‘She’s making a magic,’ whispered Robert, but his whisper was caught short by a yawn. Timothy was yawning too and rubbing his eyes. ‘Let’s get down,’ he murmured. ‘Let’s go to bed.’ And suddenly Absolom, half asleep, slipped, and would have fallen out of the tree if Robert had not grabbed him.
‘Hold on!’ Robert whispered urgently to Timothy. ‘Don’t go to sleep. Hold on.’
They held on, but their heads were rocking on their shoulders, and whether the power of the tree would have proved stronger than Emma Cobley’s magic, or whether Emma have would won, there is no knowing, for suddenly there was a shrill cry of, ‘Tuwhit tuwhoo!’ and a shout from the woods below. The boys’ heads jerked up, and down on the path they saw Uncle Ambrose, with Hector on his shoulder, and Ezra with his shepherd’s crook.
‘Ah-h-h-h!’ roared Ezra, like an angry lion when he saw the boys and their plight, and he stumped up the hill at a great pace, brandishing his crook. Hector took off from Uncle Ambrose’s shoulder with a great whirring of wings and flapping down like an avenging angel upon the heads of the enemy. Uncle Ambrose neither shouted nor flapped, but his stride lengthened and his face was very grim. ‘Ah-h-h-h!’ roared Ezra again, laying about the legs of the enemy with his crook, while they ducked and cringed to avoid Hector’s great flapping wings and terrible beak.
Uncle Ambrose’s strides had now brought him upon the scene of action and he plucked Ezra off William Lawson with as much ease as though he was lifting a coat off a peg on the wall. ‘That will do, Ezra. There is no need for violence. Hector, that will do. Return to my shoulder. Good evening, Miss Cobley. Good evening, Mrs Lawson. I fear you are suffering from toothache, Mr Lawson. I offer my condolences. Good evening, Mr Biddle. A nice evening for a stroll.’
Then he walked straight through the invisible wall that had kept out the others and, standing among the tree roots, looked up at his nephews and Absolom. ‘Come down at once,’ he said sternly.
‘I’ve been telling the pretty dears to come down,’ said Emma Cobley sweetly.
She was the only one of the enemy who remained quite unabashed. The other three and the bulldog were slinking away, but she stood where she was, her hands folded on top of her stick, her head a little to one side like a listening bird, her little face inside the bonnet alight with amusement.
‘Good evening, Miss Cobley,’ said Uncle Ambrose again, and once more he lifted his hat politely. But he did not return it to his head. He stood with it poised, while his deep fierce gaze met Emma Cobley’s bright stiletto glance. For a full minute they fought with their eyes only and then Emma dropped a charming old-fashioned curtsy. Uncle Ambrose bowed and replaced his hat and she turned away with immense dignity. Her back view as she walked slowly down the path towards the lane was that of Queen Victoria.
chapter eleven
strawberry jam
Twenty minutes later Uncle Ambrose, Ezra, Hector, Robert, Timothy, Nan, and Absolom were together in the library. Nan had come running down in her dressing gown as soon as she heard them arrive. The room was bright and warm, for Ezra had put a match to the fire because Timothy was shivering. Sitting on Uncle Ambrose’s lap in the big armchair, he was still shivering.
‘I wasn’t afraid,’ he explained. ‘But I’m hungry.’
Robert looked at Uncle Ambrose with desperate and pleading hope, but his relative was not to be beguiled. ‘Gruel only,’ he said sternly to Ezra. ‘You may put sugar in it. Sugar, I understand, is good for shock.’ He turned to Robert as Ezra left the room. ‘Now then, Robert. I must know exactly what you have been doing this afternoon and why you are a good four hours late for preparation.’
Robert began at first to tell the story rather haltingly, for he was almost as tired as Timothy, but after a few minutes he suddenly realised what a wonderful storyteller he was. Sitting there on a low stool, with his hands held out to the comfort of the wood fire, he thought he was like one of the French troubadours who went from court to court telling their marvellous tales. His tiredness vanished, his voice deepened to a fine vibrating musical note, and he lavished such a wealth of descriptive detail upon the booby-trap in the woods, that he had got no further than their heroic leap across it when Ezra returned with the steaming bowls of gruel. Ezra’s pointed ears were standing out almost horizontally from the sides of his head and, noticing this phenomenon, Uncle Ambrose said, ‘You may sit down, Ezra, and hear this story out to its conclusion.’
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said Ezra, and sat down on the extreme edge of the most uncomfortable chair he could find, his hands placed one on each knee and his blue eyes fixed on Robert’s face.
The gruel was for the moment too hot to eat and Robert’s clear voice once more took up the narrative. He, like all children, could use exquisite tact when telling a true story to grown-ups. He knew one must not ask too much of their credulity. Things are seen and heard by the keen senses of the young which are not experienced by the failing powers of their elders, but as powers fail pride increases and the elders do not like to admit this. Therefore, when told by the young of some occurrence outside the range of their own now most limited experience, they read them a lecture on the iniquity of telling lies. This can lead to unpleasantness all round, and so the tactful Robert did not tell Uncle Ambrose of the way in which Frederick, the bulldog and Lawson had expanded to an enormous size when they bounced out of the cave, not how they had concertinaed back to small stature when the bees were after them. Nor did he speak of the ghost they had seen climbing up to the valley beneath the Lion’s head. Still less did he mention the music Timothy had heard, or the man he himself had seen under the tree. He was also silent about the invisible wall round the tree and the sleepiness that had come upon them when Emma Cobley had drawn patterns with her stick. But everything else he related at length, even describing the wall-painting in the cave, which was like Lady Alicia’s tapestry, and when he had finished he ate up his gruel.
‘Ah-h-h-h!’ growled Ezra, low and angrily.
‘Humph,’ said Uncle Ambrose and he looked very grim. Then he turned to Ezra. ‘This inhabited cave with the painted walls of which the boy speaks,’ he said, ‘who lives there?’
‘Daft Davie,’ said Ezra, and he told Uncle Ambrose the story of Daft Davie just as he had told it to Nan. Robert and Timothy looked at each other, aware now that their ghost was not a ghost after all, and Nan looked down at her lap, uncomfortable because she had told no one of her own meeting with Daft Davie. Now she thought she ought to and, looking up, she bravely did so, looking only at Uncle Ambrose because she dare not meet the accusing eyes of Robert and Timothy. They always told things to each other.
‘I couldn’t tell about it before,’ she said pleadingly to Uncle Ambrose. ‘I couldn’t even tell Robert.’
‘Why not?’ asked Uncle Ambrose.
‘Because I don’t think Daft Davie wants to be visited. He seemed frightened even of me. He’s dumb, you see.’ She paused. ‘I liked him very much.’ Uncle Ambrose raised enquiring eyebrows at Ezra, and Ezra said, ‘I reckon there ain’t no ’arm in Daft Davie. ’E’s good-’earted, an’ keeps ’is place tidy an’ clean, I’m told. No ’arm couldn’t come to our children in that cave. But the other. My stars!’
‘You hear?’ said Uncle Ambrose to the children. ‘You must not again visit that cave on the summit of the tor. William Lawson is not a pleasant character and has the reputation of being a poacher. There are rabbits and pheasants in the wood, which is the property of the Manor. As for the booby-trap, I do not for a moment think it was intended for you, but it must have been intended for somebody and was a nasty piece of work. What those four were doing down by the beech tree at such a late hour I do not know, but I suspect they had come out to set traps or something of that sort. I sympathize with you in your flight up the tree, but I do not suppose they would have done you any harm.’
Hector said ‘Hick!’ very suddenly and loudly, ejecting, among other oddments, a couple of hairpins which he could only have c
ulled from the head of Lawson.
‘Go to the Parthenon, Hector,’ said Uncle Ambrose with annoyance. Then he leaned forward, his fingertips together, looked at the children very gravely over the top of his spectacles and delivered judgement. ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, ‘I am responsible to your father for your safety, and I feel it my duty to put the wood, as well as the summit of the tor, out of bounds. You must give me your promise that you will not go to either place again.’
There was an appalled silence. Not go to the woods any more? Not to the top of Lion Tor? That meant no more adventures. And it meant no conclusion to the one big mysterious adventure in which they all felt themselves engaged. They looked at each other in horror and then they looked at Ezra, to find him looking at Uncle Ambrose.
‘Our children would be safe with me,’ he said. ‘There won’t no ’arm come to ’em neither in the woods nor on the tor if I be with ’em.’
Nan knew already that Uncle Ambrose and Ezra had not only a great affection for each other, but also great respect for each other’s judgement. They looked at each other now steadily and gravely for a few moments and then Uncle Ambrose said, ‘Very well, Ezra. You hear, children? You may go where you will in Ezra’s company.’
There was a great sigh of relief. Adventures were likely to be slowed down by Ezra’s wooden leg, but they would at least be possible. Then Uncle Ambrose’s eyebrows suddenly beetled alarmingly. ‘But woe betide you,’ he said, ‘if you are ever again late for preparation. Now go to bed.’
The next day was a warm blue day with the smell of hay and flowers coming on a light wind, for in the churchyard and the fields about the village the grass was ready for cutting and the hedges were festooned with roses and honeysuckle. Uncle Ambrose entered the kitchen as they were having breakfast and surveyed the heavy-eyed children languidly spooning porridge from their bowls. Only Betsy was bright-eyed and alert, but even she did not appear quite so attractive as usual because, as the only one not suffering from a hangover, she was looking very smug. ‘Morning, Uncle Ambrose,’ she said. ‘Lessons?’ And smiling at him with her head on one side, she took off her bib and folded it up, as though yearning to run to the library upon the instant.
But Uncle Ambrose, surveying her over the top of his spectacles, did not allow the twitch at the corners of his mouth to develop further. ‘If there’s one thing I dislike more than a child it’s a roguish child,’ he said sternly. ‘Your milk is not finished, I see. Replace your bib. There will be no lessons this morning.’
There was a silence of utter stupefaction.
‘No lessons?’ gasped Robert.
‘No lessons,’ repeated Uncle Ambrose. ‘But not a holiday. By no means. What have you done to deserve a holiday? I wish you to assist Ezra in the picking and hulling of the strawberries which are now ripe.’ He looked at Ezra. ‘You have, Ezra, I understand, dedicated this day to the making of strawberry jam for these undeserving children. I do not wish you to labour alone.’
Actually Ezra had dedicated this day to the bliss of lonely gardening, but his understanding always kept pace with that of Uncle Ambrose whenever it could, and a moment’s consideration showed him that a day spent in the safety and fresh air of the garden would be better for the children in their present state than either lessons or adventure. ‘Very good, sir,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The strawberries it shall be.’
‘No cooking will be required today,’ said Uncle Ambrose airily. ‘Merely cold meat and salad and so on. I hope to spend the day writing in my library, but shall be available for consultation if required.’
He left the kitchen with a light and happy tread, for it wasn’t often these days that he could devote many consecutive hours to writing, but Ezra sighed. The gentry always seemed to think that cold meat and potato salad and orange jelly fell already chilled from heaven. They failed to grasp the fact that meat has to be hot before it is cold and jelly liquid before it solidifies. Nan saw his worry. ‘Hard-boiled eggs and lettuce, Ezra,’ she said. ‘I’ll boil the eggs. And then strawberries and cream. We can’t want them all for jam.’
‘The Master don’t ’old with ’ard-boiled,’ said Ezra.
‘He can’t always have everything he likes,’ said Nan. ‘He’s lucky to have anything at all on a jam-making day. And whose idea was it that we should make jam today? I could see in your eye that it wasn’t yours. And he won’t help with the jam.’
Nan really loved Uncle Ambrose just as much as ever, but she was tired and cross after anxiety and the late night, and when one is tired, it is always one’s nearest and dearest who fall under one’s heaviest displeasure.
‘How much are we paid for picking strawberries?’ asked Robert.
Nan transferred her displeasure from Uncle Ambrose to her elder brother. ‘You dare ask to be paid for picking strawberries?’ she said. ‘You mean wretch! Can’t you do anything for love?’
Robert opened his mouth to make a nasty retort, Betsy upset the sugar on purpose because no one was taking any notice of her, and Timothy trod on Absolom by accident. Absolom, usually so sweet-tempered, snapped and snarled, Andromache leapt for the safety of the draining-board, and the kittens swarmed up the roller-towel.
Ezra perceived that this sunny morning was likely to develop into one of those days when even the nicest children and dearest animals appear to be possessed with demons. ‘Now then!’ he said. ‘I won’t ’ave no nasty tempers in my kitchen. Let alone they scare away the bees. Bees won’t stand no nasty words in their dominions. You ’ave to be proper careful with bees. No more now, or when us gets to the top ’o the garden to pick them strawberries we’ll find the ’ives empty.’ Four pairs of eyes gazed at him in horror. ‘I’m not sayin’ as it will be so,’ he consoled them. ‘But it might be so. Now us’ll clear away the breakfast things an’ wash up an’ boil them eggs an’ while we work us’ll sing, just to show the bees all unpleasantness is now past. Rule Britannia now. You all know that. ’Ere goes.’
To the clashing of cymbals, as the crockery and saucepans were flung pell-mell into the sink, Ezra lifted up his voice and lung and the children joined in at the tops of their voices. The noise was wonderful and in his library Uncle Ambrose sighed and laid down his pen. His powers of concentration were great, but not quite great enough to render him entirely sound-proof against uninhibited juvenile enjoyment. But all things pass, he told himself, and presently a slight lessening of the din suggested that the singers were passing out of the kitchen and up the garden with their baskets. With a sigh of relief he took up his pen again.
Ezra and the children sang the last verse for the sixth time not far from the beehives, and when they had finished they bowed and curtsied to the bees. But there wasn’t a single bee to be seen. Usually on a fine morning they were going in and out to fetch and store their honey, but today stillness and silence enveloped the hives and the children looked anxiously at Ezra. He was looking grave but not despairing. He bowed again and stepped forward, motioning to the children to come with him.
‘Madam queens an’ noble bees,’ he said, ‘these children be good children an’ if they ’ave offended you they be sorry for it. They be proper grateful for your protection an’ guidance, an’ us do beg ee to show us you ain’t offended.’
They waited anxiously and then a brown body appeared at the entrance to the first hive, and then another and another and another from the other hives. Four brown bees. Their heads crowned with antennae and many gleaming eyes, winged like the seraphim, sheathed swords in their tails, the four royal and angelic warriors seemed to hover there as though for the children to look at them.
‘Don’t ee touch now!’ whispered Ezra.
But the children knew better, for they remembered about the sheathed swords. ‘What does it feel like to be stung by a bee?’ asked Timothy.
‘It’s as though the fire o’ the sun pierced you,’ said Ezra. ‘The whole limb burns. Ah, there they go!’
The four bees zoomed up, then dived joyously into the scented air lik
e swimmers diving into the sea. Then the airy traffic began once more, bees coming and going in ones and twos and threes, the returning ones gold-dusted with pollen and with honey-bags weighed down with treasure.
‘They comes an’ goes all the while,’ said Ezra, ‘an’ they likes to be with each other. A lost bee will die o’ loneliness. There be as many as sixty or seventy thousan’ bees in a hive, children. ’Tis a regular city in there with ’ouses an’ streets an’ nurseries, an’ thousands o’ larders for the ’oney an’ bread, all built o’ sweet-smellin’ wax. There be workers an’ nurses for the children, guards at the gate an’ ladies-in-waitin’ for the royal family. At the ’eart of it all be the queen on ’er throne an’ the princesses in their cradles singin’ the song o’ the queens. There’s nothin’ more wonderful in all the world, children, than a beehive.’
‘Isn’t there a king?’ asked Robert.
‘For a short while,’ said Ezra. ‘’E be one o’ the drones, but only king for a moment. The drones are the bee-men and they don’t never go out to work. In the bee world ’tis t’other way round from what it be in our world, for ’tis the women, the worker bees, what gathers the ’oney an’ the men what stays indoors. Fine roysterin’ fellows they be, wearin’ ’elmets o’ glitterin’ eyes an’ for ever drunk on ’oney. On ’er marriage day, an’ she chooses a fine sunny mornin’, the queen leaves the ’ive for the first time in ’er life an’ darts up into the blue sky. Up an’ up she flies, beyond the flight o’ the birds, beyond the tops o’ the tallest trees, up towards the sun, an’ the bee-men in their glistenin’ ’elmets fly after ’er. But ’er flight is that swift that one by one they falls away an’ only the strongest among the best an’ noblest follows towards the sun. Right up in the sky, beyond sight o’ every livin’ creature, the larks far below ’em, they dance together, king an’ queen for a moment. Then ’is small brown body falls down to the earth, all sparklin’ eyes dark in death.’