While the Others Sleep, page 8
Alfie watched on helplessly until the fit began to ease and Constance groggily came round. Though everyone asked her how she was feeling, she seemed less concerned about her health than the possibility of anyone hearing about it.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” begged Constance. “Please, not a soul!”
“Don’t worry!” said Alfie. “ We won’t.”
“My parents think I haven’t had a fit for six months,” she explained. “You don’t know what they’ll say if they hear about this. They think I’m mad!”
“Don’t let anyone tell you that. You hear me? No one.”
It was Travers speaking, but there was something different about his tone. All traces of his habitual mockery had vanished, and his dark brown eyes were deadly earnest.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he said. “You shouldn’t even be in Scarbrook in the first place. Don’t let your parents and these doctors turn you into something you’re not. Don’t let them make you ill.”
He gently lifted up Constance’s head and stared at her until eventually she nodded. As he watched his friend escort Constance out of the parlour, Alfie felt his anger and fear ebb away, to be replaced by an unexpected new emotion: grudging admiration.
They stumbled back into the Main Hall, relieved to close the door upon the east wing and its scarred rooms. Travers, Alfie noted, had left the ouija board on the floor of the parlour – the closest he had seen to his friend acknowledging a mistake. Lucy and Constance went up the staircase towards the girls’ bedroom without a word, whilst Travers and Rothermere headed for the drawing room. After the unsettling events in the parlour, Alfie felt the need to be alone, and he decided to go to the library to find a new book to read.
He entered the room to find Yardley standing by the fireplace. It looked as though the younger boy had been waiting for him. Catherine was sitting at a desk by the window, engrossed in some wordless game with her doll.
“I heard what you did,” said Yardley, without preamble.
“Leave me alone,” Alfie said wearily. “I’m too tired for your nonsense.”
“You contacted the spirit world. They told me what happened.” Yardley spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as though he were discussing a butler or a maid.
“There’s no such thing as the spirit world!” Alfie shouted. “You’re just a crazy boy who goes around setting fire to things!”
Catherine got up from the desk and pushed past her brother, her eyes wide with indignation as she stared at Alfie.
“I’m not mad,” Yardley said calmly. “I know that there are spirits that move beyond this world. I talk to the good ones, and I hide from the bad ones. But you . . . this afternoon you sat in the ashes and you tried to play a game with evil. It wasn’t playing, Alfie. It’s been waiting for this moment and now it’s on its way.”
“Shut up!” cried Alfie. “Stay away from me!”
“Don’t you understand?” Yardley insisted, clutching at Alfie’s sleeve. “They’ll be coming! We’re all in danger now!”
Alfie shook off his hand and strode out of the library. Yardley watched him stalk off. “We’re all in danger now,” he repeated forlornly.
Tell me where you are now.
The voice in Alfie’s head was now a familiar one, even if at that moment he couldn’t quite place its owner. It felt as though he was standing on a theatrical stage, and the voice was calling to him from the darkness of the wings.
Alfie?
He was standing at the crossroads of two broad, dusty streets, in the shadow of imperious white buildings that could have been found in the heart of London, amid the dash and clatter of the Strand or Whitehall. But the roads here were quiet, the whole scene draped in lethargy. The sun was low in the sky, a fierce red ball shimmering in the haze. The bludgeoning heat beat down upon Alfie’s head like a cudgel. He could only be in Calcutta.
Tell me where you are, Alfie.
“I’m not sure,” he replied, faltering. “I went for a walk.”
The knowledge was slowly coming back to him, somewhere between a dream and a memory. He had left the house earlier that afternoon, slipping out unseen into the Indian heat. A month had passed since the violent night of the séance, and the Mandeville home had regained its usual stately decorum. Alfie thought he detected a slight stiffness in the way that his father spoke to Stowbridge – the butler’s hand upon his master’s arm had not been forgotten – but apart from that everything had returned to normal. It was as if there had been an unspoken decision to pretend that nothing had ever happened. That was the problem with his family, Alfie had decided. The Mandevilles were so concerned about only saying things that were right and proper, they never said anything at all. Complaints went stale like unaired laundry. Problems turned rotten and mouldy. Skeletons rattled in closets.
But if a collective vow of silence had been taken over the events surrounding the séance, then one person hadn’t been informed.
“What an incredible kerfuffle!” Selena had exclaimed to Alfie two Sundays later, in a snatched conversation outside church. “I haven’t seen my father that upset for years! You should have heard him in the carriage on the way home. He called your father every name under the sun. Apparently Lord Mandeville came crashing into the drawing room like a madman, overturning furniture and threatening everyone. My father feared that blood would be spilled.”
“It was truly horrible,” said Alfie solemnly. “I’m sorry you were caught up in it.”
“Sorry?” Selena burst out laughing. “Whatever for, Lord Mandy Vile? It was the most tremendous fun! Whilst my father was huffing and puffing away, Amelia Brockhurst was so het up she could barely breathe, the silly old sow! Serves her right!”
As usual, Selena’s laughter made Alfie feel a bit better about the world. The whole situation had made him restless, and Alfie could feel the first stirrings of rebellion within him. He couldn’t leave the house without a small circus following in his wake: an ayah, a coachman, an umbrella bearer, and a whole flock of attendants whose sole purpose appeared to be stopping Alfie from doing anything he wanted to do. He felt ridiculous, sitting on the back of a prancing pony like some pampered prince. Alfie wanted to climb down and walk about the streets on his own two feet, experiencing the rush and the excitement of Calcutta for himself.
So, earlier that afternoon, Alfie had sneaked out of the house. It had been simple enough – Lord Mandeville was attending an important meeting at Government House and Lady Mandeville was back in bed. Since the séance, Alfie’s mother’s shades had returned with a vengeance, and she seemed to be taking ever more frequent doses of laudanum. Her expression was perpetually dreamy, and Alfie wasn’t sure whether his words registered when he spoke to her. Lady Mandeville had always been delicate and sensitive, the graceful doe beside her fierce husband’s white tiger. But the more time his mother spent in her bedroom, the more Alfie worried, as did his father – although whether that was because Lord Mandeville cared for his wife, or simply feared further embarrassment, it was hard to tell.
Once he was safely out of the house, Alfie had followed the broad thoroughfares of the European quarter of Calcutta until they narrowed and began to follow a twisting, tortuous path through the city. In the Indian quarter no two houses looked the same. Meticulously kept houses with verandahs shared walls with shacks and lean-tos. Crowded washing lines sagged under the weight of damp saris and dhotis. The air was a combustible brew of odours, the spicy aromas of the food stalls and the butchers’ shops mixing with the sour tang of the rubbish piles by the side of the road.
Alfie walked quickly, ignoring the wide-eyed stares that greeted his progress. British children were rarely seen in the Indian town; unaccompanied, never. But he didn’t feel frightened. He found the bustling streets invigorating, the shouts and chatter of foreign tongues mysterious and exciting. Dodging a bullock-cart, he entered the humming marketplace of the bazaar. People had come from all quarters of Calcutta – Hindu and Muslim, Chinese and European – lured by a dizzying array of treasures, from dresses and jewellery to sweetmeats and cloth, rice and lucifer matches. Shopkeepers and customers haggled over the price of every item, turning purchases into prolonged verbal duels. More than once Alfie had to evade the grasp of a smiling storeowner as he tried to steer him inside his emporium.
He was crossing the street to avoid the pungent stink of a liquor shop when he got the unsettling sensation that someone was watching him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he spotted Ajay, the punkawallah’s son, slipping into a hookah shop, where the men had gathered to smoke their water pipes. Alfie swore under his breath. Was Ajay following him?
Cutting down an alleyway, Alfie ducked into a doorway and waited. Thirty seconds passed, then a minute, and then Ajay padded past. Alfie jumped out and grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him around. The Indian boy looked at him calmly, his face betraying not even a flicker of surprise.
“Why are you following me?” Alfie demanded. “What do you want?”
“You shouldn’t be here,” said Ajay, flicking his dark fringe out of his eyes. His English was heavily accented but surprisingly fluent.
“I’ll go where I damn well please!”
“Leave Calcutta, please. And leave India. You are not welcome here. I will take care of Miss Marbury. She will be safe with me.”
“Safe with you? You must be joking! Stay away from her, you hear me?” Alfie shouted. “Now leave me alone!”
With a small shrug, Ajay turned and walked away down the alleyway. Alfie waited until he was sure the boy had gone before he carried on his way. This time, he told himself firmly, he really was going to say something to Lord Mandeville about Ajay. He had been as patient as possible, but there were limits.
Suddenly Alfie didn’t want to stay in the bazaar any longer. He stomped back towards the British quarter of Calcutta, past the shops and stalls as they closed up for the day. By the time he had reached the crossroads the light was fading and he knew that he should go home, but his run-in with Ajay had only worsened his mood. So Alfie headed south, and soon came out on to a vast expanse of lush grass stretching away into the distance, broken up by wide avenues and the occasional clump of trees: the Maidan.
Part park, part parade ground, the Maidan was the bustling hive at the centre of Calcutta’s social life. Alfie entered the grassy common at the north-east corner, where the white mansions of Chowringhee Road met the elegant, tree-lined Esplanade Row. Somewhere behind the trees lay Government House, the home of the Viceroy. Alfie wondered what Selena was doing at that moment, whether she felt as lost and as alone as he did. He doubted it. Selena seemed to have an answer for everything.
Lost in his own thoughts, Alfie mooched along the avenues down the Maidan, past English couples out taking the early-evening air. To his west lay the river Hooghly, and the square-rigged sailing ships patiently loading up on coal, tea and jute. The jagged star of Fort William rose up in front of them. As a son of the British Empire, Alfie knew that he was supposed to find the fort’s presence reassuring, but in truth it unsettled him. The original Fort William had been damaged in a siege over a hundred years before, when relations between the British and the Indians had not been at a dangerously low ebb. When it was rebuilt, and relocated to the south, the surrounding landscape had been levelled to provide the soldiers with clear firing lines should they be attacked again. In that way, the Maidan was more than just a park – it was also a warning.
As Alfie continued south, the racetrack of the Royal Calcutta Turf Club drew into view. Whenever his father had taken him to the races, Alfie had been overwhelmed by the sheer noise of the spectacle: the thunder of hooves and roar of the crowd as the horses galloped past the winning post; the heavy clunk of wooden mallets during the polo matches. By now the afternoon had given way to evening, and as Alfie finally turned round to go home he realized that he was almost alone on the park. The carriages had disappeared, and the few remaining couples were moving swiftly towards the exits. As he followed their distant progress, Alfie saw something that made him frown, and suddenly he realized why everyone was leaving the Maidan.
Fort William had vanished, and not through some magician’s grand illusion. A thick bank of mist was rolling off the Hooghly River, devouring everything in its grey maw. Alfie tried to pick up his pace, but the long afternoon’s walk weighed heavily upon his legs. He felt like a convict dragging a ball and chain. By the time he reached the nearest clump of trees the mist had swallowed up Esplanade Row, and the mansions of Chowringhee Road had been reduced to vague outlines. This was starting to get serious – without any landmarks to guide him, how was Alfie supposed to find his way out of the Maidan?
Trying to quell his rising panic, Alfie continued in what he hoped was a northerly direction. The entire park was now submerged in a damp grey blanket. Tall statues reared up out of the gloom, haughtily defying the fog’s ambush. The marble giants looked down on Alfie, seemingly contemptuous of his plight. He cursed himself for being so stubborn. Why hadn’t he made for home hours ago? When he turned around now to try and get a sense of his bearings, every direction looked the same. It was as though he was trapped in a giant cell with grey walls on every side.
Just as he was about to give up all hope, he saw somewhere amidst the fog, a light bobbing in the murk like a will o’ the wisp. Alfie hurried towards it, praying that it would lead him to an exit, or even just a friendly face. As he drew closer, his spirits rose at the sight of a bandstand’s silhouette jutting out before him. On brighter summer days, Alfie would come here with his family to watch orchestras play on the raised platform. It meant he had to be in the north-west corner of the park – and not far from a way out.
But when he looked beyond the bandstand, Alfie froze.
A figure was floating across the Maidan, so pale and vague that it barely seemed flesh and bone, more a spirit flitting across the boundary between this and some other, hidden world. It carried a lantern high above its head as it swept across the park, and appeared to be searching for something. As Alfie watched, the ghost drifted up the steps of the bandstand and stood by the rail. It leaned into the fog and called out, in a high, quavering voice, his name.
“Mother!” cried Alfie.
And, unbelievably, it was Lady Mandeville standing alone upon the bandstand. Dressed in a long cotton nightdress, and with her bare feet covered in mud and grime, she looked as though she had risen straight from her bed. When Alfie waved and called out to her, she let out a cry.
“Oh Alfie, thank God! Thank God!”
Lady Mandeville ran down the steps of the bandstand and enveloped him in a fierce embrace.
“Where have you been?” she said. “I’ve been so worried!”
“I’m sorry, Mother,” said Alfie. “I went for a walk and lost track of time. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“I was having such a terrible dream . . . your father and Frederick . . . and when I woke up I knew that something was wrong, I just knew!” Lady Mandeville squeezed him even tighter. “Promise me you’ll never run off like this again!”
She was trembling, though whether due to worry or the cold, Alfie couldn’t be sure. The frantic way in which she was talking and stroking his face was frightening him.
“You must be freezing, Mother,” he said. “Look at your clothes!”
She glanced down at her muddied nightdress, as though noticing it for the first time. “A little chilled, perhaps,” she conceded. “I would have put a coat on but I just . . . your bed was empty and you were nowhere to be seen and . . . your father does have his temper, especially when I am in one of my shades, and. . .”
She faltered, and Alfie saw tears brimming in the corners of her eyes.
“It’s fine, Mother,” he whispered comfortingly, slipping his hand in hers. “We’re safe now. Let’s go home.”
When Alfie opened his eyes again, the ceiling of Dr Grenfell’s study swam into view. He sat up on the divan, rubbing his face. The doctor was making notes in the chair next to him, his bowed head revealing a small bald clearing in his thinning jungle of hair.
“Do you think that was important?” asked Alfie. “The memory of that day?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Dr Grenfell replied, without raising his head. “You thought it was important, though.”
“My mother mentioned Frederick Scarbrook,” said Alfie. “At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but now. . . Why do you think she did that?”
“I can’t venture to guess why she chose to at that moment, but it’s no surprise that Lady Mandeville thought of Frederick from time to time. They were childhood friends – rather like you and Selena. It was Fred who introduced her to your father. By all accounts, it was love at first sight.”
“What happened to Frederick? My father would never talk about it.”
Finally Dr Grenfell looked up. He removed his glasses and began massaging his temples. “Your father and Fred were on safari in Kenya when they disturbed a lion. It went for one of the guides, maiming him horribly. When the hunting party opened fire, Sir Thomas’ son caught a stray bullet in the chest. Your father did everything he could to try and revive him, but it was too late. Fred died in his arms.”
Alfie shivered. “How terrible!”
“A tragedy indeed, but let’s not dwell on such dark thoughts,” said Dr Grenfell, snapping shut his notebook. “We are making real progress, and that is something to be celebrated. You may be excused a cold bath today, and I shall instruct Cook to give you an extra helping of pudding. Here at Scarbrook, we believe in the carrot as well as the stick.”
