Prospero’s Children. Jan Siegel

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СКАЧАТЬ just a tramp. You can call me Ragginbone, if you need a name. They called me that a long while back, when all this—’ he indicated his dilapidated garb ‘—was merely a disguise. Now, it’s my only self. And how should I call you?’

      ‘Fernanda,’ she said. ‘Fern will do. I thought you would know that already.’ There was a shade of disappointment in her tone.

      ‘I read your mind, not your birth certificate,’ he retorted. ‘You’d better go now, Fernanda. Your lunch is waiting, and you should change into dry clothes. I’ll be here tomorrow. Or the next day. Remember: find the key. You must…find the key…’

      The wind snatched at her hat and as she turned to recapture it the rain seemed to swirl around her, blurring the landscape, and when she looked back up the path there was only a rock—she could see it was a rock—shaped like a seated man with his hood pulled forward over his face. She ran on down the hill towards the house.

      For the time being, Fern said nothing to Will about her encounter with Ragginbone. It was not that she expected disbelief: on the contrary, Will was only too prone to believe in the improbable or even the impossible, while dismissing probabilities as too dull to merit his faith. But Fern needed a while to assimilate her own reactions and come to terms with what she had learned. In any case Will, she told herself, was still very young, obviously imprudent, easily carried away by overenthusiasm; oblivious to real danger, he would see this shadowy world into which they had strayed as merely an adventurous game. And she was sure there was danger, lying in wait, a little way ahead of her: she could sense it even as the hunter senses the tiger in the thicket.

      Will had struck up an unlikely friendship with the vicar and over the next few days, when not rummaging in the attic, he accompanied Gus on leisurely rambles up on the moors, identifying wildlife and listening to local folklore. Fern declined to go with them, beginning a methodical search for keys, turning out drawers and emptying cupboards to no avail. ‘He’ll have put them in a safe place,’ opined Mrs Wicklow. Fern, who had done that herself on occasion, was not encouraged. She wanted another talk with Ragginbone but the hillside was bare again, leaving her oddly bereft, and it was small consolation that no snuffling disturbed her slumber. The most disquieting incident was when the black-visored motorcyclist passed her and Will on the road one evening, cutting in so close that they had to leap for the verge. But this, surely, could only be an act of mindless bravado, a young tough out to terrify and impress; it could have no connection with the mystery of Dale House.

      On Friday morning, Robin telephoned. There was a lot of background noise and although Fern could hear him he didn’t seem to be able to hear her very clearly. He said he was at the airport, about to emplane for New York: an urgent business trip, Alison Redmond had given him some contacts, an American historian working on witch-trials, all very exciting. He might be gone some time. ‘But, Daddy—!’ Anyway, she wasn’t to worry. He’d arranged everything. Alison would come and stay with them, take care of things, help fix up the house: she had a real flair for interior design. He knew Fern would get on with her. (Robin always knew Fern would get on with his various girlfriends.) Over the phone she heard the tuneless tinkle that precedes an announcement over the tannoy. ‘Must go, darling. I’m awfully late—’ and then the line went dead and Fern was left clutching a silent receiver, a pale anger tightening her face. Gradually, it drained away, to be replaced by bewilderment. Accustomed as she was to her father’s erratic behaviour, this level of impetuosity appeared extreme. ‘I detect Ms Redmond’s Machiavellian hand behind the whole business,’ she declared over lunch, putting Will and Mrs Wicklow in the picture. ‘What I don’t understand, is what she’s after.’

      ‘Happen she’s looking for a husband,’ said Mrs Wicklow sapiently. Her dourness had long been revealed as purely external and she had evidently ranged herself on the side of the young Capels.

      ‘Well, naturally,’ said Fern. ‘That was what I assumed from the start. I’ve never had any problems dealing with that kind of thing.’

      ‘Cunning little lass, isn’t she?’ Mrs Wicklow almost grinned.

      ‘But,’ Fern persisted, ‘if it’s Daddy she wants, why send him to America? It’s almost as if—’ She stopped, closing her mouth on the unspoken words. It’s almost as if she were interested in this house. It was not cold in the kitchen but Fern felt a sudden chill.

      ‘What’s she like?’ Will asked. ‘I haven’t met her, have I?’

      Fern shook her head. ‘She’s clever,’ she said. ‘I think. I don’t really know. She has a lean and hungry look, like Cassius in Julius Caesar. But…there’s something there you can’t catch hold of, something fluid. She can look all bright and glittering and slippery, like water, and yet you always feel there’s a hardness underneath. I can’t explain it very well. See for yourself.’

      ‘Is she pretty?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ Fern admitted dubiously. ‘She can exude a kind of shimmering fascination one moment, and the next she’s just a thin ugly woman with a big mouth. It’s not looks: it’s all in her manner.’

      ‘Those are t’ ones you have to watch out for,’ said Mrs Wicklow.

      ‘You’ll take care of it,’ said Will. ‘You always do.’

      In the afternoon Fern, annoyed with herself for not having thought of it earlier, rang the solicitors to enquire if they had the rest of Mr Capel’s keys. Her brainwave, however, failed to bring results; a man with an elderly voice suggested that she search in drawers, cupboards, and so on. ‘I already have,’ said Fern.

      ‘He’ll have put them in a safe place, then,’ said the solicitor comfortably.

      ‘I’ve been afraid of that,’ said Fern.

      She tried vainly to stop herself looking out of the window every few minutes; Ragginbone’s continued absence might be irrelevant, but it provided an extra irritant. At tea, Will startled her by remarking: ‘That rock’s gone again.’

      ‘Which rock?’ The question was a reflex.

      ‘The one that looks like a man. It’s been gone for several days now.’

      You’re imagining things, ‘said Fern.’ Forget it.’ She was still reluctant to talk about the Watcher.

      Will studied his sister with limpid detachment. ‘This woman who’s coming here,’ he said, ‘do you suppose she could be part of it?’

      ‘How could she?’ said Fern, without pretending to misunderstand.

      ‘I don’t know,’ said Will, ‘but I can see you thinking.’

      Alison Redmond arrived later that day, driving a Range Rover loaded with paintings, samples of carpet and furnishing fabrics, several cardboard boxes taped shut and three or four items of Gucci luggage. She was wearing her point-edged smile and a passing flicker of sunshine found a few strands of colour in her dim hair. She greeted the Capels with a diffidence designed to undermine hostility, apologised to Mrs Wicklow for any possible inconvenience, and demanded instantly to be taken over the house, praising its atmosphere and period discomforts. She did not say ‘I do so hope we’re all going to be friends’, nor scatter kisses in their vicinity: her gestures were airy, tenuous, almost filmy, her fingertips would flutter along an arm, her hair brush against a neighbouring body, and Fern knew it was paranoia that made her fancy these feather-touches contaminated her. Alison managed to adore everything without quite crossing the line into effusion, drawing Will СКАЧАТЬ