Poverty Castle Read Free

yet.’
    â€˜You must have some idea.’
    â€˜None at all. I’m looking forward to meeting them.’
    One thing she had vowed never to be, and that was jealous of his precious characters.
    â€˜You’ll just exhaust yourself.’
    And for what? To produce a book that few would read and fewer still buy. Lack of appreciation didn’t seem to have embittered him but it had her.
    Writing her weekly letter to her daughter Morag in America she mentioned that Dad was talking about starting a new book. ‘A triumphant valediction, he has the nerve to call it.’ She didn’t expect it to get far because he wasn’t very well. He had become uneasy and strange. It had crossed her mind that he might be preparing himself for death. Though not very steady on his feet he went for a walk every day whatever the weather: in search of his characters, no doubt. She suspected he took tumbles for there was often mud on his clothes, but if asked about it he just smiled. He seldom looked at a newspaper or listened to radio or watched television: a sure sign that he was broody with a new novel. At such times he wasn’t much of a companion, but then he had always been aloof and solitary, as Jessie well knew. After more than forty years of marriage she knew that there were barriers beyond which she had not been allowed to pass. At her age she wasn’t complaining, she was just facing facts. He should never have got married. She had often accused him of having more interest in his imaginary people than in his wife and child. Here he was, proving it again.

PART ONE

One
    T HEY LOVED the house from the moment they discovered it, though sheep had to be shoo’d out of the ground-floor rooms and ceilings had fallen in and Rebecca, four years old and very fastidious, slid on a cow-pat and made a greenish smelly mess on her knickers. They had caught sight of it from the beach and were eager to explore. The path up to it, or rather the numerous paths, for cattle, sheep and rabbits had made many, lay first over a wide machair of turf and wild flowers, then among shrubberies of whin, broom, and rhododendrons, and lastly, in what at one time must have been the garden though the surrounding wall was broken in several places, through grass as tall as Africa.
    Papa, his face under the Panama flushed with wine and sun, led the way, shouting encouragements and brandishing his arms, as if to chase off hostile natives or ferocious animals. Behind him nine-year-old Jeanie pretended to be frightened, though if any fabulous beast had been encountered she would have greeted it with the least fear and incredulity: she doted on all animals, even the ugliest creepy-crawly. Her twin Effie was as usual matter-of-fact and kept crying why were they all so excited, it was just an abandoned old house. Rowena, aged seven, always had to have a secret: now it was a small shiny green bug held in her fist. Rebecca who could see only grass, held on to Diana’s skirt. Diana at eleven was the oldest. She was also the only one dark-haired, all the others being fair, especially Rowena, the beauty of the family. Diana had long ago appointed herself its guardian, looking after not only her sisters but her parents too. She kept turning to make sure her mother was following.Oblivious of sticky-willies in her hair and wine stains on her white dress and butterflies dancing round her head, Mama was singing. She loved her family and would have given her life for them but often, in their midst, she was absent. They had once asked her where she went. To elfland looking for your little brother, she had answered. They had been, with reservations, satisfied for the time being anyway. Elfland, which didn’t exist, was as good a place to look for their little brother who didn’t exist either, at any rate not yet.
    It was July, about three in the afternoon, hot and sunny, ideal for blood-sucking clegs and pestiferous flies. The air was heavy with