Charlotte Stone and the Children of the Nymet (3 page)

‘Maybe I could visit for weekends,' Charlotte muttered to herself, unable to take her eyes off the strange painting while shoving her whole suitcase into the sturdy antique wardrobe and shutting the door.

Charlotte could hear the adults talking and shuffling around in the kitchen as she came down the stairs and she stopped to perch quietly on a stair.

‘Did you see that, Clarissa? She's sensitive to the energy of this place, just like her mother.' Morag's familiar Scottish brogue was hushed but clear.

‘Yes well, the house has certainly accepted her. I think it's pleased to have family around after all these years.' There was the sound of a kettle whistling, which stopped abruptly. ‘How much have you told her?'

‘My goodness; where to start?' There was tiredness in Morag's voice, as if she hadn't slept for days. ‘I am so ill-equipped to deal with this whole situation. How could I bring up a child like her?'

Aunt Clarissa said nothing.

‘I am so sorry I've had to bring her to you, I feel as though I have fai…'

‘Perhaps you would like to explore the garden?' Aunt Clarissa interjected beaming innocently as Charlotte hovered outside the kitchen door.

‘Not especially,' Charlotte growled in response, stepping into the kitchen, annoyed that she had been rumbled.

She knew it, she hadn't even been here five minutes and already this stranger was trying to get rid of her. And there it was, predictable as ever, another of Morag's evil looks. She had got so used to them over the last couple of months that they had lost their threat.

‘… A drink then?' Aunt Clarissa carried on unfazed as she walked into the pantry, returning moments later with a plate of homemade cookies and a large jug of a pale yellow liquid topped with a doily.

Morag poured the tea and filled a heavy tumbler with ice, which crackled as Aunt Clarissa poured over the liquid. Charlotte sipped her drink cautiously; it was an unusual flavour but rather good.

‘Elderflower cordial, the last of the season's batch,' Aunt Clarissa chuckled. ‘It'll be time for them again soon. Perhaps you could help me gather them this year, though I usually pick more than I know what to do with.'

‘Clarissa grows her own food and sells her homemade biscuits and preserves,' Morag added, seeing the opportunity to get a conversation going.

‘And that earns you enough money to afford all this?' Charlotte sneered. She had perfected the art of goading Morag, whose face was getting redder by the minute, but this woman wasn't even flustered yet.

‘Not exactly…' Aunt Clarissa looked at Morag ‘… I also hold meditation classes, and then there's…'

‘So, you're a hippy; or maybe even a witch!' Charlotte smirked triumphantly.

Morag had had enough. ‘That is it, Charlotte Stone, you are an ungrateful little toad with no manners, none at all. All we are trying to do is our best for you and you just throw it back in our faces.'

Charlotte could see that Morag was close to tears as Clarissa put a comforting hand on her shoulder and this made her even angrier. She slammed the glass down on the table.

‘Do you think for one minute that I wanted to come here, to be passed round from person to person like a smelly pair of old boots no one wants!' she screamed at the two women; she couldn't stop, she had been bottling it up for too long. ‘I didn't ask for this you know, I just want my old life back, I want my sister back, and I want my parents back. Is that too much to ask?'

Charlotte turned to run; it didn't matter where, just so long as they didn't see the tears streaming down her face.

It had been hours since Charlotte had run out of the kitchen at Rosemary Heights and she wasn't feeling any better. She was pretty sure she wouldn't be welcome back at the house after her latest outburst which meant she was officially homeless, except for the empty, boarded-up flat in Pimlico.

Her old key was in her pocket and she toyed with it thoughtfully – it was of no use to her now of course. Ever since the house had been emptied, there had been all manner of padlocks and metal grilles installed. She had nowhere to go and this notion gave her a strange sense of freedom.

Her stomach rumbled but she ignored it, focusing instead on what she was going to do next – wandering aimlessly around Brackenheath-on-Sea wasn't going to help. Ahead of her was a pair of rusted iron gates set in an overgrown hedge and from the faded sign she read:

BRAC E TH SE PARK

As she followed the weed-cracked path, a strange silence descended and the air seemed to buzz with anticipation. She recognised the feeling, it was the same way she felt when she was about to make an important find – like the stone in the cave. But what on earth was she likely to find here?

Charlotte walked to the end of the avenue of sycamore trees and the full forlorn landscape of Brackenheath-on-Sea Park unfolded in front of her. To her right was a bare patch of dirt, which Charlotte figured must be the remains of a formal garden. Ahead of her was a smelly, snot-green stretch of water set in undulating brown lawns after which was a rundown pavilion filled with broken glass and wood. It should have been another reason to want to leave but Charlotte kind of liked the place. It looked just like she felt, unloved and forgotten, and she found it comforting.

Wandering past the boating lake, complete with rubbish and submerged shopping trolleys, she headed over to the half-moon pavilion. It was obviously a brilliant stage in its day and it still had great acoustics.

‘
Saaaar, Reeeeei, Gaaaaaaaaaaaar
,' Charlotte toned absentmindedly as she perched on the edge of the raised platform of the stage. They were the first sounds that came to mind, the ones she heard in the train station, and a plan formed. She would get a train to London, find her sister and… well, that was as far as she had got, but it was a start.

Charlotte needed to get her bearings. She could see the turret tops of Rosemary Heights through the trees – that was definitely not the direction she wanted to go. To her left she could hear the river, which flowed past a giant willow, beyond which were open fields with a ramshackle cottage in the distance.

Turning to see what was behind the pavilion, Charlotte gasped. Set on a small hill, the gnarly old oak was clearly visible through a thin veil of silver birches. It was just a skeleton of a tree at this time of year but there was no mistaking it was the tree from her dreams – and the painting at Rosemary Heights. As she drew closer she could see the naked briar of a wild rose snaking its way around the trunk and the twiggy upper branches swaying in the wind. She found herself swaying along with them.

‘Are you alright, Miss?'A man stood a short distance away with a bemused look on his face.

‘What? Oh! Yes, er… I'm fine.' Charlotte rubbed her eyes as she realised where she was.

‘You were away with the Fey there,' he added with a beaming smile now he was sure he had her attention.

He was a strange-looking individual, older than her parents but younger than Clarissa she guessed but his attire was oddly Victorian. He was already very tall and thin but his grey pinstripe trousers and waistcoat along with the top hat he was wearing made him look even taller. Charlotte had no idea where he had come from but wondered if there was a wedding somewhere nearby.

‘Forgive me, where are my manners, I am Etienne.' The man tipped his hat and gave her a formal bow before looking at her expectantly.

‘Er, Charlotte,' replied Charlotte.

‘Wonderful to meet you.' Etienne shook her hand vigorously. ‘You must be new here; locals take the Evergreen Oak very much for granted, most don't even know it is here. No appreciation for history.' He beamed again.

Charlotte hadn't figured him for a local but he was clearly knowledgeable and, not for the first time, she wished she had Edessa's ability to read people.

‘I didn't realise it was special, I just stumbled across it a moment ago,' she replied.

‘Well, you've been standing there… actually more swaying there, admiring it for over an hour.'

Charlotte wrinkled her forehead. ‘No, I've only been here a minute, if that.'

‘I assure you, Miss, you have been there much longer.' The man pulled out a pocket watch to prove his point. ‘I wouldn't worry, it does that to people it likes. Where were you headed?'

Charlotte vaguely remembered her plan to catch a train to London, but now she wasn't so sure, the tree had changed things.

‘I was heading to the train station…' she said, noncommittally, ‘… but I…'

‘My my, you had better hurry then, my dear, the last train departs in ten minutes.'

‘I don't really know the way so I think I'll just go another day.'

It was a lame excuse and she knew he was just trying to be helpful but her feet were like lead and she was becoming more and more reluctant to leave.

‘Nonsense, it would be a privilege to escort you, I'm going there myself anyway,' Etienne insisted.

He offered her his arm and Charlotte smiled at such old-fashioned manners. She shrugged off her misgivings and allowed him to guide her. While something within her desperately wanted to stay with the tree, her logical side needed facts; something she was sure Etienne could provide.

‘Why is it called the Evergreen Oak when it's clearly not?' she asked, looking back one last time.

‘That is an interesting story; and a good question.' He threw her another of his charming smiles. ‘Some centuries ago people around here were starving due to a particularly lengthy and cruel winter and the crops failed. One smart soul remembered this was a fairy tree and asked the Fey Nation for their help. The following morning, the Evergreen Oak was full to bursting with green leaves and, more importantly, acorns which magically replenished themselves every day. It was a miracle and the only thing that kept the locals and their livestock from death.'

It was an interesting story but it didn't shed any light on her dreams at all.

*

The air had cooled now the sun was below the horizon and the train station was empty as Charlotte and Etienne stepped into the foyer.

‘A one-way ticket to London please,' she said to the holes in the glass window.

An old man who looked about ninety sat behind the counter reading a battered old paperback that looked as old as him. His movements showed that no one would rush him. Peering over his spectacles, he stared at her, a look of suspicion blooming on his face.

‘Yer a bit young to be travlin' on yer own aint cher?'

‘She is not alone, my good man,' Etienne stepped forward before Charlotte had the chance to reply and dipped his hat to the man, ‘and make that two tickets if you would.'

The old man looked Etienne up and down but didn't budge. He simply bent closer to the glass and gave Charlotte a pleading look.

‘Why not go home? I'm sure yer folks are gonna be worryn' sick over yer.'

‘That is exactly what she intends to do,' Etienne spoke for her again, his voice strained though he still wore one of his charming smiles, ‘as soon as she has a ticket, dear fellow.'

‘You sure you want to go, Miss?' The man ignored Etienne again.

Charlotte nodded and the vendor gave Charlotte her ticket without another word.

*

As the train sped through the descending darkness Charlotte fished her iPod out of her shirt pocket. Switching it on, the angry staccato of flamenco music blared into her ears; it certainly suited her mood but it also reminded her of the very last night she had spent with her family before disaster struck.

Blocking out the real world she relived the joy of that balmy Andalusian night. In her mind's eye she could see Edessa desperately trying to keep up with the beautiful Gypsy women, their skirts flaring and faces contorted with concentration and passion as their feet duelled skilfully with the guitarist, while their parents watched from their table at Casa Vargas.

Her parents! The thought of them brought her down to earth with a bump. ‘Missing presumed dead'. That's what the report had said. The morning after the fiesta they had departed on a plane to Ghadames where they planned to travel across the Sahara into Egypt. That was the last time she had seen her parents, her mother smiling and waving as she left, blowing them kisses.

‘There we are, one hot chocolate,' Etienne said, as Charlotte removed her headphones and wiped her eyes furiously on her sleeve.

He had insisted on accompanying her and she felt it would be rude to refuse, considering. Besides she wanted him to tell her more about Brackenheath, Clarissa and perhaps, most importantly, the mysterious oak tree on the hill.

‘I've interrupted you, haven't I?' Etienne gave her a pantomime sad face.

‘No it's fine.' Charlotte attempted a smile.

‘Alright then, well, as we are going to be travel buddies, how about telling me what brought you to our little village of Brackenheath?'

Charlotte's emotions threatened to engulf her again and she had to take a deep breath to steady her voice before she spoke.

‘I've come from London to stay with my aunt,' was all she could manage.

‘Ah the infamous Clarissa Aherne I assume; life will never be dull in that household.'

Charlotte was beginning to suspect Etienne knew more about her than he was letting on but before she could challenge him, he was already talking again.

‘Judging by your presence in the park, I am guessing you were looking for some private time for reflection. Brackenheath is not measuring up to your expectations I suspect.'

Charlotte shrugged. She didn't really have any expectations; life had changed at such a dizzying pace recently it was all she could do to keep up.

‘I shan't pry my dear,' Etienne continued, patting her hand reassuringly, ‘and if you do return, the park is certainly the perfect place to be alone. Most people think it's haunted.' He laughed as if the idea was preposterous. ‘Personally I think the Fey drove the humans off,' he added with a whisper.

Charlotte raised her eyebrows at Etienne's last comments. He clearly didn't think believing in imaginary creatures was as crackers as thinking the place might be haunted. She was intrigued.

‘What exactly are “Fey”?' Charlotte asked him.

‘Oh, my dear girl, where have you been all your life? The Fey Nation lives all around us; they are sometimes known as the “Little People” or the “Lords and Ladies”.'

‘You mean fairies?' Charlotte couldn't hide the sarcasm in her voice anymore; she just didn't believe in such things.

‘Not just fairies anymore: dwarves, drakes, trolls, sprites, selkies… the list is endless. They all come under the banner, and protection, of the Fey Nation. I guess it's even more important they to stick together now.'

‘And why would they want rid of humans?' she humoured him.

Etienne shifted in his seat uncomfortably. ‘Relations between Human and Fey have been less than amicable for a while, ever since the “Tinkerbell Scandal” in fact. They made a formal complaint after that, citing all human fairy stories as insulting and derogatory. As for the local Fey – they blame us for a great many things, not least the state of Brackenheath Park, so they retreated to the Dreamtime.'

Dreamtime
. Charlotte's skin tingled at the word as she heard Madame Cortes' warning in her head.

‘It is the space between the worlds, the “in-between”,' Etienne continued. ‘The fey left mundane Earth in order to dwell there… but it appears they may be coming back.'

‘What makes you say that?'

It was some time before Etienne spoke and the way he stared at her reminded Charlotte of Aunt Clarissa – except unlike her, his eyes were filled with a strange mix of curiosity and fear.

‘You must have heard the tree singing, did you not feel the darkness pouring through? No living creature could survive in that. My guess is the Dreamtime is collapsing and they had no choice.'

Charlotte had begun to shake her head but as Etienne spoke flashes of memory from her afternoon in Brackenheath Park flickered into life. She remembered the subtle buzzing she had felt and dismissed, the shimmer she had thought just a trick of the light, the low hum that had kept her rooted to the spot. Etienne and Charlotte stared at each other. Whatever he thought he saw, Etienne was obviously pleased.

‘I knew it was you,' he beamed.

The train grated to a stop and in the melee of the crowd departing the train, the guards were unconcerned by the strange pair of a scruffy redheaded tomboy and a man in a grey top hat.

Etienne, of course, refused to leave her alone in the marbled concourse of bustling Liverpool Street.

‘Someone of your age should not be travelling the streets of London alone,' he had insisted, something Charlotte found amusing considering she had travelled through more dangerous places without incident, but she knew he was just being kind. They made their way to an Underground map.

‘Things have changed somewhat since I was last here,' Etienne said, scratching his head as he tried to make sense of the knot of coloured lines. ‘I'm sure there weren't this many lines. Where did you say you were heading?'

‘Belleswater.'

‘Ah well, seems we have a way to go in that case.' Etienne offered Charlotte his arm as he pointed to a blue dot. ‘Sure you don't want to take a stroll in the night air?' His face fell when Charlotte shook her head.

*

It was obvious that Etienne did not enjoy being so far underground so Charlotte got little else out of him for the rest of the journey other than Clarissa had lived on her own for years and that the house had been in the family for centuries. He was clearly relieved when they had returned to the fresh air of the city streets.