The Various (4 page)

‘Behold the eyes!’ she said out loud. Her voice, bouncing back from the tiled walls, sounded strong and clear. She turned her head sideways, continuing to look at herself in the mirror. ‘Behold the eyes of – the Mistress of Mill Farm!’ Then she clapped her hand over her mouth and giggled at her audacity. A sudden delicious panic overtook her and she fled back to the top of the stairs. Here she paused again.

‘The Mistress of Mill Farm!’ she cried, by way of announcing her entrance, and swept as majestically as she could down the dim creaking stairway, narrowly avoiding stepping on the kitten, who had ventured out of her Wellington boot and into the hallway now that Phoebe had departed.

Midge sat on the low balustrade wall in front of the house and looked across the yard, towards the gate that led into the Field of Thistles. As Mistress of Mill Farm she had bestowed formal titles on all and sundry
–
even now, the Favoured One sat on the wall beside her, lapping at a ramekin dish of milk, her tiny tongue flicking in and out relentlessly, her skinny tail quivering in nervous ecstasy. It was a good game, lasting well into her third day at Mill Farm, with no signs of growing stale and certainly no shortage of material. The cider barn (where the Favoured One’s brothers and sisters eked out a far less favoured existence) had become the Orphanage. Here the Mistress would tend to the poor – with her own hands – and deliver small kindnesses.

Tojo, the huge brute of a barn cat whom she had met one day by accident, and who was indeed as big as a badger, had become the Assassin, and the two of them had reached an agreement. She would give him at least ten yards of clear space in future, and he would refrain from threatening to turn her into a bundle of rags. She was terrified of him. The sly and roguish hens that lurked, forever hopeful, around the front door, had become the Deputation from Rhode Island (‘There’s a Deputation from Rhode Island, waiting to see you ma’am.’ ‘Tell them I can’t be bothered with them at present.’ ‘Very good, ma’am.’) Her bedroom had, of course, become My Lady’s Chamber. The dense wood, which dominated the horizon, was now the Royal Forest, and the Mistress of Mill Farm – whose position in the world seemed to have suddenly risen to that of royalty – was considering whether she might go there to hunt the hart. It didn’t seem a very realistic proposition though, what with the brambles and everything. It was also far too hot to be chasing anything.

Part way up the hill to the Royal Forest sat a low farm building, almost white in the bright sunshine, though slightly obscured by the curve of the land. It reminded her of a picture she’d used as part of a homework project on India – something to do with the British Army and how officers’ wives had travelled up into the hills during the hot season. Or was it the rainy season? Either way, they had headed for the hills. Midge looked at the little low farm building, high up in the distance, and decided that she would appreciate a short break in a cooler climate herself, and so the building became the Summer Palace.

‘Uncle Brian, what’s that little barn up on the hill for?’ Midge had wandered back into the farmhouse where her uncle was sitting at the kitchen table, dismantling an adaptor plug. ‘Oh, I built it for the pigsh,’ said Uncle Brian. He had a small metal spring between his lips and so the words were indistinct. ‘Ushed to keep pigsh, for a while.’

Midge watched the thick clumsy hands struggling with the delicate internal workings of the adaptor plug, and wished that she could have a go. She was good at things like that. Anything mechanical, she loved. Design and Technology was her absolute favourite subject at school, and she was resentful of the fact that a lot of people saw it as a ‘boy’ thing. She was better at it than any boy
she
knew. She had even managed to mend the old clock that her grandad had left to her mum – just by taking bits of it apart, seeing how it worked, cleaning it, and putting it back together again. Now it chimed and everything.

‘What’s in the barn now that the pigs have gone?’ she asked.

‘Lord knowsh. More junk probably. No, actually, the Fergie’sh in there. Forgot.’

‘The Fergie?’

‘Little grey Fergie. Fergushon tractor. I think there’sh a shide-rake in there too. Why?’

‘I just wondered. Could I have a look?’

‘If you like. Blasht! Losht the shpring now – oh no, had it here all the time. Forget my own name sometimes.’ He gingerly placed the spring somewhere down in the white plastic adaptor plug, held it in place with a stubby fingertip, and looked about in exasperation. ‘Where’ve I put the screwdriver?’

‘It’s by your elbow,’ said Midge. ‘Your other elbow.’

‘I knew that,’ said Uncle Brian, good-humouredly. He reached slowly for the screwdriver, and then laughed as the spring suddenly shot across the table and pinged against the side of the fruit bowl. ‘Why don’t I just buy a new adaptor?’ he sighed. ‘Anyway, you were saying. Can you look at the pig barn? Yes, you can. Just be careful, as always. I want to be able to give you back to your mother in one piece. Oh, and something else I should have warned you about – stay away from the lagoon.’

‘Lagoon?’ Midge had a vision of some tropical paradise, some secret aspect of Mill Farm yet to be revealed.

‘It’s what we call the old slurry pit – where all the animal muck used to go years back. It hasn’t been used for ages now, and, to be honest, it may even
be
safe enough to walk on. But it was deep enough, and we were always warned against it as kids. Also, you have to remember, the land can be pretty boggy around here, especially when it’s been raining. Anyway, it’s the bit of marshy ground at the back of the old stables – you can’t really miss it. I just don’t want you finding yourself up to your ears in you-know-what, that’s all.’

‘Could I take a picnic?’

‘To the
lagoon
?’

‘No, to the pig-barn.’

‘A picnic? In a pig-barn? Well, I don’t see why not. Do you mind organizing it yourself though? I think I may be here for some time yet.’

Midge made herself a cheese and pickle sandwich and filled a plastic Coke bottle with orange squash, while her uncle tackled the adaptor again. She remembered that she had an empty carrier bag upstairs and ran up to get it, clearing Phoebe with a leap on the way. The old dog didn’t stir.

Now, when she entered her room (My Lady’s Chamber) it took a conscious effort to remind herself that she’d been born here. The mystery had been solved, or rather the explanation that Uncle Brian had given suggested that there had been no mystery about it in the first place. Her mum and dad were here on a flying visit, he’d said. Simple as that. They were passing through on their way back from Exeter to London and her mum had gone into labour a few days early. The worst of it had been that there had been no phone, Uncle Brian having omitted to pay the bill.
He’d
had to rush off for the doctor who, luckily, was playing darts at the Crown. He in turn had contacted the community midwife and that was it. Job done. Midge’s mum and dad had stayed a few days until both mother and baby were fit to travel, and away they went. It was all very straightforward. What wasn’t so straightforward, from Midge’s point of view, was why, after three days at Mill Farm, she felt more as though she belonged here than in London. Now
that
was a mystery.

When she returned to the kitchen, she found Uncle Brian sweeping the parts of the adaptor from the table and into the palm of his hand. ‘It’s had its chance,’ he said, ‘and now it has to pay the price.’ He tossed the bits into the pedal bin beside the porcelain sink. ‘I’m a hard man, when crossed,’ he continued, ‘and I won’t be trifled with. Especially by a plug. Phoebe! Walkies!’

Midge took an apple from the fruit bowl and put it in her carrier bag. ‘Back around the usual time?’ she said.

Uncle Brian paused as he reached into the kitchen drawer where he kept Phoebe’s lead. ‘Midge,’ he said, ‘believe me when I tell you this; you’re going to make someone a wonderful wife someday. If only I’d married a girl like you then . . . well, I might still
be
married, that’s all.’

Midge wasn’t sure how she should take this. She supposed it was a compliment, but it was rather an odd one. Still, that was Uncle Brian, being Uncle Brian. She grunted and put her sandwich and drink into the bag.

It was further to the Summer Palace than Midge had anticipated. By the time she had reached the end of the Field of Thistles, itself on a steeper incline than it had at first appeared, her fringe was sticking to her forehead. There was a sheep-gate in the drystone wall that bordered the field, and here she rested for a moment, wiping the perspiration from her face and looking up at the Royal Forest that crested Howard’s Hill. It looked denser than ever, and she was glad that she’d decided not to hunt the hart after all. She set off again, her carrier bag of provisions banging against the side of her leg as she climbed. Once the Summer Palace came into view, a welcome breeze also greeted her, gently blowing onto her face and cooling her brow. She opened her mouth and let it play across her tongue and teeth.

The Summer Palace, now that she drew close to it, looked as though it might benefit from a little care and attention, like every other building about the place. What had appeared to be white from a distance turned out to be a dirty grey close up – a concrete building with a tin roof and a roughly screeded forecourt. There was an outside tap on the end wall of the building. It dripped, and had made a dark rusty stain on the concrete. An ancient muck-heap, now overgrown with grass, stood to one side of the sliding galvanized iron door that seemed to be the only entrance. The door itself looked wonky somehow, not quite square with the building.

As Midge approached, she thought she heard a noise. She stopped to listen, now about half a dozen
paces
from the building, and listened. Yes, there it was again.

The breeze was both carrying the noise to her, and obscuring it. It was a kind of scuffling sound, beating, flapping. Perhaps it was a piece of tarpaulin or something around the other side of the building, catching in the wind. She moved a little closer, cautious and slightly apprehensive. No, the sound was coming from inside the building. She could see a slight gap between the crooked sliding door and the frame, a dark slit – and the sound was coming from there. She crept closer still. Again the sudden noise, which made her jump back: a beating, flapping, desperate sound. A bird? Something trapped in there? The sound seemed too heavy for a bird, unless it was a very large one. Midge didn’t like the thought of that. How big? Like a goose? Geese could be nasty. Well, it wouldn’t be able to get out through that little gap, she reasoned, and moved forward again. It wasn’t until she was within a foot of the door that it occurred to her that a goose could get its
head
through that gap, if nothing else. It could peck her. Midge took another hesitant step backwards at this thought, the sole of her trainer making a slight scuffing sound on the gritty concrete. The flapping ceased abruptly. There was a long silence, a listening silence, as though her presence had suddenly been recognized. Then she felt the strangest sensation beginning to creep over her – an aura – as of something travelling towards her at great speed, and from a great distance. Her scalp tightened and it really did feel as though her hair
had
begun to stand on end – for there was a voice.

Spindra?
The word was hissed, cautiously. The word made no sense – but it was a word, and the word was somehow . . . in her head.
Spindra? Spindra!
– once more the sounds came bursting like soft explosions, coloured explosions, visible somehow, inside her head.

Midge’s hands flew up to her ears, and the carrier bag fell from her fingers with a rustle and a faint thump. The apple rolled across the concrete, bumped against the galvanized door, rebounded on her foot and came gently to rest in the gap between the door and the frame.

At the first rustle from Midge’s picnic bag, the voice had immediately ceased. Again there was absolute quiet, and a tension that put a strange taste in her dry mouth. Midge shakily lowered her hands, and stared at the apple. A small piece of skin had been nicked off during its fall. The frozen silence from within the building pressed against her eardrums.

Whoever, whatever was in there, had heard her, and could hear her now. Had seen her, perhaps, and could see her now. Her palms were wet with perspiration. She was frightened. She was frightened of the extraordinary thing that seemed to have just happened to her, but she knew that
she
was also frightening to whoever was in there. She was frightened like two children playing hide-and-seek are frightened – the one of being discovered, the other of discovering. She breathed in at last, and said – to her own surprise, ‘I think I’d better go and get my uncle.’ The words came
out
quite loud, but the effort made her shake. She stooped to pick up the apple. It felt like an act of courage.

She picked up the carrier bag too, and put the apple back in, glimpsing her sandwich, now skewed apart, with bits of cheese and pickle showing. ‘My uncle will be here shortly,’ she said, the words sounding silly and unconvincing. She waited for a few moments, terrified that there might be a reply, yet needing to know that she had not been mistaken, that she was not talking to herself. She moved, as if to go, then—

No!
A soft voice, barely a croak, and a renewed flurry of beating.
Stay. Help . . . me
 . . .

Again Midge’s first instinct was to cover her ears in confusion. The flapping, beating sound came from inside the barn, but not the voice. The voice was definitely inside her head.