Not only did
The clearing was in the centre of the barn. The trees were children, clothed in green and brown dyed cheesecloth, holding up branches. The children were Hedda, now fourteen, and Robin Wellwood, now ten, with his father’s flaming red hair. The Girl went to sleep with her head against a stump. A crew of tiny goblins, with pricking whiskers and long tails, of stumping dwarves with boots and beards, and an imperious Elf king and queen moved in on the couple and held out enticing iced cakes and transparent beakers of shiny liquid to the Boy, who nibbled and sipped, and fell dramatically into their arms. They carried his rigid body through the barn, and behind the golden box. Lights shone on a white sheet that rose (held up by Phyllis and Pomona) and then, magically, a swarm of flying shadows of the tiny beasts, only infinitely tinier, whirled like a swarm of wasps, or a crowd of starlings, and plunged into the secret castle.
The Girl woke and was disconsolate. She waved her arms and howled. A cottage on twelve naked feet danced into the clearing, and swayed to a standstill. Out of it came a lame old woman on a stick, who asked the Girl for help picking apples, for water from the well, for a shoulder to lean on as she walked. She gripped and was heavy. Hedda stumbled with pain. The old woman then revealed herself as a serious and beautiful gold-headed child, who gave instructions as to how to find the stolen Boy.
“You must travel on, over the mountain, beyond the sun and the moon, to the Land of the Stars. You must not speak a word. You must offer help to all who ask it. Enemies can be unmasked and defeated with cold iron.” She gave Hedda a large, slightly rusted kitchen knife, and went back into the cottage, which tripped out of the barn.
Hedda went on, and on, and on. Steyning did some very clever things with lighting, so that she seemed to be hurtling through snowstorms, and staggering across hot deserts, and treading through shining pillars of ice. She met, and defeated, the man of straw, the wolfman (in a pine forest) and the monstrous armoured death’s-head man who turned out to be a blooming child—the other Robin, Robin Oakeshott, uncannily like Robin Wellwood—who told her how to penetrate the impenetrable fortress.
Hedda went behind the golden box, and flute music was heard. The puppet Hedda appeared as a shadow on the screen, and then in the centre of the feasting in the castle. With strong gestures of her arms, and swinging of her hair, she refused to taste food, or sip drink, and brandished the knife at the creatures, who hissed loudly and collapsed into dislocated heaps of cloth and tangled limbs. The puppet Hedda bent over the sleeping puppet and took his hand.
In the dark tower, behind the golden casket, slits of light appeared between the building blocks, one of which fell forward, as the Girl stepped out, carrying her knife, holding the hand of the Boy.
Tom’s big dolls sat in the audience. At the final performance, these creatures rose, and waddled, or rolled, or hopped, or trundled through the barn towards the dark tower. Two of them (Wolfgang and Leon, to be safe) carried away the golden castle, and the rest of the creatures fell upon the dark tower, and tore it brick from brick to shrieks of laughter from the audience, and a few tears from children. Tom had begged to be allowed to orchestrate this mayhem every night. He had said he would reconstruct the tower with his own hands, for the fun of bringing it down again. But Steyning said it was not to be risked, until the very end. So when the destruction came, it was thorough and savage. Things flew through the air, and lumps rolled into the audience. It was ghastly and comic. Everyone was exhausted.
37
The climax of the camp was the Firing. During the first half of the camp students and professional potters had been constructing vessels and objects and figures, some of which had been given a previous biscuit firing before being returned to their makers to be decorated in various ways. Geraint had prevailed upon his father, when the camp was only a project, to allow the Firing to take place in the big bottle kiln in the field at Purchase House. The kiln was wood-fired. The Firing would last forty-eight hours, more or less, and the cooling another day or more. At the end of the second day there would be a celebration for the workers, potters, wood collectors and campers. Benedict, in the euphoria which had led to his public lecture, had agreed to give a talk on the firing and management of the kiln. But he had disappeared, and the task fell to Philip, who was anyway more practical at packing and setting the kiln. He knew its hot places and its draughty places, the parts where the fire raged strongest, and the parts where it was cooler and more even. It was customary, given the size of this kiln and the infrequency of its use, to fire green, or clayshapes (biscuit) at the same time as the glazed shapes needing the hotter fire of a glost kiln. Philip had put a lot of thought and experiment into the packing. He had constructed saggars to hold the pots, which stood in carefully ordered heaps, or bungs, allowing the flames to rush and flicker between them. They stood on layers of quartz sand and were protected by fire bricks and tiles. Delicate ware stood on clay stilts in the saggars. Clay pugging was placed around the rims of the saggars. Fire-cones of clay which changed colour at certain heats were placed at spy-holes to be watched during the firing. Like all professionals Philip had his own refinements—a new form of stilt, a pacing of the baiting, or feeding, of the fire in the three fireholes.
There was a brief discussion as to whether the Firing should be called off because of Benedict’s absence. But too many people expected too much, and Geraint, and to a certain extent Philip, were hopeful that he would reappear dramatically in time to set the torch to the timber. Philip sat for three afternoons at a trestle table in the stable yard, vetting the pots. An air bubble, a too-wet texture, an unevenness of shell could cause a pot to explode, or sag, or simply collapse during the firing, and bring down all its neighbours, or at worst, the whole kiln, the whole conglomerate of work. Young ladies were sent away with rejected vases, unbalanced dishes were rejected. Elsie helped him, in the absence of Benedict Fludd. She helped him also with the puzzle arrangements of pots in saggars and saggars in the kiln. She was not in charge of the provision and cooking of the picnic—that was left to Patty Dace and Marian Oakeshott. At the weekend of the Firing Dorothy Wellwood came to help, with Charles/Karl and Griselda.
On the day of the Firing, Prosper Cain had ordered a luncheon in the Mermaid Inn. He had invited the Fludds, and his own family. He had gone as far as discouraging Julian from bringing Gerald, who was still hovering around the camp and going for long walks along the coastline. Julian had assumed that his father was worrying about Florence. The luncheon took place in the parlour, with sunlight pouring in through the leaded lights of the Tudor windows, and shining on the white damask cloth and heavy silver. There were little nosegays of white and red rosebuds round the table. Seraphita and Pomona clattered up the narrow cobbled street in a pony- trap, dressed in embroidered party-dresses.
A place had been set for Benedict Fludd. Prosper was at the head, between Imogen and Seraphita. Julian was between Seraphita and Pomona, who was next to Geraint and Florence. The empty seat separated Imogen and Florence.
They ate whitebait and broiled lobster, samphire and Vichy carrots, followed by a Queen of Puddings in a porcelain dish. They chatted about the camp, and everyone praised Geraint for his organisational powers, his coup
