Road to Paradise Island

THE NIGHT OF THE STORM

On the night of the great storm, our house, like so many in the village, was damaged; and it was due to this that the discovery was made. I was eighteen years old at the time and my brother Philip twenty-three; and in the years to come I was often to marvel at what followed and to speculate how different everything might have been but for the storm.

It came after one of the hottest spells on record when the temperature soared into the nineties, and there was hardly a topic of conversation which did not concern the weather. Two old people and one baby died of it; there were prayers for rain in the churches; old Mrs. Terry, who was ninety and after a frivolous youth and less than virtuous middle age, had taken to religion in her seventies, declared that God was punishing England in general and Little and Great Stanton in particular by starving the cattle, drying up the streams and not providing enough moisture for the crops. The Day of Judgement was at hand, and on the night of the storm even the most sceptical of us were inclined to think that she might have a point.

I had lived all my life in the old Tudor Manor House on the Green, presided over by Granny M. The M stood for Mallory, which was our family name, and she was called Granny M to distinguish her from Granny C—Granny Cresset—for at the time of my mother's death, which coincided with that of my birth, the War of the Grannies had waged.

"They both wanted us," Philip had told me when I was about four and he a knowledgeable nine. That made us feel very important to be so wanted.

Philip told me that Granny C had suggested that she have one of us and Granny M the other—dividing us as though we were two strips of land over which the generals were fighting. It was a long time before I could trust Granny C after that for the person who mattered most in my life was Philip. He had always been there, my big brother, my protector, the clever one, possessed of five glorious years of experience beyond my own. We quarrelled occasionally, but such differences only made me realize more fully how important he was to me, for during the periods of his displeasure I suffered acute misery.

The suggestion of parting us had fortunately aroused the indignation of Granny M.

"Separate them! Never!" had been her battle cry, while she stated with no uncertain emphasis that as the paternal grandmother she had the greater claim. Granny C was at length vanquished and forced to accept the compromise, which entailed brief summer holidays once a year at her home in Cheshire and the occasional day visit, gifts of dresses for me and sailor suits for Philip, stockings and mittens for us both and presents at Christmas and birthdays.

When I was ten years old Granny C had a stroke and died.

"A nice state she would have got us into if she had had the children," I heard Granny M comment to Benjamin Darkin. Old Benjamin was one of the few who ever stood up to Granny M, but he could afford to because he had been at the "shop" from the day he was twelve years old and he knew more about the business of map making than any man alive, so said Granny M.

"The lady can scarcely be blamed for the acts of God, Mrs. Mallory," he said on that occasion with mild reproof; and presumably because he was Benjamin Darkin, Granny M let it go at that.

Granny M behaved as the lady of the manor in Little Stanton, and when she went into Great Stanton, as she did at that time every day, she rode in her carriage with John Barton the coachman and little Tom Terry, a descendant of that prophet of doom, the now virtuous nonagenarian Mrs. Terry, in his place at the back of the carriage.

Philip said, when he was about eighteen and as far as I was concerned the wisest man in Christendom, that people who "Came into things" were often more dedicated to them than those who had been bora into them. What he was implying was that Granny M had not been bora into the squirarchy. She had merely married Grandfather M and thus had become one of the Mallorys who had lived in the Manor House since it had been built in 1573. We knew this because the date was engraved on the stonework on the front of the house. But there could not have been a prouder Mallory than Granny M.

I had never known Grandfather M. He had died before the great Battle of the Grannies had begun.

Granny M managed the village as efficiently and autocratically as she did her own household. She presided over fetes and bazaars and kept our mild vicar and his "woolly-minded" wife in order. She made sure there was a good attendance at morning and evening services, and every servant was expected to be in his or her place at church every Sunday—and if certain essential duties prevented attendance, there must be a rota so that anyone who missed one Sunday must be there the next. Needless to say Philip and I were always present and walked sedately—Sunday fashion—across the Green from the Manor to the church, on either side of Granny M, to take our places in the Mallory pew at the side of which was the stained-glass window depicting Christ in Gethsemane, presented by one of our ancestors in 1632.

But perhaps what claimed Granny NTs greatest devotion was the "shop." It was unusual for squires to be connected with business and pay such respect to a shop. But this was no ordinary shop.

It was a shrine, as it were, to the glory of long-dead Mallorys, for the Mallorys had been great circumnavigators of the globe. They had served their country well since the days of Queen Elizabeth and it was Granny M's conviction that the country owed a great deal of its maritime supremacy to the Mallorys.

A Mallory had sailed with Drake. In the seventeenth century they had also gone off on their adventures; but there was one great interest which set them apart. It was not their determination to capture the ships of enemy Spaniards and Dutchmen, but their fierce desire to chart the world.

They, said Granny M, had carved their name on the world's history, and not merely that of England; they had made navigation easier for hundreds—no, thousands—of great adventurers all over the world; and what these intrepid sailors—and not only sailors but those who explored the terrain of the Earth—owed to Mallory's maps was inestimable.

The "shop" was situated in the main street of Great Stanton. It was an ancient three-storeyed building with two bow windows on the ground floor, one on either side of the stone steps which led up to the front door.

At the back of the shop, across a yard, was another building in which were situated three steam-driven machines. This was forbidden territory unless we were accompanied by an adult. The machines did not greatly interest me but Philip was immensely interested in them.

In one of the bow windows was a great globe painted in the most beautiful blues, pinks and greens, which in my early days had held immense fascination for me. When I was a child and had visited the shop in the company of Granny M, Benjamin Darkin would show me a similar globe which was in the front room and he would twirl it round and round and show me the great blue seas and the land and its boundaries; never hesitating to point out the pink bits on the globe— the parts which were British. Made so, I presumed, by the glorious Mallorys who had made the maps to show the explorers the way.

Philip had been equally excited by visits to the shop and would talk to me about it. We had maps in our schoolroom and when she visited us there, Granny M would ask us questions about the atlas. Geography was a subject which took precedence over all others, and Granny M was delighted by our interest in it.

In the other bow window of the shop there was a huge map of the world. It looked magnificent spread out before us with the continent of Africa on one side and the Americas on the other. The sea was a vivid blue, the land dark brown and green mostly. There were our own islands looking quite insignificant just to the left of the funny-looking tiger which was Scandinavia. But, most glorious of all, was the name of our ancestor written in gold on the right-hand corner: Jethro Mallory 1698.

"When I grow up," said Philip, "I am going to have a boat and I am going to measure up the seas. Then I'll have my name in gold at the bottom of a map."

Granny M overheard that remark and her face was one deep happy smile, for it was just what she intended; and I guessed she was congratulating herself that she had rescued her grandson from the clutches of Granny C who might have tried to make an architect or even a politician of him, for her family had harboured people in these professions.

I learned a little of the family history over the years and discovered that Granny M had never entirely approved of her son's marriage to Flora Cresset. Flora, judging by her portrait which hung in the gallery, had been very pretty but frail, which seemed to have been borne out by her death at my birth; but then so many people died in childbirth— babies too—so that to survive was, in a way, a minor triumph. I said to Philip that it was an indication of the tenacity of women that the human race went on, to which he replied: "You do talk nonsense sometimes."

Philip was more down-to-earth than I was. I was a dreamer, a romancer. He was interested in the practical side of map making, calculations and measurements, and his fingers itched to take up compasses and such scientific instruments. For me it was so different. I wondered who would be living in those remote places. I wondered about their lives; and when I looked at those islands in the midst of the blue tropical seas, I wove all sorts of stories about my going there, living among the people and learning their ways.

We were quite different in outlook—Philip and I. Perhaps that was why we got on so well together. We each supplied something which the other lacked. No doubt because we were motherless-fatherless in a way, although our father was not dead—we had turned to each other.

When my father had brought his bride to the Manor, he was working in the family business. Naturally he had been brought up to it as Philip was being. Perhaps if my mother had not died he would still be there, doing more or less what Granny M wanted him to. But when my mother had died he had been unable to endure life at the Manor. There must have been too many memories. He might well have a dislike for the child who had seized her place in the world at the expense of one who was more greatly loved. However, he decided to go away for a while, to work in Holland with another firm of map makers—just for a short time to enable him to recover from the loss of his wife. Holland was a country which had given birth to some of the leading map makers from the earliest days and Granny M had, at the time, thought it was a good plan to help him recover from his grief and acquire new experience at the same time.

But my father stayed on in Holland and showed no desire to return, and in time he married a Dutch girl, Margareta, whose father was a wealthy export merchant, and to Granny M's disgust my father joined him in his business, deserting the glorious profession of map making for one to which Granny M contemptuously referred as "Commerce." I had half brothers and a sister whom I had never seen.

There was talk about Philip's going over to stay with his father, but Granny M always prevented that. I think she was afraid that Philip might be lured away by the fascination of the export business. So my father settled down with his new family and seemed content to leave his first one in the care of Granny M.

On my eighteenth birthday, which was in May and about three months before the great storm, the governess whom I had had for seven years left, and since I was no longer in need of such services, I knew that Granny M was beginning to think about finding a husband for me. Not one of the young men who were being invited to the house appealed to me so far. Nor did I see romance in such a prosaic charade. There were the Galtons from Great Stanton who had a son, Gerald. They were very wealthy and had interests in London—which was some twenty miles from Great Stanton—and not so far off as to cut Galton pere completely off from his family. Gerald accompanied his father on trips to London where they often spent several weeks, and their visits to the country house were of fairly short duration. Gerald, as a husband, would not be at home a great deal and when I realized that was a point in his favour, I saw at once that he did not fit into my dreams of romance.

There was Charles Fenton, the son of the squire of Marlington—a fox-hunting, shooting, sporty type. Quite jolly, laughing at almost everything, so that one longed for a little gloom in his company. I enjoyed being with both of these young men but the idea of spending my life with them was far from exciting.

Granny M said: "You must learn more social graces, my dear. A young woman has to make a choice sooner or later and choose from what is available. Those who delay the choice too long often find there is nothing to choose from."

Dire warning, which fell on deaf eighteen-year-old ears.

What was wrong with life as it was?

Granny M was more wary about Philip. His wife would be brought into the Manor. She would become a Mallory, whereas when I married I would relinquish that illustrious name. I had no doubt that Granny M had thought with some misgivings of the coming of Flora Cresset into the Manor. True, she had provided Granny M with two grandchildren, but the frailty of Flora had cost Granny her son who now, as Granny M put it, had been "Commandeered by that Dutch woman."

After the marriage she had not had a good word to say for the Dutch.

"But Granny," I reminded her, "you used to say that some of the best map makers came from that part of the world. Some of the earliest explorers... and Mercator himself was Flemish. Think what we owe to him."

Granny M was torn between the pleasure she always felt when I showed interest in the business and her dislike of being contradicted.

"That was long ago. Besides it was a Dutchman who first started buying old black and white maps and colouring them. Then selling them at a great price."

"A practice which those who came after followed to great advantage," I said.

"You are very perverse," said Granny M, but she was not displeased, and she did what she always did when not sure of winning the point—she changed the subject.

She was delighted that I considered it a treat to visit the shop, and on certain afternoons, after lessons in the schoolroom of course, I and my governess would go into Great Stanton where I would spend some very pleasant hours in the shop.

For one thing talking to Benjamin always intrigued me.

His life was maps. Sometimes he took Philip and me over to the building where the printing was done and he would ramble on about modern improvements and how in the old days they had used wood blocks which they called printing in relief because part of the wood was inked and that was transferred to the paper so that it stood out in relief.

"Nowadays," he said proudly, "we use copper."

I was rather bored by the technicalities but Philip would ask innumerable questions about various processes while I stood by not really

listening as I gazed at the maps on the walls. Most of them were copies of those which had been made in the sixteenth, fifteenth and even fourteenth centuries and I would be thinking of those intrepid explorers going to those places for the first time, discovering new lands.

Philip spent a lot of time in the shop and when he was twenty-one and had finished with his education, he was there all day, working with Benjamin, learning about the business. Granny M was delighted with him.

I hated to be left out and Benjamin sensed that. He, like Philip, seemed to be very sorry for me because I had been born a girl, which prevented me from taking an important part in this most fascinating business.

One day Benjamin was talking about the colouring of maps and he said that very soon he believed there would be a breakthrough and we should be putting coloured lithography on the market.

He showed me a print—not a map but a rather sentimental picture of a family scene. It was in colour.

"It was done by a man called George Baxter," said Benjamin. "Just look at those colours. If we could get those into our maps..."

"Why can't you?" I asked.

"He kept his method a great secret. But I have a notion how it was done. I think he used a series of blocks of different colours, but he would have to have had the correct register. It would be more difficult with maps. You see you cannot afford to be a fraction of an inch out. If you were you'd make a country miles bigger or smaller than it actually was. You see the difficulty."

"So you will go on colouring by hand?"

"For the time being, yes. Until we get the breakthrough."

"Benjamin, I could do that."

"You, Miss Annalice? Why, it's not an easy task."

"Now, why should you think because it is difficult I could not do it?"

"Well, you're a young lady."

"Young ladies are not all stupid, Mr. Darkin."

"Well, I wasn't saying that, Miss Annalice."

"Well then, let me try."

The outcome was that I was given a trial. I did well and after a while I was given a real map to colour. How I enjoyed it! That blue, blue sea... a colour I loved. As I worked I could hear the waves pounding on coral beaches. I could see dusky girls with flowers about their necks and ankles; I could see little dark children running naked into the sea, and long canoes cutting through the waves. I was there.

Those were afternoons of adventure. I climbed mountains and crossed rivers; and I wondered all the time what new lands had yet to be discovered.

Benjamin Darkin thought I should get tired of the work but he was wrong. The more I did, the more excited I became about it. Moreover I did it well. They could not afford to spoil those maps by careless colouring. Mine were examined by Benjamin himself and declared to be perfect.

I began to learn something about the art of map making. I studied those maps of the past and I became interested in the men who had made them. Benjamin showed me a copy of Ptolemy's map of the world which had been made round about 150 A.D. and he told me how even the great Ptolemy had learned from Hipparchus who had lived some three hundred years before. I became even more absorbed and spent those magic afternoons dreaming of far-off places and the men who had been there years ago and made their maps so that others could easily find their way.

Granny M came sometimes to watch me at work. There was speculation in her eyes. Her grandchildren were a credit to her—both of them caught up in the fascinating world of maps. She could not have asked anything better. She was a schemer by nature and there was nothing she liked better than managing other people's lives because she was always sure she could do it so much better than they could themselves.

At this time she had made up her mind that Philip should marry a sensible girl who would come to the Manor and bear more Mallorys to continue in the business of map making in Great Stanton and at the same time making sure that squiral status was kept up in Little Stanton. As for myself she was beginning to see that neither Gerald Galton nor Charles Fenton was the man for me. She would wait until she found someone who would fit more neatly into her ideas of suitability.

This was respite for me—to pursue my vicarious adventures in the shop and enjoy life at the Manor.

The Manor was a house full of interest which one was apt to forget having been born in it and lived one's life in it. For one thing it was said to be haunted. There was one dark corner on the second floor where the structure was rather unusual. It was at the end of a corridor which seemed to come to an abrupt termination—almost as though the builder had decided he had had enough of it and wanted to cut it short.

The servants did not like to go along that corridor after dark. They were not sure why. It was just a feeling one had. There was a rumour that someone had been walled up in the house years and years ago.

When I tried to find out something from Granny M, I was told: "Nonsense. No Mallory would be so foolish. It would have been most unhealthy."

"Nuns were walled up sometimes," I pointed out.

"They were nuns—nothing to do with the Mallorys."

"But this was long ago."

"My dear Annalice, it's nonsense. Now I want you to go over to Mrs. Gow and take some of that calf s foot jelly. She's poorly again."

Mrs. Gow had been our housekeeper for many years, and was now living with her son over the builder's yard which was situated between Little and Great Stanton.

I could never fail to admire Granny M who dismissed walled-up ancestors as decisively as she had Granny C.

But I used to wonder about that spot in the corridor. I would go up there after dark and I was sure I felt a sensation—a little frisson... something. Once I imagined that something touched me lightly on the shoulder and I heard a sibilant whisper.

I was trying to create something out of a long-ago rumour just as I dreamed of those coral beaches when I coloured my maps.

I used to go down to visit my mother's grave and make sure that the bushes there were well tended. I often thought about her. I had built up a picture of her from Granny C who had always wept a little when she talked of her Flora. Flora had been beautiful, too good for this world, said her mother. She had been a gentle, loving girl. She had been married at sixteen and Philip had been born a year afterwards so she had been only twenty-two when she died.

I had been able to tell Granny C how very sad I was because it was through me that she had died. That was the sort of thing one could never have said to Granny M who would have immediately retorted: "Nonsense. You knew nothing about it and therefore had no say in the matter. These things happened, and she was a weak creature."

Granny C was more sentimental. She had said that my mother would willingly have given her life for me. But that worried me even more. There is nothing that makes one feel worse than having great sacrifices made for one.

So I had not talked nearly as much as I had wanted to to Granny C about my mother.

However I did visit her grave. I planted a rose bush on it and a rosemary "for remembrance," and I used to go down rather secretly for I did not want even Philip to know of my remorse for having caused her death. Sometimes I would talk aloud to her and tell her that I hoped she was happy where she was and I was so sorry that she had died bringing me into the world.

One day when I was there I went to get some water for the bushes. There was an old pump some way off and a watering pot and jugs. As I turned away from my mother's grave I fell sprawling, for I had caught my foot in a jutting stone. I had grazed my knees a little, but nothing much, and as I was about to pick myself up I examined the stone which had been the cause of my fall, and I saw that it was part of a curb.

I delved beneath the weeds and discovered that it was part of a surround of a plot which must have been a grave. I wondered whose it was. I had always thought that piece of land was waste ground. Yet it was among the Mallory graves.

I set to work pulling up the tangled growth and there it was—a grave. There was no headstone, otherwise that would have betrayed its existence. But there was a plate on the grave. It was dirty and the letters were almost obliterated.

I went to the pump and brought back water. I had an old rag with me which I used to wipe my hands on after I had watered the plants, and with this I washed the grime from the plate.

I started back with dismay and I felt a shiver run down my spine for the name on the plate might have been my own.

"Ann Alice Mallory. Died the Sixth Day of February 1793. Aged eighteen years."

I was Annalice, it was true, and on the plate there was a division and a capital letter for Alice ... but the similarity shocked me.

For a few seconds I had the uncanny feeling that I was looking at my own grave.

I stood for a few moments staring at it. Who was she—lying there silent for ever among the Mallory dead?

I went back to the Manor. Normality returned. Why should not one of my ancestors have a name like mine? Names continued through families. Ann Alice. And Annalice. Eighteen years. She had been just about my age when she had died.

At dinner that night I said to Granny M, "I saw a grave in the cemetery today which I hadn't seen before ..."

She was not very interested.

I looked at Philip. "It was someone with my name ... or as near as makes no difference."

"Oh," said Philip. "I thought you were the one and only Annalice."

"This one was Ann Alice Mallory. Who was she, Granny?"

"Ann is a name that has been used a great deal in the family. So is Alice."

"Why did you call me Annalice?"

"I chose it," said Granny M, as though it was therefore the best

possible choice and that settled the matter. "It was because there were so many Anns and Alices in the family. I thought either name a little commonplace, but as you were a Mallory I combined the two and made something which you must admit is somewhat unusual."

"As I said," put in Philip, "the one and only."

"This grave has been neglected."

"Graves do become so after the occupant has been dead some time."

"Nearly a hundred years ago she was buried."

"That is a long time to be remembered," said Philip.

"It was a queer feeling... finding the name under all the weeds and then ... my own almost... looking up at me."

"I must go and look for a Philip there," said my brother.

"There are Philips, several of them."

"You have this morbid fancy to read the gravestones, I know," said Philip.

"I like to think about them all... all the Mallorys... people who have lived in this house before us... people who are connected with us... in a way ... a long line of our progenitors."

"It is pleasant to know you have such family feeling," said Granny M crisply and thereby dismissing the subject.

But I could not get Ann Alice Mallory out of my mind. I suppose because she had been more or less my age when she had died and she bore a name which was almost my own.

The next time I went to the cemetery to clear the grave of its weeds I asked one of the gardeners to give me a bush to plant there. He scratched his head and said that it wasn't the time for planting. But he gave me a rose bush and I said that I wanted rosemary as well.

"It'll never take," he said morosely.

If they didn't I would plant others, I told myself. I planted the bushes and cleaned the plate. The grave looked quite different now, as though someone cared about Ann Alice Mallory.

I thought about her often. She had probably been born in the Manor; she would no doubt have lived there for eighteen years; and she had my name. She might have been myself.

She intruded into my thoughts. It was rather uncanny.

She had died in 1793. That was not quite a hundred years ago. What would life have been like here then? Very much the same as now, probably. Life in country villages had not changed very much. Great events would be taking place in the outside world. The French Revolution would be in progress and the very year of Ann Alice's death the King and Queen of France would have been executed.

There would be nobody living now who knew Ann Alice. Even

Mrs. Tern-would not have been born when she died —although she came into the world soon after. Mrs. Gow was seventy-nine: she might have heard some tale from her parents. They might have known her.

When I next visited Mrs. Gow I decided to bring up the subject.

Mrs. Gow had been our housekeeper for forty years. She had become a widow when she was twenty-eight and had taken the post then.

The Gows were, as Mrs. Gow herself would have said. "A cut above" the rest of our working community. They had been superior for a long time, owning their building and carpentering business, which served not only the needs of Little and Great Stanton but the surrounding neighbourhood as well.

There had always been an air of superiority about Mrs. Gow as there was about all the Gows. It was as though they must perpetually remind everyone that they were made of superior clay.

I remembered Mrs. Gow from my childhood—a stately, dignified figure in black bombazine, whom both Philip and I held in a certain awe.

Even later I felt I had to defer to her. Once I asked Granny M why even she treated Mrs. Gow with such respect.

"What is it about Mrs. Gow?" I asked. "Why do we have to be so careful with her?"

"She's a good housekeeper."

"She sometimes behaves as though she owns the Manor."

"Good servants feel this loyalty." Granny M was thoughtful for a few moments, then she said as though she had started to wonder herself: "The Gows have always been respected in this house. They've got money . . . We're lucky to have a woman like Mrs. Gow. We must remember that she does not depend on the post for her living as so many do."

There was evidently something about the Gows. Granny M always made sure that she gave Mrs. Gow little luxuries. She would not have accepted the ordinary gifts which came the way of the deserving poor—blankets and coal at Christmas and so on. For Mrs. Gow the brace of pheasants, the calf s foot jelly ... the gifts of a friend ... or almost. Mrs. Gow was not gentry: but nor was she of the sen-ant class: she hovered confidently between the two. After all. her father-in-law and her husband —when they had been alive —had been master craftsmen. And William Gow. Mrs. Gow's only son. was now carrying on the flourishing business.

I decided I would call on Mrs. Gow and see if I could learn anything about Ann Alice.

Having delivered the marzipan fancies which I had prevailed upon cook to make and which I knew were special favourites with Mrs. Gow, I seated myself on a chair near the sofa where Mrs. Gow reclined, Recamier fashion, and began my interrogation.

I said: "I was in the cemetery the other day visiting my mother's grave."

"A dear sweet lady," commented Mrs. Gow. "I shall never forget the day she left us. How long ago was it?"

"Eighteen years," I said.

"I always said she'd never get through it. Too frail, she was. The prettiest thing you ever saw. He thought the world of her."

"You mean my father. You must remember a long way back, Mrs. Gow"

"I've always had a good memory."

"I found a grave in the cemetery. A very neglected one. I cleaned up the stone a little and it was someone who had almost my name. Ann Alice Mallory. She died in 1793 when she was eighteen years old."

Mrs. Gow puffed her lips. "That's going back a bit."

"Nearly a hundred years. I wonder if you ever heard anything about her?"

"I'm not a hundred yet, Miss Annalice."

"But you have such a good memory and perhaps someone told you something about her."

"I didn't come to these parts till I married Tom Gow."

"I wondered whether anyone in the family had ever mentioned anything."

"My Tom was older than me and he wasn't born till 1808 so that would be well after she was dead, wouldn't it? Funny you should mention that date. I've often heard it spoken of in the family."

"The date?"

"When did you say she died. 1793? Well, that was the year we started up our business. I've always noticed it. It's over the Gow yard. It says Founded 1793. That's it. So it was the same time."

I was disappointed. Mrs. Gow was far more interested in the achievements of Gow's, Builders and Carpenters, than in the occupant of my grave. She went on at length about how busy her son William was and that he was thinking of handing over a lot to his son Jack. "You have to give them responsibility. That's what William says. It just shows you, Miss Annalice, what reliable good work can do for you. Everyone knows that it's Gow's for the best workmanship and I'd like to hear anyone contradict that."

I could see that I was unlikely to discover anything from Mrs. Gow; and I decided it was worth having a try with Mrs. Terry.

I found her in bed.

"Oh, it's you," she said, her greedy eyes looking into my basket to see what I had brought.

"This heat don't let up, does it?" She shook her head. "Well, they've brought it on themselves. Do you know they was dancing in the barn last Saturday ... and carrying it on over midnight into the Sabbath. What can you expect? Then they ask me, What about the drought, eh? What about the cattle? What about the grass all being dried up?"

"Why should they ask you, Mrs. Terry?"

"Why indeed. They should look into their own souls, that they should. It's a judgement and there'll be worse to come if they don't stop their evil ways. Repent, I tell them, while there's time."

"Did you ever hear anything of an Ann Alice Mallory?"

"Ah? What? That's you, ain't it?"

"No. I'm Annalice. This is Ann Alice ... two separate names."

"I always thought it was outlandish. Why couldn't they call you plain Ann or Alice like the rest. What did they want to muddle them up for and give you two in one. Ann was a name you heard a lot up at the Manor. So was Alice."

"I'm asking about the two together. Ann Alice."

"No, I can't say I ever heard that."

"You're ninety, Mrs. Terry. Isn't that wonderful."

"It's the godly life that does it."

She had the grace to lower her eyes. Her godliness had only been in existence for twenty years and I had heard it said that Mrs. Terry after the death of Jim Terry at sea—and even when he was alive during his absences—had not been averse to what was known in the locality as "A little bit of the best" on a Saturday night behind the bushes or even in her own cottage.

"It must be," I said, looking innocent as though I had never heard of these clandestine activities, for I was anxious to keep in her good graces. "I found a grave in the cemetery. Ann Alice Mallory. It looked like my name and it gave me a shiver to think that when I die my grave will be rather like that."

"Mind you're not took sharp with all your sins upon you."

"I wasn't thinking so much of that."

"That's the trouble nowadays. Young people—they don't think. I've made my Daisy promise that when I go, she'll have the parson there just to help me over ... not that I'll need it."

"Oh no. You'll be certain of your place in heaven; and I bet you they'll send a company of angels to escort you there."

She closed her eyes nodding.

I felt very disappointed. Nobody seemed to know anything about Ann Alice. And yet Mrs. Terry must have been born soon after her death. She was a local girl who had lived in the neighbourhood all her life. Surely the name must have been mentioned. I had never yet known a villager who was not interested in what was going on at the Manor.

"Mrs. Terry," I said, "the lady in the grave must have died just before you were born. Did you never hear any mention of her?"

"No. It was something that wasn't spoken of."

"Wasn't spoken of? Do you mean it was a forbidden subject?"

"Oh. I don't know about that."

"Do you remember anyone talking about anything during your childhood?"

"Well, it was always the Gows. That's who they used to talk about. The Gows being stuck up and all that... and getting on and having their own business... That's what they used to talk about. My mother would say, 'Look at Mrs. Gow. Her and her purple bonnet... walking into church like a lady. Nobody would think that a few years back they was nothing... just like the rest of us.'"

"Oh yes," I said a trifle impatiently, "we know the Gows got on."

"Oh, it wasn't always like that ... so I heard."

"They've been going for a long time. Since 1793 it says over their sheds. Founded 1793. I saw it the other day. That was the year this lady died."

"One goes to glory and one makes all the money and gets ideas about being better than the rest of us folks."

"So you don't remember ..."

Mrs. Terry said: "There was talk ... no, I can't remember. Something about one of the ladies up at the Manor. She died sudden, I think."

"Yes, Mrs. Terry, yes."

Mrs. Terry shrugged her shoulders.

I prompted: "You must have heard something."

"I don't know. People die. It's to be hoped they've had time to repent before they're taken."

She sighed and then was off on the subject of the Gows again.

" Tweren't right. There was a lot of talk about that. Couldn't do nothing wrong, them Gows. I remember way back ... I couldn't have been much more than a nipper. Caught he was. What was his name? Dashed if I can remember. Tom I think. That was it. Tom Gow. Caught redhanded with the pheasant in his jacket... poaching. Brought up before the magistrate he was... and what happens? The Gows go to the master and before anyone can say Jack Robinson, there's Poacher Gow strutting about the place as proud as two peacocks. Got

off scot free. What do you think of that? There's favouritism for you. Wasn't right. People don't like it. It seemed the master would do anything for them Gows."

"That must have been years ago," I said impatiently for I was not interested in the triumph of the Gows.

"Well," she went on, "as I said I wasn't no more than a nipper ... But it was always like that. The Gows has always had the Manor behind them. That's what folks said."

"Well, they have done very well. I suppose they must be admired for that."

"Helped on ... so it was said."

"It is also said that God helps those who help themselves. You should know being on somewhat more intimate terms with the Almighty than the rest of us."

Irony was lost on her. She nodded sagely and said: "That's so."

I took my leave of her then, realizing that I was not going to discover anything about Ann Alice Mallory from her.

I told Philip about it.

"Why the interest?" he asked. "Just because she has a name like yours?"

"It's a feeling I have."

Philip was always sceptical about my feelings. He laughed at me.

"What about going for a ride?" he asked.

I loved riding with him and I accepted the invitation with alacrity; but I could not get Ann Alice out of my mind. I kept thinking of the mysterious young woman in the forgotten grave.

The heat intensified. There was a stillness in the air which seemed ominous.

Everyone said: It's too hot to work, too hot to move, too hot to breathe almost.

It will break soon, they said. My goodness we need the rain.

I felt frustrated out of all reason because my efforts to discover something about the woman who was haunting my dreams were proving to be so disappointing. Mrs. Gow was clearly too young to remember and Mrs. Terry was so obsessed by her envy of the Gows that she could not concentrate on the matter. Where else could I look?

Why did I care? Why should it seem so important just because I had found her grave and she had a name similar to mine and had been more or less the same age as I was when she had died? Why was she perpetually in my thoughts? It was almost as though she were a living presence. It was typical of me to concern myself with such a matter,

Philip said. What could it matter what had happened to the girl now? She was dead, wasn't she?

She was unhappy, I thought. I sense it. It's in the house. It was round her grave.

Why was her grave neglected? The others were not. It was as though someone had buried her and wanted to forget.

That afternoon it was too hot to go out walking or riding. I stretched out on a chair in the garden in the shade, listening to the bees. The lavender was almost depleted now; the blooms had been gathered and made into sachets for drawers and cupboards so the busy little insects were at work on the purple blossoms of the veronica. Idly I watched a dragonfly flit across the pond over which Hermes was poised as though in flight. I caught a flash of gold as the fish swam round in the pond. There was a stillness everywhere as though all nature was tense ... waiting for something to happen.

The quiet before the storm, I thought.

The heat continued through the afternoon. We sat about languidly after dinner. Granny M said it had been too hot for her to go into Great Stanton today. I agreed with her.

We retired early. The heat made sleep difficult, and it was about two o'clock in the morning when the storm broke. I was only half-asleep and was immediately startled into wakefulness by the violent crash of thunder which seemed right over my head. I sat up in bed. So the long-threatened storm was upon us.

A flash of lightning brightened the room to be followed immediately by another heavy clap of thunder.

The sky seemed ablaze. I had never seen such lightning. I heard movements in the house and I gathered that some of the servants were stirring.

Thunderstorms were not very frequent and when they came were usually soon over. This one was right overhead and the crashes were following fast on one another.

I got up and put on my dressing gown and slippers and as I did so I heard the loudest crash so far. I stood very still, my heart beating fast.

Then I heard it again ... right upon us. I could hear the sound of falling masonry.

I ran out into the corridor. Philip was there.

"Something's been struck," he said.

"You mean ... the house."

"I don't know."

Another crash, then another and another.

Granny M appeared.

"What's happened?" she demanded.

"We don't know yet," said Philip. "I thought the house had been struck."

"Well, we'd better find out."

Some of the servants had arrived.

"Mr. Philip thinks we may have been struck," said Granny M. "Don't panic. It can't be much. We'd soon know if it was. Oh!"

That was another clap right overhead.

"Philip... and you, Jennings." She indicated the butler who had just arrived on the scene. "You'd better go and look. Where do you think it could be?"

"I'd say the roof, Mrs. Mallory," said Jennings.

"The rain will be pouring in somewhere," said Philip. "Better find out quickly."

I could hear the rain lashing against the windows as Philip with Jennings and others went running up the stairs.

Granny M and I followed.

I heard a shout. It was Philip. "The roofs damaged," he said.

I could smell burning, but there was no fire. The rain would quickly have put that out. Water was pouring into the corridor.

Granny M was calm and in charge of the situation. Receptacles of all kinds were brought up to catch the rain. There was such a bustle and excitement that the storm was forgotten. It continued to thunder on.

One of the housemaids though was having hysterics.

"She always does, Miss, for thunder," one of the maids told me. "It's on account of her auntie shutting her in a cupboard when she was five and telling her it meant God was angry and punishing the world..."

Two of the maids went off to succour their hysterical companion.

Jennings was as calm as Granny M. He investigated the damage and said: "Nothing can be done till tomorrow, Mrs. Mallory. Then we'll have to call in Gow's."

The storm persisted for an hour and during that time we were emptying buckets of rainwater and doing our best to prevent further damage. It was a great relief when it stopped raining and the deluge in the receptacles was reduced to drips.

"What a night," said John Barton who had come in from his rooms over the stables to give a hand.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Mallory," said Jennings. "It's not as bad as I first thought. I'll go along to Gow's just as soon as they are opened."

"And now," said Granny M, "I think we should have something really warm. Some hot punch I think. Will you see to that, Jennings.

For the family in my sitting room, please, and see that it is served in the kitchen too."

So we sat in Granny M's room listening to the faint rumbling of thunder in the distance, sipping hot punch, and telling each other that this was a night we should always remember.

In the morning William Gow came to assess the damage. One other house on the Green had been struck, he told us. People were saying it was the worst storm for a hundred years.

William Gow was up on the roof for some time and when he came down he looked grave.

"Worse than I thought," he said. "There'll be quite a bit of work to be done... apart from the roof repairs, and you know, Mrs. Mallory, how hard it is to find the right tiles for these old houses. They've got to be medieval and yet they've got to be sound. It's not only that, though. Some of the woodwork has been damaged. That will have to be replaced."

"Very well, Mr. Gow," said Granny M. "Just let me know what."

"Well, I wanted to look at the panelling in that part where the damage has been done. Some of it will have to be made good. Otherwise it's going to rot and break away."

"Make a thorough examination," said Granny. "And then we'll discuss it."

He spent the whole morning climbing about, tapping and examining.

I went out walking round the village. Many of the bushes had been beaten down but there was a smell of freshness in the air. There were puddles everywhere and the entire village seemed to be out and determined to hear the latest news.

I could not resist calling on Mrs. Terry. She was sitting up in bed with the air of an ancient prophet.

"What a storm, and can you wonder! I sat up in bed saying, 'Let them have it, O Lord. It's the only way of learning these here sinners.'"

I thought of the housemaid who at five had been shut in the cupboard and told the storm was due to God's anger and it occurred to me that the righteous could cause a great deal of trouble in the world.

"I am sure the Almighty was glad of the advice," I couldn't resist saying acidly.

"They say the Manor has been struck," went on Mrs. Terry, ignoring that remark. "The roof, wasn't it?" I fancied I detected a disappointment that the damage had not been greater. "And the Carters, too. Their place was hit. Well, they will go gadding about.

And do you know they bought that Amelia of theirs a gold locket and chain. At her age."

"And the damage to their home is the wages of the sin of gadding about and buying a gold locket?"

"I don't know. People get their just deserts. That's what it says in the Bible."

"Does it? Where?"

"Never you mind where. It just does, that's it."

"Well, I'm glad you survived, Mrs. Terry."

"Oh, I knew I'd be all right."

"Special protection from Heaven. But the righteous don't always escape. Think of the saints and the martyrs."

But Mrs. Terry was not going to be drawn into a theological controversy.

She merely murmured: "This will be a lesson to them... perhaps."

When I arrived back at the house I went upstairs to see how William Gow and his assistant were getting on.

I met him in the corridor which I always called the haunted spot.

He said: "I've been looking at this wall, Miss Annalice. The damp got through here. Look at this." He touched it. "I don't reckon that's safe," he went on.

"What do you propose?"

"I reckon we should take down this wall. I can't understand what it's doing here. The panelling isn't quite the same quality as the rest of the corridor."

"I am sure my grandmother will agree that you should do what you think best."

He tapped the wall and shook his head.

"It's a bit odd," he said. "I'll speak to Mrs. Mallory."

There was a great deal of talk about the restoration necessary after the storm. The damage had not been so very great but, as in all such cases, more work was going to be required than I had at first thought. The roof was of paramount importance and that was dealt with immediately and then William Gow and his men started on the inside of the house.

I was interested in that wall which had to be taken down because it was in that corridor which some of the servants said was haunted, and which I myself had thought to have a strangeness about it; and on the day when the men started on it I contrived to be in the house.

I went up to watch them at work and that was how I happened to be the first one to step into that room.

None of us could believe our eyes.

There was a great deal of dust and plaster; in fact it made a kind of mist, but there it was... actually a room ... looking as though someone had just left it expecting to return at any moment.

William Gow cried: "Well, I never did in all my born days."

His assistant murmured: "Holy Moses!"

I just stared and a great excitement possessed me.

I cried: "So it really was walled up. There is something extraordinary about this. There must be a reason."

I stepped in.

"Be careful," said William Gow. "This place must have been shut up for a good many years. The air will be none too good. Best wait a bit, Miss Annalice."

"What an extraordinary thing!" I cried. "It looks as though someone has just walked out and left it."

"I should keep away from all that dust, Miss Annalice. Could be nasty. Leave it for a while. Let the air get in. We'll take away the whole of this wall, Bill. It's the strangest thing I ever saw."

My impatience was so great that I had to get into that room, but I did curb my impatience for half an hour. I hung about waiting, every now and then asking if I could go in. At length William Gow said that the dust had settled and the fresh air had penetrated the place a little; and he and I went in together.

It was not a large room, which was the reason why it was possible to hide it, I supposed. It contained a bed. There were hangings on the bed of blue velvet—at least that was the colour they appeared to be, for it was hard to see under the layer of dust. The carpet on the floor was dark blue. There was a small chest of drawers, two chairs and a dressing table. Lying in a chair was a lace fichu and a pair of gloves. I stared at them in wonder. The impression was that someone had been living here right until the last moment when it was decided to shut it away and whoever had occupied the room had not had time to put her fichu away or pick up her gloves. It was a woman, that much was clear—providing of course the articles belonged to her. And it was a woman's room. I was sure of that. There was a certain femininity about it. The dressing table had a frilled flounce; and lying on it was a hand mirror ready to be picked up.

William Gow was beside me.

"There was a window there," he said.

"Of course. A window. There would have to be a window."

"Blocked in," he said. "Looks like a job that was done at top speed."

I turned to stare at him.

"What a strange discovery," I said. "Who would want to block up a room like this?"

He shrugged his shoulders. He was not a very imaginative man.

I went on: "I should have thought they would have cleared out the furniture first."

He did not answer. His eyes had caught something in the wood he had just pulled down.

"What is it?" I asked.

"It's the mark."

"What mark?"

"Gow's mark."

"Where?"

He showed me. It was a tiny carving of a squirrel sitting up with a nut in its paws, its bushy tail sticking up behind.

I looked at him questioningly and he went on: "A Gow put up that panel that shut off the room. Must have been my grandfather. He always had that mark. We put it on our woodwork still. It's been passed down through the family."

"Well, I suppose that would have been the case. Your family have been doing carpentering here for generations."

"It gives you a bit of a shock like," said William Gow.

I thought that was a mild way of expressing it, but I was not interested in the carving. I was overcome by the adventure of finding the room, wondering whose room it had been, and why people had thought it necessary to shut it away. It was not easy to remove a room. There was only one way of doing it. Shut it in. Wall it in. Make it as though it had never been.

When Granny M heard what had happened she was amazed. I went up with her and William Gow to examine the room again. What struck her as so strange was that they should not have removed the furniture before walling up the room. "And why," she said to me, "did they not simply lock it up if they did not want to use it any more?

"The Mallorys could behave very extraordinarily at times," she went on, gently releasing herself from the family which she did very rarely. It was only when their actions were slightly less than exemplary that she disowned them temporarily.

"There must have been a reason," I said.

"That is something we shall never know," replied Granny M. "Now what's to be done. I think first we should examine the furniture. Did you say there was a window at one time? Well, we can put that back for a start. And this furniture ... I should imagine it has been ruined after being shut up like this. For how long? Who can say?

Certainly it has always been shut away in my time. We'll get them clearing it at once."

William Gow said: "Begging your pardon, Mrs. Mallory, but it should be left for a day or two. Let the air in. Could be unhealthy ... if you see what I mean."

"Very good. Let the air in. All right. Let everyone know that they are not to go in here until they are given my permission. I expect there'll be a lot of talk about this. Tell them it is not an exhibition."

"That's right, Mrs. Mallory," said William Gow. "And anyone coming in should take a bit of care. I don't know what the woodwork and the floor will be like after all them years."

"We'll leave it till you say, Mr. Gow."

"I'd like to have a thorough examination first, Mrs. Mallory. I'd like to make sure it's quite safe before anything much is moved."

"It shall be so."

I went down with Granny M. Philip was there. He had to see the room and that evening we talked of little else but what had just been revealed.

I lay in bed. I could not sleep. The discovery had excited me more than any of them. Why? I kept asking myself. What an extraordinary thing to do. Why go to so much trouble to wall up a room? As Granny M had said, Why not simply lock it?

I could not get it out of my mind. Every detail seemed to be imprinted on my memory. The bed with its velvet curtains... grey with the years of dust. Cobwebs draped from the ceilings, I remembered. I kept seeing the dressing table with the mirror, the chair with the fichu and the gloves on it. Had she just taken them off or was she about to put them on? The chest of drawers... I wondered what might be in those drawers.

I tossed and turned. In the morning I would go and look. What harm could that do? I would be careful. What was William Gow suggesting? That the floor might give way? That I might be poisoned by foul air?

I was suddenly obsessed by the desire to go and see for myself. Why not? I looked up at the ceiling... up the stairs... along the corridor.

My heart started to beat uncomfortably fast. A little shiver ran through me. I half believed in the servants' talk that it was haunted, and now that this was revealed it seemed even more likely.

Wait till morning, said my cowardly self.

But of course it was a challenge. Besides, how could I sleep with my thoughts going round and round in my head, asking myself Why? Why?

Deliberately I got out of bed, thrust my feet into slippers and put on my dressing gown. My fingers were shaking a little as I lighted a candle.

I opened my door and listened. The house was very quiet.

I started to mount the stairs, pausing on each step, thankful because I knew the place so well that I was fully aware of the position of creaking boards.

I was in the corridor now. I could see there was still a haze of dust. I could smell the peculiar smell like nothing I had known before ... the smell of age, of damp, of something not quite of this world.

I stepped over a broken piece of wood. I was in the room.

I let the light fall over the walls and ceiling. In candlelight the stains stood out more than they had before. Then I had seen the room through the daylight which came from a window in the corridor. What were the stains on the wall just by the bed ... and on the other wall too? I lifted my candle. Yes, and on the ceiling?

I almost turned and ran.

I felt that this room held a terrible secret. Frightened as I was, the urge to remain was stronger than my fear, not exactly forcing me to stay, but begging me to.

Perhaps I imagined that afterwards. And yet I believed that something... someone ... had called me up here on this night... that I was to be the one to discover.

I stood for what seemed like minutes but which could only have been seconds, looking about the room, and my eyes kept coming back to those stains on the walls and ceiling.

"What does it mean?" I whispered.

I was silent, listening, as though I expected an answer.

I took a cautious step forward. I was very much aware of the chest of drawers.

Some impulse led me over to it. I put my candle on the top of it and tried to open the top drawer. It was stiff and difficult to open, but I worked hard at it and suddenly it began to move.

There was something in it. I bent down. A small hat of grey chiffon with a little feather in the front held in place by a jewelled pin; and beside it another hat trimmed with marguerites.

I shut the drawer. I felt I was prying and it seemed to me that somewhere in this strange room in the dead of night, eyes were watching me and I had an uncanny feeling that they were willing me to go on.

I shut the drawer quickly and as I did so I noticed that from the second drawer something was protruding slightly—as though that drawer had been shut in a hurry. I tried to open it and after a little difficulty I succeeded. There were stockings, gloves and scarves. I put in my hand and touched them. They felt very cold and damp. They repelled me in a certain way. Go back to your bed, my common sense urged me. What do you think you are doing here in the middle of the night? Wait and explore with Philip and Granny M tomorrow. What would she say if she knew I had already been here. "You have disobeyed orders. William Gow said it might not be safe. The floor could give way at any moment."

I had taken out some of the things and as I was putting them back, my fingers touched something. It was a piece of parchment rolled up like a scroll. I unrolled it. It was a map. I glanced at it hastily. It looked like several islands in a vast sea.

I rolled it up and as I was putting it back my hand touched something else.

Now my heart was racing more wildly than ever. It was a large leatherbound book and on the cover was embossed the word Journal.

I put it on the top of the chest and opened it. I gave a little cry, for written on the flyleaf were the words Ann Alice Mallory for her sixteenth birthday May 1790.

I clutched the side of the chest feeling suddenly dizzy with the shock of my discovery.

This book belonged to the girl in the forgotten grave!

I don't know how long I stood there staring down at that open page. I was overwhelmed. I felt that some supernatural force was guiding me. I had been led to uncover the grave and now ... the book.

With trembling fingers I turned the pages. They were full of small but legible handwriting.

I believed then that I had the key to the mystery in my hands. This was the girl who had been buried in the grave and forgotten, the possessor of the jaunty hats in the drawer, the fichu, the gloves. And she was Ann Alice Mallory—my namesake.

There was something significant in this. I had been led to this discovery. I had the feeling that she was watching me, this mysterious girl in her grave, that she wanted me to know the story of her life.

I picked up the journal and turned to leave the room. Then I remembered the map which I had put back in the drawer. I took it out, and picking up my candle walked cautiously from the room.

Reaching my bedroom, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the dressing room mirror. My eyes looked wild and my face very pale. I was still trembling a little, but a great excitement possessed me.

I looked at the journal which I had placed on my dressing table. I

unrolled the map. There was an expanse of sea and a group of islands to the north and then some distance away another island ... all alone. There was some lettering close to it. I peered at it. It was small and not very clear. I made out the words Paradise Island.

I wondered where it was. I would show it to Philip and Benjamin Darkin. They would know.

But it was the journal which I was eager to read.

Somewhere a clock struck one. I would not sleep tonight I was sure. I would not rest until I knew what was in that journal.

I lighted another candle and taking off my dressing gown and slippers got into bed. Making a rest for my back with pillows, I opened the journal and began to read.