The changeling

Well, these stories grow, you know. Someone imagines see something ... and someone else adds a bit ... and here you have your ghost.”

“This was different. Miss Martha changed when her mother came back. She wouldn’t have the garden altered.”

“Is that why you’re here so often ... hoping to see this ghost?”

“I don’t think she would come to me. She doesn’t know me. But I do feel there is something special about this spot, and when I heard the story it made it even more interesting. Mama, do you think it possible?”

She was silent for a few seconds. Then she said: “There are those who say all things are possible. There is a special tie between a mother and her child. It is thought the child is part of oneself ...”

“Is that how you feel about me?”

She turned to me and nodded.

I felt very happy.

“I always shall, my darling,” she said. “Nothing will alter that.” She was telling me that it was just the same as it ever was, and I felt happier than I had for a long time. I began to believe that eventually I might even accept Benedict Lansdon’s intrusion into our lives. I was not like poor Martha. My mother was with me. It was really the same as it had ever been. Nothing could alter that. The next few months flew past. We had now fully settled into Manor Grange and the days had taken on a routine. My mother was deeply immersed in my stepfather’s life; she clearly enjoyed it. Now and then they went to London. I was always asked if I would like to accompany them but sometimes I preferred to stay in the country. Miss Brown said it was better to. She did not like lessons to be interrupted and travelling to and forth must necessarily do that.

I often thought of Cornwall ... so different from Manorleigh country, where the fields were like carefully fitted patches into a quilt; and even the trees looked as though they had been pruned. I rarely saw the strange, twisted and often grotesque shapes I encountered frequently in Cornwall ... those trees which had been victim to the southwest gales. Here in the Manorleigh constituency the little country towns clustered in trees, fae greens, with the church spires rising among the 1 rou|j seemed comfortable, orderly, completely lacking that fey 1’tv which one took for granted in Cornwall. qu, Often thought of Cador - and not without nostalgia. There letters from the grandparents. They were constantly asking when we were going down.

That seemed a remote possibility now. Constituencies had to be nursed and Benedict Lansdon, his eyes on far-off goals, was assiduous in his treatment. And my mother was committed to help him. So it was a question of leaving my mother for my grandparents, or vice versa. At this time I wanted to be with my mother, for since our conversation in the garden I was reaching out for an understanding, and trying hard to cast off my prejudices against my stepfather - which in my heart I was not sure that I wanted to do.

November had come. I thought often of Cornwall. The pool looked eerie at this time of the year when it was often shrouded in mist. I had loved to go there with Miss Brown ... never alone because I felt something fearful might happen to me there. So it had to be Pedrek, my mother or Miss Brown. Then I was disappointed because I did not hear the bells which were supposed to be at the bottom of the water. I was a fanciful child perhaps because my grandfather had told me so many of the legends which abound in Cornwall. In Manorleigh, we were more precise. But at least it had the ghost of Lady Flamstead.

I was in bed one night when my mother came into my room.

‘Not asleep yet?” she said. “Oh good. I have something to tell you.”

I sat up, and she lay on the bed beside me, putting her arm round me as she had done many times before.

“I wanted you to know before it became common knowledge.”

I waited eagerly.

“Rebecca,” she said, wouldn’t you would like a little brother or sister?”

I was silent. I might have guessed that this was a possibility, but I had not done so. It was a complete surprise to me and I was unsure how I felt about it.

“You’d love it, wouldn’t you, Becca?” she repeated appealingly.

“Oh ... you mean ... there is going to be a baby?”

She nodded and turned to me. The radiance was on her. Whatever I felt, it was clear that she wanted this.

“I always felt that you would have liked a little sister, but you wouldn’t mind a brother, would you?”

“Yes ...” I stammered. “Of course ... I’d like that.”

Then I clung to her.

“I knew you’d be delighted,” she said.

I thought about it. Our household would be different. But a brother ... or a sister.

Yes, I did like the thought of it.

“It will be very young,” I said.

“Just at first... as we all were. I am sure it will be a wonderful child but not quite clever enough to jump right into maturity.”

“When will it be ... ?”

“Oh, not for a long time yet. The summer ...June perhaps.”

“And what does he ... ?”