Darkling Cottage
Wednesday 20th November

 

To my dearest Alfred,

If that boy in France really is you, then I fear we’ve much in common because I too am in bed with a wound to my head. Dr Wyatt had to be dragged from his afternoon tea to tend to me. He brought the good news that Maisie is recovering from her ’flu, but on seeing my dog bites that cheer disappeared, and much bandaging and aspirin-taking followed. I pity you, Alfred, if you face this every day. It wasn’t the slightest bit fun.

Nor, as it turned out, was posting your latest letter earlier today. News of our fairies had reached the village and, in true Bexton style, had been twisted rather out of shape. It started with two boys following me along Glover Street and past the church. Then one of them laughed and I turned round to see them both pulling faces at me, the little brats.

As I joined the post office queue a ripple went through it. You’d have thought I’d grown a pair of donkey’s ears by the way people looked at me! But these were grown-ups and they weren’t laughing. In fact, they seemed frightfully sour. Someone mentioned Sir Arthur by name, then another person said anyone with sense would simply let the fairy folk be; their magic was too powerful to be dallied with.

Now I knew the fairies weren’t happy – we’d been bombarded with stones and glared at, remember? – so this talk made me very uneasy. Without staying to post your letter, I marched home to get the camera. If Sir Arthur wanted more photos he could have them, I decided. And that would be the end of it and we could leave the fairies in peace.

Coming down the stairs, I met Mama. She started questioning me about what I was up to and why I looked so pale. I just wanted to get the job done, Alfred. I didn’t want a scene. Yet though I made every effort to hide Papa’s camera behind my back, she saw it. And as I dodged past her, she called to Papa that I’d taken his camera without asking, and he must go after me IMMEDIATELY.

Once I’d reached our tree, I set up the camera. With Papa in hot pursuit, I didn’t have long. Just one more picture was all I wanted. After that I’d leave the fairies well alone.

At first nothing happened. Then, as I kept my eyes on the fairy door, two fairies appeared. One was the colour of buttercups, the other the palest green. In the gloom under the trees, they glowed like the prettiest paper lanterns you ever saw. There were no weapons today, no scary grimaces. Instead, their little wings hung limp at their sides and their dear, tiny faces were quite wet with tears. Oh Alfred, I felt awful. My heart was in pieces. I didn’t want to be out there in the woods any more. It was as if my camera and I were trespassing on something very private. It wasn’t right at all.

The thing is, someone really was trespassing. Not far off, I heard Mr Glossop calling to his dog. Instinctively I grabbed the camera. The dog came crashing through the trees towards me. One minute I was upright. The next, I was in the air. The camera flew out of my grasp, and I hit the ground with a thump. Somewhere nearby came another softer thud, then the tinkling of broken glass plates.

Before I could get up, the dog was on me. His teeth snapped at my hair. I kicked. I punched. It made him madder. Something tore at my scalp. The side of my head became warm and wet. My ears started ringing. Then I heard a man shouting. It sounded like Papa. A rifle cracked. Once. Twice. I don’t remember anything more.

*

It’s evening as I write to you. I’m tucked up in bed, feeling frightfully sore. I’m sorry if my account sounds dramatic. I don’t want to worry you, but I have got quite a wound. There was talk of cutting my hair to get to it, but in the end, Dr Wyatt managed to stitch my head up all right. The dog had bitten my leg too. That didn’t need stitches, but it did need cleaning. And let me tell you, Alfred, that brought tears to my eyes. For your sake, I hope they don’t have dogs in France.

Once it was over, I tried to sleep but my mind wouldn’t shut off. I kept thinking of those crying fairies, and how their sadness might somehow be my fault.

It started with the camera, didn’t it? Not that I’d meant any harm; I only hoped to prove that fairies did exist. But I suppose that not everyone is meant to see fairies. To be a Chime Child is a special gift and by taking a picture and then showing it to Papa, and Mama, and the house staff and Sir Arthur, well, I’d not respected that gift, had I? Seeing fairies had suddenly become a not so special thing, and that’s why they’d got angry with me.

The realisation was a bit much; I did sob rather. Mama was very nice and sat with me, which made me feel more dreadful about our fight on the stairs. Then she said she had something else to tell me, and I needed to be brave. Papa had been on his way to the woods when he’d heard me screaming. He ran as fast as he could and seized Mr Glossop’s rifle, with which he shot the dog dead. Papa then carried me home. Mama found us in a heap on the back doorstep, both covered in my blood.

After Dr Wyatt had seen to me, she said, he’d tended to Papa. Only Papa’s head couldn’t be put back together with stitches. He’s still not recovered from his time at the Front, and after firing that gun today he took a turn for the worse. So it was decided he should go away for a while to a special place to rest.

And so now I don’t know what to think, Alfred. Those fairies brought Papa and me such hope. So too did the letter from France. But who knows the truth of it really?

My head hurts terribly, so I’ll leave it there.

Until tomorrow,

Your sister.