Philippa Carr - Midsummer’s Eve

He was tried and there was no question of his guilt. As my father had said, Slattery and Tregern were only too ready to give evidence against him. The beefsteak episode was recalled and there was no mention of the reason he had attempted to steal it. In any case it was not a question of why he had stolen it but that he had. As Digory worked for my father and his only relative had died recently leaving him homeless, he had been treated leniently on that occasion; but the boy had not learned his lesson; he was a born thief and could never be anything else.

We wanted no such people in this country. He was sentenced to seven years’ transportation.

We were all greatly shocked by the sentence. It seemed unduly harsh. His background went against him; and the evidence as given by Slattery and Luke Tregern was the final blow.

My father and I went for a ride together and talked about Digory.

My father said: “It takes me back years. You’ve heard the story. I killed a man who was attempting to assault a gypsy girl. I was sentenced to seven years’ transportation … just as this boy has been. His seems a trivial offence compared with mine. A man’s life against that of a pheasant.”

“What you did was right. What Digory did was wrong.”

“Yet I killed. But I had people to speak for me. Your grandfather was a man of great influence and your mother forced him to save me from the gallows … which might so easily have been my fate.”

“Don’t speak of it. I can’t bear it.”

“Well, my darling. If that had been the end of me there would never have been Annora. That would have been a real tragedy.”

“Don’t joke. And what about Digory?”

“He’ll serve his term. He’ll come through … as I did. Perhaps it’s not such a bad thing. Out of these misfortunes good can come. I grew up in Australia. When I look back I see myself as a feckless fellow with romantic notions. Going off as a gypsy! Imagine that! What folly! I was pulled up sharply and I realized the seriousness of life and when I had served my term I emerged as a reasonable man, ready to take on my responsibilities.”

“I can’t stop thinking of Digory being sent away like that. He’ll be so frightened.”

“Yes. It’s a frightening ordeal. But he’ll come through. After all, it’s not as though he was happy here. What happened that night has scarred him deeply. Perhaps the best thing is a complete change, an entirely new life. If he can come through it, it might not be all bad.” He was silent for a while. Then he said: “This brings it all back to me, Annora. I can see myself on that ship, arriving in a new country … But after a while I grew accustomed to it. That’s one lesson of life. To accept … and to remember all the time that whatever tragic times one has to live through, they can’t last forever. There has to be change. So there will be for Digory.”

“I wonder if we shall ever know. I wonder if we shall see him again.”

“For that, my dear girl, we must wait and see.”

We rode back to the house in a solemn and melancholy mood.

FOR A LONG TIME I could not stop thinking of Digory. Every now and then his image would crop up in my mind and I would see him as clearly as though he stood beside me, stuffing fish into the bag he carried, throwing stones into the river, standing accused in Slattery’s shop. What was it like being sent away for seven years?

I talked about it a great deal with my father, who was by no means reticent about his own experiences. I had always found it easy to put myself in the place of others and I could imagine the arrival in that strange land, coming up from the dark interior of the ship to the blazing sunshine, the humiliation of being branded a felon. It had happened to my father and now it was happening to Digory. Perhaps being marched up in a gang to do hard labour or being selected by someone to whom one became a slave … My father had been considerably older than Digory when he had undergone that ordeal; and he had had so many qualities which Digory lacked. My father had come through. But how would Digory fare?

After he had departed I had long talks about him with Jacco. At first my brother was very interested but it was not long before other matters claimed his attention and his interest waned.

It was inevitable, and in time I should be the same, I supposed.

Then Jacco was going away to school and that seemed a great tragedy. I was wretchedly lonely for a while and I used to long for holidays. Then he would sometimes not come home but spend them with a friend. In their turn his friends came to us. Sometimes I was allowed to join them and we would ride, swim, fish and skate or go sailing with the fishermen. But there were times when I was clearly shown that my presence was not desired.

So with all this I, too, forgot Digory; and it was only when I went to the burned-out cottage that I remembered and felt a pang of remorse because I had forgotten.

There had been, in any case, a conspiracy to forget that Midsummer’s Eve. I remember the following one. We went to the moors in the carriage, my father driving, and it had all been—in comparison with the previous one—very sedate. The bonfire was lighted; the songs were sung and no one attempted to leap over the flames.

It was a fact that people did not like to go to the clearing in the woods near the remains of the cottage. Even in daylight they would take a detour rather than the shortcut which passed it. Some of them must have remembered and felt a deep shame. But Mother Ginny was dead and her grandson far away. That night and its aftermath were best forgotten, they would tell themselves.

I saw much less of Rolf than formerly. He had so many friends at the University and was often going away on archaeological digs and all sorts of investigations into the past. His father came often and talked of his activities with the utmost pride.

When I did see him he seemed just the same as he used to. It was I who had changed. I no longer idolized him. Perhaps he noticed this and was less interested in me because of it. Once or twice I was on the point of referring to that night but my courage failed me right at the last moment and nothing was said. I was beginning to convince myself that I had not seen that grey-robed figure in the heart of the mob and thought how silly I should seem if I talked of it.

The years slipped by at a great rate. I had a new governess. We went to London now and then, and when we did we always made the journey to Eversleigh.

My grandmother had died a year after my grandfather. My mother was heartbroken at the loss of both her parents for there had been a very special relationship between them; but as she said, we must not grieve for my grandmother for she did not want to live without my grandfather.

Eversleigh was different after that. David and Claudine were getting old and Jonathan had already taken over, although I supposed he would not inherit while David was alive.

I liked Jonathan, and Tamarisk, his wife, was interesting. She was very beautiful and I had a special interest in her for I discovered that she was in fact my half-sister. Sometimes I found it difficult to keep up with all the intricate relationships in our family but I suppose it is the same in most.

My father said to me one day: “I don’t believe in subterfuge and nor does your mother, so you might as well know. I was something of a rebel in my youth. You know I went off with the gypsies.”

“Of course. I think it was a most exciting thing to do.”

“It was a foolish thing to do but as I have often told you, one can never be entirely sure what are the good things and what the bad; it is what grows out of them which affects our lives so deeply. If I had not been a gypsy I should never have met your mother and that would have been the worst possible thing which could have befallen me. But when I first knew her she was only a little girl … about your age. I met Tamarisk’s mother. She was a sad girl and very lonely … and we danced one night round the bonfire …”

“Midsummer’s Eve,” I cried.

“No. We were celebrating the victory of Trafalgar. We were all very merry and rather careless. … As a result of that night, Tamarisk was born. I am Tamarisk’s father.”

I said: “Strange things happen on nights like that. People become … not themselves. Perhaps it has something to do with bonfires.”

Then I was thinking of that fearful night again … even more than I did of my father and the girl who was Tamarisk’s mother.

She had died, I learned, having Tamarisk, and that was why Tamarisk had been brought up by my family and so she had known Jonathan all her life.

They loved each other very much, those two. I could sense it—although Tamarisk could be very angry with Jonathan, but it was a strong, fierce love which made her angry, and she was ready to attack anyone who criticized him. She was the same with her children; she had two boys, Richard and John; they were wild and rebellious but very lovable.

I always enjoyed the Eversleigh visits. I loved the country and the nearby sea and those two old houses not very far from Eversleigh—Grasslands and Enderby—which seemed part of the family estate. My mother had lived in Grasslands with her first husband, for she had been married before; and Enderby belonged to Peter and Amaryllis Lansdon. It had been left to Tamarisk but Peter had bought it a long time ago and it was used really as a country home, for the Lansdons were mainly in London.

My father had sold our house in London some years before. We did not need it. There was the family house in Albemarle Street which was not often occupied nowadays and we could use that on our visits to London. The Lansdons had a big house in Westminster. That always seemed to me a most exciting house. It was tall and imposing and from some rooms there was a view of the river.

Peter Lansdon was a Member of Parliament—a very important one. When his party was in power he had had a high post in the Government and led a most exciting life for he was a man with many business interests in the City. He exuded power. Amaryllis was so proud of him. His daughter Helena and his son Peterkin—the name had been given to him when he was a baby to distinguish him from his father and it had remained—were very much in awe of him.

I was very fond of Helena and Peterkin. Helena was about six years older than I; Peterkin four. Helena had been presented at Court—an ordeal which Mother had said I should have to undergo. Helena had hated it, she told me. Everything depended upon a girl’s being a success. If she was she was envied; if not she was despised. Helena had been despised, except by her mother of course. Amaryllis was one of those innocent, sweet and gentle women overflowing with sympathy and good will. But Helena told me that her father was disappointed. He had wanted her to make a good match.

I could understand that. Uncle Peter had made a great success of everything he had undertaken and he expected his children to do the same.

I said to my mother once: “I don’t think two people could be less alike than Uncle Peter and Aunt Amaryllis.”

I remembered how her face hardened as it often did when Uncle Peter was mentioned. She said: “You are right. There could not be two people less like each other.”

“Then I wonder why they married,” I said.

My mother remained silent with that rare hard look about her mouth. There was no doubt that she disliked Uncle Peter.

I could not do anything but admire him. He must have been very good-looking when he was young and now that he was no longer so he looked distinguished, with a touch of silver at his temples and those rather lazy eyes of his which always seemed to express amusement at the world and a confidence that he could easily conquer it. He enjoyed living. The trouble was that such a father must be very hard to live up to; and both Helena and Peterkin felt inadequate—Helena because she had failed to pass the coming-out test and had turned into her twenties without having been asked in marriage and Peterkin because he was as yet undecided as to what he intended to do with his life; and of course, his father would have been showing signs of success when he was at his age.

I felt some trepidation at the prospect of a season, though, of course, if I failed to pass the test I knew my parents would not want me to care very much. They wouldn’t look upon it as failure. But then I was lucky to have unusual and very understanding parents.

I was almost eighteen when a trip to London and Eversleigh was proposed. That was in the year 1838.