The Various (12 page)

‘Doolie!’ He called across to where the Queen’s maid waited, still staring wide-eyed towards the belt of trees where Maven had vanished. ‘I think your mistress would wish to return to the Royal Pod.’ The Queen sat, looking blankly into space, lost in some thought of her own.

Maglin walked slowly back to the Whipping Stone. He would make no remark. Nothing had happened, save that the Queen had dropped her bauble, and mad Maven had handed it back to her. He looked around at the crowd. ‘The Muster is ended,’ he
announced
, firmly. ‘I shall summon the five who are to seek for Pegs, tomorrow at sunrise.’

Little-Marten beat out the Muster on the clavensticks, and the five tribes of the Various slowly began to disperse, amidst much talk. But Maglin quickly returned to his quarters, and spoke to nobody.

As the Ickri guards fixed their ropes to the Gondla, and prepared to haul it up into the Royal Oak, Ba-betts peered short-sightedly in the direction of the Rowdy-Dow tree.

‘Doolie,’ she said, curiously, ‘what
is
that thing over there in that blighted tree?’

‘ ’Tis but the Woodpecker, my Lady,’ replied Doolie. The Queen was obviously tired. Her mind was on a wander. The Gondla was raised jerkily to the little platform that projected from the Royal Pod, and Doolie helped her mistress out of the wicker chair and across to the entrance. The Queen’s boots were too big for her and caused her to move clumsily. She
would
wear the outlandish objects, though.

Ba-betts turned before entering and once more looked across to the dead beech. ‘It’s a very
big
woodpecker,’ she said. ‘I wonder the archers don’t shoot it.’

‘I believes one or two ’ave tried,’ said Doolie, drawing aside the painted oilcloth curtain.

‘I feel great sorrow for that farmer,’ said Ba-betts, as she lifted her blue gown and stepped carefully over the lip of the entranceway. ‘I do hope they find his goat.’

Chapter Eight

IT WAS ONE
of those dreams, just below the surface of consciousness, where you know perfectly well that you’re dreaming. She was wearing a white nightie and floating, like a moth, through space. Space was dark, dark blue, and around her were many other moths, all flying in the same direction – towards a bright light, far away. The bodies of the moths were covered in a fine downy fur. A huge red planet loomed out of the darkness – it was like a red shiny ball in space – and from around the far side of the planet, the white horse came flying. It joined the moths, but it flew faster than they did and was soon disappearing towards the bright light. She tried to keep up with it, but she couldn’t.

‘Come in,’ Midge said, hearing the gentle knock on the door. ‘I’m awake.’ Uncle Brian had brought her some tea. She didn’t really like tea, but she hadn’t wanted to hurt his feelings the first time he had offered her some, and so she had said yes. Now she was stuck with it rather – although this morning she found that she was thirsty and actually quite glad to see the cup and saucer appearing round the door.
‘Gosh,’
she said, yawning, ‘You look smart.’ He did too, in an old-fashioned sort of way. He was wearing a tweed jacket and an open neck shirt, with a mustard-coloured jumper. The familiar yellow cords had been ditched in favour of a pair of brownish moleskin trousers.

‘Should have told you about this last night,’ said Uncle Brian, putting her cup of tea on the bedside cabinet. He had a scrap of tissue paper stuck to his neck, where he’d cut himself with his razor. Midge could smell aftershave. ‘But you were off to bed so quickly that I didn’t remember till after you’d gone. I’m going to pop into Taunton. It’s market day – don’t suppose you’d like to come, would you?’

‘Um . . .’

‘
Not
terribly interesting for you, I must admit – but you’re welcome to join me if you’d like to.’

‘Well, maybe not this time . . .’

‘OK. Don’t blame you. Bunch of old giffers talking about fatstock prices – not much fun, really. Actually I’m meeting an old friend, antiques dealer, for coffee. That’s the real reason I’m going. I used to have an interest in antiques, a few years ago – well I still do of course – but I mean I used to
buy
a few bits here and there. Thought I might take it seriously at one stage, and that’s how I met Frankie. We haven’t seen each other for a while now, and so it seemed like a good idea to have a get together. You’ll be OK, then? I’ll be back for lunch, probably.’ He was obviously itching to be away.

It
was
a bit much, thought Midge – although it
actually
suited her purpose very well to be left alone. She thought she might string him along a bit.

‘Well . . . I
might
come with you,’ she said. ‘What’s he like?’

‘Who?’

‘Frankie.’

‘Um, well, Frankie’s a she actually. She’s a woman, I mean. Francesca. Old friend, like I said.’

Hullo, thought Midge,
you’re
a dark horse. Thinking this reminded her of the white horse up in the pig barn, and all that she hoped to do this day. She said, teasingly, ‘Really, Uncle Brian, what are you
like
? I’ve a good mind to tag along and cramp your style.’ She sipped her tea. It was too sweet. Maybe she would like it better with less sugar. ‘But don’t worry – I’ll stay here. I’ve got lots to do – try and get my clothes sorted out for a start. Would you bring me back some postcards? I keep meaning to write to people.’

‘Consider it done, old thing,’ said Uncle Brian, looking rather sheepish. ‘I’ll, um, see you later then.’

‘OK.’ She let him get to the doorway, and then said, ‘Uncle Brian?’ He turned. She pointed to her neck. ‘Tissue paper,’ she said.

Under the big old sink in the kitchen she found a plastic bucket and a sponge. There was a torch and various cleaning products, but Midge decided that washing up liquid would be all that she would need, so she put a big squirt of that into the bottom of the bucket. The tap by the side of the barn was useful, but hot water would be better, if she could carry some up
there
. She boiled a kettleful on the Rayburn, then, seeing how this only filled the bucket up a little way, she put on a second kettleful. She lifted the bucket experimentally. Two kettlefuls would be all that she could realistically carry – and besides, she didn’t want to splash it around and perhaps burn herself. She dropped the sponge into the bucket and watched as it slowly sank into the steaming foam. The rest of her supplies were in a carrier bag, and she checked to see that she hadn’t forgotten anything – food, a plastic bottle of water, a couple of tea towels, a small aerosol canister of iodine from the first aid box in the bathroom cabinet, some scissors, sticking plasters and a bandage, tightly sealed in its cellophane packaging. She wasn’t sure that the plasters and bandage would be much use, but still. She picked up the bag and the bucket of hot water. Time to go.

Outside the pig-barn, she had a worrying premonition that the horse would no longer be there. Maybe it had all been a dream, or just her imagination. A large bird suddenly flew over her head, startling her as it landed on the tin roof of the building, its feet making a clattery scratching sound on the metal. She glanced up at it as she caught her breath – it was a magpie. How big it looked, so close, how white its breast and how bright the flashes of bluey-green on its wings and tail feathers in the morning sunlight. The bird took off again almost immediately, and flapped away in the direction of the Royal Forest. For some reason Midge felt reluctant to enter the barn straight away –
she
was sure that disappointment, or anti-climax, awaited her – and so she watched the magpie as it flew lazily up to the woods and coasted in to land on one of the high branches. One for sorrow, she thought, automatically. The magpie had barely settled when it gave a sudden squawk, clearly audible even at that distance, and tumbled, fluttering, down through the branches. It disappeared into the darkness of the lower foliage. Midge watched and waited, but nothing more happened. The air was silent. Midge felt creepy around her neck and shoulders and she shuddered slightly. What was
that
all about? It was a relief to pick up her bag and bucket once more, and sidle through the doorway of the barn.

The horse was still there. Midge had been so sure that it wouldn’t be, that the sight of the small animal lying, half covered by the potato sack, made her heart pound. Nothing had changed. The hay-raking machine was still jacked up at a crazy angle in the gloom, and in the foreground lay the winged horse, on its square blue mattress, pinpointed by stray shafts of light from the holes in the roof – like something on a theatre stage. All was quiet. Little flecks of dust floated in the beams of light, and the sharp smell of ammonia still lingered, mingled with musty straw and ancient tractor oil. Midge gently put down the bucket of hot water and the carrier bag, which crackled in the warm silence. The horse stirred at the sound, and lifted its head slightly. It turned to look at Midge, the soft dark eyes still haunted, but less agonized than before. For a few moments it gazed at
her
, as if remembering, then, with a sigh, the head was lowered once more. Midge crept forward.

‘It’s me,’ she whispered. ‘I said I’d come back, and I have.’ The horse made no sound, but continued to watch her.

Midge bent down and gingerly tested the water in the plastic bucket. It was still hot. Good. She found the metal pail that she had used the previous day, and took it outside to swill it under the tap, leaving a little clean water in the bottom when she had finished. Back inside the barn she added hot water from the plastic bucket to the cold water in the metal one, until it was lukewarm. Then, picking up her soapy sponge, she walked across the makeshift mattress towards the horse, her feet sinking deep into the blue plastic sheeting. She kept one hand on the bucket to steady it, as she gently knelt beside the animal. Its eyes were open and it regarded her every move.

‘I’m going to clean you up,’ said Midge, quietly. ‘If there’s anything you don’t like, or if you want me to stop, then let me know. I promise I won’t do anything to harm you. I promise.’

There was still no sign from the horse, so Midge squeezed out the warm sponge and gently began to wash the caked-on muck and blood from the animal’s body.

Its coat was whiter than had first appeared – as white as the magpie’s breast, she thought – and the long mane and tail were a silvery blond colour. It was a beautiful creature. Absolutely beautiful. She took special care in washing the fine delicate face,
changing
the water as often as her limited supply would allow – and all the time the grave dark eyes watched her, gradually relaxing, occasionally half-closing as she continued her task. Finally there was just a little drop of water left. Midge had not yet examined the damaged wing, and she was hesitant to do so as it would mean unfolding the fragile membrane in order to see the wounds. She knelt with her hands on her knees, slowly rubbing her palms dry on the denim of her jeans, and looking into the deep brown eyes of the miraculous creature. A window of colours seemed to open up in her mind, as before, when the horse finally spoke.

My thanks, gentle maid. A kindness
 . . .

This time she did not put her hands to her ears at the strangeness of the sounds in her head. She accepted that she heard the voice in the same way that she would be able to hear the sound of her mother’s voice, if she so wished – now, or at any time she chose. She accepted it in the same way that the sound of the magpie’s startled squawk could still be conjured up, in her mind, though nearly an hour had gone by since the magpie had squawked its last.

‘What should I do?’ she whispered. ‘Can I get you some food? Some water?’

A little water. Yes
 . . .

Midge rose and walked unsteadily across the soft mattress. She had been crouching down for a long time and her knees felt stiff. She took the plastic water bottle from the carrier bag and returned, unscrewing the top. Sitting by the horse, and leaning on one
elbow
close to the animal’s head, she managed, little by little, to dribble water from the bottle into the sore dry mouth. More was spilt than was drunk, but of clean water, at least, there was no shortage.

Enough. I thank you
. The horse laid its head down again, with a slight gasp.

The blue plastic sheet was by now quite wet, and Midge wondered how she could turn it over so that the horse was lying on the dry side. Perhaps she could use the potato sack.

‘I’m going to see if I can make you more comfortable,’ she said. She was able to manoeuvre the horse on to the sack without too much difficulty, and then slide it off the mattress and across to a fairly clean bit of concrete floor. Then she half-folded the plastic sheet, rolled it off the straw and hauled it out of the way. After rearranging the straw bedding and plumping it up a bit, she managed, rather awkwardly, to turn the sheet over and reposition it, dry side up, on top of the straw. Good. Soon she had pulled the sack, with the horse lying on top of it, back to the centre. Now it was clean, and lying on a dry bed.