Celandine
Authors: Steve Augarde
Contents
A
BOUT THE BOOK
Not everything in this world can be understood by us,
nor should it be . . .
The year is 1915, Britain is at war, and life for Celandine has
become unbearable. Bullied at boarding school and haunted by
the loss of her brother, Celandine runs away to a place known
only to her: the secret world of the little people.
But her existence among the Various is no less dangerous
than the one she has left behind, for the little people are
also at war, and Celandine is in the line of fire . . .
Hypnotic and uplifting, Steve Augarde’s extraordinary sequel
to
The Various
will take you to a place where the magical
becomes real, and the real becomes magical.
For Grace and Eric
Chapter One
SHE WAS RUNNING
away for the third time. How terrible it would be if she were caught yet again. The thought of it was unbearable. Even now they might be discovering the damage that she had left behind her, the awful revenge that she had taken.
There would be no more chances after today. She
must
succeed.
‘
Celandine, Celandine
,
Caught the seven thirty-nine
.
Seven thirty-nine was late
,
Now she’s back inside the gate!
’
The mocking chant of the Lower School tinies rang through her head. Poor stuff it was, though not so very far from the truth.
She had indeed tried to escape by train, and twice she had failed. How stupid she had been to go to Town station whilst still in her uniform. No wonder the stationmaster had been suspicious of her and telephoned the school. At the second attempt, dressed in mufti, she had almost got away with it but had then been recognized by the very same man – who had no
other
business to attend to, apparently, than the business of others. The result had been a further interview with Miss Craven, another long letter to her father, and another beating from the Bulldog. If she were caught now, then it would surely be the end of her.
Celandine splashed down the dreary little lane, avoiding the worst of the mud by walking along the blurred channels made by the cartwheels, occasionally stepping up onto the rain-sodden grass verges when the puddles in the road became too wide to jump.
Her walking shoes were tight and uncomfortable. The stout leather soles made the arches of her feet feel as though they were being stabbed at every step, and the stiff backs nipped at her heels. She was sure that she had blisters, but she dared not stop to look – nor would she examine her leg where the buckle of her heavy canvas bag continually rubbed and snagged at her woollen stocking. These things would have to wait. And besides, the walk was a necessary part of her plan. This time she would catch a train that would make it seem as though she was travelling
towards
the school rather than away from it. She glanced up at the black rain clouds, and pulled the collar of her mackintosh a little closer about her neck.
‘
Raining, raining, raining. Always bloomin’ well raining
.’ That’s what they sang in Flanders, according to Freddie – only they used another word instead of ‘bloomin’’. When he first put on his uniform he was just Freddie, her brother, dressed up in a uniform. But when he came home on leave he looked like a soldier.
Even
when he was out of his uniform he still looked like a soldier.
Raining, raining, raining. They shot you in Flanders for running away. It was letting down the side, Freddie said, and an example had to be made of cowards.
Celandine walked up to the ticket office at Little Cricket station and put down her bag. ‘Second-class single to Town, please,’ she said, ‘half’, and wondered whether she would ever have a nose as red and drippy as that of the ticket man. She hoped not. The sad-eyed clerk looked at her over the top of his spectacles, glancing at the badge on her straw hat before taking a ticket from his board. ‘Going back to school?’ he said. ‘Bit late, aren’t you, miss? Term started weeks ago.’
‘I’ve had scarlet fever.’ Celandine tried not to stare at the drop of moisture at the end of the old man’s nose. ‘I’ve been in quarantine.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the clerk. ‘Quarantine. Over the bridge, then. Platform Two. Next one due in . . .’ he glanced at his pocket watch ‘ . . . thirteen minutes.’
She wandered towards the single lonely bench, painted in cream and brown, that stood next to a tub of flowers halfway down the platform. The cast-iron bench-end was made up of a pattern of interwoven letters – GWR. God’s Wonderful Railway, somebody had once said. What was so wonderful about it? The bench was too wet to sit on and the geraniums in their concrete tub looked shabby and weather-blown.
Celandine thought that perhaps the ticket man might be watching her, and so she pretended to be
interested
in the damp wrinkled poster and the two enamelled advertisements mounted on the wooden fencing behind her. The advertisements told her to take Dr Collis-Brown’s Mixture, and to smoke Craven ‘A’ cigarettes, and the poster informed her that the Women of Britain said ‘Go!’ – meaning that they told their menfolk to go and enlist as soldiers and fight in the war. The women who represented the Women of Britain didn’t look like any women that
she’d
ever seen. Stupid poster. Telling people to go. They hadn’t needed to tell Freddie to go – he had gone of his own accord. Freddie was brave and would never run away, but they had killed him all the same. Killed in action, fighting for King and Country. Just as dead as if he’d been a coward.
It didn’t seem real, though. Celandine could not make it so, and she could not cry for him. Not properly.
She heard the whispering of the rails, and knew that the train was approaching at last. A heavy plume of smoke rose through the dripping trees that obscured the distant bend. Celandine watched as the smoke trail drew nearer – and then a wonderful thing happened. As the engine appeared from behind the trees, the clouds parted and a shaft of brilliant early evening sunshine fell upon the angular boiler, sparkling on the fresh water droplets that had fallen from the trees, making rainbows in the steam, so that the whole train – the little square engine with its grubby coal tender and four cream-and-brown coaches – was transformed into something
shining,
something beautiful. God’s Wonderful Railway.
A sunshine train, towing its own sunshine with it. Through all the bright countries of the world this train might have travelled, scooping up sunlight against days like these, to arrive before her wrapped in splendour, as cheerful as a maypole.
Celandine reached up to turn the brass door handle of the second-class carriage, and felt that this time she
would
succeed, that the sunshine train would take her away from all that was hateful and bring her safely home, at last, to her friends.
It was cramped in the little washroom, and the carriage lurched annoyingly as she tried to balance on one leg in order to unlace her shoe. Celandine leaned against the rounded edge of the tiny sink and managed to remove her uniform, which she then replaced with her gardening clothes – the anonymous muslin blouse and plain brown skirt she wore for duties in the school allotments. Both were a bit grubby and stained, but so much the better, she felt, for now she might pass as a kitchenmaid or a laundry worker, at least until she spoke. Then her accent might give her away, but there was no point in worrying about that for the time being. She delved further into her canvas bag and found the pieces of bread and greengage jam, wrapped in greaseproof paper, that she’d stolen from the staffroom. She had taken some cake as well, but she was saving that. The walk from her school to the station at Little Cricket had made
her
hungry. She rested against the sink and took a mouthful of the slightly squashed and sticky sandwich – but immediately had to steady herself, accidentally biting her tongue as the train began to brake, jerkily. It was pulling into Town station already. This was where her ticket said she should get off.
The washroom windows were frosted glass and Celandine could see nothing but vague shapes and colours, flashes of sunlight turning to deep shadow as the carriage slowed down and finally came to a squeaky halt beneath the overhanging station roof. There was a noise of carriage doors repeatedly slamming, the rumbling grind of the porters’ trolleys, echoing voices, and footsteps shuffling up and down the corridor outside the washroom. Somebody tried the door, rattled the handle a couple of times and then passed on. Celandine looked at her piece of bread and jam, took another cautious bite and chewed slowly, willing the train to start moving again. Come
on
. What were they waiting for? More slamming of
doors.
A long
peep
from the guard’s whistle, and the carriage jerked forward. Celandine gripped the edge of the sink. They were away at last.