Wild Tales by George Burrow
The Professor by Currer Bell
Old books in leather, others in cloth, some with faded, painted paper covers.
Nunwell Symphony by C. Aspinal Ogladender, Hogarth Press — with painted skies over great houses.
In Tune with the Infinite by Trine — gold lettering on a blue cloth cover.
‘Why does the Consensus forget them all?’ asked Milena, dismayed at the waste.
The great burly man shrugged. ‘They had their day,’ he said. ‘They were read and loved, and other books grew up in their places. Like people. Only some people are remembered. It’s the same with books. Here, look at this one.’ He pulled out one loose book. Its leather cover was torn; padding leaked out of it as from a sofa. He opened it up for her. There was a photograph, in black and white, obviously retouched by pencil in places. A woman in a white nightdress gazed in wonder at another woman. The other woman wore a garment of leaves. Elaborate scrolls were drawn around the photographs, and elaborate lettering said ‘Scenes from Peter Pan, an enchantment for children.’
He turned page after page. There were misty backdrops of country cottages with bowers of roses, and women in linen flounces that left their stockinged ankles bare. Light was in pools of shadow all around them.
‘It’s theatre,’ whispered Milena, in awe. Rose Ella’s father must have been briefed as well.
‘And none of those productions are in the viruses either.’
Love and yearning made Milena draw in her lower lip. Rose Ella’s father ruffled her hair. ‘Yes, you can borrow the book.’
‘Thank you,’ said Milena, very quietly, as if the gift were made of china so fine it could shatter.
They went into the dining hall. Ella had gone for a shower and returned, looking even fresher, prettier. Milena grinned to see her. ‘Look!’ she said, and held open her book.
‘Oh, Ta, Tatty!’ she exclaimed, and kissed her father for doing her, Rose Ella, a favour.
The three of them went into the dining room. It was large, with many tables. The boys sat together, looking rough as boys anywhere will, making Milena feel threatened and shy. She vaguely knew all the boys from the Medicine. She had hoped to find only adults here. Again she wondered: how is it that children grow up to be such nice adults? Parents came in, men and women bearing trays of food. Mala came in, smiling. She looked smiling up at Milena, and she left still smiling. Milena hugged her book and felt her cheeks going hot. She had nothing to say again. She turned and looked at a huge black piece of furniture behind her. The back rose up in carved black branches like the stone that holds stained glass windows. Along the pediment there were clumsy carvings of very fat children. Two played lutes and one played a drum. The drumsticks were broken. A fourth child played the pan pipes.
Rose Ella’s father knelt down beside her. He spoke to her softly, conspiratorially.
‘The backs were made in 1700, but the fronts, well, the fronts were made in 1400. The wood is Spanish sweet chestnut. That’s why it’s so dark. Not horsechestnut. Spanish sweet. Look, there’s its brother over there.’
Milena turned and saw that, across the room, was another, nearly identical dresser. But the fat angels had become medieval adults, lean and austere.
Rose Ella’s father crouched down and pulled out from the lower shelf, an old helmet. It had gone and underneath, on a shelf, there was an old helmet. The leather had gone black too, and its braid and its chin strap. Its black copper badge said ‘Irish Lifeguards.’ He pulled it down low over his eyes.
Some of the other men laughed, and called things that Milena couldn’t understand.
‘Oh, Tatty, take it off,’ said Rose Ella, embarrassed. They all sat together at one of the long tables. Food was heaped up on plates: stir-fried vegetables, all crisp, and a kind paprika stew of cauliflower, and huge GE prawns that were carved up and served like roast chickens.
Talk spilled back and forth across the table. The Stone and Timber Estates were playing up and charging too much. It would soon be cheaper to go cut your own and drag it back. Why not? said Rose Ella’s mighty father. Eh? I’d fancy a quest to the outreaches, out to the woods, even out to the hills.
‘William,’ said Mala, ‘Don’t talk out your fantasies. It would take months to haul your way up to Cumbria and back, it’s nearly to Scotland.’
But the men and boys were growing excited by the idea. There were great plans made. Seconds were served, and the candles lit, and the tables were pulled back. Rose Ella’s great beefy father opened up the Spanish sweet dresser, the one with the musical children. He took out bagpipes. Whistles came out as well, and drums, flutes and harps and oboes.
A little piping ditty began, with a drone of pipes in the background. Elegant fiddles joined in, stately, calm, one of them played by Mala. The harp made a sound like stars, isolated and clear, and a muffled drum began to beat, and the Estate of the Restorers lined up, to dance, two at a time in the centre of the room.
And Senior Fenton sang. Milena looked at Rose Ella, and Rose Ella cast her eyes down, fighting a grin. Senior Fenton sang a story about a delegation from a Tarty official, sent to inspect the family of a Restorer who wanted to marry his daughter. The inspectors saw the goats, and thought they were an honour guard with beards. They saw the old broken furniture and the dirty paintings. They heard the crickets living in the fireplace, commonly called Pipers, and concluded the young man had his own private orchestra hidden behind screens. They slept on straw- stuffed mattresses and declared they were the finest beds. The Tarty official was so impressed, he sent his daughter to live happily among the Restorers, thinking them wealthy indeed. For the last verse, all the Restorers rushed into the middle of the room. Milena found herself pulled by someone she did not know into their midst. She danced as best she could, hugging a book, her clogs making a sound like a factory loom. The Restorers roared with laughter and applauded her. Milena fled, back to the sidelines. She saw Rose Ella dance, her eyes shining, turning under the arched arm of Senior Fenton, like a doll on a music box.
It was a short walk back to the Gardens, though the Gardens were a different world. Rose Ella walked back home with her. ‘How can I become a Restorer? Is there time to learn?’ Milena asked her.
‘If it’s right for you, there will be time,’ Rose Ella said. ‘Now good night, love. You come to see us soon.’
Who would have thought life could suddenly turn so delicious? In front of the door to her block, Milena looked up at the stars. Rose Ella. Rose Ella, she said, over and over to herself, as she thumped up the stairs, her head wobbling from side to side to the sound of the reels. Rose Ella, Rose Ella, she thought as she lay on her little bed by the window. She could still look up and see the stars. I want to go back there, she thought. I want to be a Restorer and live in the Row. I want to knit glass, and save the old books. I want to learn how to play the pipes and I want to dance.
It was Rose Ella she wanted to dance with. The stars seemed to spin overhead, and she fell asleep, slipping into darkness with a smile.
All that summer, Milena visited Rose Ella. She stayed overnight at the Row, sleeping in a guest bedroom, that was stuffed with luxury. It had built-in Chinese cabinets. Milena would sit at a table, reading her books, and look up and see the doors of the cabinets. Ivory people had been inlaid in them. The people hunted or they fished or they carried bundles of grainstalks on their backs. But some of the ivory people had fallen out, leaving a hole behind them, a space that was in their shape, grey and broken, forever. Sometimes, most poignantly, their tunics or their shoes would be left behind, still in their shape, as if waiting for their return.
Milena remembered the bathrooms, which were a wonder. The bathtub was huge and stood on metal legs. The white enamel was wearing through and the great brass taps were lopsided. There was a strange metal plunger, that you had to lift up and turn to keep it raised so that the bath would drain. There was a footbath, and there was a toilet bowl that was moulded in the shape of animals and inside the basin it said in blue lettering ‘The Deluge’. The Milena who remembered saw all of this as clearly as if she could simply turn a corner and find it all still there, real and solid.
She remembered exploring a house by High Holborn that was being restored. Its roof had gone, and most of the floorboards. Milena and Rose Ella had to tiptoe on the foundations, the poured concrete, the rows of bricks. Yet colour still clung to the walls. Milena remembered a yellow room, with a broad band of red all around it. In the corners, where some of the ceiling was left, there were spreading plaster fans, mouldings. Just inside one of the doors, there was panelling of wood on all the walls. The wood was grey and weatherbeaten now, open to the sky and the rain. The stairwells were empty. There was only a zigzag tracing up the walls where the stairs had been. A
