Changeling

My mother nodded and Jenny turned away; walking towards her cottage, she started to sing in her strange unworldly voice.

“It is very sad,” said my mother, when she was out of earshot. “She can never forget that she lost her baby all those years ago.”

“That baby would be the same age as I am now,” I said, “because she thought I was her baby once.”

My mother nodded. “And now she thinks she is going to have another. It is not the first time she has thought this.”

“What happens when she doesn’t?” I asked.

“It is hard to know what goes on in her poor clouded mind. But she does know how to look after a baby. She was wonderful with you during the few days she had you. We couldn’t have looked after you better.”

“But I wanted to come home, didn’t I? When you found me in her cottage I ran to the door, calling for you to take me home.”

My mother nodded again. “Oh, poor, poor Jenny,” she said. “I feel so very sorry for her. We must be as kind to her as we can.”

We were silent, looking at the pool. I was thinking of the days I had spent in Jenny’s cottage, and wishing I could remember more of that time; I was thinking of her ringing toy bells to drive people away so that she could have me to herself.

I felt that poor Jenny was a part of my childhood and I must always be kind and understanding towards her. I knew that was how my mother felt.

I was constantly reminding myself of little incidents from that Last Summer. I remember seeing Jenny often walking along the lanes past the pool to her cottage, singing to herself in that slightly out of tune way which gave her an otherworldliness that was, for me, intriguing.

She seemed happy and her happiness was in constant delusion. She thought she was going to have a child to replace the one which she had lost; it was what she longed for, and in her simple mind she believed that child would be born to her.

It was pathetic, and yet in a way she was happy because she believed in her fantasy.

Another incident I remembered from that summer occurred when I was in the company of my grandmother. We were the greatest of friends; she seemed too young to be a grandmother; she was more like a lively young aunt or an elder sister.

She told me a great deal about my mother. “You must look after her,” she said. “She has had a sad time, you know. She was married to a wonderful man—your father—and he died before you were born and she was all alone.”

She had explained several times that my father had wanted to go to Australia to make a fortune so that we could all come back to England and live in comfort. He had gone to find gold and Pedrek’s parents had been with him and my mother. They had lived in the township which was a very brave thing to do because they were all unused to hardship. Pedrek’s father and mine had been partners. She explained to me how the mines could be quite unsafe; they had to be propped up with wood so that they would not cave in, which was what theirs did. Pedrek’s father had been down in the mine when it happened, and my father went down and brought him up. He had passed him to the watchers on the brink and before they could help my father out, there was a great fall of earth, and he had been taken down with it.

“He gave his life for his friend,” she finished.

“I know,” I replied. “Pedrek’s mother told me. She said Pedrek and I must always remember this and be friends for ever.”

She nodded. “You will,” she said. “I know you will be. And you must love your mother dearly, for when he died … she gave all that love she had had for him to you.”

I understood. It was how I wanted it to be.

On this particular day we walked down to West Poldorey to the ancient church which stood close to the sea. It was small, dating back to Norman times. West Poldorey was very proud of it and East Poldorey a little envious because it wasn’t on their side, for people from far off came to look at it and it was said it should never be allowed to crumble away. There were many bazaars and garden fetes to bolster up its roof which needed constant repair and I heard ominous talk of woodworm and death watch beetle.

I liked to creep in when no one was there and think of all those people who had sat in that church, just as I was doing. My grandfather had said that people had gone in there to pray when the Armada was off our coast and again when Napoleon was threatening to invade us. In the old church—as in Cador—one could easily slip back into the past.

The church door was open and we heard voices inside.

“I know,” said my grandmother. “They are decorating the church with flowers for John Polgarth’s wedding.” John Polgarth was the man who owned the grocer’s shop in East Poldorey, quite a worthy member of the community, and he was to marry Molly Agar, daughter of the butcher.

The wedding was to be the next day.