‘Yes,’ I said. Thank God.
‘Such a shame,’ said Saffy. Through sterling effort and, I suppose, many years of practice, she managed to sound completely normal. ‘We had hoped to offer you tea. We have so few visitors.’
‘Next time,’ said Percy.
‘Yes,’ Saffy agreed. ‘Next time.’
It seemed unlikely, to say the least. ‘Thank you again, for the tour…’
And as Percy led me back along a mysterious route, to Mrs Bird and the promise of normality, Saffy and Juniper retreated in the opposite direction, their voices skirting back along the cold stones.
‘I’m sorry, Saffy, I’m sorry, sorry, sorry. I just… I forgot…’ The words broke then into sobs. A weeping so wretched I wanted to slam my hands against my ears.
‘Come along now, dearest, there’s no need for all that.’
‘But I’ve done a terrible thing, Saffy. A terrible, terrible thing.’
‘Nonsense, little dear, put it out of your mind. Let’s have our tea, shall we?’ The patience, the kindness in Saffy’s voice made a small chamber within my chest clench tight. I think that’s when I first grasped the interminable length of time that she and Percy had been making such reassurances, wiping the confusion from their younger sister’s ageing brow with the same judicious care a parent gives their child, but without the promise that the burden would some day ease. ‘We’ll get you back into something sensible, and then we’ll all have tea. You and Percy and I. Things always look better after a cup of nice, strong tea, don’t they?’
Mrs Bird was waiting beneath the domed ceiling at the entrance to the castle, puffed up with apologies. She fawned on Percy Blythe, grimacing dramatically as she lambasted the poor unwitting villagers who’d held her up.
‘It is of no matter, Mrs Bird,’ said Percy in the same imperious tone a Victorian nanny might use to address a tiresome charge. ‘I enjoyed leading the tour myself.’
‘Well of course you did. For old times’ sake. It must be lovely for you to-’
‘Indeed.’
‘Such a shame that the tours were ended. Understandable, of course, and it’s a credit to you and Miss Saffy that you managed to keep them going for so long, especially with so much else on your-’
‘Quite.’ Percy Blythe straightened and I became aware suddenly that she didn’t like Mrs Bird. ‘Now if you’ll both excuse me.’ She bowed her head towards the open door, through which the outside world seemed a brighter, noisier, faster place than when I’d left it.
‘Thank you,’ I said before she could disappear, ‘for showing me your beautiful home.’
She eyed me a moment longer than seemed necessary, then retreated along the corridor, cane beating softly beside her. After a few paces she stopped and turned, barely visible in the cloaking dim. ‘It
ONE
One thing was certain: there’d be no moon tonight. The sky was thick, a roiling mass of grey, white and yellow, folded together like victims of a painter’s palette knife. Percy licked the tobacco paper and tamped it shut, rolling the cigarette between her fingertips to seal it. An aeroplane droned overhead, one of theirs, a patrol plane heading south towards the coast. They had to send one, of course, but there’d be nothing to report, not on a night like this, not now.
From where she leaned, her back against the van, Percy followed the plane’s progress, squinting as the brown insect grew small and smaller. The glare brought on a yawn and she rubbed her eyes until they stung pleasantly. When she opened them again the plane was gone.
‘Oi! Don’t you go marking my polished bonnet and wings there with your lounging.’
Percy turned and rested her elbow on the van’s roof. It was Dot, grinning as she loped from the station door.
‘You should be thanking me,’ Percy called back. ‘Save you twiddling your thumbs next shift.’
‘True enough. Officer’ll have me washing tea towels otherwise.’
‘Or giving another round of stretcher demonstrations to the wardens.’ Percy cocked a brow. ‘What could be better?’
‘Mending the blackout curtains, for one.’
Percy winced. ‘That is dire.’
‘Stick around here much longer and you’ll be needle in hand,’ warned Dot, arriving to lean beside Percy. ‘Not much else doing.’
‘He’s heard then?’
‘RAF boys sent word just now. Nothing on the horizon, not tonight.’
‘Guessed as much.’
‘Not just the weather, neither. Officer says the stinking Bosch are too busy marching for Moscow to bother much with us.’
‘More fool them,’ said Percy as she inspected her cigarette. ‘Winter’s advancing faster than they are.’
‘I suppose you’re planning on hanging about anyway, making a nuisance of yourself in the hopes Jerry gets confused and drops a load nearby?’
‘Thought about it,’ said Percy, tucking the cigarette into her pocket and swinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Decided against. Not even an invasion could keep me here tonight.’
Dot’s eyes widened. ‘What’s this then? Handsome fellow asked you to go dancing, has he?’
‘No such luck; good news all the same.’
‘Oh?’
The bus arrived and Percy had to shout to be heard over its motor as she climbed aboard. ‘My little sister’s coming home tonight.’
Percy had no greater lust for warfare than the next person – indeed, she’d had more occasion than most to witness its horrors – which was why she never, ever, acknowledged aloud the strange kernel of disappointment that had festered deep inside her since the cessation of nightly raids. It was utterly absurd, she knew, to feel nostalgia for a period of abject danger and destruction; anything other than cautious optimism was damn near sacrilege and yet an appalling temper had kept her awake these past months, ears trained on the quiet night skies above her.
If there was one thing on which Percy prided herself it was her ability to exercise pragmatism in all matters – Lord knew, someone had to – thus she’d determined to Get to the Bottom of Things. To find a way to still the little clock that threatened to tick away inside her without opportunity ever to strike. Over the course of weeks, taking great care never to reveal her inward state of flux, Percy had evaluated her situation, observing her feelings from all angles before finally reaching the conclusion that she was, quite clearly, several shades of crazy.
It was only to be expected; madness was something of a family condition, as surely as the gift for artistry and the likelihood of long limbs. Percy had hoped to avoid it, but there you are. Inheritance was a damn good shot. And if she was honest, hadn’t she always supposed it a mere matter of time before her own unhinging?
It was Daddy’s fault, of course, in particular the terrific stories he’d told them when they were girls, small enough to be lifted, green enough to curl themselves perfectly within his wide, warm lap. Tales from his family’s past, about the plot of land that had become Milderhurst, that had starved and flourished, twisted and turned throughout the centuries, been flooded and farmed and fabled. About buildings that had burned and been rebuilt, rotted and been sacked, thrilled and been forgotten. About the people who had called the castle home before them, the chapters of conquest and sublimation that layered the soil of England and that of their own beloved home.
History in the storyteller’s hands was a potent force indeed, and for an entire stretch of summer after Daddy left for the Great War, when she was a girl of eight or nine years old, Percy’s dreams had been vivid with invaders storming the fields towards them. She’d coerced Saffy into helping establish forts in the treetops of Cardarker Wood, building stockpiles of weapons, and beheading the saplings that displeased her. Practising, so that when the time came for them to do their duty, to defend the castle and its lands from the invading hordes, they’d be ready…
