The Dragon-Charmer. Jan Siegel
bed, until at last she knew she was lying in the dark, and the owl’s hoot was a cry of loneliness and pain for all that she had lost.
An hour or so later she got up, took two aspirin (she would not use sleeping pills), tried to read for a while. It was a long, long time before exhaustion mastered her, and she slipped into oblivion.
Will slumbered undisturbed, accustomed to the nocturnal smalltalk of his non-human neighbours. When the bagpipes began, he merely rolled over, smiling in his sleep.
The next day was spent mostly on wedding preparations. The girls having brought the Dress with them, Mrs Wicklow exercised her royal prerogative and took charge of it, relegating Trisha to the sidelines, personally pressing it into creaseless perfection and arraying it in state in one of the spare bedrooms. Will had unearthed a rather decrepit tailor’s dummy from the attic, formerly the property of a long-deceased Miss Capel, and they hung the Dress on it, arranging the train in a classic swirl on the carpet, tweaking the empty sleeves into place. He even stuck a knitting-needle in the vacancy of the neck and suspended the veil from its point, draping it in misty folds that fell almost to the floor. Fern found something oddly disquieting in that faceless, limbless shell of a bride; she even wondered if Will was trying to make a subtle point, but he was so helpful, so pleased with his and Mrs Wicklow’s handiwork, that she was forced to acquit him of deviousness. It was left to Gaynor to offer comment. ‘It looks very beautiful,’ she said. ‘It’ll walk down the aisle all by itself.’
‘Up the aisle,’ said Fern. ‘It’s up.’
They met the vicar, Gus Dinsdale, in the church that afternoon and retired to the vicarage for tea. Gus in his forties looked very much as he had in his thirties, save that his hair was receding out of existence and his somewhat boyish expression had been vividly caricatured by usage and time. On learning that Gaynor’s work was researching and restoring old books and manuscripts he begged to show her some of his acquisitions, and when Will and Fern left he took her into his study. Gaynor duly admired the books, but her mind was elsewhere. She hovered on the verge of asking questions but drew back, afraid of appearing vulgarly inquisitive, a busybody prying into the affairs of her friend. And then, on their return to the drawing room, chance offered her an opening. ‘You have lovely hair, dear,’ Gus’ wife Maggie remarked. ‘I haven’t seen hair that long since Alison – and I was never sure hers was natural. Of course, I don’t think they had extensions in those days, but –’
‘Alison?’ Gaynor nearly jumped. ‘Will mentioned her. So did Fern. Who was she?’
‘She was a friend of Robin’s,’ Maggie replied. ‘She stayed at Dale House for a while, more than a decade ago now. We didn’t like her very much.’
‘You didn’t like her,’ Gus corrected, smiling faintly. ‘She was a very glamorous young woman. Not all that young really, and not at all beautiful, but … well, she had It. As they say.’
‘She looked like a succubus,’ Maggie said.
‘You’ve never seen a succubus.’
‘Maybe not,’ Maggie retorted with spirit, ‘but I’d know one if I did. It would look like Alison.’
‘My wife is prejudiced,’ Gus said. ‘Alison wasn’t the kind of woman to be popular with her own sex. Alison Redmond, that was her full name. Still, we shouldn’t speak harshly of her. Her death was a terrible tragedy. Fern was completely overset by it.’
‘She died?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Gus sighed. ‘She drowned. Some kind of freak flood, but no one ever really knew how it happened. Fern was saved, caught on a tree, but Alison was swept away. They found her in the river. Dreadful business. I’ve always wondered –’ He broke off, shaking his head as if to disperse an invisible cobweb. Gaynor regarded him expectantly.
‘There was that story she told us,’ said Maggie. ‘I know it was nonsense, but it’s not as if she was a habitual liar. She must have been suffering from some kind of post-traumatic shock. That’s what the doctors said about her illness later on, wasn’t it?’ She turned to Gaynor. ‘But you’re her best friend; you must know more about that than we do.’
What illness? The query leapt to Gaynor’s lips, but she suppressed it. Instead she said – with a grimace at her conscience for the half-truth – ‘Fern doesn’t discuss it much.’
‘Oh dear.’ Now it was Maggie’s turn to sigh. ‘That isn’t good, is it? You’re supposed to talk through your problems: it’s essential therapy.’
‘That’s the theory, anyway,’ said Gus. ‘I’m not entirely convinced by it. Not in this case, anyway. There was one thing that really bothered me about that explanation of Fern’s.’
‘What was that?’ asked Maggie.
‘Nobody ever came up with a better one.’
Gaynor walked back to Dale House very slowly, lost in a whirl of thought. She had refrained from asking further questions, reluctant to betray the extent of her ignorance and still wary of showing excessive curiosity. Fern had never spoken of any illness, and although there was no particular reason why she should have done, the omission, coupled with her distaste for Yorkshire, was beginning to take on an unexplained significance. If this were a Gothic novel, Gaynor reflected fancifully, say, a Daphne du Maurier, Fern would probably have murdered Alison Redmond. But that’s ridiculous. Fern’s a very moral person, she’s totally against capital punishment – and anyway, how could you arrange a freak flood? It ought to be impossible in an area like this, even for Nature. I have to ask her about it. She’s my best friend. I should be able to ask her anything …
But somehow, when she reached the house and found Fern in the kitchen preparing supper, hindered rather than helped by Mrs Wicklow’s assertion of culinary by-laws, she couldn’t. She decided it was not the right moment. Will took her into the studio drawing-room, retrieved a bottle of wine from the same shelf as the white spirit, and poured some into a couple of bleared glasses. Bravely, Gaynor drank. ‘Are you going to show me your paintings?’ she enquired.
‘You won’t understand them,’ he warned her. ‘Which is a euphemism for “you won’t like them”.’
‘Let me see,’ said Gaynor.
In fact, he was right. They were complex compositions in various styles: superficial abstractions where a subliminal image lurked just beyond the borders of realisation, or representational scenes – landscapes and figures – distorted into abstract concepts. A darkness permeated them, part menace, part fantasy. There were occasional excursions into sensuality – a half-formed nude, a flower moulded into lips, kissing or sucking – but overall there was nothing she could connect with the little she knew or guessed of Will. The execution was inconsistent: some had a smooth finish almost equal to the gloss of airbrushing, others showed caked oils and the scrapings of a knife. Evidently the artist was still at the experimental stage. She found them fascinating, vaguely horrible, slightly immature. ‘I don’t like them,’ she admitted, ‘in the sense that they’re uncomfortable, disturbing: I couldn’t live with them. They’d give me nightmares. And I don’t understand them because they don’t seem to me to come from you. Unless you have a dark side – a very dark side – which you never let anyone see.’
‘All my sides are light,’ Will said.
Gaynor was still concentrating on the pictures. ‘You’ve got something, though,’ she said. ‘I’m no judge, but … you’ve definitely got something. I just hope it isn’t contagious.’
As they talked she considered asking him some of the questions that were pent up inside her head, but she dithered too long, torn between a doubt and a doubt, and they were interrupted.
Later, after an unsuccessful session with the plastic shower attachment jammed onto the bath taps, Gaynor retired to her room, shivering in a towel, and switched on both bars of the electric fire and the television. She was not particularly addicted to the small screen, but she had not