belt around her waist with a big gold buckle. She balanced the plate aloft on one hand like a waitress and tripped elegantly across to the table. “Hello, girls,” she said and smiled warmly at all of us. She put the plate down in the middle of the table. “Tuck in. Right?”

Hermione said: “Right! Very good! Horti, you must meet Becky—she’s the one I’ve been talking about, the one who writes poetry.”

Horti stepped smartly round the table and shook my hand. “How do you do, Becky?” she said. “It’s nice to see you here. It’s a lovely house, isn’t it? And a lovely family. I love it here. Now, Hermione,
chérie,
if you want
something
else come and get me. I’m in my room.” She turned, and her black skirt swirled round with her. Then off she went, darting us a last bright smile as she went out.

Susan could scarcely wait for the door to close before giggling and spluttering into her orange juice and
mimicking
Horti to a tee. “’Ello, ’ello! Ooh, ’Ermione,
chérie
! Come eef you need me.” She burst into streams of
mock-French
, throwing her arms in the air and flashing her eyes in all directions.

I thought Hermione would be angry, but she smiled
indulgently
across at Susan and waited for her to stop. “Try not to be a complete ass, Sue,” she said at last. Then she turned to me and said: “Horti’s super, actually. Her real name’s Hortense, you know. She’s from Normandy. She’s been with us eighteen months now. Mummy says she’s pure gold.”

“Go on,” said Susan, giggling. “Tell Becky how she’s teaching you French …”

“So she is,” said Hermione. “What’s wrong with that?”

Firmly and quickly Barbara said: “Nothing.”

I was thinking all the time that I’d seen Horti before, and suddenly I remembered. “I’ve seen her before,” I exclaimed. “—On the common.”

“The common!” said Hermione.

“Yes. She was with your big brother.”

When I saw Hermione’s expression I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Even Susan managed to keep silent, though bursting with glee.

“Are you sure?”

“Well—yes. Just walking they were …”

“But Mummy won’t hear of any of us going to the common. Which brother, anyway?”

“The biggest one—Hector, is it?”

“Hector and Horti!”

“Just walking …” I muttered.

“Oh, come on, Hermione,” said Barbara. “Hector’s over twenty now.”

Hermione looked down at her plate. “Oh, it’s not that,” she mumbled. “It’s just that she never said … I don’t expect she means half she says to me. I bet she’s no
intention
of having me to stay when she goes back. And she knows Mummy thinks people who loiter around on the common are—common.”

We all laughed uproariously at her little joke, but
Hermione
didn’t. I hoped she wouldn’t mention to her parents that I had been on the common, let alone Horti. “I’m terribly sorry,” I said nervously. “I wish I hadn’t said.”

She sighed deeply. I thought she was going to cry, but suddenly she smiled at me and said: “Don’t be silly, Becky. I’m being daft. It’s just that I’ve always thought Horti was marvellous. And I thought she considered me an equal and told me everything. But of course she doesn’t. Not
surprising
really.”

Susan said: “I do think you’re being brave, Hermione. I’m sorry I teased you so much earlier on. It’s rotten
finding
out that someone hasn’t been honest.”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara, “—that awful let-down feeling.”

“Oh, she’s not such a rat, really,” said Hermione. “I’m always thinking I’m more important than I really am.”

We all protested and consoled her. We each said why we thought she
was
important. And, to my relief, I found that the incident had actually pulled me right into the heart of
the group where, at first, I thought I’d ruined my chances with my unguarded chatter.

Towards the end of the meal Barbara returned to the subject of school. “I thought it’d be nice if Becky sat with us next term. What do you think?” she asked the others.

“Oh, certainly,” said Hermione. “I’ll sit next to her, shall I, as we’ve got so much in common with our poetry?”

Barbara and Susan were full of approval of the plan and I felt extremely happy. Okington was going to be
wonderful
. Here I was with three special friends already, one of a gang … Dimly a vision of Cora flitted through my mind, a tiny shadow so swiftly banished as scarcely to register. My friendship with Cora would just have to be fitted in behind everything else. Hermione and the others came first. I could not imagine ever choosing Cora’s company in preference to theirs.

T
HE NEXT WEEK, THE LAST OF THE HOLIDAYS, INCLUDED MY
birthday. I’d thought it would have to be a very quiet affair this year, with the house move and no friends in the area to ask to a party. But now it seemed there could be a party after all and Mother was almost insistent that there should be. I personally thought it would seem a bit forward to ask such new acquaintances to celebrate my birthday with me. “They’ll think they’ve got to bring a present. It’s a bit much when they hardly know me.”

“Rubbish! All you girls like parties. You can have it in the garden. It’ll be lovely.”

“But still—the present business …”

“It’s not going to bother the Phillipses buying you a little present.”

“The others, though. Maybe they have to spend their own pocket-money on things like that.”

“Well, all right. How about asking them to come and only telling them it’s your birthday when they arrive?”

That seemed a good idea. It would also mean I didn’t need to worry about what to wear. I still felt that Mother was rushing things a bit—it might have been more
appropriate
for Susan and Barbara to have had me to their homes first—but I assumed she knew she was doing the right thing. In the event, she rang all the mothers herself and I could hear her explaining that it was my birthday and she wanted me to have a little party as usual. I heard her saying to Mrs. Spenser: “It’s her birthday, actually, but she’s shy of telling the others so we’re keeping it a secret … But it seems a shame for the poor little soul not to celebrate in some way … And perhaps you’d like to pop in yourself towards the end, just for a cup of tea—or something a bit stronger! It’d be so nice to meet you …” Then I realized that at least half the point of the party was that Mother and Father should meet the parents. I wasn’t yet used to considering their problems very deeply. But, of course, this would be the perfect opportunity for them to make the acquaintance of the Spensers and the Fosters at the same time as keeping things ticking over with the Phillipses.

My birthday was on Thursday but the party was arranged for the following Saturday afternoon. The new school term was to start on the Tuesday of the next week. My actual birthday was fairly uneventful except for the arrival of a pleasing number of cards from old school friends who said they were missing me. I felt a little faithless, as I’d been concentrating so hard on making new friends that I’d scarcely given the old ones a thought. I think it was this feeling of disloyalty which led me to do a rather foolish thing in the afternoon.

I’d been sent a ten shilling note by a great-aunt and had gone down to Copcutt’s to spend some of it on sweets. I was wandering slowly home with a packet of peanuts and
some peardrops when I met Cora. I jumped guiltily because I hadn’t seen her for a day or two and expected an instant tirade of abuse. But it didn’t come. She smiled and said: “Becky! It’s nice to see you. Are you free for a bit? Shall we go for a walk?” I was grateful to her for being so affable and agreed to spend the afternoon with her. After we’d told Mother we were going for a walk we set off together, sharing the sweets and talking easily and happily. I told her it was my birthday and she sang “Happy
Birthday”
in clear, true tones which took me utterly by
surprise
.

“You’ve got a lovely voice, Cora.”

“That’s about the only thing I inherited from my mum,” she said.

“You don’t look as if you could sing. I’d never thought of you as musical, somehow. Can you play any
instruments?”

“A bit. Can you?”

I told her about my piano lessons. I had taken the fourth grade exam shortly before leaving Birmingham and had just heard I’d gained a distinction, so I was feeling rather proud of myself. I thought Cora looked impressed and forgot to ask any further details about her own music. She was in her usual mood of just simply asking and listening, not
divulging
much about herself. As we made our way up the lane past the church she stopped suddenly and said: “Becky, come in again. You haven’t been in for ages.”

“Mummy says I’m not to … I’ve promised. She says people don’t like children jumping over the graves,
dishonouring
their dead.”

“You know I’d never do that.” She looked hurt. “I’ve a perfect right to go in when it’s my own mother that’s buried here. If you don’t mind my saying so, your mother
isn’t always absolutely right. You know perfectly well we’ve never misbehaved here.”

She was right, of course. “But I’m still a bit scared, Cora,” I admitted. “I know it sounds daft to you when you’re so used to the place, but I suddenly get the idea that a ghost might appear or something. It’s so quiet and spooky.”

“Oh, Becky! Don’t be silly! Just look in over the gate. It’s the most beautiful garden you’ve ever seen, isn’t it?” Certainly the graveyard did seem peaceful and ageless with the sun beating down on the flowering shrubs and the yew trees casting their cool dark shadows over the grass and the birds whistling all at once. “Doesn’t Dad keep it nice?” said Cora proudly.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “All right. I’ll come.”

“Here, hold my hand,” she said and grasped me securely. “Don’t be frightened.” She led me through the gate. “I won’t dance or talk strangely. Don’t worry. Trust me.” She led me along the little pathway beside the church and we didn’t trample over any of the grassy mounds I’d so dreaded before. At the back of the church we came upon her mother’s grave again. “I just wanted you to see her roses,” said Cora. “Aren’t they beautiful? I’m going to pick you some for your birthday …”

“Oh, you mustn’t do that, Cora,” I gasped.

“Don’t be silly. Why not? She’d want you to have some.”

I could feel myself beginning to panic again. The idea of gathering a dead woman’s roses was making my skin tighten all over. “Don’t touch them, Cora,” I said in a clipped voice. “Not for me. I don’t really want them.”

She looked disappointed. “Becky, don’t worry,” she said gently. “I know what you’re thinking and, if that’s how you feel, of course I won’t pick any. But they’re just flowers, you know—it makes no difference where they’re growing
or why they were planted here.” Her voice was firm and even. Again I was aware of the inner confidence and strength which seemed to possess her whenever she visited this familar territory.

“It’s funny how you change in here, Cora,” I said. “You’re much surer of yourself. You should be like this all the time. In here I really feel you’re my equal and you help me not to be frightened, but when we’re outside I always feel in charge of you somehow.”

“Nobody ever bothers me in here,” said Cora. “I feel safe here. But there isn’t anywhere else I feel safe.”

“Not even at home?”

“Well, yes. At home, sometimes, if Dad’s there. But often he’s not, and I get lonely.”

“Why don’t you tell him? Perhaps he’d come home earlier.”

“He’s lonely too.”

Rather than sink into gloom contemplating the
Ravenwings’
sad situation I suggested a walk on the common, and we soon recovered our earlier good spirits. Cora picked me a bunch of wild flowers; she spotted them in hollows and crannies where I would never have seen them myself. Then she sang “Happy Birthday” again, and again I was struck by the clarity of her voice and said so. She seemed, this time, to retain her graveyard vitality for quite a while after we left and I silently noted her bright face and light movements. The jerking and flapping mannerisms didn’t return till we were on our way home. It was then that I made my foolhardy move. We’d had such a pleasant
afternoon
and Cora had been such cheerful company that,
without
thought, I opened my mouth and said: “I’m having a party on Saturday, Cora. Would you like to come?”

She stopped dead, right in the middle of the pavement,
and clasped her hands together in great excitement. “Oh, Becky! How super! Nobody’s ever asked me to a party before.”

At once I knew the invitation was a huge mistake. But it was too late. It would have been cruel to retract it. All the time that I was explaining who the other guests would be and when to come and what to wear I knew that I shouldn’t have asked her.

At home Mother said non-committally: “Oh, you’ve asked Cora, have you? Was that wise? It’ll make an odd number. Will she fit in with the others?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It’ll be all right. They’re in the same form at school, after all.” Mother just nodded. She still had no real reason to suspect that Cora’s presence might be
disastrous
. She’d still heard none of the gossip that I’d heard.

“I’ve asked Mrs. Briggs to come and give me a hand on Saturday afternoon,” she said. “She can put the finishing touches to the food and that’ll leave Daddy and me free to help organize games and keep the boys from under your feet.”

“Mrs. Briggs!” I said horrified. “Oh, we don’t want her, Mummy. She’s so managing. She’ll take over the whole thing. Can’t we keep it just family? I don’t even like her.” The idea of Cora and the other three sitting together round the one tea-table was difficult enough to contemplate, but with Mrs. Briggs as hostess … that
must
be prevented. Goodness only knew what sort of outburst might result.

“Becky! Don’t be silly! It’ll be ideal to have someone handling the kitchen end of things. Anyway, I’ve asked her—it’s all arranged.”

There was nothing I could do. I lay awake most of
Thursday
night battling to find a solution but the only way out seemed to involve cancelling Cora’s invitation and I couldn’t
bring myself to be so mean—not after witnessing her immense pleasure at being included for once. By the time Friday dawned I had decided to put every effort into making the party a success despite all my misgivings. I spent the day helping Mother make little cakes and trifle, blow up balloons and set up a treasure-hunt in the garden. We even erected a table under the trees so that we could have our tea outside and I felt that that would largely eliminate the danger of unpleasantness from Mrs. Briggs. She could glower at Cora and mutter all the calumnies she liked from the kitchen window; nobody would hear or notice her.

But when I came to in my bed on Saturday morning all my hopes were dashed. I could hear the steady drum of heavy rain against the roof and window-panes and knew at once that we were all going to be confined for the
afternoon
in our little front room. I tore downstairs in my pyjamas. Father was finishing his breakfast and reading the paper and Mother was putting out cereal and making toast for me and the boys. “Look at the rain!” I said. “Let’s cancel it. It’ll be hopeless. Let’s just scrap it.”

“For Heaven’s sake, Becky!” said Father. “What’s all this about? We’ll have the party inside. It’s not that difficult.”

“Oh, it is, Daddy. It’ll be hopeless,” I said, bursting into tears. “It’s not what we’d planned at all, is it, Mummy?”

Mother looked astonished and cross at the fuss I was making. “Pull yourself together, Becky. Of course it’s
disappointing
but we can’t just cancel because of a bit of rain. Everybody would think we were mad!”

“Well, we can’t have the treasure-hunt now, can we? That’s what people like best. That’s all spoiled. All the clues’ll be sodden out there,” I said desperately. I already knew I wasn’t going to win.

“Jo and I will set up a new treasure-hunt indoors,” said Father in an effort to appease me. “Now go upstairs and get your clothes on. Your mother’ll need your help getting things tidied up this morning.”

I went heavily back upstairs. There seemed no way in which the afternoon could be anything but calamitous.

Mrs. Briggs arrived first. She came at about two-thirty to help with sandwiches and setting the table. When the doorbell rang my heart started pounding in my chest. It must be Cora an hour early! But when I opened the door it was Mrs. Briggs, her face all red and wet, a plastic
rain-hat
tied tightly over her head and a soaking black rain-cape buttoned up under the chin. As she stepped in she filled the hall with the nasty smell of not-very-fresh wet clothes. “That’s better,” she panted as she struggled out of the cape and hung it over the end of the banisters. She untied the plastic hat, shook out her grizzled hair and patted it into some sort of style. I fancied the smell in the hall thickened. In horror I stared at the flowery frilly dress she was
wearing
. “Admiring my dress?” she asked, pirouetting clumsily around and flouncing out the skirt which had been crushed by her rain-cape. “No good going to a party and not wearing your glad rags, is it, dear? How do I look?”

“Nice,” I mumbled. She looked like one of the ugly sisters dressed up for the ball. “I’ll tell Mummy you’re here.”

“Just a minute,” she said, fumbling around in the baggy hold-all she always carried. “Let me get out me fancy apron. And there’s a little something here for you.”

Mother came out of the kitchen at that moment. “Mrs. Briggs! Not a present!” she said in tones of mock crossness. “What did I say? Nobody’s supposed to know it’s a
birth
day
party!”

“What
I
say,” said Mrs. Briggs, pulling out a package and handing it to me, “is that a birthday’s a birthday—secret or not. And a birthday means presents. Isn’t that right, dear?” She gave me a grotesque wink.

I pulled off the wrapping paper, wondering what on earth I was going to find and how I would be able to look grateful. Mother said: “You’re very wicked, Mrs. Briggs; you shouldn’t have bothered. Isn’t it kind of Mrs. Briggs, darling?” Inside the outer wrapping was a twist of white tissue paper and, as I opened that, a little shiny bracelet dropped on to the floor. It had a single charm on it and, when I bent to pick it up, I saw it was a horrid little
hobgoblin
figure, with an ugly gaping mouth, who seemed to be hopping round on one leg, the other bent up in front of him and held at the ankle. I was speechless—but Mother and Mrs. Briggs were not. “Let me see, dear,” said Mother “How fascinating! I haven’t seen anything like this, Mrs. Briggs.”