A Brief History of Montmaray (22 page)

TOBY HAS A SOLUTION. Personally, I think he’s still suffering the effects of all that brandy yesterday, but it’s not as though we have many other options.

We are going to send his pigeons off with messages.

Henry has been dispatched to collect them. I warned her not to use the one that follows Spartacus around all day because it thinks it’s a hen, but she says there are a few that keep to the loft Toby built. I’m worried they’ll have forgotten all about their former home in the Stanley-Ross attics. However, Toby says it’s only been eighteen months since Rupert gave them to him and that during the Franco–Prussian War, one pigeon remembered its way home after four years confinement in a palace loft. Besides, he says, he’s tried sending messages to Rupert with them before.

‘And?’ says Veronica.

‘Well, I forgot the family’d be at their London house, not in the country and so ... but one of the birds got home safely! We’re just not sure how long it took, because Rupert wasn’t there to check till a few weeks later.’

‘A few
weeks
–’ Veronica begins, but she restrains herself from saying anything further. Toby looks dreadful. I’ve never seen him so pallid and pinched-looking. He claims the leg is feeling much better this morning, but if that’s true, it’s only because it must have been agony before.

I have just finished copying identical messages onto five scraps of cigarette paper, inserted them into their little metal cylinders and attached each to a spindly red pigeon foot. The message is ‘SOS Toby FitzOsb gravely ill. Pls send help’. I wanted to put in a ‘Thank you’ in advance, but there wasn’t room. At least the sky is clearer today – Veronica found an old book about homing pigeons in the library and it said they can become confused in fog. I’m more concerned about the enormous distance – more than four hundred miles, the first two hundred over sea.

‘In 1862,’ Veronica reads aloud, ‘a champion bird travelled from St Sebastien to Liege, a distance of six hundred and fifteen miles, in a single day, with more than a dozen other birds released at the same time arriving the very next morning.’

Her valiant attempts at cheering us up may have helped Toby – he has fallen asleep at last – but they’re not helping me much. I don’t think any of Toby’s birds are champions. One of them looks as though it has mange. Even if one arrives intact, even if Rupert is at home and is checking the lofts regularly, even if he is able to telephone Aunt Charlotte at once (does she even have a telephone?), even if she is able to bully the English authorities into sending a ship for us in this weather – it could be a week till help arrives. I’m not sure Toby can manage that – I’m not sure
I
can.

Henry has just tip-toed in to say the birds got off safely – she went up on the roof to release them. I’ve never seen her so subdued. It would be an immense improvement if it weren’t so disconcerting, particularly as Rebecca has also stopped talking to us. She isn’t even talking to Simon any more. She’s probably sulking about Toby having taken over ‘His Majesty’s’ room, and Simon agreeing with us about it.

Rebecca really has gone crazy, I’m sure of it. I heard her in her room upstairs yesterday, having what sounded like a loud conversation with Uncle John. Of course, she
could
have been talking with his ghost. It would be just like him to ignore the rest of us, especially at a time when we’re desperate for any help, supernatural or otherwise.

WHAT A DAY.

We were startled from our lunch (all of us except Rebecca perched on chairs around Toby’s bed) by the buzzing of an aeroplane engine. My heart immediately leapt into my throat. I’d been too worried about Toby to dwell on Gebhardt’s threats – the whole thing had started to seem like a nightmare I’d had months ago – but all my apprehension returned in an instant. Could the Germans have returned by aeroplane? Had they sent
fighter
planes? Judging by Veronica’s expression, she was thinking the same thing. But then Henry, who’d dashed out to the kitchen to peer through the doorway, ran back in.

‘It’s Julia!’ she cried. ‘Julia and Anthony!’

Close enough. It was Anthony. Even Toby, the only one who’d had any faith in the pigeons, was astonished. It had been just twenty-four hours since we’d sent off our SOS.

‘Rupert found your birds in the loft this morning – the poor chap’s been home with the ’flu since Christmas,’ Anthony explained, as I pushed a mug of soup into his hands. ‘I telephoned Julia from Brest this morning, just about to fly home after delivering medical supplies to the boys in Spain – and gosh, Toby, I should have kept some back for
you,
you look absolutely–’

‘Never mind about that,’ said Toby faintly. ‘How many birds?’

‘Oh ... two, three? Not sure. But there I was, all refuelled and ready to take off – more than ready, to tell the truth. Had some Fascists take a few pot shots at me near Madrid and those French mechanics are hopeless.’

‘Oh, Anthony!’ I said. ‘Did they actually hit you?’

‘Well, there was a bit of damage,’ he said. ‘Need to get her back to England, really, to find out what’s what.’

‘But it’s safe to fly now?’ asked Veronica anxiously.

‘Oh, yes!’ said Anthony, a bit too heartily. ‘Except...’

‘Except?’ urged Veronica.

‘Well, she’s only a two-seater, you know. Toby, of course, need to evacuate him, but I can’t say I feel comfortable leaving you ladies here alone even a day or two with whatever those blood ... er, those awful Nazis are planning.’

‘What?’ we all cried. Because we hadn’t said anything to Anthony about Otto Rahn or Gebhardt, not one word.

‘Er ... didn’t you get Julia’s telegramme?’ he asked.

‘We haven’t received any mail since Christmas,’ said Veronica. ‘We don’t get regular deliveries in winter, the weather’s too rough.’

‘Oh,’ said Anthony. ‘Er. Right.’

‘What did it say?’ I asked.

‘Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know, exactly – only that Julia’s father, well, you know he’s a cousin of Churchill’s...’

We all nodded impatiently.

‘And his brother’s something in intelligence and, er, they picked up something about the Germans and Montmaray.’

‘The Nazis are planning an attack?’ said Veronica sharply.

‘Well, I don’t know an attack, exactly,’ he said. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what ... but it will be fine, I’m sure, if you’re out of here by then. I’ll fly Toby back and I’m sure we can squash in young Henry. Then I’ll come back for all of you ladies straight away. Or send someone – one of the chaps I was at school with has just bought himself a de Havilland Dragonfly, beautiful twin-engine, seats five.’

Toby was shaking his head violently and shoving at the blankets, trying to push himself upright. ‘No, Ant, take the girls and come back for me.’

‘Toby, lie down!’ said Veronica.

‘Simon’s here, he can look after me and–’

‘No,’ said Veronica firmly. ‘You need a doctor. Besides, you’re King.’ She held up a hand as Toby began to protest. ‘We don’t have time to argue about it, it’ll be dark in a few hours.’

And to everyone’s shock, Simon stood up at once. ‘She’s right. Henry, get dressed in your warmest clothes. Sophie, could you pack them some food for the journey? I’ll get a stretcher organised. Toby, what do you need from upstairs?’

Sometime in the last few weeks, ‘capable’ has replaced ‘handsome’ as the attribute I most admire in a man, so I very nearly fell back in love with Simon at that moment and I thoroughly regret ever having said anything bad about Anthony’s moustache. Between them, they got Toby all the way to the aeroplane waiting on the Green, settled him and his strapped leg in a comfortable position, and fitted Henry in beside Toby. Then Simon helped Anthony do something vital regarding the propeller.

Despite the urgency of the situation, it was so hard to let them leave. I couldn’t help feeling that I’d never see them again, or that they would never see Montmaray again – a feeling only intensified when Veronica thrust a hastily wrapped bundle at Anthony and asked him to deliver it to Aunt Charlotte.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Er, what is it?’

But the rest of us had already worked it out. It was a collection of the most important pages of her
Brief History of Montmaray.
Henry started howling then and tried to scramble over Toby’s lap to throw herself at Veronica. Toby’s eyes also started welling up (although that was possibly physical, rather than emotional, pain – there wasn’t much room in the cockpit and Henry wasn’t being as careful as she ought). And I sobbed unashamedly into Carlos’s fur.

‘Oh dear,’ said Anthony. ‘Oh dear.’

‘Anthony, just go!’ shouted Veronica, stuffing Henry back into the cockpit.
‘Please.
’

But Anthony was already pulling down his goggles and fiddling with the controls and Simon was kicking away the rocks propped in front of the wheels. The plane started to trundle down the Green and we ran for cover, ducking our heads. As before, it seemed impossible that such an enormous, unwieldy machine could lift into the air, but there it went, a hop, another hop, and then it was gathering itself up and soaring off over the island. Within minutes, it was impossibly distant, a silvery blur against a leaden sky, and I prayed harder than I ever had before that it would arrive safely.

I KNOW THIS JOURNAL is important. Keeping a careful record of these last days at Montmaray is my duty – my
only
duty, now. But there’s nothing to write. We have been waiting for nearly two whole days and still no one has come – neither Germans nor rescuers.

Simon and Veronica spend the time bickering; Rebecca sits and stares into space and mutters away to an invisible companion. I busy myself with housework, despite knowing that it’s a complete waste of time and energy. I’ve also made several half-hearted attempts to pack some essentials into Veronica’s satchel in case we need to leave in a hurry. (But what is truly essential? Food? Photographs? Bandages and iodine? And what about all those things that can’t fit inside a satchel – the tapestry, the portraits in the Great Hall, Benedict?) The rest of the day, and long into the night, I read and read till my head aches, hoping to avoid sleep as long as possible. But it’s no good. Isabella’s always there, waiting for me to close my eyes. It’s as though she doesn’t ever want me to forget that she’s floating below the surface of the bay, the ends of her shawl trailing behind her, her dead eyes open and watchful. What does she
want?
What is she trying to tell me? I feel so terribly sorry for her, but
I
can’t do anything to help her.

And now Simon has just stormed through the kitchen and out the door. I can hear the squelch of his boots as he picks his way through the mud of the courtyard – he seems to be heading towards the gatehouse. He’s forgotten to take a macintosh and it’s raining again. He’ll catch his death of cold if he’s not careful. And here comes Veronica, equally grim-looking, although at least she has a word for me.

‘Library,’ she says. Now she’s disappeared, too.

Oh, this is
mad.
I’m going to go upstairs to sort through my clothes and decide...

What’s that noise? It sounds like ... Now Simon’s running in, he’s shouting, it’s...

Aeroplanes. Seven. German.

We are in the firewood cave. The tide is rising. The waves lap at the rocks inches below us. I write this by the last slanting rays of afternoon light – in English, as you can see, not Kernetin, because I want whoever finds this journal to know what happened to us.

The German aeroplanes came from the south, early this afternoon. They swooped low over the island, the village their immediate target. Veronica, on the upper floor of the library tower, saw the first bomb hit. She said it not so much fell as seemed to be drawn down, as though George’s cottage had hooked it on a line and reeled it in. She saw the cottage walls bulge and shatter before the explosion reached her ears; by that time, she’d already snatched up the King James Bible and was hurling herself down the stairs and out the door.

We all raced into the chapel, clutching whatever we’d had close at hand – this journal, in my case. Simon scooped up my half-packed satchel, Rebecca had a blanket around her shoulders, I dragged Carlos along. Veronica pushed the Bible towards me and turned to run back into the Great Hall for Benedict, but Simon grabbed her arm.

‘No!’ he roared. ‘No time!’

And he was right, the engines were whining louder and louder. I pushed open the outer chapel door, just as the leading aeroplane roared over the courtyard. A white flash lit up the gatehouse and then the drawbridge folded up and plummeted into the Chasm. The noise was like nothing I’d ever experienced. It was more than noise, it was a rush of fury, a shock wave that set all the bones in my skull vibrating. I felt someone tug me towards the altar and suddenly we were stumbling down into the crypt, groping our way through the darkness, as crashes far above us shook the pillars and the floor. Carlos pressed close to my legs, trembling all over.

‘Sophia!’ I heard Simon bellow. ‘Over here!’

Veronica had located Benedict’s tomb and they were tugging at the lid. Already acrid smoke and the powdery smell of crushed stone were filtering into the crypt. Veronica vaulted down into the tunnel first, then Simon helped his mother over the edge of the tomb. I gave Carlos a leg-up and a shove, then stuck my journal in the waistband of my skirt and followed him. Landing awkwardly on one ankle, I set off at a limping crouch, Simon so close behind me that I could feel his heart hammering against my back.

It was quieter down there, with only a dull rumbling and an occasional thud to remind us of the destruction going on above us. Not being able to see what was happening only made it worse, though. I was terrified that the next hit would bring hundreds of tons of rock crashing down upon us. We reached the place where the tunnel split in two and we turned left, our path twisting and sloping downwards. My feet slid about on the slippery rock. Behind me, Simon cracked his head against the roof and swore. All at once Carlos stopped, so abruptly that I tumbled over his back and into Rebecca. Looking ahead, I could see the glow of daylight outlining the walls of the tunnel.

‘Where are we?’ Simon shouted.

I could hear the crash of the ocean, could taste it in the dank air. With a thrill of horror, I realised that we’d trapped ourselves in a tunnel that led straight into the Chasm. The tide was rising – we could drown here or climb back up into the castle to burn to death, if we weren’t crushed to pulp first. I must have whimpered; Simon put a hand on my shoulder.

‘Move over, I’m going through to the front,’ he said. ‘Veronica!’

But there was barely enough room for me to turn around. There was no chance Simon could squeeze past. At any rate, we soon heard Veronica’s voice.

‘What?’ said Simon. ‘What did she say?’

‘We’re below the drawbridge,’ I relayed. ‘Not far from the firewood cave.’

‘How far above the water?’ asked Simon.

‘A foot or so,’ came Veronica’s reply. Then, ‘There’s a ledge. I’ll try to reach the cave.’

‘Veronica!’ I screamed. ‘Don’t!’ Now that we were close to the open air, the whine of the planes had become audible once more. I imagined a pilot spotting her tiny figure and veering round to capture her in his sights.

‘Damn it!’ said Simon. ‘I should have gone first.’

At our urging, Rebecca crawled forward a bit and flattened herself against the rock. Craning my neck over her shoulder, I was able to see a little more. From the tunnel mouth, a narrow ledge, overhung with tatters of drawbridge, wound itself upwards toward the castle. Veronica had squeezed herself onto the ledge and was peering ahead.

‘Well?’ said Simon into my ear. ‘What do you think?’

All I could think was how grateful I was that Toby, with his broken leg, and Henry, my reckless little sister, didn’t have to face this. Veronica glanced over her shoulder, noticed my frantic waving and edged backwards. We ended up in an awkward huddle at the tunnel mouth, Rebecca and I squashed in the middle.

‘We can reach the firewood cave,’ Veronica said. ‘That ledge is a foot wide.’

I disagreed vehemently. It was more like eight inches and bits of it were missing altogether.
‘And
they’re bombing directly above it!’ I cried. ‘They’ll see us!’

‘No, they won’t, not from above, not with that rock overhang,’ said Veronica. ‘And the Chasm’s too narrow for them to fly through.’

‘But the cave will still flood at high tide,’ I argued. ‘And–’

‘And we need to get to the
other
side of the Chasm,’ put in Simon impatiently. ‘The castle’s too dangerous, even if we could reach it from here – all that falling rock, unexploded bombs – and besides, the boats are both tied up near the village.’

‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ said Veronica. ‘Let’s just take a stroll across the drawbridge, shall we? Oh, I forgot, it’s been
completely destroyed!
’

An involuntary sound, almost a laugh, emerged from my mouth – even in mortal peril, Simon and Veronica were still managing to snipe at each other.

‘Don’t be stupid!’ snapped Simon. ‘That raft of Henry’s is in the cave – we’ll cross the Chasm on it, keep close to the rock on the other side, then steer around to the cove where the boats are.’

I turned, as much as I was able, to stare at him. It was a plan worthy of Henry herself. It was completely insane. However, we couldn’t stay squashed in the tunnel forever, not with the waves surging towards our feet as we spoke. The only real question was whether to wait for the planes to stop or not. The bombardment seemed to have been going on forever, although it had probably been no more than ten minutes. I found it hard to believe it would ever stop, but Simon pointed out that they would run out of bombs or fuel eventually. After a bit more heated argument, Veronica told us she was going on ahead and stepped back out onto the ledge before I could try to stop her.

I shoved Rebecca aside at once and craned my neck after Veronica. I was suddenly aware of the frantic thud of my pulse in my ears and it was this that made me realise the engine noise had died down. It sounded as though a couple of the planes had peeled off from the rest and flown away while we’d been arguing. There hadn’t been any really loud thuds for a while, either. Still, I had more than bombs to worry about as I monitored each careful step of Veronica’s. At one heart-stopping point, her foot slipped off the ledge and she staggered sideways, managing only at the last moment to fling herself back against the cliff face. But at last she scrambled up into the cave, reappearing a moment later to beckon us up.

Rebecca went next, with a sure-footedness that surprised me until I considered she’d spent more time on this island than any of the rest of us. Simon and I then resolved that I should lead Carlos (who, with his tail tucked between his hind legs, looked decidedly unenthusiastic about the plan), with Simon prodding Carlos along from behind.

I sent up a silent prayer and stepped out onto the ledge. Carlos took a mouthful of my skirt and whined, trying to tug me back. I murmured some rather unconvincing encouragement and started to inch along sideways. I pressed as much of my back as possible against the cliff face, one hand fumbling for the next rock hold, the other clenched in Carlos’s scruff. I dared not look down into the Chasm, nor up at the sky, nor anywhere else except at my feet. One or two planes still roared overhead, to Carlos’s distress – at one point, he halted mid-step and refused to go on. We cowered there together, frozen in place, for what felt like whole minutes, until Simon screamed at us and I managed to lift one foot and move it a few inches in the right direction. A couple of yards on, I was forced to crouch as I passed under the place where the remains of the drawbridge were still attached. Then finally, finally, I was clambering up the last rock. I took hold of Carlos and pulled while Simon gave him a push from below, then all at once the three of us were in a shaking heap on the cave floor.

Somewhere above us came another crash and we scuttled for the furthest corner of the cave, Veronica’s arms reaching out and hauling me to safety. Huddled beside her, I buried my face in Carlos’s neck, inhaling his familiar wet-dog scent and trying very hard not to sob. I knew that if I started, I might never manage to stop.

‘Listen,’ said Simon at last. The roar of the planes was a low drone; the final three were flying away.

‘But will they come back?’ I said, raising my head.

No one answered. I looked around. Veronica and Simon were now bent over Henry’s raft in the corner, examining it with near-identical expressions of disapproval (the two of them looking more than ever like brother and sister). The raft was slightly longer than it was wide and made entirely of flotsam and jetsam – curved planks that seemed to have come from a boat, a dismantled tea chest, some thick branches that were almost logs, all of it lashed together with old rope and fishing line and even bits of fishing net. There had been an attempt to insert a mast in the middle, but all that remained was a jagged hole.

‘Hopeless,’ murmured Veronica. I suspect it was only habit that made Simon argue with her.

‘Look, there’s some rope attached,’ he said. ‘We could throw it onto a bit of the cliff on the other side of the Chasm and pull ourselves...’ His voice trailed away. The other side of the Chasm is mostly sheer cliff face and even if it wasn’t, it’s doubtful the rope would reach that far or that any of us would be able to toss it so accurately. Veronica immediately pointed this out.

And since then, for the past hour or so, Simon and Veronica have been arguing about the best way to improve the raft’s seaworthiness, as they fiddle round with spare planks, bits of rope and the firewood axe.

Meanwhile I’ve been sitting here, writing frantically, as Rebecca has an impassioned conversation with thin air...

We eventually agreed we had to do
something,
with the tide rising and no food and no fresh water. There was nothing else for it. I helped Veronica and Simon carry the overhauled raft to the edge of the rock and then slide it on top of the water. It listed a bit to one side as it bobbed up and down, but it stayed afloat.

‘It won’t hold all of us, though,’ warned Simon.

‘Carlos can swim beside it,’ said Veronica, and Carlos, back to his old self now the aeroplanes had gone, thumped his tail. ‘You take one of us and come back for the others in the boat.’