Albion Imperilled

A Fairytale for Grownups…

By Ruth Thomas

© Jennifer Knuckles, 2013

Published by Titania Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, adapted, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the author.  The rights of Jennifer Knuckles to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-9574421-2-2 (epub)

ISBN 978-0-9574421-3-9 (mobi)

Cover photograph by Dreamstime Images

© Honourableandbold | Dreamstime.com

Contents

Chapter 1 – Mortimers Club (2001)

Chapter 2 – Ermentrude’s Castle

Chapter 3 - Brocklebank School (1959)

Chapter 4  – Laurel Grove (2001)

Chapter 5 – Beechwood (1959)

Chapter 6 – The Sinister Woods

Chapter 7 – Troll Mountain

Chapter 8 – The Pink Citadel

Chapter 9 – Blind Badgers’ Buff

Chapter 10 – The Winged Chariot

Chapter 11 - Philip’s Progress (2001)

Chapter 12 - Metropolitan Blues (2001)

Chapter 13  – Lost in Wales (2001)

Chapter 14 – A Call To Arms (1959)

Chapter 15 – The Battle of the Trees

Chapter 1 – Mortimers Club (2001)

It was one of those miserable wet days in March when you couldn’t get a taxi in central London even if you stripped off and waved a wad of twenties in the air. God knows, Laurence had tried for the past half hour, screaming himself hoarse into the bargain and dodging the outstretched hands of importunate beggars from all corners of the globe. He was soaking wet and in a filthy temper: one cabbie had just given him a two-fingered salute as the wheels of his empty vehicle had splashed through a puddle half a foot deep, thoroughly drenching him. He had an important meeting that afternoon with an overseas client with assets of more than five million to invest, and had been hoping to have time to nip across town so they could lunch in style at his club in the West End but this was now out of the question. It had taken him the best part of an hour to get as far as Covent Garden by tube, at which point he had disembarked in disgust. Most of his colleagues sent out for sandwiches or patronised the local ethnic restaurants. One of the younger female fund managers had brightly suggested to Laurence that, if he liked, he could join them for lunch at a new Japanese restaurant that had just opened down the road.

“No thanks” Laurence had muttered. Raw fish was not really his cup of tea: a Sushi bar was hardly Simpsons on the Strand. Aside from that, he considered it infradig to fraternise with junior members of staff. Laurence was very conscious of where he fitted into the hierarchy and didn’t care to be on first name terms with anyone except Neville, the other senior partner. With four years’ seniority over Laurence, Neville had a more easygoing and affable disposition – chiefly because he was adept at avoiding confrontation and at offloading anything vaguely unpleasant onto Laurence.

“You coming, Hasan?” Emily had enquired of a youngish Asian who had recently joined the firm of stockbrokers. The latter generally took himself off to a local takeaway and reappeared with something hot and spicy, which he demolished in front of his computer screen. She was always trying to include him so that he didn’t feel left out. Laurence got the impression that James was not so keen and would rather have had Emily all to himself. James was an over-cocky ex-sales rep who had the undeserved reputation of being a financial whiz-kid. Incredibly, his surname was Bond so it was hardly surprising that the office manager, Dinah Crawford, was inevitably dubbed Moneypenny. James owned a flashy Porsche and had patent designs on Emily, a pretty Oxbridge graduate who gave him ample encouragement and really ought to have had more sense.

“Have you been to that place called School Dinners, Laurence?” Emily had enquired archly, one eyebrow raised. “Apparently, the waitresses dress up as Matron and rap you over the knuckles with a ruler if you misbehave. Men love it”

“No I haven’t” snapped Laurence. The place she’d mentioned catered for stag parties and other rowdy groups. Emily and James had tittered amongst themselves when they thought him safely out of earshot.

“He really is a scream”

“A walking anachronism” agreed James, chortling. Laurence was well aware that the other staff speculated freely about him behind his back. Only yesterday he’d heard an exchange between James and Emily by the coffee machine, which happened to be just outside his office. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s one of those Masons. Funny handshakes and all that, know what I mean? I saw this documentary about how they have to wear aprons and kiss each others’ backsides. I’m telling you, Em, it gives me the creeps. My mum warned me about types like him” Laurence gritted his teeth as he heard Emily giggle.

“Oh, I think his bark’s worse than his bite” Emily had said in his defence. Laurence had tried not to eavesdrop but his door was slightly ajar, and he couldn’t very well get up from his desk and close it now that they were in full flow. “I mean, how is he supposed to be able to relate to women when you consider the type of boarding school he went to. Besides, I think he’s rather sweet”

“SWEET? Pervy Purvis? You must be off your tree. Women!” snorted James. “Two sugars, please. Stop making excuses for the boring old fart” added James, as they both disappeared down the corridor. Laurence was left fuming. That toe-rag would still be pushing a barrow in the East End instead of swanning around in champagne bars, if Neville hadn’t been fool enough to give him a lucky break.

Laurence now glanced at his watch. It was already a quarter past two and his meeting was at three o’clock. He would just have to make do with a quick sandwich, before returning to the office in time for his scheduled meeting. After passing a cluster of restaurants offering Italian, Thai, and Turkish cuisine, Laurence hesitated on the doorstep of a trendy pub. A board outside advertised tandoori chicken, curry and chips - nothing indigenous, unless you counted the politically correct “Ploughperson’s Lunch” Laurence hurried on by. There was a crack of thunder as the darkening clouds overhead released their burden, and people scurried into doorways to escape the relentless downpour. Resignedly, he stepped into a Health Food Café, which was packed with mostly female shoppers tucking into bean sprout salads and nut roasts.

“This carob brownie tastes just like chocolate and it’s so healthy” gushed a woman to her companion. “Excuse me, but is this muesli muffin made with wholemeal flour?” she asked the assistant.

“-Could you hurry up please” interrupted Laurence irritably “Some people have to get back to work, you know”

“Sorry for breathing” she responded, then turned back to the girl behind the counter “I was just wondering about the prune and date loaf. It looks absolutely delicious, but would it have a laxative effect for someone with mild IBS symptoms?”

“-Oh for heaven’s sake!” expostulated Laurence.

“Can I help you, sir?” enquired the counter assistant.

“Have you got something hot I could take away - I don’t know, a meat pie or something?”  This was greeted by a stony silence. Everyone in the café (or so it seemed) turned to stare at him, as though he were some sort of social pariah.

“Actually, we’re a Vegetarian Co-operative. We don’t use meat products”

“Right. Well, what are those things? I’ll have one of those” He pointed to something wrapped in pastry.

“Those are seaweed sesame samosas. Would you like it heated up?” Laurence nodded miserably. Clutching his seaweed samosa, he shoved his way out of the crowded café back onto the pavement. He placed his samosa carefully on a public bench for the pigeons, who pecked at it curiously. Suddenly he had a brainwave. He would phone his client and request a later meeting: they could conduct their business over a leisurely meal in the comfortable civilised surroundings of Mortimer’s, his club in the West End. Laurence took out his mobile phone only to have it snatched by two men who sprinted off down a subway. They were wearing trainers and less than half his age. Seething, Laurence raced down the steps and collared a ticket collector.

“Did you witness that? I need to report a theft – where are the security guards?”

“There is no security guard. What you expect me to do about it” responded the ticket collector in a bored Jamaican drawl. “Phone the police, if you want. There’s a phone over there” He jerked his head in the direction of one of the ubiquitous plastic cubicles that had replaced the traditional red telephone boxes. Wearily, Laurence made his way towards a row of three telephones and dialled the number of his client. Shouting to make himself heard above the background cacophony, he managed to rearrange the meeting for five o’clock. He then endured another jolting underground journey - his nose stuck in the malodorous armpit of a fellow commuter - which delivered him a block from where the stockbroking firm of Purvis & Palmer was situated.

“Congratulations, old boy” Neville slapped him on the back as he entered his office.

“What for?” said Laurence, still disgruntled at having his best suit ruined and having missed out on lunch.

“Congratulations on the fact that you are still free to roam at large” Neville chuckled at his mud-spattered appearance. “Charlotte’s preparing a draft contract for Randall to sign. You’re meeting with him this afternoon aren’t you? Look, I’ve really got to dash. Would you mind very much monitoring the calls of those two whilst I’m out” He indicated Emily and James, who were huddled around the photocopier “I’m sure the instant my back is turned James is surfing the Net” Laurence sighed. He hated eavesdropping on staff phone-calls. “I’d ask Moneypenny” added Neville apologetically  “but I sent her out to do some banking. And if you could just organise some sort of memo about picking up the phone within three rings and so on”

“Neville, there’s a call for you on Line one” Charlotte’s voice interrupted over the intercom. “A Mr. Armstrong”

“Cantankerous old bastard” muttered Neville under his breath “Tell him I’m out”

“He already knows you’re here. I said you were on another line. He wants to speak to someone senior”

“Laurence, can you take it for me? I’m already late” Neville was shrugging himself into his overcoat. Laurence returned to his office and picked up the receiver.

“Can I be of assistance?”

“You fat cat bastards make me want to throw up! You sleazy slime-ball”

“I would strongly advise you to moderate your language”

“Oh, you would, would you? I’ve written to the papers, I’ve contacted that watchdog program” yelled Mr. Armstrong down the phone. Laurence was obliged to hold the receiver a good three inches from his head in order to avoid being blasted out of his chair. Neville had really dropped him in it this time.

“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me what the problem is”

“I’ll tell you what the f****** problem is!” roared Mr. Armstrong “I’ve just lost thirty grand, and I am sick and tired of being passed from pillar to post by your lying staff who don’t want to know. Quick enough to take my money weren’t you? But if you think you’re getting away with this, you fat cat bastard, you’ve got another think coming. I am going to sue you for every penny you’ve got, I am going to take you to the cleaners”

“Look I know nothing about-”

“Of course you know nothing! Too busy sunning yourself in the Caribbean, lining your pockets with other peoples’ hard-earned savings. Theft by any other name. I’ll see you behind bars”

“I haven’t taken a holiday for over 18 months, as it happens” said Laurence, gritting his teeth. “Not that it’s any of your business”

“Rude to your clients now, is it? I suppose you’re going to try and shift the blame onto your staff, you gutless worm.  I bet you pay them a pittance to do your dirty work and take all the flak for you”

“Once again, Mr. Armstrong, I would strongly advise you to moderate your tone. There is no point in carrying on this discussion until I’ve had an opportunity to review your file. If you leave your number with me-”

“Oh no you don’t! You won’t call me back, you lot never do. And now that I’ve got you on the phone, you’re going to bloody well shut up and listen to what I have to say”

“How can I listen if you don’t calm down and tell me what  - which member of staff have you been dealing with?”

“James effing Bond, that rip-off merchant you have on your payroll! Straightforward currency investment, he told me. Minimal risk I was told. Thirty grand might not seem much to you, with your snout permanently in the feeding trough, but I worked hard for that money!” shouted Mr. Armstrong “and I want it back - all of it! And I want compensation”

“The risks attached to any form of equity investment would have been pointed out to you at the outset” replied Laurence, ignoring the stream of obscenities issuing from the receiver.  He switched on his computer and did a search for Armstrong. The file was already in use and was locked “And I don’t think you’ll find any solicitor who shares your view that you’re entitled to compensation because you made an unwise investment decision. If you’re not mature enough to take responsibility for your own actions, then I’m afraid you’ll have to live with the regrettable consequences” At this point Mr. Armstrong slammed down the phone so hard he must have broken it.

“I expect you could do with a cup of tea” said Dinah Crawford, appearing opportunely at the door of his office. She set a tray down on his desk, and Laurence sipped at the tea gratefully.

“Thank you. Could you look up Mr. Armstrong’s file and bring it to me, please”

“I have it right here. I’ve just printed it off. He rings up at least twice a day. We’ve been treated to some very choice language” After Dinah had left Laurence pressed the appropriate buttons on his telephone that enabled him to listen in on staff conversations. Emily was attempting to pacify a panicked client who had rung up to complain that his shares were losing value.

“This is outrageous. I pay you people a hefty commission to look after my capital, and now I see my life savings going down the drain – what are you going to do about it?”

“Firstly, Mr. Allsop, I did strongly advise against putting all your eggs in one basket” came Emily’s cool cultured voice “And I distinctly remember recommending a less volatile fund like a unit trust”

“Are you trying to suggest that this is my fault? I’m not sure that I like your tone, young lady. What was your name again?”

“Wilding. Emily Wilding”

“Is that Miss or Mzzzzz” sneered the voice at the other end of the line, sounding like an angry buzzing bee. “May I speak to your supervisor, please?”

“Really, Mr. Allsop” said Emily in her most soothing voice “I am perfectly aware that the value of your share portfolio has fallen recently. But what you must understand is that if you’re going to play the stock market you’ve got to take a long-term view. What goes up must come down and vice versa. Trust me. We are all very experienced, and have been in this business for a long time” Laurence snorted to himself. Emily was a recent graduate and had been taken on as a trainee on a trial basis. “Now, I’m going to let you in on a secret. The fact that your shares have gone down in value is exactly what I’ve been waiting for. Now is the time to buy more. While they’re cheap. And once they go up in value again, you’ll be quids in. Believe me, I know what I’m doing and I’m looking after your interests” There was a confused silence at the other end of the line. Then, sounding less sure of himself “You mean, I should invest more heavily? But what guarantee do I have that they’ll go up in value again – I mean, how can you be sure?”

“Ah, but that’s where we come in. The average punter in the street doesn’t have a broker, and he’s clueless really. But what you’re getting is expert advice: that’s what you pay the extra charges for. Now I’m not telling everybody about this, but there’s this exciting new Far Eastern fund. We’re talking about returns here of between 12 and 15 per cent” Another silence.

“Really? Per annum?”

“Absolutely. I had especially earmarked 40% of your total equity for this fund, and I was on the point of contacting you just before you called. However, the decision ultimately rests with you” Laurence was in two minds as to whether he should intervene at this point. It was really quite remarkable. In the space of ten minutes Emily had not only managed to pacify a disgruntled client who was losing money hand over fist, but had actually persuaded him to invest more. The old adage that a fool and his money were soon parted was particularly apposite in this case. It could have been the company motto. The gamble could pay off, of course, but it was incredibly risky. Laurence switched to James’ line, which was flashing green.

“Good afternoon” said someone in a foreign accent Laurence couldn’t quite place. “Can I speak to Hasan please?”

“He’s not in the office right now” lied James “Is it something I could help you with?”

“Maybe you can. What do you know about tax shelters?”

“You mean offshore investments. What kind of sum are we talking about?”

“That doesn’t matter. I am looking for strict confidentiality”

“You’ve come to the right place” said James cheerfully “Matter of fact, we have banking arrangements in the Caribbean which we make available to certain clients who are having tax difficulties in this country, if you get my meaning. Mr. Inland Revenue can be a pain in the posterior” The voice at the other end of the line chuckled.

“Perhaps you can help me after all. I am also interested in investing in commercial property in London” continued the caller “I hear the returns are very good”

“They can be” said James cautiously. “There are not too many investment opportunities available at this point in time”

“Nevertheless, I would like to hear about what opportunities exist”

“It very much depends on who you know” dithered James.

“Surely it depends upon how much money you have to invest” snapped the caller, somewhat testily. “I spoke to Hasan only last week….”

“We offer a discretionary service to select clients, but not all our advisors are qualified to handle such investments. Believe me, I am the person you should be speaking to” This was a whopper, like most of the whoppers on James’s CV, thought Laurence. James had not even obtained his IFA certificates yet, which had been a condition of his employment.

“Should we meet to discuss my circumstances?” suggested the caller.

“By all means. Let me just check my diary. Right, Mr. Er – sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Call me George”

“I can slot you in tomorrow afternoon, George. But I’m on a very tight schedule as I’m flying out to St. Lucia the following morning” Laurence’s jaw dropped at this blatant falsehood.

“Then perhaps I should deal with Hasan instead. This could be quite complicated”

“Oh no, you see Hasan does not have the authority to handle offshore investments. I tell you what, let me make a few enquiries on your behalf and I’ll ring you right back. Do you have an office number?”

“I will give you my mobile number” A moment later James’ line became engaged as he dialled an outside line.

“Alright, Ronnie? James Bond speaking. Listen, mate, I might be able to shift some of the readies in your direction – have you still got a cash-flow problem?”

“Not what you would call crucial” replied Ronnie warily “I get by” A self-employed builder with a few spare thousand to invest, and originally one of James’ clients from the East End, he’d apparently switched his allegiance to Emily after James had introduced them. Ronnie’s crew specialised in demolition jobs on properties that had been served with Dangerous Building Notices from the local council. He was also involved in dodgy time-share apartments in Spain and had the general reputation of being a cowboy.

“Listen, mate. Have you still got that bank account in Gibraltar?” enquired James.

“Yep. I’m all ears”

“Thing is, mate, I might be depositing a very large amount in it very shortly”

“Oh yeah? I knew I’d get that yacht and that Lamborghini. Whose arse do I have to kiss – not yours, I hope. I’d rather kiss Emily’s any day”

“You’ll need to give me online access – email me the passwords using our special code - and I’ll handle all the rest. That’s all I can say right now, mate. I’ll call you later” He rung off. Three minutes later James was on the phone to yet another mate.

“Listen, Kev, we’re all meeting up tonight at Bumpers. Be there. Babelicious Em is coming. Yeah, no worries, I’ll just put it through entertaining clients’ expenses. She’s gagging for it. I’m having to fight her off..” The red light for Emily’s line was flashing again. Laurence picked it up.

“What’s happening, Babes?”

“Sorry? To whom am I speaking?”

“Ronnie here – have you got your finger on the pulse? Why didn’t you tell me about these new hi-tech shares? A mate of mine invested ten grand six months ago and now he’s laughing. Twenty five big ones.”

“Oh the dot com company. They’ve gone bankrupt. Your mate must have cashed in his shares in the nick of time. I didn’t think you’d appreciate me taking those sort of risks with your money”

“Come off it, love. I want risk. I want excitement. I’m not one of your cautious tight-arsed gits on a Zimmer frame. Do us a favour love, and get your finger out. I want that yacht, I want that Lamborghini, and I want it now. I thought James said you were good”

“Ronnie, too much adrenaline is bad for your heart. But if you can handle all that excitement, there is this Latin American fund which I’ve been saving for you. At the present time the returns are out of this world. But if it bombs don’t blame me. Remember when the peso was devalued and the knock-on effect? You don’t want to be caught out, Ronnie”

“But you wouldn’t let that happen to me, love. I know you’re looking after Ronnie’s interests. Go for it”

“I still think you should spread the risk. What about a tracker fund or a -”

“Look, love, leave it out. Whose money is it, yours or mine? I’m sending fifty big ones your way. I’m telling you - no, I’m instructing you, to shove it all in. Live dangerously. That’s what it’s all about” Ronnie hiccupped loudly. It was clear to Laurence that he’d been drinking heavily. There was music in the background – he was probably calling from a pub. A few moments later, Laurence saw James entertaining the female staff, jiving around the office. Ronnie was being mercilessly pilloried. James thrust out his pelvis, in a grotesque parody of Village People: “He’s a macho macho man. He has a little weenie and he drives a Lamborghini…” Emily and Charlotte were in stitches. Laurence left his office and walked up to James’s desk.

“Could I have a word please. In my office” James followed him and lolled in the doorway, smirking. “Close the door. It has come to my attention that you don’t have enough to keep you occupied. So I have a little project for you.” James frowned uneasily.

“A project? Actually, I’m really busy right now, Laurence, up to my ears in it.”

“I want you to set up a relational database, cross-referencing client details and the amount of equity they have to invest with classes of available funds - categorising them according to risk – you can handle it, can’t you?”

“Me? But that would take ages. Ask Hasan – he’s a computer nerd. Sales is what I’m good at”

“I’m not asking you to do any programming: choose a database package off the shelf. I’d like a report which includes installation costs by five o’clock tomorrow. Is there anything you’re not clear about?”

“I don’t see what’s wrong with the accounting package we’ve already got” objected James “What’s the point of reinventing the wheel?”

“When I want your opinion I will ask for it” said Laurence shortly.

“Right. Fine. If we lose an important client with whom I’ve established a personal rapport don’t blame me. Is that all?”

“Not quite. You consider yourself to be quite a Jack the Lad, don’t you?”

“What?”

“I can’t help noticing that you spend more time pestering the female staff than you do dealing with clients. There is such a thing as sexual harassment, you know” James looked dumbstruck.

“Why, has anyone complained? I’ve exceeded all my sales targets for this month, and you know it. Em and I get on really well. It’s nothing to do with harassment. Ask her”

“I just want you to know that we’re keeping an eye on you. You’re still under probation. That’s all for now” Tight-lipped, James turned on his heel and stormed out of the office. Emily’s phone rang two minutes later.

“You won’t believe what that misogynist has just dumped on me. First, he accuses me of sexual harassment just because I feel comfortable with women and he doesn’t, and then he threatens me with the sack if I don’t do all this extra work which would take a genius like Bill Gates to do. Don’t suppose you know anything about relational databases?” asked James hopefully “I’ve got to do some sort of comparison, and he wants my report by tomorrow, the bastard”

“Use one of the search engines. Pull off some info on four or five and recommend one. They all do the same job”

“Oh shit, here he comes, I’ll have to ring off” James looked around defiantly as Laurence strode up to his desk.

“That was a City head-hunter. He’s offering me this really attractive remuneration package, about twice as much as I earn here”

“James, this company does not pay you to conduct your personal affairs in company time, is that understood?” James put on a wounded expression.

“How is it my fault, Laurence? The recruitment agency has been sending out my CV, without my permission, and now all these head-hunters are after me. I’ve told them I’ve already got a job but they won’t leave me alone”

“Have you started on that project yet?” barked Laurence.

“Just about to. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing” Laurence continued on his way to the Gents where he washed his hands, then returned to his desk to compose an office memo. As he couldn’t find the template set up by Charlotte, he started typing from scratch. He had just typed “…company policy to answer …” when the capitalised words GET A LIFE YOU SAD WANKER mysteriously appeared on his screen. Laurence stared at the screen in disbelief: he wasn’t on the internet or communicating with anyone in real time so how could whoever it was get through to his personal computer, which was in any case password-protected? He typed the sentence again “ company policy to answer GET A LIFE YOU SAD WANKER phone. Some of you seem to think it’s acceptable to jeopardise GET A LIFE YOU SAD WANKER reputation of GET A LIFE YOU SAD WANKER firm by…”

“What the hell is going on?” Laurence fulminated. Was his computer infected by some sort of virus, and if so, why had it just suddenly manifested itself? It had been fine about ten minutes ago. At that moment, Emily walked by “Emily, could you come in here for a minute?” She looked startled, but stepped in obligingly.

“Have a look at this. Has anything similar appeared on your machine?” Emily peered over his shoulder.

“Good grief”

“Every time I try and type something I get this crap popping up. If I find out who”

“-Wait a minute. Let me just type something” Emily typed in ‘GET A LIFE YOU SAD WANKER cat sat on GET A LIFE YOU SAD WANKER mat’. Oh, I see” She laughed “It’s the AutoCorrect feature. Every time you type in the word the it’s automatically replaced by this text. It’s a really handy feature…”

“Just get rid of it, please” Emily called up a few menus and deleted the offending phrase.

“Voila. It rather looks as though someone’s been messing with your machine”

“I wonder who” said Laurence grimly, rising from his desk. “James!” he yelled.

“What’s going on in here?” asked Neville, breezing into the office. He shook out his umbrella, leaving a puddle on the floor of Laurence’s office “Some kind of problem?” James appealed to him.

“Can I have a word, sir? In private. I’m feeling really stressed out” Neville exchanged glances with Laurence, then shrugged. James followed him into his office, doubtless to whinge about his increased workload. Laurence glanced at his watch in horror. It was already ten past four. He grabbed his coat and briefcase before rushing out, and managed to reach Mortimer’s with minutes to spare.

“Good afternoon, sir” said the hall porter, taking his coat. “Vile weather, isn’t it?”

“Atrocious” agreed Laurence, feeling calmer already.

“Go and sit down by the fire, sir, and you’ll soon dry off” advised Anthony.

“Don’t mind if I do” said Laurence, sinking into one of several comfortable leather armchairs with a sigh of relief. He deposited his briefcase at his feet and asked the steward for a stiff brandy. “What’s on the menu today, Clive?”

“Roast beef and potatoes, sprouts and carrots followed by Bakewell tart”

“Splendid. I could eat a horse. I should like to order two please, Clive. And a bottle of claret. I’m entertaining a business client”

“Certainly, sir” Clive returned a moment later with his brandy. With its mahogany-panelled walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the clubroom resembled a Library in an old-fashioned country estate. A handful of other members occupied the other chairs, quietly reading or conversing, whilst sipping at a variety of beverages ranging from malt whiskey to tea. Laurence looked around him and spotted Simon, his nose buried in a copy of the Telegraph as usual.

“I ask you, what’s the bloody country coming to? Oh, hullo there, Laurence. How did you manage to get here anyway? I hear you can’t get a cab for love or money..”

“With great difficulty” replied Laurence glumly. “Had to use the wretched tube. We were stuck in a tunnel for about 20 minutes in complete darkness. Don’t suppose I could borrow your phone - mine was snatched this afternoon” Simon tossed his mobile to Laurence who moved out of earshot. He called Neville on his private line, bypassing the switchboard.

“What happened to you?” demanded Neville “I thought you had a meeting with that American, Tom Randall. I’ve been trying to get you on your mobile – is it switched off?” Laurence explained the situation succinctly. “So you’re entertaining him at the club? Jammy bastard” Neville sighed enviously “Still, someone’s got to man the fort. Oh, and what’s all this about some project you’ve given James to do? Don’t you think you’re being rather harsh, Laurence? The boy’s a nervous wreck” Laurence grimaced.

“Do you have any idea of the sort of bullshit he’s coming out with over the phone? Since when have we had banking facilities in St. Lucia?”

“Come again?”

“He’s just told a potential client that we have special arrangements for tax avoidance and that he’ll be flying out to the Caribbean on Wednesday to sort it” Neville whooped with laughter, then quickly sobered.

“You know, I fear for that boy’s sanity. When I interviewed him I remember thinking to myself - brilliant but mentally unstable”

“Don’t confuse brilliance with a gift for the gab” snapped Laurence. “And that’s not all. He offered to make enquiries about commercial property, when he knows damn well we sold all those options months ago. And didn’t you tell me Ronnie Lamborghini was insolvent?”

“According to Moneypenny’s most recent enquiries, yes”

“So how can he afford to lodge fifty grand with the highly volatile Latin American roller coaster fund proposed by Emily?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, old boy. So what do you think Ronnie’s up to this time?”

“From what I heard, James plans to divert a potential client’s funds to a Gibraltar account, from where Ronnie will siphon off a sizeable sum in order to finance his latest venture” There was a pause as Neville considered the implications of this.

“Who is this client – anyone we know?”

“He was being very cagey. Goes by the name of George and would only leave a mobile number.”

“Hmmn. We could be sailing into murky waters here” Laurence could hear Neville clear his throat. “But on the other hand, supposing Ronnie does have a temporary loan, so to speak, didn’t you just say he intends to hand it straight over to our Emily? So what’s the problem? Nobody’s really out of pocket and nobody will be the wiser. Presumably James is just helping out a friend with a cash-flow problem, and the sum in question will be repaid into George’s account at a future date, by which time it should have appreciated in value”

“And if it doesn’t? Or one or both of them decides to do a runner? Quite apart from ethical considerations, Ronnie is persona non grata in most respectable financial circles. If the investment doesn’t pay off, someone is going to start asking awkward questions, and before you know it we’ll be issued with a high court writ”

“Alright. Leave it with me. I’ll deal with this. By the way, what did the old curmudgeon have to say for himself?”

“Who, Armstrong? That I’m the spawn of Satan. Not to mention various other unprintable epithets” Neville roared with laughter. “He claims to have sustained losses of more than thirty thousand, which I find hard to believe. Five thousand, perhaps. But if he’s telling the truth and not exaggerating then I think we should look into it seriously. He’s not going to let the matter rest, and we don’t want the FSA breathing down our necks…Sorry Neville, I’ve got to go – Randall’s just arrived. I’ll call you later with an update” Laurence’s guest was shown in and they repaired to a corner table, where they were waited on by Clive. The meeting progressed satisfactorily, and once business was concluded they could afford to indulge in idle chitchat. Having dined, they returned to their seats by the fireside and Laurence leaned back in his armchair, feeling pleasantly replete.

“Excellent beef” commented Tom conversationally “I’m glad to hear your hoof and mouth disease has been brought under control and that the ban on British beef has been lifted” Before Laurence could open his mouth to respond, Simon launched into another bitter anti-government tirade.

“The sheer bungling ineptitude of this government has got to be seen to be believed. Not only have they succeeded in wiping out the entire farming industry, they’ve needlessly slaughtered millions of livestock, and who benefits from it all? The bloody Europeans, that’s who!” Tom nodded uneasily, nursing his brandy. “Of course you realise it’s all part of a planned government agenda” Tom looked puzzled.

“But why would your government wish to do that, I mean, damage its own economy?”

“This diabolical government is capable of anything. Selling off the gold reserves, handing over our sovereignty to Brussels. Everyone knows they’re hell-bent on dismantling Nato and setting up a federal European Superstate...” Laurence shot Simon a warning look, which he blithely ignored. Tom was starting to look uncomfortable. The golden rule when attracting overseas investment, as Neville never tired of stressing, was to steer well clear of domestic politics. “Why would they do it? What is the most valuable commodity in this country? Think about it”

“Your financial institutions?” suggested Tom “Say, uh, could I have another one of those…” Laurence refilled his glass from the bottle of 5 Star Hennessy Clive had left on the table.

“Land” said Simon triumphantly, his eyes glittering “This is just a small island, so you cannot even begin to comprehend the lengths people will go to get their hands on it. Phase One is to make farming so unprofitable that the poor buggers sell up at a loss, so the government can buy it up cheaply and make millions selling it on to developers. Care for a cigar?” Laurence declined but Tom accepted one.

“But what if these guys refuse to sell up?” objected Tom “It’s a free country, after all”

“If enough pressure is put on them, they won’t have the choice. Poor devils are committing suicide in droves” Tom looked startled “That’s where Phase Two comes in. They resort to outright theft. They’ll pass some piece of legislation, slapping compulsory purchase orders on landowners, claiming it’s in the public interest or some such crap”

“Surely that couldn’t happen over here” said Tom, who was now taking a greater interest in Simon’s conversation.

“Oh, couldn’t it” said Simon darkly “It’s happening already. Our freedom is being eroded on a daily basis and the man in the street doesn’t have a clue. Wrecking our constitution - that’s what the Euro is all about. Once you have centralised control over a currency you have control over every aspect of peoples’ lives. Why do you think the Germans are so desperate to smuggle their money out of the country? They’d like to impose the same crippling taxation on savings in this country because private capital is the only thing that stands in the way of totalitarian dictatorship”

“Sounds pretty scary” said Tom “I hope you’re wrong about that. But you people should definitely stay out of Europe, if you know what’s good for you. Listen, I’m going to have to make a move. It was great talking to you guys and it’s been a real pleasure” Tom stood up and shook hands with them both. After he had departed, Laurence turned around to Simon, and glared at him.

“Did you have to? You’ve probably scared him shitless. If he backs out now, I’m holding you personally responsible”

“So? Why mince words – the country’s going to the dogs and you and I both know it. This is practically the only place left where we can speak our minds without being arrested by the Thought Police. We’ve got a one-party dictatorship which does what it damn well pleases without reference to the electorate. Parliament is not even consulted any more except for totally irrelevant issues like fox-hunting - as if anyone gives a toss when our public services are in a state of collapse… Good God, I shall miss my train!” exclaimed Simon, who commuted to somewhere out in the suburbs. “Though I don’t know why I bother” he grumbled, gathering his things together. “Bound to be at least an hour late. Keep your pecker up, old boy” He tapped Laurence playfully with his umbrella.

Clive drew the heavy velvet curtains against the encroaching darkness. Apart from the steady pattering of rain against the windowpanes and the sound of snoring from an elderly club member, an unbroken silence reigned for about fifteen minutes. Laurence thought about making a move, but didn’t relish getting back on the Underground, which would be packed at this hour. It was at this point that he became aware that he was being stared at. He tried to ignore it, but was becoming increasingly irritated. He stood up in front of the gilt-edged mirror hung above the mantelpiece and pretended to re-knot his tie, whilst surreptitiously glancing at his reflection to see whether he could identify the offender. He was very young and good-looking with high cheekbones and dark eyes. Laurence sauntered across the room and out into the entrance vestibule to have a quiet word with the hall porter.

“That fellow over there. I don’t recognise him at all. Did you let him in?” Anthony peered over Laurence’s shoulder.

“Of course I let him in – he said he was with you” Anthony smiled faintly “I thought he was your companion, sir”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” snapped Laurence, losing his temper.

“I didn’t mean anything, sir” stammered Anthony, realising his mistake. “Naturally, I assumed he was your guest. You said you were expecting someone”

“Yes, but not HIM! My guest departed twenty minutes ago. I shall certainly be having words with the Chairman about the lax security” continued Laurence “He could be a terrorist for all we know” Anthony’s features took on a pained expression.

“I doubt that, sir. After all, he did ask for you by name”

“He knew my name, did you say?” Laurence repeated in some astonishment “But I’ve never seen him before in my life!” Seeing Laurence’s face, Anthony added “I’ll make some discreet enquiries right away, sir” and hurried away. Satisfied he had done all he could reasonably be expected to do in the circumstances, Laurence returned to his armchair by the fire, and tried to read the newspaper Simon had discarded. There was nothing new in this year’s Budget, apart from the usual fiscal bludgeoning of those who worked hard for a living – taxes expressly designed to transfer more of the nation’s wealth from the industrious and resourceful to the recipients of state handouts. New punitive tax measures for the self-employed had been introduced. Savers and investors were heavily penalised, as was any form of self-reliance or prudence which involved planning for one’s future. It was a bizarre kind of redistribution of wealth which involved appropriating as much money as possible from responsible hard-working members of society and squandering it on the feckless and irresponsible, whose numbers were increasing. Laurence flicked past the financial section to the daily news. More instances of the disgraceful treatment meted out to hapless patients, and the lamentable state of NHS hospitals. Frail octogenarians dumped in mixed sex wards and forced to share urine-soaked lavatorial facilities with violent and drunken thugs. Corpses piled up in broom cupboards, operating theatres awash with blood and vomit, flesh-eating bugs. Laurence put down the paper. He was beginning to feel quite ill. The good-looking young man with the intense stare was still gazing avidly at him. It was really too bad that he should be subjected to this sort of unpleasantness in his own club, which was intended to be a refuge - a safe haven from the cesspit that the capital had become. Club members might fulminate against the follies of government ministers and their paper-shuffling minions until they were blue in the face - as Simon frequently did - but as a general rule the outside world did not intrude on Mortimer’s. That was its chief attraction.

“Laurence” The young man addressed him in a low voice. “Laurence. It’s me”

“Excuse me, but are you claiming an acquaintance?” The young man leaned closer, placing a hand on his arm and Laurence recoiled.

“It’s me, Darius, you fool” Now it was Laurence’s turn to stare. He was at a complete loss for words. “Where are the others?”

“Others?”

“There’s no time to lose. Where are your brother and sisters?” Anthony was hovering in the background, pretending to clear some tables.

“I’m pleased to see the misunderstanding has been cleared up, sir” he murmured, with a knowing smirk in Darius’s direction.

“There has been no misunderstanding” said Laurence irritably “and this – character - is entirely unknown to me”

“I see, sir” responded Anthony politely with a sceptical lift of his eyebrows. “Should I bring a tray of coffee for two?” Darius gripped Laurence’s shoulder.

“I’ve been seeking you a long time, and I’m not letting you go now. You and I have unfinished business” Laurence was by this time scarlet with embarrassment. Anthony looked from one to the other, then decided the most tactful course of action was to withdraw.

“I’ll leave you two alone” he murmured, retreating to a discreet distance. Laurence rose from his seat wordlessly and went off in search of his coat, having resolved to deal with the matter outside rather than run the risk of creating a scene inside the club. He exited the building with as much dignity as he could muster, closely followed by Darius. Once outside on the rain-spattered pavement, Laurence whirled around furiously to confront the interloper, who had grasped his elbow.

“Kindly remove your hand from my arm this instant” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Clive and Anthony looking on, enthralled, from an upstairs window. “Did my sister put you up to this? She’s mad, you know” Josie had suffered a spell of mental illness which had lasted years, during which time she had gone missing. She had eventually been found, homeless, wandering the streets. This had come too late for his parents, who had died within a few months of each other the year before Josie had been found. Laurence, Philip and Gillian had pooled their resources to buy a cottage in Wales for their younger sister who – if not exactly compos mentis – had at least regained a measure of independence. Josie had insisted on a remote location and refused any further help from the family, apart from the small monthly allowance she drew from a bank account that had been set up for her. Gillian, who phoned her sister more frequently than the others, had reported that Josie was much improved lately. Her delusional episodes were interspersed with lucid intervals during which plain white post cards, bearing one or two lines, would arrive in the post. You can forget but I can’t or Why deny the past? Laurence was heartily sick of being the recipient of these cryptic communiqués, but filed them away for future reference with as much patience as he could muster, out of sheer pity for her plight.

Laurence broke away once more and darted off in the direction of Trafalgar Square, where there would be plenty of people milling around. Darius caught him up easily. Skirting St. James’s Park they passed a group of bearded men squatting on the pavement. Laurence stepped across the road to avoid them and one of them called out to him in provoking tones, drawing a finger across his throat in an unmistakeable gesture.

“Who are these men who seem so hostile?” enquired Darius.

“Uninvited troublemakers” replied Laurence tersely “Probably plotting to blow up the Houses of Parliament” Which might not be such a bad thing, he reflected, since the intellectual pygmies who had their seats there were ultimately responsible for this sorry and inexcusable state of affairs. If they were all blown to smithereens by terrorists, would their absence be mourned? Far from it - the public would doubtless rejoice at such a fitting Nemesis.

“Why do you not repel the invaders? You should not suffer these insults so tamely”

“What do you know about it?” snarled Laurence “If I lay a finger on them I’ll be the one who’s arrested, not them” As they emerged from the Horse Guards Parade, a west-bound double-decker passed, and Laurence seized his opportunity. He leaped onto the platform, and scrambled up the staircase. It was crowded – with standing room only – and Laurence narrowly missed decapitating a sleeping toddler with his briefcase as the bus lurched and pitched. The mother turned to glare at him. The driver seemed to take a perverse pleasure in careering around corners, and accelerating before people had a chance to regain their balance. It was surprising that serious injuries weren’t sustained. Two giggling Japanese tourists clutched at Laurence, who was hanging on for dear life.

“Why he go so fast?” asked one in puzzlement.

“He wants to kill us all, I imagine” replied Laurence grimly. The two girls giggled even more, and nodded in polite incomprehension. Laurence staggered down the stairwell as the bus lurched to a halt just outside Kensington Gardens, only to be greeted on the pavement by Darius’s smouldering black eyes.

“You thought to escape me? Not so fast” Laurence had decided to humour him until he could attract the attention of a policeman, as Darius ushered him towards the wrought iron gates leading into the park. What if he had accomplices and they meant to rob him, or worse? They were strolling through the park in the twilight gloom, and it was getting darker by the minute. Darius stopped just short of an oak tree glimmering in the lamplight a hundred yards ahead of them, and turned to face Laurence.

“It is clear that you remember nothing. That is because you are grown up, and tainted with this world. You must go on ahead of me. And I must find the others before it’s too late. Go now. And be ever vigilant. Avoid the open spaces. She hunts at night” He shoved Laurence towards the tree, muttering beneath his breath in a foreign tongue.

Laurence ploughed forward through the forest and then suddenly stopped. Forest? He looked down at himself. He was wearing his school uniform – grey flannel shorts and maroon blazer. He shivered, wishing he was back in his bed at home in Cornwall, snuggled up under an eiderdown with a hot water bottle. He fumbled through all his pockets, hoping to find something to eat. His hand closed on a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate, tucked into the inside breast pocket of his blazer. He remembered waking early that morning, conscious of being eleven years old. During the morning break there had been a parcel for him from his mother with a little note:

Many happy returns, Birthday boy. Some comics for you with all your favourites, Billy Bunter and Dennis the Menace. Don’t eat all the chocs at once or you’ll be ill and Matron will have to dose you with fig syrup. And don’t forget to share them with the other boys in your dorm. Much love from Mummy and Daddy.

His teeth chattered. It was getting colder and darker. Laurence began to feel distinctly uneasy. Hadn’t someone just warned him to avoid the open spaces? He slid the chocolate bar out of the wrapper and began to unpeel the shiny purple foil, savouring the delicious aroma of chocolate. He was just about to take a bite, when something swooped down from the sky, heading straight for him. As it came closer he could now see four enormous grey wolves yoked to a silver sleigh, in which sat a tall imperious figure cloaked in ermine from head to toe. Laurence froze in terror, wildly looking around for somewhere to hide. But it was too late.

“Seize him!”

Chapter 2 – Ermentrude’s Castle

Two of the most hideous and misshapen creatures Laurence had ever seen sprang from the back seat and secured his wrists behind his back with iron chains, before dumping him unceremoniously in the front seat. The goblins kept poking and prodding him in the back.

“Will you stop that!” said Laurence furiously. He was promptly jabbed just beneath his shoulder blade with something sharp and painful.

“Heh heh heh” sniggered one of the goblins into his ear. “What do you think is going to happen to you, eh? Something nasty, I’ll be bound”

“Silence!” thundered the Queen. The goblins shut up immediately, and Laurence was given a temporary respite from the prodding. The Queen lashed the wolves viciously with her whip. They rose on their hind legs and leapt into the air with a sickening lurch. The ascent was so rapid that Laurence felt quite giddy. The night sky was studded with stars, and his breath was misted as soon as it issued from his mouth. He glanced enviously at the Queen’s ermine cloak, which enveloped her. He was freezing, and none of these selfish creatures seemed to care in the least.

“I think you might at least take these chains off” complained Laurence “It’s not as if I could escape” He had just remembered the chocolate bar in his pocket and was thinking that maybe he could sneak a bite if his hands were free.

“Search him” she commanded suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. More vicious prodding followed as the goblins delved into his pockets, until one of them fished out the chocolate bar with a cry of triumph.

“We’ve found something, Your Majesty. What shall we do with it?” A thought occurred to Laurence. If he could convince the Queen that he had brought her a gift, perhaps she would look upon him more kindly.

“If you please, your Highness” began Laurence, appealing to her “In my world, this thing has great magic. It is a special gift which I brought for you”

“Quiet, human creature! Don’t imagine you can fool me with your stories. We’ll soon see whether this thing has any magic or not” Laurence bit his lip uneasily. In the distance, jagged peaks pierced the leaden sky. The sleigh tilted at an alarming angle as the wolves suddenly dived downwards, heading straight for some crags which looked as sharp as needles. As they got closer Laurence could see that the mountain seemed to be made of a blue crystalline substance. The wolves were circling the palace ramparts now, and Laurence experienced another sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach as they suddenly lost height. Seconds later they landed on top of one of the towers. He was rudely shoved out of his seat onto the flagstones, which were as smooth and cold as ice. The goblins were busy fastening the wolves to a pair of iron rings set into the walls. They were slavering and snarling, straining against their bonds. One of them snapped at his leg, missing it by a hairsbreadth. Even manacled they still looked pretty dangerous, and Laurence kept well out of their way.

“To the dungeons, your Majesty?” enquired one of the goblins with scarcely concealed eagerness.

“To our royal chambers” decided the Queen “where we shall interrogate this mortal who dares to unlawfully enter our realm” Laurence was pushed down a narrow and winding staircase - the Queen leading the procession. She pointed her wand at a door glowing with a luminous green light and it flew open. They crossed an immense hallway with enormously high vaulted ceilings, and confronted a further two sets of doors. One of them glowed red, from behind which Laurence could hear the most frightful howls and bloodcurdling screeches. The Queen, however, pointed her wand at the other door and it dissolved. She crossed the threshold, and gestured to the goblins to leave. They looked disappointed, but retreated.

“Enter!” Laurence stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in a cloud of swirling mists, so that the Queen’s inner sanctum was concealed from prying eyes. As he penetrated deeper into the room, the mists dispersed somewhat and he was able to discern the spectral figure of the Queen, regarding him. “Place the magic thing here” She indicated a round table hovering mid-air about five feet from the floor. Laurence placed the bar of Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut in the centre of the table, and then stepped backwards. The Queen held her wand over it for what seemed an interminable length of time whilst she muttered various incantations. Nothing happened. Satisfied that it could do her no harm, she drew herself to her full height, which was considerable. “So. What is this gift you have brought me?”

“It is a talisman….the Talisman of Cadbury” improvised Laurence “It confers great power on those who eat it. Magical power” He was aware of his stomach growling uncomfortably. The goblins were summoned to the royal presence and shuffled into the room, eager to accommodate her requests.

“Eat this and see whether it is poison” the Queen commanded them. Each waited for the other to volunteer. “You!” The Queen pointed at one of the goblins. Slowly and reluctantly he broke off a corner of the chocolate and popped it in his mouth. As the chocolate melted on his tongue his truculent expression was slowly replaced by a dreamy smile. They watched, waiting for him to start writhing in agony and screaming. Instead he broke off another piece and calmly ate it.

“This is very good, your Highness. Perhaps I should sample some more-” The Queen snatched the chocolate bar and replaced it on the table. Then she pointed her wand at the goblin who had just tasted the chocolate. A gold cage materialised out of nowhere and closed around him before Laurence could blink an eye.

“What magic does this Talisman possess? Speak. And be warned: if you lie to me, you will wish you had never been born” Laurence gulped. He had no demonstration of magic to show her: he was just a small boy with no power at all. It wasn’t fair. Why should this happen to him?

“If you please, your Majesty” began Laurence, mortified to hear his voice coming out in a squeak “This magic only works in my world where I am a ruler” There was no harm in her thinking he was a powerful ruler in his own world. She was likely to treat him with more respect. And it would buy him time whilst he sought some means of escape.

“There is no escape from here. No-one has ever escaped from my palace” It was uncanny how she seemed to read his thoughts.

“Whosoever possesses the Talisman can enter your world from my world” went on Laurence, quailing a little before her menacing gaze. “In fact, the magic is so powerful that it draws others like a magnet” Well, it was the truth, after a fashion. When he had produced the chocolate from his mother’s parcel, the other boys in his Dorm had swarmed around him like bees to a honey pot.

“Go on” said the Queen impatiently, leaning towards him with the glittering eyes of a raptor.

“With the Talisman you can control who comes in and who doesn’t. Don’t you see?” There was a silence while the Queen considered this. Evidently she did see, because a moment later she summoned the other goblin, who was still unfettered and at liberty.

“Show the ruler of Cadbury to his apartments. We will speak again tomorrow” She turned on her heel abruptly, and vanished into the swirling violet mists. Grumbling, the other goblin conducted him through the palace, taking a different route this time – probably to confuse him.

“Nasty thing” hissed the goblin, who had resumed his spiteful pinching “Nasty human boy. Think you’re so clever”

“If you don’t stop pinching me, I shall inform her Majesty that this is how you treat her honoured guests” threatened Laurence. This had the desired effect, and the vicious pinching stopped at once. Laurence was shown into a sumptuous and well-appointed room, which was far better than anything he could have hoped for. The goblin stood there sullenly, watching him with beady suspicious eyes.

“You can leave now!” snapped Laurence. No point in wasting good manners on him. The door was locked behind him and Laurence examined his surroundings. Set into one wall was a huge fireplace in which burned a fire, which didn’t seem to require any tending. Laurence ventured closer to the crackling flames, warming his hands. He suddenly felt very hungry, and at that moment noticed a banqueting table groaning under a mouth-watering feast: there was a succulent-looking roast turkey - golden and glistening as if it had just come out of the oven – with roast potatoes, Brussels sprouts, roasted parsnips and a plum pudding. He pulled off a crisp turkey wing, which tasted as delicious as it looked. Somehow the Queen was able to anticipate his needs and make instantaneous provision. She must have known that he was cold and hungry, so the welcoming fire and his favourite meal (Christmas dinner) had been conjured up out of thin air.

“I wouldn’t mind a hot bath and then a comfortable bed” thought Laurence, when he had eaten his fill. Almost as soon as the thought had entered his head, he heard trickling and gurgling sounds from another chamber leading off the main room. He stepped through a marble archway into an interconnected series of chambers branching off in all directions, supported by gold and porphyry pillars. The principal bathing chamber was as vast as a cathedral vault, and was bathed in a soft violet hue arising from the haze of vapour and steam. Without further hesitation Laurence flung his clothes onto the floor and dipped a toe gingerly in the water; it was just the right temperature – tepid but not too hot. The water felt as smooth as silk and bubbled gently around him as he floated on its surface, enveloped in the fragrant clouds of steam; the water was curiously buoyant, rather like he imagined the Dead Sea to be. He felt so drowsy and relaxed he could have dropped off to sleep right there and then. The baths were so enormous he would liked to have explored them thoroughly, but right now what he wanted was to sleep. He swam back to the steps and after towelling himself dry with the towels laid out for him, donned the robe provided. He returned to the main room where the fire still burned brightly, the leaping flames casting shadows on the wall.

A dim light glowed at the end of the room where a set of doors opened out onto a balcony. Laurence padded towards the light in his bare feet and stepped out onto the balcony. The air was crisp and cold, and snow glittered on the stone balustrades. The light was coming from a turquoise moon that hung low in the night sky, its luminosity bathing the entire scene in a silvery radiance. On a raised platform in the centre of the balcony stood a colossal bed, which appeared to hover a few inches from the floor. As Laurence approached it the bed floated down to the floor, enabling him to clamber into it. Immediately he was cocooned in an invisible warm cloud of something as light as cotton wool that kept out the night cold. As he snuggled down into the bed, eddying snowflakes drifted down from the sky, but none touched the bed; the effect was rather as if he’d stepped inside a Tyrolean paperweight which had been shaken upside down. As he gazed upwards he could see a multitude of stars, their white brilliance irradiating the velvety blackness. He gazed up at the sight in wonder for some time before sleep finally overtook him.

Laurence was rudely awoken by the bed being rocked back and forth so forcefully that he dreamed he was on a ship in a storm-tossed sea, the towering waves threatening to overwhelm the vessel. “Hey, stop that!” protested Laurence sleepily, as he was tumbled out of the bed onto the cold flagstones.

“I’ve been trying to rouse you for ages, you lazy blockhead” spat out the goblin angrily. “Queen Ermentrude desires an audience with you at once. Make haste, we’re late!”

“But I haven’t even dressed or had breakfast-”

“There’s no time for that” snapped the goblin, yanking him to his feet. Although he was no taller than three foot he was surprisingly strong. Laurence thought it best not to keep the Queen waiting so he followed the goblin, clad only in the bathrobe that had been provided the night before. He was conducted to the same antechamber as on the previous evening, where the Queen was pacing back and forth. At his entry, she turned to face him. She would be quite beautiful, thought Laurence, if only the expression in her eyes was not so cold and implacable, and her mouth did not have such a cruel twist. Her skin was a pure alabaster white, like the Greek statues he’d seen in books of art, and her hair was black as obsidian. She was very thin and tall and didn’t have an ounce of superfluous flesh on her. She seemed consumed with a restless energy composed of pure malice shot through with intelligence, and her glittering black eyes seemed to burn into his innermost soul.

“Did you sleep well?” The enquiry was perfunctory, but at least it showed that she intended to treat him with a modicum of civility, which meant that she did not regard him as a common prisoner to be disposed of.

“Yes, Your Majesty” replied Laurence “Your palace is very fine” His eye alighted on the Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut bar where it lay in state in its shiny purple foil, encased in a crystalline block. Just like the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London, thought Laurence. If he was not mistaken, two more squares were missing.

“How many others from your world could follow you to Albion?” asked the Queen abruptly.

“There are only three other rulers of Cadbury” replied Laurence, thinking of his brother and two sisters. “The Talisman would be of no use to an ordinary person” Laurence thought he detected a faint note of relief – or was it satisfaction – in the Queen’s features, which seemed to relax a little.

“When?” barked the Queen, advancing on him. Laurence shrank back, alarmed by her tone. “When do they follow?”

“Very soon” replied Laurence, trying to sound confident “They will not be able to resist the magic of the Talisman. It is very potent”

“If you play me false, you will never see the light of day again. You will become a block of stone at the bottom of Lake Mortmere, where you will hear nothing, see nothing, smell nothing, and touch nothing. And there you will remain for all eternity. For the enchantment can never be broken. Now eat!” The Queen pointed her wand at the glass case, which vanished - leaving the chocolate bar floating in mid-air. Laurence broke off a sizeable piece, and munched it slowly and self-consciously. They watched him, waiting for something to happen. The Queen narrowed her eyes. She would not be easy to fool. Laurence thought rapidly. Most of the doors yielded only to magic, and the palace itself was perched so high it would be impossible to scale. You would have to be an eagle to get out of here, he concluded despondently. But if he could somehow persuade the Queen to let him out voluntarily… if he could get near enough to an entrance to his world he could make a mad dash for it back to the safety of his boarding school. Even hours of detention were better than this. Anything had to be better than being turned to stone and cast to the bottom of a cold lake for all eternity.

“I feel them drawing closer” intoned Laurence, closing his eyes. “They are stretching out their arms towards me. I can see them...”

“What do you see?” interrupted Queen Ermentrude eagerly. Laurence thought of the big beech tree close to the window of his sisters’ bedroom.

“In my vision I see a big tree, and it is there that the voices are strongest. I see them standing close together, trying to follow me, but unable to. The magic is so faint I can hardly….it’s no use” He opened his eyes. “Your Majesty, we are too far from my world. It is too weak to work here” Now it was fortunate for Laurence that this account squared with what the Queen knew of magical potency. Spells lost their effectiveness if a practitioner sought to extend the reach too far, into another domain for instance. Magic which might be powerful in one domain would be seriously weakened or diluted when employed outside that domain, if it worked at all. The only remedy was to bring the target closer to its subject or vice versa.

“You will accompany me on a journey tonight” said Ermentrude, coming to a sudden decision “where you will be given one more chance to draw the others. If you fail…”

“It will not fail, your Majesty, so long as I am close enough to the tree for the Talisman to work”

“Be ready when you are summoned tonight” said the Queen “We depart when the second moon rises in the fourth quarter” Laurence was conducted back to his royal apartments, and left there to occupy the time as he might choose.

From the balcony, Laurence leaned over the parapets, feeling a mixture of dread and excited anticipation as he watched for the appearance of the moon. The second moon, she had said. And how was he supposed to know where the fourth quarter was? He went back inside where it was warmer, and stood next to the flickering fire, wondering how to occupy himself. Eventually, he decided that a leisurely swim would be the most pleasant way of passing the time. Feeling bolder this time, he dived beneath the water, heading towards what looked like a black tunnel. He didn’t swim too close as it probably acted as a giant plughole, and the force of the water might suck him through into some truly horrible nether regions from whence he might never emerge to see the light of day. He was just about to surface when a large gold fish swam out of the tunnel and glued its rubbery mouth to his ear. Laurence tried to pull it off without much success; its mouth was like a suction pad.

“Do you mind” said an annoyed voice in his ear “I have braved many hazards, I have swum through mighty rivers and across mountain lakes, simply to deliver this message. If it wasn’t for the fact that Prince Darius is an old friend of mine, I shouldn’t have bothered. Especially since this is how I’m rewarded”

“No, wait” said Laurence, surprised to hear himself talking under water “Did Darius send you? What is the message – am I to follow you into the tunnel?”

“Don’t be stupid. You’d drown. Only another fish could follow me out of here. Now listen carefully. Darius knows that tonight the Queen sallies forth with you accompanying her-”

“How does he know that?”

“-Don’t interrupt. Darius has his spies, too, you know. When Ermentrude lands her sleigh in the forest, Darius will create a diversion. The wolves will go berserk and the Queen will have her hands full trying to control them. You are to run towards the nearest stand of beech trees as fast as your legs will carry you. It is your only chance. Darius told me to repeat this: it is your only chance so you must do exactly as you are told” With that the fish swam off, its golden tail glinting for a moment until it was swallowed up by the blackness of the tunnel. Laurence swam back through the echoing chambers, climbed out of the baths and dried himself off. What had happened to his school uniform, he wondered - his woollen jumper and blazer? Surely the Queen did not mean for him to venture out into the cold night air clad only in a bathrobe. No sooner had the thought occurred to him than he espied a pair of exceedingly warm velvet breeches, a heavy woollen shirt, woollen hose, and tall leather boots with silver buckles. Completing the outfit were the most splendid fur robes he had ever seen. He arranged these around his shoulders, fastening them with the heavy jewelled brooch provided, and was busy admiring himself in the full-length mirror when he heard the by now familiar sounds of the Queen’s sleigh.

Laurence hurried outside onto the balcony, and clambered up beside Ermentrude. He was gratified to see that they were alone, and that the goblins would not be travelling with them. The sleigh rose in the air, and soon they were freewheeling through the starry firmament. Despite the frosty night air and the spinning snowflakes, he was warm and snug.

“Tonight we hunt” declared the Queen, offering him a sip of some hot cordial from a silver chalice, which made him feel light-headed and ridiculously happy.

“What do we hunt, your Majesty?” asked Laurence innocently.

“My enemies” replied Ermentrude. Laurence laughed foolishly, thinking this quite sensible. It made far more sense than hunting down harmless creatures like stags and hinds. You could get rid of your enemies at the same time as providing yourself with some pleasurable sport. After they had been travelling for an hour or so, the Queen pointed out the pink turrets of a castle in the distance. Though remote and inaccessible, it was approachable by sea. He thought he could discern a narrow path, precariously hugging the cliff’s edge and snaking its way to the top.

“Who lives there?” enquired Laurence, impressed by its isolated grandeur.

“You will, if you do my bidding. The castle now stands alone and empty. Formerly it belonged to one who turned traitor and is now an outlaw with a price on his head. Whoever lives there will have dominion over this vast territory” The Queen waved a hand, indicating the mountainous and forested land beneath them, through which flowed rivers and streams. Laurence thought about this for a minute, while Ermentrude observed him closely.

“You mean I would have the castle all to myself, with servants to do the cooking and light the fires..”

“Of course!” snapped the Queen impatiently.

“I would not be a prisoner?”

“No loyal ally of mine is kept prisoner. You will see how I reward loyalty. You would have great freedom and power”

“How would I travel – would I be able to fly like you?”

“You would have a winged chariot that would take you wherever you want to go” As Laurence contemplated her words he was sorely tempted to do her bidding and fetch the others. What other boy of his age would have such a magnificent castle all to himself, and everything he wished for - including a winged chariot? He would be able to fly anywhere he wanted to in Albion, go on midnight excursions and have all sorts of adventures. His brother and sisters could come and live with him, but of course everything would belong to him, and they would have to do as he told them. Not that he would be a cruel tyrant or anything like that. But it would be nice to have a little respect for a change – not to have Philip looking down his nose at him, and his sisters continually blaming him for things which weren’t his fault. He wondered why Ermentrude was so eager for him to bring the others. As the euphoric effects of the cordial started to wear off Laurence began to have a few misgivings about handing them over to the Queen.

“Once you have been introduced to my brother and sisters would they come to live with me? I mean, they wouldn’t be sent to a dungeon or anything-”

“Enough of these infernal questions! Drink this potion to keep out the cold” She handed him the silver chalice again. Laurence took a deeper draught of the foaming cordial and immediately felt reassured. The only reason she wanted him to fetch the others was because she was lonely and had no friends. After all, why should she do them any harm? She had not harmed him.

“There goes one of the traitors!” shouted the Queen excitedly, pointing at a flash of colour far beneath them on the ground below. “After him!” Laurence wondered how she could spot anyone from such a distance – her eyesight must be as keen as a falcon’s. Everything happened so fast after that Laurence could barely keep up with events. The sleigh plunged downwards and landed on the ground with a thud, then flew over the ground as the wolves gave chase, tearing through the woods at a breakneck speed. Laurence caught a glimpse of a pair of bare feet bounding through the forest, and a startled face topped by a mass of ginger curls. It was a nature sprite running for his life, scrambling up slippery inclines and clawing frantically at overhanging branches. Laughing aloud, the Queen loosed the wolves from their bonds and they shot off in hot pursuit.

“Help! Somebody, please help me” came the heartrending cry as the wolves pounced upon their terrified prey, awaiting her Majesty’s pleasure with bared fangs. Their victim turned large beseeching eyes on the Queen - then finding no pity there - wordlessly implored Laurence to save him. With a pang of horror, Laurence realised the captive would be torn to pieces right there on the spot.

“Your Majesty, couldn’t we let him off just this once…” His voice trailed away as the Queen turned on him, her face distorted with fury.

“You presume too much!” she hissed, raising her wand “Do you, a mere mortal, dare to question our royal prerogative?”

“No, no” squeaked Laurence, backing away. “It’s just that sprites are such poor sport. It’s much more fun to hunt goblins, really it is”

“This is my dominion” Ermentrude continued in a low dangerous voice “and I will do with my subjects as I please!” She turned to her wolves “Destroy the traitor!” Sickened, Laurence turned away, having no desire to watch whilst the hapless creature was torn to pieces. The momentary distraction offered by Laurence’s intercession, however, had been sufficient to allow their quarry to escape. The sprite was nowhere to be seen. The wolves howled with all the rage of thwarted bloodlust, and ran in circles, pawing the ground and sniffing, their yellow eyes rolling. A little bird alighted on Laurence’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Now, you fool! Darius is waiting for you beyond that clump of beech trees. Run for it” Laurence didn’t need to be told twice. He leapt from the sleigh and headed towards the beech trees, whose branches parted to let him through. Behind him the wolves were so close he could hear their panting as they sought a way through the branches, now tightly interlocked to prevent their passage through. The beech trees were doing everything in their power to assist his escape, but they couldn’t hold out for long against the Queen’s magic. An arm reached out from behind a tree and grabbed him. It was Darius.

“This way – follow me” Laurence stumbled after Darius, slithering on the frosty ground and entangling the buckle of his boot in a tree root. Darius tugged him free impatiently and darted off through a dense thicket. Laurence followed as best he could but was soon winded and gasping for breath “Don’t stop now!” Darius yanked him to his feet roughly “We’re nearly there”

“I’ve got to rest for a minute” Laurence slowed to a trot, clutching his side.

“You’ll be resting for all eternity at the bottom of a cold dark lake, if you linger here any longer” said Darius grimly “Now do as I tell you and RUN!” At that moment the wolves broke through the barrier created by the beech trees and hurled themselves onto Laurence, sinking their fangs into his heels. He yelped with pain. His own cries mingled with those of the wolves, now being fought off by Darius, who had unsheathed his sword and was laying about him like a fiend. In fact he was more dangerous than the wolves, hacking at everything that moved. Laurence leapt out of the path of Darius’s flashing sword. The snow at their feet was now crimson with spilt wolf-blood.

“Run for it!” yelled Darius “Head for that oak tree, and then we’re safe. I’m right behind you” Laurence staggered the last few yards to the tree, with Darius clinging to his robes. They emerged onto a green playing field where several smallish boys were practising cricket.

Chapter 3 - Brocklebank School (1959)

Laurence looked over his shoulder fearfully, but there was no sign of any wolves or of Queen Ermentrude. The sun was shining and the sky was a cloudless blue. He sniffed the air; it smelled of newly-mown grass. Two of the Second Years came sauntering over in his direction.

“You’re for it now, Purvis” said Watkins “Everyone knows you bunked off Geography, and Soames is on the warpath. Who’s your new chum?” He looked Darius up and down curiously.

“None of your business” retorted Laurence.

“You know you’re not supposed to hobnob with boys from the village” Gilbert hissed in his ear “Crikey, what does he think he looks like? He must be sweltering in his mum’s fur coat” Laurence looked down at himself. All his rich royal finery had disappeared, and he was wearing his grey and maroon uniform. But Darius was still clad in his leather jerkin and fur cape.

“He isn’t from the village” said Laurence “He’s a new boy, and I’m supposed to be settling him in” Gilbert gaped after them as Laurence walked off haughtily, with a sulky Darius in tow.

“You’ll have to stick with me from now on and copy what I do” said Laurence to Darius, not without a small trace of satisfaction  “You’re at Brocklebank now. If you don’t follow the rules around here you’ll get into frightful trouble”

“Where are we going?” asked Darius, returning the curious glances of several boys they passed.

“To the dorm. First we have to get you into a uniform”

“Who is this Soames who’s on the warpath?” enquired Darius, his hand on the pommel of his sword “Is he a feared enemy of yours?”

“Soames is the Geography teacher and our form master, worse luck. He thinks all boys should be caned. Don’t let anyone see your sword, or they’ll confiscate it”

“Anyone who attempts to wrest this sword from me will pay with his life” replied Darius. Laurence glanced at him worriedly. He could see that Darius was in deadly earnest. They managed to sneak back to Laurence’s dormitory without passing any masters, and Laurence kitted Darius out in his spare uniform, ignoring his protestations of offended dignity.

“Here, I’ll show you how to knot your tie” said Laurence “And I know of a secret hiding place where we can hide your sword” He clambered out a window, and slid down the roof slates to the guttering, where there was a loose slate. But Darius was reluctant to part with it.

“I must have my weapons about me. If this Soames were to attack, how should I defend our position?”

“You’re not allowed to attack the masters. That’s one of the rules. But if Soames catches you with that sword, he’ll attack you – that’s for certain” Darius folded his arms stubbornly.

“The rules here are not to my liking. I grow weary of this place already. Let us return to Albion forthwith”

“I don’t know how to” admitted Laurence “Besides, I’d rather have old Soames after me than her Majesty, wouldn’t you?” Darius considered this for a moment, before handing over his sword.

“Very well. But I shall keep my dagger concealed on my person at all times” Laurence didn’t argue the point as it was not visible beneath his grey pullover. ”What is that fearful clanging sound?” asked Darius suddenly, nearly jumping out of his skin. He clapped his hands over his ears.

“That’s the dinner bell. Come on, we’ll have to go join the others” Laurence led the way out of the dorm, down two flights of stone steps, and through a long corridor which was thronged with jostling and chattering boys. Laurence and Darius lined up in the queue for dinner.

“Quiet please. All quiet please” A prefect walked down the length of the queue, twirling a silver-topped cane and handing out detention slips.

“What’s that for?” asked someone in an aggrieved tone “What did I do?” The prefect consulted a little red book.

“For making a noise in the Library, and answering back to your superiors” replied the prefect in a smug tone “Report to the Prefects’ room at five o’clock and look sharp about it” The prefect continued to pace up and down the line, and finally came to a halt in front of Darius.

“Name? I don’t believe we’ve been introduced” Darius bowed very correctly.

“Prince Darius. At your service” This was greeted by titters, which tailed off into a complete silence as the prefect studied him.

“I say, are you trying to be facetious?”

“I try to be no-one but myself” replied Darius, meeting his eye.

“In that case” began the prefect, tearing off another detention slip, but before he could finish his sentence the Headmaster loomed into view, his black gown billowing in his wake.

“Ah, Peterson, just the person I was looking for” He addressed the prefect in booming tones “Could I prise you away from your duties for a few moments to discuss some pressing school business?” The Headmaster didn’t wait for an answer but swept off down the corridor, the prefect hurrying after him.

“Not bad for a new Brockle” commented the boy who’d just been given detention. “That really put Peterson’s nose out of joint” He eyed Darius with new respect. They filed into the Dining Hall, shoving and elbowing each other now that there was no-one to keep order. All the jostling was beginning to annoy Darius, who suddenly whirled around with flashing eyes.

“Touchy, aren’t we?” said someone, who’d tried to push in front of Darius because he was a new boy “He really must think he’s a prince”

“Actually, he is” said Laurence “His family have ruled for centuries where he comes from. You could have your head chopped off for not keeping your distance”

“Well, tell him we’re not in his country now” retorted the boy, nevertheless backing off a little “Are you really a prince then? Where are you from?”

“My domains encompass the central forests of Albion, stretching from the promontory of Stormy Point to the south west perimeter of the Sinister Woods” replied Darius with exaggerated politeness.

“Oh. Geography never was my strong point” They carried their trays over to a table with long wooden benches. Darius was wedged between Laurence and the boy called Gilbert whom they’d met on the playing fields.

“We’ve got to say Grace now” whispered Laurence to Darius “Just do as I do. Bow your head and pretend to mumble something” Once Grace had been said, everyone tucked into the Shepherd’s pie.

“The grub’s not half bad here” said Gilbert to Darius “But the puddings are the best. You have to be quick for seconds when it’s treacle tart and custard” As the second course was served Darius watched the others stir a spoonful of strawberry jam into their semolina, creating a pink lumpy mess, and did the same. “If you don’t want that, I’ll have it” offered Gilbert, indicating Darius’s untouched bowl. Darius handed it to him courteously.

“I have quenched my thirst and satisfied my appetite, therefore I require no further sustenance”

“You’re awfully polite, aren’t you” marvelled Gilbert “I thought they behaved like savages where you come from. Where was it you said?”

“It’s close to Nepal - somewhere near the Himalayas” Laurence answered for him. He sometimes leafed through old issues of National Geographic in the Library, and this was the most exotic place he could think of on the spur of the moment.

“The Himalayas?” repeated Gilbert excitedly “Have you seen the Abominable Snowman?” Darius knit his brows together in a frown.

“The snow is truly abominable” he agreed slowly, misunderstanding the question. Gilbert looked at him oddly, but before he could open his mouth, Laurence pointed out one of the teachers seated at the staff table.

“Don’t look now, but that’s Soames. We’ve got a double dose of Regional Geography this afternoon. If he asks you anything just tell him you find his subject fascinating, and maybe he’ll let you off the hook”

After dinner, the boys milled about in their form room. Everyone was free to do as they wished until the first bell went, and Laurence retrieved the parcel that had arrived that morning from his cubby-hole. He handed one of his comics to Darius, who flung it to the floor.

“I am bored. I wish to return to Albion”

“Well, you can’t. I wish you’d try to fit in a bit more. And stop prowling up and down like that”

“You conveniently forget that I saved your life. Were it not for my intervention you would be languishing at the bottom of Mortmere, now as we speak”

“Keep your voice down! Do you want everyone to know where you’ve come from? You can wander about outside, if you like, as long as you remember to come back here and find me when the bell rings” Laurence unfolded one of his comics and soon became absorbed in the adventures of Billy Bunter, who, as usual, had managed to infuriate all the other boys. Allergic to any form of exercise, he had outwitted them by pretending to participate in a cross-country run. Wheezing and puffing, he’d stopped to tie a shoe-lace then nipped across some fields - taking a short-cut into the nearest village, where he had treated himself to a slap-up tea – and then hitched a ride back with a local farmer. What really outraged his classmates was that Bunter had no team spirit whatsoever. A duffer at games, and absolutely hopeless at all forms of sport, he saw no reason why he should subject himself to unnecessary physical exertion when he could cheat instead, and pass the time more pleasantly in a bun shop. The others had arrived back hot and exhausted from their run, and were looking forward to a well-deserved feast only to discover that the fat owl of Greyfriars had raided their tuck boxes.

“The fat fiend’s scoffed the lot!” howled Jack in outrage “The pork pies, the jam doughnuts and the sticky currant buns – everything he could cram into his gob”

“If I get my hands on that porky pilferer I’ll give him such a walloping” muttered the school bully in dark tones.

“We’ll have to stash our goodies somewhere else where he can’t get his podgy paws on them” said Jack, looking around at the others. “What about the linen cupboard? He’ll never think of looking in there” Once the boys had stormed off, the scourge of Greyfriars emerged from his hiding place behind the curtains.

“Golly gumdrops” crowed Billy in delight “Yummy chocolate bars. This will keep me going until dinner time” He scooped up handfuls of treacle toffees and humbugs, stuffing them into his pockets gleefully. Unbeknownst to Bunter, the school bully had remained behind when the others had left the room, and he now sprang out from behind the door.

“Got you at last, you quivering blob of blancmange!” His spectacles were snatched from his nose and stamped on. Billy Bunter peered at his adversary and blinked.

“Oof, what’s going on? Leave me alone, you beastly rotter. Get your mucky maulers off me”

“ What have you done with my tuck box? Hand it over right now” threatened the bully “or I’ll kick your fat carcass around the dorm”

“You don’t say?” countered Billy, groping around on the floor for his smashed spectacles.

Laurence chortled aloud at Bunter’s bravado. There he was, cornered and caught red-handed, and although he was about to get a pounding he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of what he’d done. As far as he was concerned they were all perfectly beastly to him, and he was quite justified in goading them and filching their food. It wasn’t his fault for being hungry all the time; it was their fault for being stupid enough to leave it lying around.

The bell rang, signifying the end of the dinner-break, and the room emptied as the boys hurtled down the corridor towards their next lesson. Laurence gathered up his jotter and Geography books, and looked around for Darius, who was nowhere to be seen. They would be late for Soames’ lesson and he would catch it. At that point Darius climbed in through the window, carrying his sword.

“Where have you been?” demanded Laurence, annoyed.

“I’ve been sword-fighting in the gym” replied Darius, who looked flushed. “You lied to me. Why did you say swords were not permitted when one of the masters has just praised my swordsmanship?” Darius looked at him reproachfully.

“Well, yes, you can take up fencing if you like. But nobody fights for real any more. And you’re not supposed to bring your own. The school supplies them. What did Bradshaw have to say about that?” He pointed to Darius’s sword, now sheathed in its leather scabbard.

“He hasn’t seen it. He made me practise with something called a foil” Darius curled his lip in contempt “As if I were some untried infant who has not seen battle” Despite Laurence’s remonstrations, Darius obstinately refused to relinquish his prize possession.

“Oh, have it your way then!” Laurence marched into the classroom ahead of Darius and slunk into a seat in the back row. Soames looked up from his desk, from where he was shuffling papers.

“I see Master Purvis has finally deigned to join us”

“Yes, sir. Sorry I’m late. I was looking after a new boy”

“Spare me the prevarications, Purvis. Always some piffling excuse. Whilst the other boys turn to Chapter Four in their textbooks, you will write out in your exercise book one hundred times ‘Punctuality is the hallmark of a disciplined character; whereas tardiness is the sign of a timid dormouse’ The other boys sniggered. Laurence unscrewed his fountain pen and dipped the nib into the inkwell, as Soames turned his back on the class and began chalking a diagram of an artesian well. Laurence shook the first few drops onto some pink blotting paper, and started to write “Punctuality is the hallmark of a…” The desk next to him jiggled as Darius slid into it.

“I hid the sword as you wished” whispered Darius. Laurence ignored him, still peeved at Darius for causing him to be late. He couldn’t care less what Darius had done with his silly sword. By the time Laurence had written out the fiftieth line most of the class were asleep, having nodded off at the sound of Soames’ monotonous drone. Darius was doodling in the margin of the exercise book he’d borrowed from Laurence.

“I see why this Soames is deemed so deadly” he commented to Laurence, yawning “Everyone is half-dead with boredom” Soames pounced.

“You, boy! Step up to the front of the class.” Soames unrolled a large atlas over the blackboard and pointed to a small shapeless blob. “This is Tasmania. What is its latitude and longitude?” Darius studied the map for a moment.

“This island is not known to me, but if you instruct me from which land mass the voyage is to commence, then I can determine the route I should take and reckon the number of days at sea, assuming a fair wind and a seaworthy ship”

“Don’t beat about the bush, you bumbling blockhead!” shouted Soames “Just give me a straight answer: in order to navigate with any degree of accuracy it is essential that we can calculate its latitude and longitude”

“My navigational skills have never been called into question before, sire” replied Darius, a little stiffly. “I captained the crew on the legendary voyage to the Enchanted Isles where the mermaids -” Laurence groaned inaudibly. The room had gone totally silent, while everybody looked at Soames expectantly.

“-I will not tolerate day-dreamers or liars!” thundered Soames. He strode up to Darius’s desk and held aloft the piece of paper on which the latter had been doodling. “Before you accompany me to the Headmaster’ study, perhaps you would care to explain what this nonsense is doing on your desk?” Darius glanced at Laurence for guidance, but Laurence had lifted the lid of his desk and was pretending to rummage through his pencil case. Darius hesitated, then said quite clearly “I find your subject fascinating, sire. Fascinating” he added, for good measure. Soames brought his face up very close to Darius’s.

“You think yourself very clever, don’t you? I don’t like clever boys. No, I don’t like them at all. Come with me” He seized Darius by the elbow, and frog-marched him out the room. As soon as they’d left the room the class erupted into whoops and roars.

“Cor, that new Brockle’s got some nerve. Did you hear what he said to old Soames? He won’t be able to sit on his backside for a week”

“I say, rotten luck for your chum to catch it on his first day” remarked Gilbert to Laurence, who shrugged. He had warned Darius to try and fit in. If he persisted in ignoring Laurence’s sensible advice then he could look out for himself. After all, nobody had taken the trouble to show him around when he was a new boy or tell him what was what. He remembered clearly the first day he had arrived at the school, his leather satchel strapped to his back and a sealed envelope in the inside pocket of his blazer. The envelope contained two ten shilling notes, which was handed in at the beginning of term for safe keeping, and then doled out on a weekly basis as pocket money for Tuck and any other sundry expenses that might arise. Wandering through the maze of corridors Laurence had become lost and had bumped into one of the senior boys.

“Excuse me” Laurence began timidly. The boy had looked down his nose at him as if he were a peculiarly disgusting specimen of pond-life.

“Don’t you know you’re not supposed to address a Senior? Ever. You answer only if you’re spoken to first. You shouldn’t even be here: this corridor is reserved for the Upper School and out of bounds for you”

“Sorry” said Laurence lamely “I was lost”

“I could give you a detention slip, I could make you cry if I wanted. There’s lots of things I could do. But since you’re obviously a green First Year, I’ll let you off this time”

“Oh thank you” Laurence had been pathetically grateful not to have blotted his copybook on the first day of term. “I was looking for Matron” he continued “I’m supposed to hand in my tuck money for the term” The older boy had eyed the envelope keenly and speculatively.

“Actually” went on the Senior “You’re awfully lucky you bumped into me because I happen to be Treasurer for the Swimming Pool Committee. I collect the membership fees on the first day of term. Anyone who doesn’t pay up doesn’t get to use the pool”

“Swimming pool?” Laurence had echoed in astonishment “But where is it? I walked through the grounds with my parents when I came for the interview and I never saw…”

“Of course you never saw it, dimwit. It’s on the roof of the East Wing. The membership is pretty exclusive, you know. Not everyone who wants to join is allowed to. You have to be personally recommended by one of the Committee. We have midnight swims and get up to all kinds of jolly pranks”

“Do you think I could join?” asked Laurence eagerly. The more he heard about this mysterious swimming pool and its exclusive membership the more enticing it sounded. “I’ve got two ten shilling notes in this envelope right here”

“That depends” deliberated the Senior “I suppose I could get you in…”

“I’d be very grateful. How much are the membership fees?”

“Ten shillings” replied the Senior promptly “The membership is almost full and I was reserving the last two places, but seeing as you have the right amount of money on you…Tell you what: you only need half that for tuck money anyway. Your mother’s given you far too much. Supposing I take fifteen shillings – ten for pool membership fees and the other five for your tuck money. That way you’ll actually make a profit of five shillings, do you see?“ Laurence nodded uncertainly.

“But my mother said it should be handed over to the Matron..”

“I’ll see that it gets handed over to your Housemaster. The Matron only deals with stomach upsets and that sort of thing” The Senior boy took a little notebook from his pocket “Now, what’s your name?”

“Laurence Purvis” replied Laurence, scarcely daring to believe his luck as the Senior scribbled down Laurence’s name.

“Right” he said in a business-like tone “You hand the fees over to me now and I’ll see that a membership card is printed with your name on it” Laurence had handed over the contents of the envelope and practically skipped back to his dorm. Boys were busily unpacking their trunks which had just been delivered from the railway station, and clothes, shoes, and PE kits were strewn all over the floor. Others rushed around the room excitedly, staking out their territory. As all the best beds had already been “bagged” Laurence had to content himself with one of the least popular ones – farthest from the window and near the door.

A fraught week had passed during which his membership card had failed to materialise. In fact nobody had even mentioned the swimming pool, which was distinctly odd. Fearful of exciting envy, Laurence had kept quiet until impatience got the better of him and he at last plucked up the courage to broach the subject with Watkins, who had been there longer than the others. Watkins was generally considered to be a dunce because his examination marks were so abysmal, but his father, a wealthy manufacturer of foundation undergarments, had persuaded the Headmaster to allow him to stay on. Money was no object he had stressed, and so Watkins continued to flunk his exams and persecute all the new arrivals. Laurence had briefly met Watkins’ parents, who had been introduced to his own during the Open Day and they had both seemed quite panic-stricken at the prospect of having their son sent back to them. They had even enquired about the possibility of having him remain at Brocklebank over the holidays, but the Headmaster had put his foot down. The Easter and Christmas vacations were one thing, but the long summer holidays were quite another. There would be no masters about to supervise him, and Watkins wasn’t the kind of boy who could be safely left to his own devices: he didn’t enjoy quiet pursuits like reading or stamp-collecting; his only hobbies appeared to be tormenting his fellow creatures.

“I say, are you a member?” Laurence had asked Watkins, in a whisper.

“What?” shouted Watkins.

“You know, the pool on the roof. I paid my membership fees on the first day.” confided Laurence.

“You what?” Laurence repeated his story, trying to ignore the fact that Watkins was picking his nose slowly and deliberately and holding the contents up for inspection. He had the manners of a baboon.

“Oh never mind. I don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about. It’s meant to be top-secret. I was just lucky really ” Laurence added on a more modest note “I happened to bump into the Treasurer and he said he’d get me in”

“So how much did you hand over?” smirked Watkins, with a knowing look.

“Ten shillings”

“Have you heard this one?” Watkins immediately shouted to all the other boys in the dorm “Purvis actually handed over a ten-bob note for membership of the swimming pool – where was it you said, Purvis? On the roof?” The room erupted into hoots of derision and whoops of mirth, whilst a red-faced Laurence suddenly realised he’d been the victim of a well-worn scam. There was no recourse, as it would have been unthinkable to report the offence. Boys simply didn’t sneak on other boys to the masters. Not unless you were courting instant unpopularity. Nobody had seemed in the least concerned that’d he’d just lost half his spending money for the term. Those who didn’t laugh in his face - like Watkins - shrugged unsympathetically.

“More fool you. Fancy falling for that old wheeze. You must be quite dense, Purvis” When he’d recounted the episode to his parents his mother had been horrified.

“Oh, how perfectly horrid! To take advantage of a little boy like that on his first day at school” His father had guffawed and declared that it was “character building”.

“Now let that be a lesson to you, Laurence. You won’t let them pull the wool over your eyes like that again, eh?” He chuckled “It’s every man for himself, now don’t you forget that”

“But he’s not a man, Roger” protested his mother “He’s only nine years old. The older boys shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.” Both his parents had seemed to think that he would find his first term relatively easy, because he had an older brother to smooth the way and show him the ropes. His aunts were always saying things like “It must be so comforting to have your older brother at the same school” Philip seldom deigned to acknowledge his existence at school. In the second week of his first term at Brocklebank Laurence had gone chasing after his brother, having caught a glimpse of him in the quadrangle. Philip had studiously ignored him until Laurence had clutched at his sleeve.

“Hey, Phil…” began Laurence eagerly, glad to see a familiar face. Philip had whirled around, his blue eyes flashing.

“What do you want?” he’d hissed “You’re embarrassing me. I can’t be seen talking to you” He made it sound as though Laurence were a leper. All the senior boys considered it seriously infra dig to be caught conversing with one of the Juniors.

“Nothing, I just thought I’d say hello..”

“Beat it. Scram. You heard me. Vamoose” At that moment one of Philip’s pals had drifted up.

“Who’s this?”

“I’m Philip’s bro-“ began Laurence.

“-Straighten your tie, Purvis” Philip had cut in, turning away “It’s crooked” Laurence had stared after them. They were Fourth Formers (established superiority) and he was merely a First Former (established inferiority) As for the Sixth Formers they were Olympian gods. Rank – in this case seniority – had its own privileges. And the manifold privileges accruing to this small elite band made them the envy of the entire school. They appeared to spend most of their time lounging in their private Common Room, bossing everyone else about and eating hot buttered crumpets toasted over the fire on a long-handled fork. They even sported their own uniform - in essence unchanged from that worn by boys two three centuries ago - consisting of a voluminous black cape and a silver-topped cane, which they swished elegantly as they bowled along. The first term had been pretty awful. His parents had bought him a brand new pencil-case containing pencils, an eraser, sharpener, and other arcane mathematical instruments such as a protractor and a silver compass. The trouble was he hadn’t the faintest idea what he was supposed to do with them.

“Your Maths teacher will explain it all” his mother had reassured him. Unfortunately for Laurence, Soames had been required to stand in for the Maths master – the latter being absent - during his first Geometry lesson. Laurence had screwed his pencil to his compass and described a perfect circle, neatly labelling the diameter, the radius and circumference. He had been feeling rather proud of himself for having mastered the elements of geometry, and had let his mind drift while the master droned on about such things as acute angles and right angles, equilateral and isosceles triangles, and the hypotenuse, which sounded like hippopotamus. As Laurence had gazed at the big horse chestnut tree outside the window, calculating that the conkers would soon be ripe enough to pick, Soames had loomed over his desk.

“What is the shortest distance between two points?”

“Doesn’t that rather depend on how far apart the two points are, sir?”

“Euclidean geometry does not depend on anything other than its own propositions, you nincompoop. I will ask you once again, what is the shortest distance between two POINTS?” He stabbed the desk with his forefinger for emphasis. Laurence hastily got out his ruler and measured the distance between the two ink spots he thought Soames had indicated.

“Er, one and a quarter inches, sir” The entire classroom tittered.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing? That does not make mathematical SENSE, Purvis. You seem to be completely devoid of logic as well as a brain” As Soames continued to stare at him, Gilbert’s hand had shot up.

“Yes, Gilbert, can you enlighten us?”

“The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, sir”

“Yes!” cried Soames. Laurence was by now thoroughly confused.

“But that doesn’t tell you anything, sir. If the two points had been, well, at one end of the classroom and the blackboard then it could have been 10 feet. It could have been anything” Soames gave him a withering look.

“Only a fool confuses the particular with the general. We are dealing with abstract concepts here, Purvis. How did you arrive at your measurement of one and a quarter inches?”

“I used my ruler, sir”

“You drew a STRAIGHT LINE between the two POINTS. Is that clear? You try my patience exceedingly, Purvis. I sometimes think you are being deliberately obtuse. And I want those ink spots scrubbed from your desk before you leave this classroom”

Laurence sat huddled by the stove during the afternoon break, his scarf wound around his neck for warmth. He craved a piece of the chocolate his mother had sent him, but was aware that as soon as he unwrapped it they’d all come swarming around. He managed to sneak a Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut bar from his satchel, but Watkins had already spotted what he was up to. He lumbered over in Laurence’s direction and rapped him smartly on the head with his knuckles.

“Give us a bite of your chocolate, Purvis”

“Nope. Get your own”

“I haven’t got any. I’ll swap you my Beezer for two squares of your chocolate” Laurence shook his head, and continued to unwrap the chocolate. Watkins suddenly snatched the bar out of his hand, and demolished it in two bites.

“Give it back!” shouted Laurence, furious.

“Too late. I’ve eaten it” Laurence stomped off to get some more. When he returned two boys had taken his place by the stove. They were holding bets as to whether Darius would be caned or not.

“Is that all you’re betting? A thruppenny bit?“ said one scornfully, who had staked a shiny new sixpenny piece. Laurence ducked to avoid a conker which Watkins had just loosed from a catapult. Watkins twanged the elastic back and aimed another one in his direction.

“The Head will probably let him off because he’s new and doesn’t know any better” said his companion “Alright, threepence ha’penny then” He laid down another halfpenny on the floor.

“What about you, Watkins?” Watkins placed his dog-eared and filthy copy of the Beezer on top of the pile. “What, after you’ve slobbered all over it? You’ve been carrying that around with you since last term. That belongs to Harold anyway” Laurence’s cousin, Harold Broadbent, had been at Brocklebank until last term when a frog had jumped out of his desk into Soames’ startled face. Harold had started off by collecting stamps and comics, then marbles, conkers, and buttons – and had finally progressed to butterflies and frogs. If it was collectible Harold collected it. He’d even been known to collect teeth, and would pester boys who complained of toothache, offering all kind of inducements for their loose molars. He rinsed out the bloodied stumps and kept them in neatly labelled matchboxes. When one of the seniors had had his teeth knocked out with a cricket bat Harold had been the first on the scene, crawling though the grass with a magnifying glass. When Harold had shown his parents what Soames had made him copy out in his exercise book 200 times: Corporal punishment is the mark of a civilised society. Caning is good for the character, followed by a further 100 lines: I am a cowardly sneak, a pusillanimous poltroon, and that is why I must be punished they had withdrawn him from Brocklebank, and enrolled him at a progressive school where the pupils were kept occupied with practical things like woodwork or cookery. Laurence was glad his parents had not sent him to a progressive school. Not only were there girls there, but nobody was ever caned, which meant that bullies never got punished. Whenever Watkins was soundly thrashed by the masters or prefects – which was quite often - everyone was secretly pleased. Justice had been done.

In another part of the school Darius had been told to wait outside the Headmaster’s office, while he and Soames had a hasty consultation. “The boy is arrogant and insolent, Headmaster. He needs to be punished”

“Of whom are we speaking?”

“I have no idea who he is. Never seen him before in my life”

“One of the new arrivals then. Send him in and I’ll question him”

“Shouldn’t bother, Headmaster. He won’t admit to anything. These types never do. What he needs is a damned good hiding”

“I’m aware of your views on discipline, Soames. Kindly wait outside” Darius was admitted to the Headmaster’s study, where he stood in sullen silence.

“Now then, what’s all this about? Firstly, let’s have your name” The Headmaster looked up questioningly, his pen poised.

“My name is Prince Darius. And if I am to be questioned, sire, I should like to know the nature of my offence” said Darius.

“Prince Darius. Yes” The Headmaster consulted a list of names. “Hmmm, I don’t see your name on the list of new boys I have here. Who is your father?”

“The king, my father, was treacherously assassinated by Queen Ermentrude’s henchmen. Both my parents were murdered in cold blood. I am heir to the throne of Albion” The Headmaster scratched his head in consternation. He disliked canings unless they were absolutely necessary but it was starting to look as though Soames was right, and the boy was a pathological liar. On the other hand, he was polite and his manner was candid and straightforward. It was just possible that the boy was of royal parentage and hailed from some obscure principality. That would explain his incongruous manner of speaking - which was quite correct - but oddly quaint, as though he had learned English from a history book.

“Now that brings us to your offence. Master Soames tells me that you were impertinent in his class, and refused to answer the questions he put to you” He assumed a stern expression “We take a very dim view of that sort of behaviour here at Brocklebank”

“I answered Master Soames’ questions – which seemed passing strange – to the best of my ability, sire. As to impertinence, I told the master his subject was fascinating – thinking it would please him”

“Hmmm. I can see how that might have offended Soames” muttered the Headmaster under his breath “And no offence was intended?”

“None, sire” The Headmaster steepled his hands, and rested his chin on them thoughtfully. He was inclined to give the boy the benefit of the doubt. He prided himself on his enlightened approach to education, which consisted of ascertaining where a boy’s true interests lay so as to encourage and foster his innate talents. In this he was influenced by the great Victorian educators.

“How are you settling in?” asked the Headmaster in a more kindly tone.

“In truth, sire, I am deeply unhappy” blurted out Darius “I should like to return to my own world as soon as possible. If you could arrange this for me, I would be eternally in your debt”

“Oh come now. All the new Brockles are homesick at first. Why, when you’re a grown man you’ll look back on your schooldays as the happiest days of your life. Tell me about your education” said the Headmaster. “You’ve evidently had some tutoring in English?”

“I was taught by an ancient wizened gnome who educated me in the language and habits of beasts” began Darius. The Headmaster surveyed him disapprovingly, shaking his head.

“Now see here, Darius, we do not mock the infirmities of others less fortunate than ourselves. You may not have got on with your tutor, but that’s no reason to be insulting. You must curb this tendency to belittle others, do you understand me?” Darius nodded sulkily “You have led a privileged existence, but here at Brocklebank we believe in treating all boys equally” Having delivered this rebuke, the Headmaster reverted to his avuncular tone. “We must try and find something that you are good at, at which you can really excel”

“I am good at sword fighting, falconry, archery, and hunting” The Headmaster made a note to have a word with the fencing master, who also taught archery.

“And academic subjects?”

“I am well-versed in navigation, history, tree-language and statecraft, as befits my station”

“Excellent. Any Latin or Greek? Geometry or Algebra?” Darius shook his head.

“That can soon be remedied. You seem intelligent and willing to learn” The Headmaster made a few more notes, then looked up. “I’m sure you’ll be very happy here, Darius. Have you made any friends yet?” Darius hesitated. He wouldn’t have exactly called Laurence a friend, but he was the only person he knew.

“I am acquainted with Laurence Purvis, sire”

“Purvis? To be sure. The older boy, Philip, is our star pupil. Laurence. Hmmm. Yes” said the Headmaster thoughtfully. He wasn’t aware that the younger Purvis had distinguished himself in any way whatsoever, but there was still time for that. He was about to dismiss Darius when he noticed the glint of his dagger. “Let me see that, boy. Give it to me” Reluctantly, Darius handed it to him. The Headmaster examined the jewel-encrusted hilt of the dagger with interest. He estimated it was probably worth a small fortune.

“I’m afraid I shall have to take this into safekeeping. Your guardian should have been informed that dangerous weapons are not allowed here”

“I am loath to part with this dagger, sire” said Darius with a show of petulance “It was given to me as a reward for valour”

“Nobody is disputing that this is your property, old chap, but rules are rules. You can have it back at the end of term – it will be perfectly safe with me” He beamed at Darius. “Run along now, there’s a good fellow, and I’ll see whether Matron can be persuaded to give you some jam sandwiches with your cocoa this evening” After dismissing Darius, the Headmaster twirled the globe in his office. After peering at it for several minutes and not finding what he was looking for, he frowned, then called through to the adjacent office.

“Alice, would you get me the admissions file on the new boy, Darius. I don’t recall interviewing his guardian but he would appear to be of royal parentage, so the whole affair may have been conducted through correspondence. Rum thing, though” he added to himself “I don’t remember dealing with it at all”

In the Staff room at the end of the corridor the masters were discussing the new boy: “I don’t give two hoots how influential his family is” declared Soames, who was sorely vexed because Darius had escaped a caning. “If we must be lumbered with the puling offspring of some Persian potentate then he needs to be taught some manners”

“Actually, I thought his manners were a cut above the rest” observed Godwin, the History master. “There are gaps in his education, but that’s to be expected. He’s a foreigner. An orphan, I gather. I confess I’m at my wits end with IIc; they have the attention span of fleas. And as for that dunce Watkins, he’s not bright enough to be a half-wit. He’s barely a quarter-wit”

“Isn’t he due for another flogging soon?” asked Soames, who was of the opinion that all boys should be flogged twice daily for their own good – once before breakfast and last thing at night.

“It’s rumoured that the new boy has a sword hidden somewhere on the premises” remarked Bradshaw, the fencing master “and from what I’ve seen so far, I’ll wager he’s been trained in the art of combat since infancy ”

“Is he any good then?”

“Is he any good?” repeated Bradshaw, then lowered his voice “Quite astonishing. The boy’s a natural – there’s really nothing I can teach him”

“He appears to be quite chummy with the younger Purvis boy” remarked Godwin “I wouldn’t have thought they had much in common”

“That dithering dunderhead” muttered Soames bitterly “Can’t believe a word he says – always manages to wriggle out of a caning”

“Don’t you think your ideas on discipline are just a tad feudal?” enquired Godwin of Soames “The latest research seems to suggest that if you brutalise boys at an early age they grow up to be bullies themselves”

“Poppycock. Absolute rot” retorted Soames “The manner in which I maintain discipline redounds to my credit” His nostrils flared in annoyance “Which is precisely why IIc do not run riot in my classroom. I would be much obliged, Master Godwin, if you would kindly refrain from poking your pantopragmatic nose into affairs which do not concern you”

Laurence slept fitfully. It was a mild night and he kept tossing off his blankets. The other boys in the dorm were fast asleep, some mumbling or moaning as they dreamed. When Harold had shared their dorm he had made strange clicking sounds, which issued from his throat at regular intervals, and Watkins would threaten to suffocate him with a pillow if he didn’t belt up. “I can’t help it” Harold would whine in a nasal voice. They had all been glad when Harold had been sent to another school where, it was reported, he was busy collecting milk-tops and jam jar labels. Through the open window Laurence could hear the owls hooting, calling to each other softly as they went about their nocturnal business. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the polished wooden floor, and a couple of woodlice scuttled into a dark corner, out of harm's way. It was then that he noticed that the bed beside his was empty. When Darius did not return to his bed after ten minutes, Laurence threw back the covers and slid his feet into the new sheepskin-lined slippers that his mother had put in his birthday parcel. He padded across the room and poked his head in the wash-room. It was empty. He was wondering what Darius could be up to at this time of night when he heard a muffled sound coming from outside.  He went over to the dormer window which opened out onto a pitched slate roof, and looked out. Darius had climbed into the old horse chestnut tree, whose branches were within easy reach for an agile boy.

“Darius! What are you doing?” Startled, Darius turned and saw him.

“I cannot remain in your world any longer. I must return to Albion”

“Wait!” Laurence scrambled out onto the roof in his pyjamas and slid down the roof “What will I tell the others if you’re not there in the morning?” Darius shrugged. He looked disheartened and despondent. “I have failed in my quest. I had thought to enlist your aid against Queen Ermentrude, but it was not to be” Laurence looked uncomfortable.

“I suppose you think I’m a coward” Darius said nothing. “I don’t see how you can expect me to help. I mean, I’m only eleven years old.” Darius gave him an intense look.

“Albion is in dire peril. It stands in mortal jeopardy. Tomorrow you must find your brother without delay and tell him how things stand. Then you must make your way to this tree and climb into its branches…”

“But why? I don’t understand”

“Because the tree is the portal through which you may re-enter Albion. Swear that you will do as I have instructed. Give me your oath”

“Alright then, I swear” Darius vanished and Laurence was caught in the beam of Peterson’s torch.

“-What’s going on out there?” Peterson shone a torch onto the roof. “You, Purvis. I might have known. Who else is with you? I thought I heard voices” He swept the torch in a wide arc over the roof, but there was no sign of Darius. Laurence staggered a little, then rubbed his eyes.

“What’s happening? Where am I? I must have been sleep-walking..” Peterson looked at him sharply.

“Get down from there at once. You can report to the Prefects’ room at three o’clock tomorrow sharp, and we’ll see whether you can sleepwalk your way through a caning-” Peterson’s words were cut off as Laurence lost his balance and clutched at the guttering to keep from falling. He felt as though he were falling from a very great height, tumbling through space. In the distance he could hear the sounds of traffic from the Bayswater Road.

“The gates to the park will be closing soon, sir” advised a park keeper “Take a tumble, did you? It can be slippery after it’s been raining” He picked up Laurence’s briefcase and handed it to him. “And I shouldn’t hang about here after dark, if I were you” He nodded towards a group of Romanian gypsies, who were eyeing up Laurence and his briefcase “They’ll be up to no good. Come on, it’s time to leave!” he shouted at them “The park’s closing. Go home now. Clear off! Get on out of it before I call the police” At the mention of the word police, the knot started to disperse, but not before a woman with a baby at her breast, advanced boldly on Laurence, thrusting out her hand.

“Give me money. You give me money”

“I have no change” muttered Laurence to the woman, scrambling to his feet. He started walking rapidly towards the exit, trying to shake off the woman, who was jostling him rudely.

“Don’t give them anything” advised the park keeper “It only encourages them” Her male accomplices lurked nearby – certainly nobody in their right minds would give them any money, which was presumably where the baby came in. Leaving the park, Laurence headed in the direction of the High Street Kensington tube station, and clattered down the steps wearily. It had been a very long day.

Chapter 4  – Laurel Grove (2001)

Gillian wiped off the kitchen counter, and started to put things back in the cupboards – flour, sugar, rolling pin, and baking trays - before attending to her husband, who was bellowing down the stairs “Gillian, where’s my striped shirt?” Gillian sighed, wondering why a grown man who was competent enough to hold down a responsible job seemed incapable of looking in the obvious places: if it wasn’t in the linen basket or in the airing cupboard, then it would be hanging in his wardrobe. Gillian looked out the window, her gaze as always focussed on the primaeval forest which skirted the farthest edge of three fields which belonged to their nearest neighbours, the Henshaws.

“Look in the airing cupboard” she called “Found it yet?” There was no reply except the sound of running water from the bathroom, which meant he had found what he was looking for. Surreptitiously, Gillian began to fill a basket with freshly baked scones, and covered it with a cloth before hiding it on a lower shelf in the pantry. Trevor rarely ventured into the pantry – unless it was in search of a bottle of wine from the wine rack. The scones were destined for certain individuals encamped in makeshift shelters and tree-houses, whose alternative life-style drove her husband into a frenzy. They had had a blazing row about it only last week.

“New-Age Travellers!” he’d snorted contemptuously, when they had first started to arrive. “They want to opt out of society – fine. But when they want the rest of us to carry on supporting them through our taxes…. I suppose they all sign on and draw benefits?”

“They’re political protesters, not gypsies or travellers – I believe they call themselves Eco-Warriors” his wife corrected him. Trevor snorted again.

“Yeah right. And terrorists call themselves freedom fighters. Orwellian doublespeak. Pests who should be locked up, in my opinion”

“Why should they be locked up? It’s not against the law to protest. They care about what’s happening to the environment - to our countryside. They have principles they’re prepared to stand by, principles which I happen to share. I haven’t met a single person in the village who wants that forest destroyed just to make way for some ugly housing estate” The local Council had recently approved plans to bulldoze the land and uproot the trees in preparation for a new estate which would spoil the views, destroy the wildlife and undoubtedly make some developer very rich.

“Somebody must want it, otherwise planning consent wouldn’t have been granted” countered Trevor “There’s an acute housing shortage, in case you hadn’t noticed, and who are we to deprive people of affordable homes just because our view from the kitchen window will be affected?” The firm of local architects in which he was a partner had established a cosy working relationship with the local Council. Once the contract was put out to tender Trevor’s firm would be invited to bid. For several months after their move from the city he had come very close to redundancy. Fearful of the spectre of long-term unemployment, he couldn’t understand Gillian’s viewpoint, which he considered irrational and selfish.

“This isn’t just about a view. There’s more at stake here. We’re talking about the wilful destruction of an ancient forest that’s stood here undisturbed for centuries. As far as I can see there’s no justification whatsoever for destroying it except greed. It’s all about lining their own pockets. The councillors are hand-in-glove with the developers, and they’ve come up with these spurious statistics-”

“Why are they spurious?” argued Trevor “According to recent statistics more and more people are choosing to remain single, and many of them choose to live alone”

“But that’s just my point! Single professionals don’t want to be stuck out in some dreary new housing estate miles from the city where’s there’s no restaurants or wine bars, gyms or cinemas. They’d much rather live in trendy waterfront apartments or warehouse conversions where they’re close to the nightlife and their place of work. Why would anyone in their right mind commute into the city on a daily basis if they didn’t have to? You’ve said yourself how much you hate the early morning starts and the traffic snarl-ups…”

“Alright, perhaps it won’t appeal to the singles” conceded Trevor “But there’s plenty of families who’ll snap up those houses as soon as they’re built”

“No they won’t because there are no schools around here. They’ve all been closed. Families with small children would be better off in a town with more amenities and regular bus routes, rather than stuck right on the edge of a major motorway with juggernauts whizzing past at all hours of the day and night. Ordinary people on modest incomes won’t be able to afford them because of the price tag, and professionals on decent salaries don’t normally go in for barrack-style accommodation. So who are all these people who supposedly want these housing estates? They don’t exist. It’s all a pack of lies, which the general public is supposed to be gullible enough to swallow.”

The Sunday morning following their argument Gillian had risen very early before Trevor was up, and headed off towards the Eco-Warrior encampment, carrying a basket laden with edible goodies. As she tiptoed closer to the camp she could glimpse brightly coloured sheets of orange and blue polythene rigged high up between the branches. When she arrived it was quiet; no-one was stirring at this hour. She could see the remains of a fire - ash and charred twigs in the centre of a circle of stones. As she carefully laid down her burden, she got the prickly sensation that she was being watched. She made sure that her note was laid out visibly on top, wedged in between two crusty sultana scones, then tiptoed away as quietly as she had come.

I’m leaving these scones in case you’re hungry. I know it’s not much but it’s the least I can do. Most people around here support what you’re doing but nobody has the moral courage to join you, including me. I hope you enjoy them – I’ll come back to fetch the basket tomorrow. If you need anything I live at Laurel Grove across the fields, but please don’t knock on the door unless it’s an emergency because my husband doesn’t know I’m here and wouldn’t like it. Good luck. I hope you win the battle. Gillian.

When she returned the following morning at the same hour, she found her basket empty, with her original note and another scribbled just beneath it: Those were delicious. We won’t bother hubby don’t worry. Thanks. The Tree-House Gang. Gillian smiled at the juvenile soubriquet - like the Bash Street Gang in the comics she used to read as a child – and hurried home, clutching the note. If only she could show it to Trevor, to allay his fears. The reply had been brief but polite. They weren’t monsters, as he imagined, just normal people. Two days later she took over another basket of goodies, this time at a later hour. As she got nearer to the camp, she saw a few figures milling about. They all scampered up to their tree-top perches at her approach – like shy squirrels, she thought. As Gillian laid the basket on the ground rather self-consciously, a mound of earth and leaves heaved upwards and a head popped up: she was confronted by the grinning freckled face of a ginger-haired urchin who didn’t look more than about twelve.

“Hello, auntie Jill. Any chance of some flapjacks?”

“Cheeky scamp” said Gillian, smiling despite herself “I’m not your auntie. I expect you’re starving - doesn’t it get cold at night?”

“We’ve got goose-down sleeping bags. And we cooked porridge over a big fire this morning” he said proudly. “Mum added some Drambuie to it”

“We – ell” said Gillian reluctantly “I’d better be off now, I suppose. Do you have a name?”

“Mole” He grinned again and scampered up a tree, as agile as a squirrel. Over the next few days, Gillian gradually established a tenuous rapport with the Eco-Warriors, careful not to ask too many questions or to seem to pry.

“What’s all this baking in aid of?” Trevor now grumbled, appearing at her side and snatching at the freshly percolated coffee she handed him “Don’t tell me, some boring village fete, and the old biddies have got you doing all the work, as usual. Is this really what we moved to the country for?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve kept aside one of the cakes so you can have a slice with your tea this evening” said Gillian in a placatory tone, avoiding a direct answer.

“Oh, by the way, Jill” said Trevor, as he gulped his coffee “What have you got planned for Friday night – what about that recipe for venison that Mum gave you? And then you could follow it up with your damson cobbler. You’re such a good cook” he added. Gillian was aware that Trevor was anxious to keep the peace, particularly as he’d invited Gavin and Angela over for dinner. Gavin Prescott was a leading local councillor, and personally responsible for pushing through the proposed new housing development. Gillian had recently decided that she didn’t want the pair sitting at their table and partaking of their hospitality, and she now calmly announced her decision.

“Why ever not?” Trevor exploded, banging down his empty cup on the counter. “This has been arranged for weeks. You can’t just un-invite them now. It would be so rude”

“Because I loathe the man, that’s why. He is corrupt to the core. You should have checked with me before you invited them. I don’t see why I should entertain people I don’t like, just to give you a leg up the professional ladder”

“Here we go again. It’s all a massive conspiracy, is it, and Gavin’s taking backhanders behind closed doors?”

“Why is that scenario so improbable? I’ve heard it goes on. Scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours” Trevor laughed condescendingly.

“Good God, woman. Do you really think you know what you’re talking about? You’re only a housewife, you know. And as for that wood you’re always wittering on about, it’s just a heap of mouldy old trees. What I really object to is all these scruffy dossers on our doorstep, leaving their litter and rubbish, demonstrating about some forest they’ve probably never set foot in because they’ve got nothing better to do”

“I keep telling you, they’re not dole-scroungers or anarchists, just ordinary people like you and me. You’d be surprised at the sort of people who joined the demonstration last Saturday. Nurses, shopkeepers, bus drivers, even our plumber Bill. He walks his dog there every evening and says he used to play there when he was a boy. The police were out in full force. Anyone would think we were all criminals!”

“What do you mean, we? Is that what you were doing last Saturday when you told me you were going shopping? That’s great, that’s all I need. My own wife has been deceiving me...”

“I did do the shopping. I picked it up afterwards”

“You have got to be out of your tiny mind! Do you realise these people are under surveillance and being videoed from a police van, along with animal liberationists and other terrorists? Your details are probably on some centralised database of subversives…”

“Why on earth shouldn’t we protest when we see thousands of acres of land being concreted over every year which we can never get back again? Are we living in some sort of police state, where if you open your mouth about anything, you’re marked down as a criminal? As far as I’m concerned” yelled Gillian, “that’s one good reason why everybody should be out there protesting!” She fled upstairs to the bedroom in tears and locked the door. Trevor pounded on the door.

“Jill, come on, Jill – I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you took all this stuff so seriously. I just don’t want you to get hurt”

“Just go away”

“It’s not you I was criticising, it’s those thieving tinks. Garden sheds have been broken into, lawn mowers and strimmers have disappeared”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Trevor” Gillian couldn’t help retorting, as she blew her nose into a tissue “What would someone living in a tree want with a lawnmower? More likely criminals from the city – we’re rich pickings for them” She opened the bedroom door and swept past him.

“Just because they don’t use lawnmowers doesn’t mean they can’t sell them on for money. That’s what I mean, you’re so naïve and those types just prey on people like you. They make out they’re not interested in property and material things but they’d steal the clothes off your back. They’ll just abuse your generosity, trample all over your good nature”

“Oh shut up, Trevor. I don’t want to hear any more. I’m going out”

“But I wasn’t getting at you, darling” he protested as she slammed the front door.  “Don’t take it so personally…” Oh no, thought Gillian, what would you know about anything, you’re just a housewife - are you out of your tiny mind? Don’t take it personally? How else was she supposed to take it? At what point had their marriage deteriorated to the point that he could speak to her in such disrespectful tones? She had been an English teacher when they’d met, over 25 years ago, and she would have been happy to continue with her career. But Trevor had wanted her to be a housewife, had emphatically wanted her to stay at home and cater for his needs. And now he belittled her for it. On more than one occasion Gillian had contemplated resuming her career, but she was too old now. Besides which she had alienated the local board of school governors by her forthright views on education. Reading about a desperate shortage of teachers, Gillian had applied to fill a temporary vacancy for supply teachers. At her interview she had been asked about her attitude to multiculturalism.

“The policy is misguided and socially divisive” Gillian had replied. “Encouraging diverse races to pursue their own separate cultures in isolation from the main culture is a breeding ground for violence and intolerance. The result is race riots, and a society where different races distrust each other because they don’t have shared values. When I was at school we all knew what was right and what was wrong. And everyone rubbed along together with no problems. I think the single most important thing you can teach children is how to behave decently, and to treat others in the same way as you would wish to be treated” Her remarks had not gone down very well with the members of the Board  - a white male, black female, and Asian male - who exemplified multiculturalism in its composition.

“Britain has changed a lot since you were a girl, Mrs. Curtis” said the Asian. “We live in a multi-cultural society. We cannot go on teaching British heritage to children with radically different roots who cannot relate to Shakespeare or to this country’s colonial past” Gillian thought she detected a faint sneer in his tone “Their parents would find it objectionable. The global community is here to stay” Gillian thought he sounded remarkably like the Prime Minister, who had recently made a similar speech in Parliament, peppered with the oxymorons of which he was so fond.

“If the parents of these children are so concerned about their roots, one wonders why they freely chose to settle in this country” said Gillian carefully “If I were to emigrate to another country I would definitely want to learn about its language and its customs and history. How otherwise would I be able to integrate with the host society? I may be wrong, but I believe that many of these parents would be happy for their children to receive an English education” The school governors had bent their heads and scribbled furiously. Nothing was said to her face, but her views were assiduously noted and recorded.

“Actually” went on Gillian, “I don’t wish to sound pedantic but isn’t the global community a contradiction in terms? I mean, the whole point of a community is that it’s local not global, and a community is by definition homogeneous. Whereas global means all-encompassing” Bland faces confronted her “I hope you won’t take offence at being corrected” added Gillian, knowing full well that they had taken grave offence. “You see, I used to be an English teacher and I hate the imprecise use of language” Her remarks were greeted by silence and Gillian had not been surprised when her application had been rejected. The Board regretted to inform her that they didn’t consider she was “suitable” for this post. According to her friend Stella they were now actively recruiting overseas staff. And what about the children, Gillian had wondered privately. Was a teacher recruited from Ghana, the Ukraine, or the Philippines really more “suitable” for them?

The following morning Trevor apologised. “Look, I know this move has been difficult for both of us” he began “We should have done it years ago when the kids were growing up. I expect that’s why you’ve become so attached to that forest. It’s a kind of substitute” Gillian could have laughed if she hadn’t been so miserable. “I miss them too, you know” He patted her shoulder awkwardly. ”It’ll be all right, old girl. You’ll see” Gillian sighed.

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t want the Prescotts over for dinner” Trevor frowned.

“But I don’t understand, you’ll be the main beneficiary if we get the contract. We’ll have more disposable income, we could take that holiday in Canada we’ve been thinking about. Besides, it’s just for one evening. Can’t you even put yourself out one little bit, even if it’s to help your own husband? But no”, catching sight of her grim expression, “I suppose that’s too much to ask”

“It’s not a question of putting myself out! You really don’t get it, do you? Councillors like Gavin have done a lot of damage to this community. They strut about like petty dictators laying down the law, as if they weren’t accountable to us. He’s absolutely full of himself, and as for that downtrodden wife of his she’s a mousy little doormat with whom I have nothing in common”

“You’ve been talking to that trouble-maker Stella, haven’t you? Just because dear old Stella happens to be your one of your cronies, and their planning application was rejected”

“She’s not a crony, she happens to be my best friend. And don’t you find it odd that their application was rejected on the grounds that a small extension to their own property in their own back garden would be a blight on the landscape?”

“No, I don’t find it odd at all. I imagine if they’d complied with planning regulations it would have been accepted”

“They did comply with the regulations. And how many other planning applications have been rejected – all from people whom Gavin has a personal grudge against because they voted for the other candidate in the local elections? And don’t you find it downright peculiar that a loft conversion which affects nobody else is deemed to be environmentally unacceptable, whereas a hastily cobbled-together plan for a massive housing estate – which is certain to increase the likelihood of local flooding, not to mention constituting an enormous blight on the landscape  – and which is unanimously opposed by the entire community, is accepted? Talk about cronyism. He’s a slimy little toad, and I don’t want him in my house!”

“I’m really tired of all this conspiracy rubbish. It’s like Greenham Common all over again. I don’t know what’s got into you lately. We are NOT cancelling this dinner. I’m forced to endure the company of your creepy family – your mad sister Josie” sneered Trevor, “your obnoxious cousin Harold  – so you can bloody well endure Gavin and Angela’s company for one evening”

“How dare you bring my poor sister into this to score a cheap point” Gillian rounded on him “She is ill through no fault of her own. She’s been through absolute hell. Mental illness is a tragedy, not something to sneer at. And as for the Broadbents, they have only visited us once, at my invitation because they happened to be vacationing in the area. Unlike your insufferable relatives, who turn up when they feel like it and don’t wait to be invited”

“If you’re referring to Mum, she’s my mother and doesn’t need to be invited. I’m sorry your parents are no longer around, Jill, I really am, and I can understand why you empathise with these dossers since your own sister was a homeless vagrant. But I will not have you spoil the evening with your female histrionics. You’ve already made me late for work” Trevor was half out the front door. “Oh, and by the way, this came for you this morning. I forgot to give it to you” Gillian’s heart contracted when she saw the Welsh postmark, and she braced herself for whatever elliptical utterances Josie had seen fit to honour her with this time. Inside the envelope was a plain white postcard, which bore the neatly printed words “How she loves to bake. Oh what a sad mistake” Gillian dissolved into tears. It was the last thing she needed. It was as though her younger sister was having a dig at her crumbling marriage, rubbing it in.

On Friday evening the Prescotts arrived at the appointed hour, and Trevor settled them close to the fire with drinks, whilst Gillian pretended to busy herself in the kitchen. They had managed to get through the first course before the subject of the housing development had come up, when Gavin let drop a remark concerning “middleclass troublemakers” who weren’t making his job any easier.

“Your job must be so stressful,” remarked Gillian casually “All those endless committee meetings and two hour lunch breaks.” There was an awkward pause whilst Trevor had shot her an agonised look. It was common knowledge that everybody who worked for the Council knocked off about 4pm. If you tried to call after 3:30pm all you got was a recorded message on an answering machine.

“You don’t know the first thing about the stresses of my job” sputtered Gavin, his face reddening as he tried to defend himself. “We have a backlog of applications and appeals this thick“ He held up two stubby little fingers to demonstrate, stabbing them in Gillian’s face.

“I wouldn’t boast about that backlog of appeals too openly, if I were you. People might start asking questions about your level of competence, and the quality of your decision-making process” observed Gillian calmly “It seems to me that if the Council were really serious about solving the housing crisis they’d be developing inner city areas instead of destroying the countryside by rubber-stamping unwanted housing developments”

“It’s about time the middle-classes stopped bleating about the loss of their privileges” said Gavin testily, putting down his knife and fork “I grew up on a housing estate in Birmingham, and I don’t see why working class people should have to put up with shoddy inner city high rise housing, while the affluent middle-classes get to cherry-pick choice rural properties. And if their precious views are spoiled, so bloody what” He picked up his knife and fork and resumed eating.

“So this is what it’s all about then? You see this protest as a class issue, rather than an environmental one? The people whom you sneer at for being middle-class all work hard for a living and pay taxes” Which, by definition, makes them the real working classes, she was in half a mind to add, and not the scrounging classes who live on government handouts on council-built estates and have never done a day’s work in their lives. “The vast majority of protesters are ordinary locals who are just interested in preserving what’s left of the countryside they grew up with before it all disappears. But then I don’t suppose it makes a blind bit of difference to you what people think since none of you lot are accountable to the taxpayers who pay your salaries” This was obviously a sore point as the Council had received a record number of complaints this year about squandering public resources on costly and ill-advised traffic schemes which had resulted in several near fatal accidents. There had been another recent scandal where Gavin’s colleagues had knowingly appointed a notorious paedophile to a position of trust within a children’s home, which had outraged local opinion.

It was unfortunate for the communities whose quality of life was largely in the hands of local councillors, she now reflected, that so few of them seemed to possess any integrity or common sense. Such posts only seemed to attract self-important functionaries feathering their own nests. Like the politicians they served, these people had egos the size of Wembley stadium, and they did not like being crossed. Anybody who dared to openly challenge the lunacy of their policies, or to suggest that they show some accountability to the general public were branded trouble-makers or “middle-class whingers” And the ones with political axes to grind abused their positions to get even with people they resented. Gavin now shot her a look of pure loathing. As Angela stared at the table, her dessert un-touched, Trevor tried to intervene. “Look, I’m sorry about this. My wife is going through the Change….” Gillian rounded on him.

“Don’t apologise for me!” She turned back to Gavin “It’s nice to know that the reason we’re all being put through this misery is because you happen to have a chip on your shoulder” Trevor was twisting his fingers through his hair miserably; he must have realised that the situation was unsalvageable. “Tell me, how much do you personally stand to make out of this new housing project? Have you wiped the grease off your palms yet?” Gavin was incensed, and hardly able to contain himself. He stood up abruptly and yanked Angela to her feet.

“Come on. We’re going. And as for you” Gavin addressed Trevor savagely “I’d advise you to keep that bloody wife of yours under control. You’ll be hearing from me” They stormed into the hallway to retrieve their coats. Trevor didn’t bother going after them. There was no point. After their car had started up, Gillian went into the kitchen and leaned against the counter. She laughed and laughed until she cried. Trevor stood framed against the doorway, watching her. He looked devastated, like someone whose pet has just been ground up in a meat grinder. The very sight of him set her off again. She wiped her eyes, still laughing. “Oh dear, that was so funny. I haven’t laughed so much in ages” Trevor said nothing but just watched as Gillian took a mixing bowl, some sultanas and self-raising flour from the cupboard, and started to lay out her ingredients for fruit scones “How she loves to bake. Oh what a sad mistake” She hummed to herself as she sifted the flour and rubbed butter into the mixture.

“That’s it, then” said Trevor tonelessly.

“That’s it” agreed Gillian cheerfully. “They’ll never darken our door again” She shook with laughter as she kneaded the dough into a ball, then flattened it with the palm of her hand.

“You’re cracking up, aren’t you? You’re having a nervous breakdown” observed Trevor, his tone flat and dismal “I recognise the symptoms. Obviously it runs in the family” He turned on his heel and left the room.

They didn’t speak a word to each other after that for two days. Gillian went about her daily routine, and Trevor didn’t get back from work until late at night. Every evening she crept out to feed the badgers, placing bags of nuts at strategic points in the garden. Then she’d go upstairs to watch through the bedroom window as they emerged from their lairs, noses twitching and whiskers all aquiver. She’d even started to venture into the forest after dark by herself, carrying a torch so she wouldn’t trip on a root and twist her ankle. She would slip out the back door, under the pretence of feeding the badgers, and make her way across the fields, negotiating stiles. At night the forest seemed to come alive as branches swayed and creaked in the gentle night breeze. Here in the forest she left behind the contrived and artificial world presented nightly on her television set – the inane game shows, the sitcoms with studio-engineered laughter, the carefully scripted news programs which omitted far more than they reported: they routinely ignored the real concerns and anxieties of ordinary people, choosing instead to report the insignificant and the trivial: the comings and goings of pop stars and celebrities. Or they focused on natural disasters in far-flung areas of the globe – anything to distract the public from what was happening under their noses in their own country.

But the forest was not synthetic or man-made. The soughing of the wind in the trees and the soft hooting of night-owls was real. Ever since moving from the urban sprawl, Gillian had become more acutely aware of the extent of her alienation, and of the powerlessness of people to decide for themselves the kind of environment in which they could live and breathe. Every year more and more land – which had formerly been school playing fields or spacious public parks where children could play – was sold off in order to make way for housing estates and shopping complexes which nobody except the developers wanted. And those who were in a position to halt the process of turning the country into a gigantic shopping mall - like Gavin and his paymasters - were busy accelerating that process: they genuinely didn’t care how much of England’s “green and pleasant land” was concreted over, whether the birds continued to sing or trees were allowed to flourish. The richness and diversity, the sheer exuberance of nature was something to be trampled on and destroyed. She had once read a little-known work by a Russian writer called Zamyatin, which had served as the inspiration for Huxley’s Brave New World. The novel had depicted a future where the citizens were compelled to live their restricted lives in an artificial environment of steel and glass, and never allowed to venture into the “wilderness” – the natural world outside. Raw nature was deemed to be politically subversive and an affront to the totalitarian state, which took every possible precaution to prevent its citizens from coming into contact with it - lest they discover that an alternative and freer lifestyle was within their reach.

A week after the dinner party fiasco Gillian slipped out to the woods. It was a Sunday evening and the peace was undisturbed, except for whispering and rustling noises - the susurration of tiny feet pattering over the ground as small creatures scurried underfoot. Occasionally she was transfixed by the glowing topaz eyes of a night owl, before it swooped off in search of easier prey. She leaned her cheek against a massive oak tree, measuring its girth with her arms. These ancient and majestic oaks, solid and reassuring, had always symbolised England. How many generations of people had laughed with delight, trembled with fear, succumbed to murderous rage, or wept bitter tears of despair beneath this very tree? Was it fanciful of her to imagine that these living trees bore the permanent imprint of emotions and passions felt by generations of her fellow countrymen, dating back to the Dark Ages? In this very wood fifteenth century nobility had hunted stags and wild boar, dairy maids had walked to the neighbouring market town to sell cheeses from the outlying farms; lovers had courted beneath these trees, carving their names into the bark. Cavaliers pursued by Roundheads had hidden from Cromwell’s army or vice versa. Terrified priests and monks from the nearby abbey, ransacked for its treasures, had fled for their lives from the King’s men who were unable to follow on horseback through the dense forest. Fugitives from the law - highwaymen and smugglers - had sought sanctuary. Victorians and Edwardians had picnicked with their large families; children had gone black-berrying and mushrooming, or played hide-and-seek behind the trees – still did in fact – and dogs bounded joyfully through the thickets, chasing rabbits and squirrels.

Gillian was on the point of returning home before Trevor noticed her absence, when she heard screams and shouts emanating from the Eco-Warrior camp. She stumbled through the undergrowth, emerging from the wood and scrambling over the stiles as fast as she could to see what on earth was going on. The encampment was illuminated by the headlamps of two very large vehicles which looked like JCBs or earth-moving equipment. Men in fluorescent yellow coats stood around shouting into megaphones.

“You sneak in here in the middle of night to do your dirty work!” screamed one grey-haired woman, who could have been someone’s grandmother, and quite probably was “What are you so ashamed of? Don’t you want the public to know what you’re really up to?”

“Shut up, you stupid bitch” shouted a man, who had his hands full with two younger protesters, who were swarming over one of the vehicles “Get down from that. Get off out of it” From then on it was pandemonium. Police vans arrived moments later. There were no sirens, but the blue lights were flashing, and protesters were being picked up bodily and hurled into the back of vans. Gillian stood frozen to the spot, and then suddenly snapped out of it and ran forward.

“Stop that! They’re not doing any harm” Mole was chucking water balloons from his tree-top perch. One of the policemen placed a ladder against the tree, and attempted to climb up after him, but the ladder was dislodged by another protester and the policeman had to jump to safety as the ladder crashed to the ground. Instead he grabbed a woman by the hair, and started dragging her towards the van. Mole appeared on the ground almost immediately.

“You leave my mum alone, you bastard!” he yelled, before he too was snatched, yelling and kicking. The violence escalated, and Gillian was in imminent danger of ending up with the rest of the protesters in the back of a police van, when Trevor showed up, panting.

“Come on, Gillian. Let’s get out of here. NOW” He tugged at her arm, almost pulling her off her feet.

“No, I want to witness this, even if I get arrested. This was a peaceful protest until those men arrived, and I won’t stand around and watch while children and women are being beaten up by those thugs. Leave that child alone!” she shouted. “How dare you!”

“Come…with…me….right…now!” Trevor enunciated with difficulty as he attempted to restrain his wife, whilst simultaneously trying to fend off a policeman who was equally intent on arresting her. “Officer, my wife has nothing to do with this lot. We were just out – walking the dog” Trevor improvised wildly (they didn’t own a dog) “and my wife heard noises so we came over to investigate. We live over there” Trevor pointed across the fields to Laurel Grove, where the lights were winking. “Honestly, do we look like we’re part of this rabble?” The police officer hesitated, looking at Trevor and then Gillian, who was struggling with him. One of his colleagues shouted at him as the vans revved up, ready to depart with their captive cargo. He evidently decided they weren’t worth the paperwork, and turned away from them. Trevor’s grip relaxed slightly, and Gillian broke away. She took to her heels, and sprinted back into the heart of the forest. She could hear Trevor blundering after her, cursing as he stubbed his toe in the darkness.

“Bloody stupid woman. Gillian, for God’s sake!” She reached the oak tree, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Gillian crouched low, grasping a gnarled root for balance. Trevor’s voice faded out, and she felt the ground wet and slippery beneath her. It was daylight and she was sprawled on the bank of a babbling stream in the middle of a forest glade.

Trevor stumbled around blindly for about half an hour, calling Gillian’s name, and getting increasingly anxious. He was sure she had only been a few yards in front of him, and then she just seemed to have vanished into thin air. “This is absurd” he told himself eventually. It was by now obvious that she had returned to the house without bothering to wait for him.  It wouldn’t have been that difficult to creep past him under cover of darkness; she knew these woods much better than he did. Trevor was perfectly aware that she had been sneaking out early some mornings to feed the rabble who had their encampment on the far side of the Henshaws’ property, but had pretended to be asleep, simply because he dreaded another row. There had been a time when Gillian had been content to cater to him instead of to a bunch of strangers, but now all she did was undermine him. Since the disastrous dinner party the Prescotts had cut him dead. He’d met Angela coming out of the Post Office, and she’d sailed past him with her nose in the air. As for Gavin, Trevor had been astounded by the sheer petty vindictiveness of the man. Not only had he successfully blocked the bid from Trevor’s firm, but he was also attempting to damage Trevor’s professional credibility. At first, Trevor had sought an interview with Gavin to apologise for Gillian’s behaviour, and to distance himself from his wife’s controversial views. He had been confident that any misunderstandings would be cleared up and they could start afresh. He had been unable to obtain an interview at the council offices - the receptionist claiming that Gavin was either “busy” or in a meeting - so Trevor had gone around to his house one evening. Angela had received him frostily on the doorstep, announcing that Gavin was out.

“If it’s that dickhead, Curtis, get rid of him” came Gavin’s irritable voice from somewhere within the house. A few days later a letter from the Inland Revenue had arrived, requesting that he resubmit all his tax records, pending an investigation. Trevor had duly complied as he had nothing to hide, but had been annoyed because it was so totally unnecessary and time-consuming. After making a few discreet enquiries amongst his colleagues, it emerged that no-one else seemed to be the target of the Inland Revenue’s attention. Which did seem odd. He hadn’t mentioned the matter to Gillian who would immediately have seen a conspiracy. It had also not escaped his notice that people in the village who had formerly been friendly backed off a bit, as if they knew something unsavoury about him. Gillian had remarked one afternoon that local shopkeepers were really “off” with her, as if she’d done something to personally offend them. Trevor was now left in no doubt that whatever malicious rumour was circulating the Prescotts were behind it.

By the time he arrived back at Laurel Grove, he had made up his mind to sit down with Gillian and attempt to patch things up between them. He’d lost a big contract because of her interference, but it wasn’t the end of the world and his marriage was more important than keeping in with people like the Prescotts. With a lighter heart, he opened the door and went into the sitting room. The fire had gone out, so perhaps she’d gone to bed. He tried the kitchen but she wasn’t in there either. There were some unwashed dishes in the sink, which was unlike her, as she usually tidied up before she went to bed. That meant she was sulking. Trevor washed and dried the crockery himself, and folded up the tea-towel neatly before he remembered it hung from a hook near the draining board. He poured himself a large glass of red wine, and on second thoughts, poured her one too. Then he made up a tray, consisting of a wedge of Camembert and a crusty baguette, and took it into the sitting room. He banked up the fire and placed another log in the centre of the glowing embers. Any minute now she would probably come down the stairs, and Trevor would launch into his prepared speech: “I was wrong about Gavin and you were right. I agree the police were a little heavy-handed but they were only doing their job….” No, she’d only contradict him - best not to mention the incident at all.

Trevor contemplated going upstairs to fetch Gillian. The whole point of opening a bottle of wine was so they could share it together. It was only nine-thirty – far too early to go to bed. Perhaps she was in the bath having a soak with a good book? Women always took long baths when they were stressed out. He walked into the hallway and stood at the foot of the stairs, with his hand on the newel post, listening. “Jill, are you in the bath?” he called. There was no reply. “You haven’t gone to bed yet, have you, darling? I thought we’d have some wine and cheese…”

Trevor mounted the stairs uneasily. The house was eerily silent, almost as if he were the only one in it. A few moments later he realised this was because he was the only one in it. Gillian had not returned from the woods and that was nearly an hour ago. As this information sank in, he felt a cold chill of fear snaking upwards from the pit of his stomach. What could have happened to her? He would have to go and look for her. She could be lying injured somewhere – perhaps with a sprained ankle – and no-one would have heard her cries because the travellers at the encampment had all been arrested. This was their fault, thought Trevor grimly, grabbing a jacket and a torch. If it wasn’t for them Gillian wouldn’t have been out there in the first place, he thought savagely, as he hoisted himself over stiles slippery with rain. They preyed on the tender sympathies of women like his wife, liberal do-gooders who had no idea who they were dealing with.

After searching for half an hour, plunging through the wet undergrowth and snagging his trouser legs on brambles, Trevor began to be seriously worried. He listened to the news often enough to know that it was no joke when a woman goes missing in a remote rural area at this time of night. What if some psychopath had been prowling around the woods, and had pounced in the dark? What if, right now, Gillian’s body was lying –Stop it! Just stop it right now, he told himself. She could have fallen and hit her head and was unconscious, which was why she hadn’t replied to his calls. Not that this scenario was any more reassuring. He needed to call the police immediately, and then he needed to enlist the help of his nearest neighbours in order to conduct a more thorough search. He started to make his way towards the Henshaws’ farm. All the lights were blazing, which meant they were in. His approach was heralded by the furious barking of their dogs, who were soon quietened by someone from within the house. Trevor knocked on the door, which was opened by Brenda Henshaw. She looked surprised to see him.

“It’s Mr. Curtis from Laurel Grove, Rob” she said over her shoulder to her husband “Is everything alright?”

“Not really, no. My wife is missing” blurted out Trevor miserably “May I use your phone, please, to call the police?”

“Of course, come in” said Brenda “You must be frantic. The phone’s over there” After Trevor had called the police and been assured that a squad car would be sent around, the Henshaws pressed him for further information.

“We went out earlier to investigate a disturbance over near the encampment” began Trevor.

“Oh aye” said Rob “We heard something of the sort. It won’t be the first time the police have been sent for tonight then. When did you last see her?”

“Nearly two hours ago. I lost sight of her in the woods and thought she’d gone back ahead of me. But there was no sign of her at the house”

“You’ve only just noticed her missing?” enquired Rob, looking at him closely “or do you mean you’ve been out in the woods all this time looking on your own?” Trevor felt slightly uncomfortable. Did they suspect him of foul play, or was it just his imagination?

“I thought she was upstairs in the bath or something” explained Trevor “It didn’t really occur to me that she wasn’t in the house until about an hour ago when I went upstairs to check on her”

“Right” said Rob with an air of decision “Me and Dave’ll continue the search. We know those woods pretty well. Brenda, love, go and drag that lazy lump off the sofa”

“Come into the warm, love” said Brenda, ushering Trevor into the sitting-room where their teenage son was sprawled full-length on the sofa, crunching his way through a mammoth-sized bowl of cereal. “Up you get, lad. Mr. Curtis has lost his wife in the woods and you’re to go and help your dad look for her”

“Oh, Mum” protested Dave, as she turned down the volume of the TV set. “It’s the X-Files, just starting. Can you tape it for me, then? Go on, Mum, I tape Casualty for you when you’re out at Weight Watchers”

“Alright, but don’t keep your father waiting” Brenda handed Trevor a coffee, which he hastily gulped down as Rob and Dave prepared to leave.

“Thanks, by the way” said Trevor to Rob “I really appreciate it”

“Ah, think nothing of it. We’ll find her, don’t you worry. We’ll be off then, love” He gave his wife a peck on the cheek. “Get the dogs, will you, lad, and stop fiddling with that recorder. It won’t harm you to miss one episode of the X-Files” Dave cast a longing look at Scully’s beautiful composed face as she tapped her latest findings into her laptop.

As the evening wore on it took on nightmarish proportions. Trevor returned home to find the police waiting for him. The interview was thorough and businesslike. From some of the questions that were put to him, Trevor realised that they were not going to take his word for anything without corroborating evidence. Which was all very proper, but it left him feeling nervous and on edge. He was aware that when a woman went missing the police focussed their attention on the husband or boyfriend, since experience had taught them that this was the most fruitful line of enquiry. Then Rob and Dave had shown up at his door, looking sombre.

“If she’s in those woods we ought to have found her by now” Rob told one of the police officers, who didn’t comment but appeared to acquiesce with Rob’s verdict.

“She could have wandered onto the B road and maybe hitched a ride” suggested Dave.

“My wife doesn’t hitch” said Trevor firmly “She has more sense than that”

“Maybe she was hit by a car then. Shouldn’t you check with the hospitals?”

“I imagine the police have already done that, son” chided his father gently.

“Did you ever catch that killer down Exeter way?” Dave asked the detective in charge “You know, the one who stabbed that woman who was out walking her dog?”

“That’s enough from you. Mr. Curtis doesn’t want to hear about that right now” Rob clamped a paternal hand on his son’s shoulder and steered him towards the door. The police had conducted their own search, combing the house for clues or signs of a struggle, with assurances that this was “merely routine” By the time they asked Trevor for the key to a chest freezer in the garage, he was a nervous wreck. Of course all they’d found was stacks of frozen vegetables and meat. They politely asked if they could take a look at his car, and asked if he would open the boot for him. It might be necessary to impound the vehicle for forensic tests, but in that eventuality they would be back with a warrant and Trevor would be supplied with a hire vehicle in the meantime so that he could get to work. Trevor listened in dismay, nodding his head. He would offer them his full co-operation – how could he do otherwise?  They would be back first thing in the morning to conduct a ground search of the surrounding area, including the woods, which involved a minute inspection of the terrain to see whether any earth had been disturbed recently. With a jolt, Trevor suddenly realised that they had not discounted the possibility that Gillian had been murdered and that her body was lying in a shallow grave somewhere. The police had grilled him about his marriage, and the detective sergeant had asked him why, if they had both gone out for a walk together, they had returned separately – as they must have done for Trevor not to have noticed she was missing when he returned to the house.

“We had a minor difference of opinion”

“You had an argument with your wife in the woods, and then she disappeared?”

“Yes. I know how it looks, but it happens to be true”

“And you didn’t report her missing for a good two hours after you had returned?”

“For the third time, I’ve told you, I assumed she was upstairs sulking or taking a bath. I had no idea she hadn’t come home. For God’s sake, I don’t follow her around like a shadow”

“What was the difference of opinion about, Mr Curtis?”

“I don’t know, something silly. She supports those tree-protesters – the ones that your lot arrested earlier this evening – whereas I’m of the opinion they’re a bunch of scroungers and layabouts” If he’d been expecting sympathy for this viewpoint, it wasn’t forthcoming. The detective inspector hadn’t expressed any opinions whatsoever. He had merely regarded Trevor with that detached hard-nosed look that so many police acquired in the line of duty. Their attitude throughout had been strictly impersonal – neither sympathetic, sarcastic, or openly disbelieving. Trevor didn’t feel any resentment towards the police. He was well aware that they must come across all kinds of hard cases – murderers, rapists and paedophiles. When you took into consideration the kind of scumbags they had to deal with on a daily basis their cynicism was understandable. And there were clear procedures which had to be followed.

“So you and your wife argued quite a bit then?”

“It depends what you mean by quite a bit. Yes, we argued, but nothing violent. And we always made it up afterwards” Again, that hard considering stare. It was difficult to know whether they believed him or not. They were probably keeping their options open. Although one could generalise to an extent from what sociological groups criminals were mostly drawn, in a case like this Trevor was as suspect as the next man. The fact that he was well spoken and educated did not let him off the hook. They had finally departed around midnight and Trevor was left alone with his thoughts.

He sat there without moving for what seemed a very long time. Then he reached for the bottle of wine he’d opened earlier and started to drink. Of course, the two of them had argued – what married couple didn’t? But that was because Gillian was a headstrong woman with opinions of her own which she liked to express forcefully. But that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. Jill could be tiresome - questioning everything and reading conspiracies into quite innocuous situations – but at least she was honest and said what she thought to your face. Trevor finished the last of the wine and curled up on the sofa beside the phone - he couldn’t face the emptiness of their double bed upstairs. He attempted to sleep as the hours ticked by, consulting his watch at regular intervals, and eventually gave up at dawn when he heard birds chirping and twittering. He padded into the kitchen in his socks and measured out some filter coffee into the coffee machine, then waited for it to brew. He popped some bread into the toaster, and sat down with his breakfast at the kitchen table. The curtains were still shut and he didn’t wish to open them just yet, as if the act of keeping the world at bay might also keep any bad news from reaching him. The phone rang and Trevor jumped. It was Brenda.

“How are you, pet? Are you alright?”

“I haven’t slept a wink” admitted Trevor, rubbing his eyes, which felt gritty.

“Well, if you want some company just come on over. Sometimes it helps”

“That’s really kind, Mrs. Henshaw, but I’d best stay put in case the phone rings”

“Call me Brenda. It just occurred to me, could she have gone and stayed with a friend perhaps – have you thought of ringing Stella?” Stella was the last person he wanted to ring. He considered her to be a bad influence on Gillian. She never made the least effort with her appearance, and slopped around in shapeless clothes like some ageing hippy. When he saw the two of them giggling together over coffee, it made him feel uncomfortable. He had thought Stella was nice at first, but then she’d got pally with Gillian and tried to make out he was some kind of male chauvinist. Which was outrageous when you considered the things he did for his wife. He drove her to the supermarket and trundled up and down the aisles with a trolley when he could have been reading the paper at home. He brought his wife breakfast trays in bed when she was feeling under the weather, and helped with the washing up. Most feminists really got up his nose. They were always whinging about how a woman’s work was never done, and how they had to scrub out toilet bowls because men considered the job beneath them. As far as Trevor was concerned if they wanted to expend vast quantities of energy on menial household chores that was their lookout. Nobody forced them to. How was it his fault, for Pete’s sake? As far as he was concerned, if a woman flops down and acts like a doormat she has no real grounds for complaint if people walk all over her.

“The police are checking out anyone she knew” said Trevor. ”I gave them her name”

“It was just a thought. If you need anything at all, just pick up the phone, alright?”

“Alright” replied Trevor “Thanks, Brenda” At nine o’clock he called in sick, leaving a message with the receptionist.

“Hope you’re feeling better tomorrow” said the receptionist “There’s a nasty virus going around. Hong Kong flu or something. Feel a sniffle coming on myself” Cue for her to go sick tomorrow, thought Trevor, who normally would have been irritated. It only took one person to claim they had a cold for several others to develop the same symptoms with the excuse that they’d “caught it” off so-and-so.

As he flicked idly through yesterday’s newspaper, his eye alighted on an article entitled “Are we being punished by the government?” Plans for a new airport had been approved in one of the Home Counties, alongside a massive housing project for thousands of new houses. The proposed site for the housing development could almost have been chosen for its tranquil bucolic setting – its gently rolling landscape and wooded copses, picturesque villages with thatched cottages, quaint tea-gardens and ancient drovers’ inns, many of them well over four centuries old. All this would of course be destroyed. The locals had taken a stand quite early on, citing all the usual arguments which Trevor had already heard from his own wife: acres of greenbelt would disappear forever, an area of great natural beauty would be spoiled and the wildlife endangered, woodland would have to be cleared and trees chopped down, householders would be vulnerable to flooding from nearby rivers and so on. Nobody wanted it built for a variety of reasons. As an architect, Trevor couldn’t help agreeing with the last argument since building on a flood plain simply didn’t make sense.

The protesters had been quite vocal and determined in their opposition to the plans. There had been acrimonious exchanges with local councillors and strongly-worded letters sent to the appropriate government ministers, which had fallen on deaf ears. The developers got their way, as usual, but the villagers had not given up without a fight and were still angrily protesting when further plans were announced to build a reception centre to house hundreds of foreign asylum seekers close to the new housing development. This had alarmed everyone in the community, who voiced their fears at public meetings. Church leaders were silent as they couldn’t be seen to be uncharitable but others spoke for them. A sudden influx of bored young males with dodgy backgrounds roaming around the countryside was simply asking for trouble. A GP who wished to remain anonymous and who had recently relocated from the capital, took the opportunity to share his experiences. He complained that his London surgery was swamped by non-English-speaking immigrants faking illness to bolster their appeals against deportation, and that he had no longer been able to treat patients with genuine complaints, which was why he had left his city practice. These remarks had infuriated some top-ranking ministers who were anxious to rush through their “dispersal” scheme before anyone could raise any objections. It had also produced a hysterical response from race relations organisations who were calling for the GP to be publicly “named and shamed”, and debarred from practising. It was curious, noted a local shop-owner, how the refugee dispersal program took great care to avoid areas where government ministers had their own country retreats and mansions.

Trevor read on, by now thoroughly engrossed. The opposing lines of battle were drawn up with the developers and government spokesmen on one side arrayed against the villagers, who showed no signs of retreat. The latter were still reeling from the initial proposals, when plans for the new airport were gleefully announced. By a strange coincidence, the decision had been taken to build in the same area where two other substantial building projects were underway. Much more of the surrounding land would have to be cleared to accommodate the new runways and airport terminals. As with the other two schemes, there had been no public consultation. The council had initially gone down this route but the resulting feedback had been so embarrassingly hostile - with the returned consultation forms containing a lot of four-letter words - that it was deemed that consultation was not necessary. Compulsory purchase orders had already been slapped on properties with the owners having no legal recourse; they faced lengthy jail sentences for refusing to comply. The journalist observed that most of the locals appeared to be “shell-shocked” by this latest bombshell, scarcely able to believe what further misery they were going to be put through.

Everyone living in the area would be affected since the peace and quiet they so cherished would be permanently lost. The local tourist trade – restaurants, hotels, traditional country pubs, and tea-shops would lose their business overnight, as none of their customers wanted to be in the direct flight path of booming aircraft at all hours of the day and night. Many of them faced closure and bankruptcy. Needless to say, property prices had plummeted and everybody was now desperate to move from the area. Some were close to suicide, in particular elderly residents who had chosen this idyllic spot for their retirement. Their houses had lost so much value that they were effectively trapped and unable to move, since they couldn’t find any buyers who were prepared to move into the blighted area. The article concluded on this sombre note: “Are these people being persecuted and deliberately targeted for daring to speak out against government policies, and punished for their voting habits? If so, they have paid a very high price” Trevor read the article again. The implications were deeply disturbing. What had happened there could easily happen here, and the message from the government seemed to be very clear. If you don’t like what we propose to do to the countryside, we’ll do it right in your back yard. If you keep criticising our policies and making us look like incompetent fools we’ll take our revenge. Trevor now wondered whether Gillian perhaps had a point. Only last week she had remarked “If the government devoted half as much of their time to cracking down on real criminals as they devoted to cracking down on their critics we’d have a crime-free society”

By ten o’clock Trevor was pacing around the kitchen, wishing they did have a dog so that he could at least take it out for a walk. Brenda had been right - he needed to talk to someone but he didn’t want to call the Henshaws again, feeling he’d imposed on them enough. Who could he call? Gillian’s immediate family were the obvious candidates. He reviewed the options: Josie was clearly unhinged. They had received another post-card only last week: “Albion is in peril. And still you do nothing”. And then there was Philip, who last year had suffered a massive cerebral haemorrhage and was now convalescing. It probably wasn’t fair to call Philip just yet until he knew more - he and Rebecca had enough on their plate right now. Trevor went through his address book and found Laurence’s office number. A female voice answered.

“We haven’t seen him today, actually. Have you tried him at home?” He didn’t have any better luck with the home number. An answering machine clicked in after two rings, with Laurence’s clipped tones requesting the caller to leave a message, unless it was trivial, in which case the caller needn’t bother. How typically rude, thought Trevor, permitting himself a small grin. In other words, just bog off and leave me alone. He flipped through the address book again and alighted on Philip’s number. He hesitated for a moment, then dialled it.

Chapter 5 – Beechwood (1959)

The mingled scents of honeysuckle and jasmine lay heavy on the air, overlaid with the soporific sounds of summer – the droning of bumblebees, the throaty cooing of wood pigeons and the harsher croak of pheasants from the spinney which bordered the stream at the bottom of Marjorie’s Tea Gardens. In the summer people were served outside with plates of sandwiches, cakes and scones; you could loll about in the sunshine beneath the cherry and almond blossom, sipping endless cups of tea whilst wasps circled the sticky pots of jam on the tables. The Purvis children were tucking into a cream tea, courtesy of their great aunt.

“Where is Gillian?” asked aunt Drusilla suddenly “Laurence, go and fetch her” Laurence ran off obligingly towards the stream where he had last seen his sister. Gillian was sitting on the mossy bank, her bare feet dangling in the water, and rubbing her eyes in a dazed fashion. Girls were always daydreaming, thought Laurence. That’s what made them so soppy.

“Where’ve you been?” he demanded “You’d better hurry or there won’t be any rock cakes left” Gillian put on her socks and sandals, and weaved across the lawn dreamily.

“I do believe that child’s short-sighted” said their aunt “She’s always bumping into things” After they’d finished their tea, their aunt gave them a lift home, tootling along the meandering country lanes in her prized yellow sports car, and honking her horn for the sheer fun of it. She stopped to chat with Ned, who was repairing the crumbling stone parapet of the old hump-backed packhorse bridge. Now in his fifties, Ned’s services were always in demand wherever there was any type of masonry or stone-work to be done. He did a lot of work for the parish council, repairing weathered facades and crumbling walls.

“Done a good job there, Ned” said their aunt, admiring his handiwork.

“Aye. She’s stood here for many a long year, and she’ll still be standing long after I’m gone” said Ned proudly, placing a calloused hand on the parapet. By the time their aunt had dropped them off at Beechwood it had clouded over, and their mother Daphne was peering anxiously at the sky.

“I don’t think it’s going to hold for the weekend: we may have to accommodate everyone indoors”. She was hosting an afternoon tea-party on Saturday for all their relatives, several of whom were in poor health and would require a coal fire, even in midsummer. She had invited everyone, not wishing to cause offence in any quarter, but had privately hoped that a few might decline the invitation. No such luck, thought Laurence. Their numerous aunts and uncles never lost an opportunity to scoff as many cakes and buns as possible, as long as it was at someone else’s expense.

“Why does it have to start raining as soon as we get home for the holidays?” asked Josie fretfully “I wanted to go outside and skip”

“Ned was going to take us fishing tomorrow. If the weather was fine” said Laurence gloomily, as the rain drummed against the windowpane.

“Let’s see, we’ll definitely need to order some more milk” said Mrs. Purvis thoughtfully, chewing her pencil tip as she consulted a shopping list. “And I must remember to have a word with the butcher tomorrow” Josie and Laurence sighed heavily. Like most children they found grownup talk – which was chiefly concerned with things like mortgages or the cost of living - dreary and uninteresting. Their parents were already at it, droning on about the price of coal.

“Perhaps we could eke out the wood a bit more” said their mother, shaking her head. “Coal is so expensive”

“I thought your aunt said we could help ourselves to her stockpile” said Mr. Purvis, looking up from the newspaper. Drusilla was related to the Purvises on their mother’s side of the family, and would often invite them to her home, a magnificent Georgian manor which boasted several hundred acres of landscaped parkland and woods.

“Yes, I know, Roger, but I don’t really like to, do you? In the war we learned to be self-sufficient” countered their mother. The conversation drifted on, becoming more boring by the minute, until Philip beckoned to the others to follow him. They trooped upstairs. Josie and Gillian shared a big double bed with a solid mahogany headboard. It sported a faded pink candlewick bedspread, covering a thick eiderdown. Philip and Laurence’s bedroom was next door, with twin beds and identical bedspreads except for the colour, which was green.

“We’ll use the girls’ room” declared Philip. “Right. I pick a nursery rhyme like Three Blind Mice, and everyone has to say the words while we take turns to do a somersault over the bed. When you land on the other side, you have to knock the wall three times and run around the bed again to take your place in the queue. Everyone has to stop when I shout ‘Freeze!’ Then the next eldest picks another nursery rhyme: whoever chooses the rhyme gets to shout ‘Freeze’ whenever they feel like it. Got it? I’ll go first: Hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock” They all lined up behind Philip, who somersaulted over the bed and rapped his knuckles against the wall three times. Gillian just managed to get out of the way in time before Laurence landed on the wooden floorboards behind her with a resounding thump.

“Watch where you’re going, Laurence” said Gillian crossly, before racing off to rejoin Josie and Philip on the other side of the bed.

“I couldn’t help it, the rug slipped” said Laurence breathlessly as Josie somersaulted over the bed and performed the obligatory three knocks without missing a beat.

“They all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife!” Philip flipped forward, head over heels and suddenly yelled “Freeze!” They all froze like statues. “Go on, then, Jill” said Philip impatiently “It’s your turn because you’re the next eldest”

“Oranges and lemons sang the bells of St. Clements” began Gillian “Ouch!” She’d knocked her head on the wall, whilst trying to be clever and attempting a cartwheel. “Freeze!”

“Your turn, Laurence” prompted Josie.

“Half a pound of tuppeny rice” began Laurence, landing heavily on the other side of the bed. “Half a pound of treacle. That’s the way the money goes, pop goes the weasel…”

“What if” gasped Josie “when we’ve somersaulted over the bed we have to crawl back underneath it-”

“Freeze!” shouted Laurence. Their mother appeared in the doorway.

“What ON EARTH are you children doing? Your father and I can’t hear ourselves THINK”

“We were playing a game that Philip thought up” said Laurence “It was his idea”

“Well, you’re to stop right now. Why on earth you can’t play QUIETLY, I don’t know. It sounded like the house was falling down about our ears. Philip, you should really know better, you’re the oldest. What about a game of Snakes and Ladders? Or a jigsaw puzzle?” Philip made a face. Every Christmas the children received the same unexciting presents from their great aunts – jigsaw puzzles or monogrammed handkerchiefs – for which they were obliged to pen polite thank you notes.

“And if it happens again, Daphne, dock their pocket-money!” yelled their father from the foot of the stairs. When this threat had been issued and there was no reply, he stomped back to his armchair.

“Now I want you all to come downstairs and do something useful” They followed their mother downstairs with glum expressions. Doing something useful invariably meant helping their parents with something tedious such as shovelling coal from the cellar or pegging out the washing. Philip and Laurence were set to work polishing shoes; their mother had laid out newspaper, rags and brushes, and tins of shoe polish on the floor. “And mind you don’t get any on the carpet” she admonished. “You girls can help me make cupcakes for tomorrow” Laurence looked after them enviously. They would get to lick the bowl.

“I don’t see why we always get the rotten jobs” griped Laurence “Other children’s parents have daily helps to do this sort of thing” Cynthia Sangster came in twice a week to help their mother with the laundry and ironing. They would both repair to the scullery - Cynthia scrubbing away to the tuneful strains of  “I do like to be beside the seaside…” - whilst Daphne fed the sopping wet clothes through the twin wooden rollers of the mangle. About mid-morning they’d stop for a pot of tea and a slab of fruitcake, before resuming their labours.

“I heard that” said Mr. Purvis “Chaps in the army polish their own boots. And their buttons. I had to. When I was your age I-” The phone rang and Mrs. Purvis hurried into the hallway to answer it.

“That was the Broadbents” said their mother, appearing in the door with a worried expression on her face. “They’re coming tomorrow” Everyone groaned simultaneously. The Broadbents were vegetarian teetotallers, and their priggish offspring were not popular with their cousins. “They’re so difficult to cater for” sighed Daphne “I suppose we could just make some more egg and cress sandwiches. I do hope they won’t say anything unpleasant about that side of ham I’ve ordered from the butchers”

“They’d better not” said their father grimly “It cost me a pretty penny”

“At least they won’t want any of your whiskey, Dad” pointed out Philip.

“Yes, that’s true” said Mr. Purvis, brightening. He walked over to the drinks cabinet to check his supplies. The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully, with delicious smells emanating from the kitchen - the girls emerging with tell-tale signs of butter icing on their chins. Philip and Laurence were dragooned into scouting for stray armchairs. By the time they’d finished rounding up every chair and footstool that the house possessed, Mr. Purvis complained that he could hardly move.

“How is a fellow supposed to move around in his own sitting-room? Fetch my pipe, Laurence, will you”

“Well, they can hardly stand, Roger” said their mother. “They’re getting on, you know. Auntie Flo has arthritis, Uncle Arthur has a bad back, and it was only last August that Auntie Enid fell and fractured her hip….” The conversation took another dreary turn. All four children mentally switched off, knowing they would have to listen to more of the same tomorrow, only in greater detail, as each elderly relative catalogued their various ailments to an attentive audience. This had been known to drag on for hours at a stretch. It only took one to mention some trivial complaint –such as a bronchial infection or a touch of rheumatism – to set all the others off.

Predictably, it started raining on Saturday. The ham was delivered on the doorstep by the Butcher’s boy, along with the extra eggs, milk, and cheese. Cynthia arrived early on her old boneshaker, with four boxes of pink meringues and chocolate éclairs crammed into the front basket, which she’d picked up from the Baker’s en route. These were whisked off to the kitchen before Laurence and Philip, loitering outside for this express purpose, could get their hands on them. The children were shooed upstairs, while Cynthia rolled up her sleeves and set to work, humming cheerfully.

The Broadbents were always the first to arrive and the last to leave, and they were now seated on the sofa, sipping lemon barley water and moaning about the difficulty of finding suitable educational establishments for their offspring. Daphne was perched gingerly on the edge of her armchair, nodding her head in polite sympathy. Her husband had wisely distanced himself by taking charge of the coats and hats.

“But surely Harold isn’t still being bullied at his new school?” enquired Daphne, looking puzzled.

“I’m afraid so” sighed Harold’s mother “But this time it’s the staff. The Headmaster has been quite unreasonable. Harold was given an ultimatum; he could either turn over his collection of caterpillars voluntarily or they would be confiscated…”

“That does sound rather unreasonable” murmured Daphne in sympathy “I don’t see what possible harm they could be doing..”

“One of the cleaners complained. And there were rather a lot of them”

“Over six hundred” cut in Maurice proudly “It’s taken him nearly two years to build up his collection. You see, Harold is destined to be a scientist. We have great hopes for him”

“Oh dear” said Daphne “Any more barley water, anyone? Sure you won’t have a drop of sherry?” They both shook their heads vehemently.

“We never touch alcohol. And that’s the other thing” went on Felicity “We’ve brought the children up to be vegetarian, in accordance with our principles. But the cooks don’t like it. One of them is the most awful bully and, can you believe this, actually told Harold that if he did not eat his mince he would not be allowed out to play with the others. Those very words. Of course we complained to the Headmaster in the strongest terms.”

“And how is Hilary getting along at Larch Rise Manor?” asked Daphne brightly, attempting to change the subject.

“Don’t mention it” groaned Maurice “We may have to find another school for her soon”

“Surely not?” said Daphne, with a look of genuine dismay, not because she was overly concerned, but because she knew she was in for another litany of complaints. Felicity seized the opening. Apparently Hilary had proved to be very unpopular with the other girls as she insisted on reporting every minor infringement to her House Mistress.

“Hilary is a very responsible child” declared her mother “And if the other girls are breaking school rules then it’s her duty to report it. We’ve brought the children up to know right from wrong. If a pupil is misbehaving then Hilary knows that she must inform the nearest grownup IMMEDIATELY…”

“Well, yes…” said Daphne doubtfully “But I suppose it rather depends on the severity of the offence. Girls will be girls, surely, and I doubt whether it’s more than just general naughtiness. We had the odd midnight feast. I remember when I was at school sneaking was frowned upon. Even the Headmistress didn’t encourage pupils to tell tales”

“Hilary is not a sneak!” said her mother indignantly “I’m surprised at you, Daphne. If the public didn’t report offences to the police where would we be? At the mercy of criminals”

“Yes, but surely it was nothing criminal. That sort of thing doesn’t happen at girls’ schools”

“That’s beside the point” said Mr. Broadbent “Hilary has been bullied quite mercilessly by the other girls ever since she arrived at that school. And when we complained to the Headmistress, as any responsible parent would have done, she had the gall, the sheer bloody effrontery to say – well, you tell her, darling” He looked at his wife, who needed no further encouragement.

“She said, and I quote ‘Your daughter has a habit of reporting trivial misdemeanours and wasting staff time’ Wasting staff time, I ask you. When Maurice pointed out that the fees were rather stiff and that we didn’t send our daughter to an expensive private school in order to be bullied, she said ‘If Hilary could learn to develop a sense of humour she might fit in more’ Those were her exact words” Felicity sat back and stared at Daphne, as if to say what do you think of that?

“How unfortunate” murmured Daphne vaguely “Really, I don’t know what to suggest. We were always giggling at school. We had enormous fun. I think you’ve got to join in, to a certain extent…otherwise, well what’s the point?”

“The point is, nobody seems to take education seriously” said Felicity rather sharply “We’re at our wits end. None of the teachers at either Harold’s or Hilary’s school is able to recognise that certain children are gifted, and that is why they are bullied. Tell Daphne what we were discussing the other night, Maurice” As Daphne darted a desperate hunted look around the room, looking for a means of escape, Philip stuck his head around the door.

“Mum, Harold has just fallen through the roof of the coal cellar” Harold’s parents rushed outside into the garden.

“Gifted, my foot” muttered Mr. Purvis to his wife when the Broadbents were out of earshot. “The only thing they seem to be gifted at is irritating everybody in sight. I’ve never come across such a pair of self-satisfied little humbugs in my entire life” His wife exploded into laughter.

“They’re only children, Roger, when all’s said and done. But why must they always arrive so early?”

“You’re far too polite…I don’t know why you invited them in the first place”

“They’re relatives. Maurice is my cousin after all. I couldn’t not invite them”

“I don’t see why not” grumbled Mr. Purvis “Maurice is a pompous prig and a crashing bore. Always has been, and Harold takes after him. And I suppose the girl takes after her foolish mother. Besides, if someone is being bullied it’s usually their own fault. Everyone knows that only sissies and sneaks get bullied. Ask Philip and Laurence here if they get bullied at school. Well?” He turned to his sons.

“No” said Philip promptly and truthfully.

“Not much” admitted Laurence. As a matter of fact Laurence hadn’t been bullied much after the first year once he’d realised what was expected of him. The rules were quite simple. You tried to fit in and not stand out in any way. You avoided unpopular boys like the plague lest you were tainted with the same brush. The Headmaster had told them in Assembly that if anyone had a problem they should not be afraid to see him. Of course nobody heeded this advice. No matter how bad the bullying it was bound to get much worse if you ratted on anyone. His cousin Harold had often reported Watkins’s excesses to their Housemaster, whose reaction was one of weary resignation “What now, Broadbent?” A bookish bachelor type in his thirties, he was generally to be found in his rooms chuckling aloud over some novel by G.K. Chesterton or Jerome K. Jerome, and didn’t appreciate having his peace and quiet disturbed.

“You see? Our boys are perfectly normal chaps, which is why they don’t get bullied” said Mr. Purvis “Bullying is healthy, it’s natural. It happens in the army too - it weeds out the moaners and sissies and it compels them to pull their socks up”

“I suppose so” replied Daphne. Her husband always spoke with such authority and assurance she was sure he must be right. “Though I do hope Harold hasn’t hurt himself. What was he doing up there in the first place?”

“Laurence dared him to” said Gillian. Laurence turned on her.

“So did you. You called him a cowardy custard”

“Look at the animal kingdom” went on their father “If a creature in the wild is crippled and can’t heal itself it’s either left to die or attacked by the others. The species would die out otherwise. It’s all about survival of the fittest”

“Well…” said their mother dubiously, not altogether convinced by this argument. “But aren’t we supposed to be better than animals? I mean, it wouldn’t be very humane, would it, if we left weak or deformed infants to die of exposure like the ancient Spartans did“

“The Chinese still do” commented Philip knowledgeably. “They also bind the feet of baby girls”

“Yes, I’ve never understood that” said Mrs. Purvis “It doesn’t make them any stronger does it?”

“You’re missing the point, Daphne” said Mr. Purvis to his wife. “Of course nobody wants to be cruel intentionally. What we English do is character-building. The point is, if we were to mollycoddle all the namby pamby types who can’t stand up to a bit of bullying how on earth are they going to stand up to an enemy invader? It doesn’t matter so much with girls since they won’t be called upon to defend the realm, should there be another war”

“Heaven forbid” said his wife, putting an end to the conversation.

The other guests started to arrive at two o’clock onwards, and were settled into the chintz armchairs. Many of them would require help to get up again as the chairs were so soft and deep, and Mrs. Purvis took care to place everything they might need within easy reach, so as to lessen the chances of this happening too frequently. With the overstuffed armchairs and walking sticks scattered about, the sitting room resembled a doctor’s surgery. Their mother kept running up and down the stairs to fetch things.

“Do you need any help, Mum?” asked Philip, who had his nose buried in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Lost World.

“Not now, but I shall be needing you children downstairs later to pass around the sandwiches” Laurence had got out his marble collection, and was lining them up on the hallway landing. The girls were lying diagonally across the top of their bed, immersed in The Bunty and Judy. Gillian was reading about a group of school-girls who had sneaked out for a midnight feast in a cave and become trapped by the rising tide. Josie leafed through her Girl’s Own annual and got stuck into one called Who Stole the Jam Tarts? featuring an unpopular girl called Geraldine. Thoroughly engrossed, they were interrupted by the ill-timed appearance of their cousins Harold and Hilary.

“Get lost” said Philip “You heard me. Beat it. Scram”

“We’ve been sent to play with you” announced Hilary, flinging herself onto the bed beside Gillian, who looked up crossly. She had just got to the exciting part, where the plucky heroine was attempting a daring rescue by scaling the slippery storm-lashed cliffs in order to raise the alarm. Harold was munching a sausage roll, and had three more bulging from his pockets. His mother had scrubbed off most of the coal dust in the kitchen, and Mrs. Purvis had supplied him with one of Laurence’s clean pullovers.

“I thought you didn’t eat meat” observed Josie.

“Mum and Dad aren’t to know” replied Hilary, trying to peer over Josie’s shoulder to see what she was reading. “Harold and I ate the last two éclairs. Too bad there aren’t any left” Harold bent down to examine Laurence’s marble collection.

“Mine’s much better than that. I collect stamps now too. My dad’s bought me a stamp album – ouch!” A king-sized marble, the largest in Laurence’s armoury, had just been sent rolling across the floor and thwacked him in the ankle. Harold rubbed his ankle, and picked up the offending marble, which was the size of a golf-ball. “Blimey, this is a big one. Where did you get this?”

“None of your business” Laurence snatched it from him, just as their mother appeared in the doorway.

“Laurence! Let your cousin play with your marbles if he wants. Share and share alike. Now your aunts and uncles would like to see you all. Come along” They all trooped down the stairs reluctantly to be greeted by the usual screams of amazement.

“Ooooh how you’ve grown! Hasn’t he, Flo? Come here, so we can have a good look at you” Philip and Laurence squirmed away, grimacing horribly.

“Look at Laurence!” screamed their aunt Edith, as Laurence tried to pull away. “He’s grown so much, hasn’t he, Dolly? Oooooh. I say, just look at them”

“What are you going to be when you grow up?” their aunt Flo asked Gillian.

“A teacher” This was met by nods of approval.

“Very sensible. And what about you, my dear?” (to Josie)

“A spinster” There was a pause, and then the entire room erupted into shrieks of mirth.

“Dear me, whatever next. The things they come out with”

“But why, Josie?” enquired their uncle Gerald. He and their father were in the far corner, drinking scotch and soda, swapping war-stories and horse-racing tips. “When you could be the cynosure of the ball” Josie was everyone’s favourite, with her cherubic face and golden curls.

“Aunt Drusilla is a spinster and I want to be like her. She always does just what she likes and she and Archie are always having fun”

“Archie’s alright, I suppose“ remarked one of their aunts “though he’s such a handbag” Laurence and Josie exchanged puzzled looks. How could a grown man be a handbag?

“Who’d like a drink?” asked their mother, who was passing a tray of sherries around.

“Don’t mind if I do” giggled Dollie, helping herself to a sherry schooner. “Though I expect I’m already a bit tipsy from the trifle” The children watched in dismay as their aunts and uncles guzzled their way through the sherry trifle they had been looking forward to all day. The sponge was soaked in sherry, with further layers of fresh raspberries and custard, topped with cream. Catching sight of their faces their mother whispered “I’ve set aside some for you in the pantry. You can have it after they’ve gone” Someone put on the gramophone and soon everybody was singing along to silly songs, tapping their feet, and swaying back and forth.

“Don’t sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me, anyone else but me” sang Enid.

“Don’t go walking down Lover’s Lane” returned Gerald, leaning drunkenly across Flo “with anyone else but me. Anyone else but me” The more sherries were consumed, the louder and more childish their behaviour became. The children took advantage of the distraction to help themselves to sandwiches and cream cakes. Abruptly, the music came to a halt, as the gramophone needle scratched across the last groove in the vinyl.

“What now?” asked Enid “What about a parlour game? I spy with my little eye”

“Something beginning with B!” shouted Uncle Arthur.

“Bottle!” cried Gerald, who was really in his cups by now. Arthur shook his head smugly. He was tone deaf and couldn’t participate in the singing, but his eyesight was still keen and this was a game at which he could shine.

“Blind as a bat” remarked Philip to Gillian, referring to Gerald’s extreme myopia.

“Brolly” suggested Enid “Are you looking at it, Arthur?”

“She must have dropsy” returned Gillian, commenting on her aunt’s swollen elephantine ankles.

“What are you children talking about?” enquired Flo curiously, beckoning them over.

“We were discussing Henry VIII “ replied Philip “and how he had to be winched onto his horse because of his drop-”

“That’s enough, Philip” said their father warningly.

“Hokey cokey!” cried Gerald, soon tiring of I Spy, since he couldn’t see beyond the end of his nose. “Let’s all do the hokey cokey” Their mother looked extremely worried at this point, but the more sprightly were already on their feet, pushing the chairs back.

“You put your right leg in. You put your right leg out” Ten pairs of legs extended into the circle, waggling in the air. The infirm remained in their armchairs, shrieking out the chorus.

“And shake it all about” The children looked on from the hallway, aghast at the inebriated antics of their elders.

“Let’s go into the hallway. Go into the hallway, Dollie” screamed those behind her.

“No, this way” directed Gerald, colliding with the door. The hokey cokey had somehow metamorphosed into the Conga, as they snaked around the room in a long procession, their hands on each other’s hips. The four Purvis children had by now retreated to the first-floor landing, and peered through the banisters as the wobbling many-headed monster headed towards the kitchen area.

“And that’s what it’s all about! Oooh we’re going into the larder now” Their mother hurried after them. “You put your left leg in. And your left leg out. You do the hokey cokey. And you shake it all about” There ensued a crash and the sound of something breaking – probably the china butter dish as the teapots were all in service.

“Oh dear, sorry Daphne, was that the remains of the sherry trifle?”

“And that’s what it’s all about!” roared Arthur from the sitting-room, who had heard neither the crash nor the bedlam issuing from the larder.

“Completely barmy” was Philip’s disgusted verdict. Laurence, who was extremely annoyed about the trifle, marched to the top of the stairs and bellowed “Excuse me, but could you all be QUIET please! We can’t hear ourselves THINK!” There was a short silence, followed by screams of laughter.

“What a pompous little boy” giggled one of their aunts, as they passed beneath them in the hallway. “Children these days just don’t know how to enjoy themselves. He’ll probably grow up to be an accountant like Maurice”

“I dare say” replied Dollie, laughing helplessly “Let’s have another sherry”

“Hokey cokey up the stairs!” cried someone. The rest of the grownups followed, streaming out of the kitchen into the hallway and heading for the staircase. The children fled to the girls’ bedroom.

“Quick!” hissed Josie. “Out the window” Just outside the window was a massive bronze-leaved beech tree which their parents kept threatening to have chopped down because its roots were “too close to the foundations”. All four children rushed towards the window, and clambered out onto the nearest branch - an escape route they had used many times when confined indoors for bad behaviour.

“Phew!” said Philip, as the sounds of singing became fainter. “They’re going back downstairs. That was a close call”

“This tree is hollow inside” declared Josie excitedly. She had climbed out on the branch first, and was peering down into a dark well. The others were still balanced on the limb.

“How come we never noticed it before then?” enquired Laurence sceptically.

“Come and see for yourself” continued Josie, ignoring her brother. Philip took the opportunity to retrieve a secret stash of chocolate from a cavity where the branches forked.

“Those belong to Josie and me” said Gillian, attempting to snatch them back off him. “We hid them there”

“Finder’s Keepers, Losers Weepers” said Philip, as he groped his way towards the trunk “Hello, Josie, where have you got to?” The next minute he was sliding down a chute in complete darkness. He emerged into dappled sunlight sprawled flat on his back on a mossy river-bank. The others came tumbling after him, upsetting a pile of acorns and hazelnuts.

“Be careful, please” said a gravelly voice. A set of whiskers at the end of an inquisitive nose quivered in indignation “I’ve put a lot of effort into accumulating that hoard – been at it since dawn”

“Don’t take any notice of him” said another voice “The squirrels are always grumpy just before they go into hibernation”

“Who said that?” asked Gillian, looking around.

“And if the truth be told” went on the disembodied voice “that squirrel is blocking my entrance with his winter stash. But then few folks have the manners they used to” Philip stepped forward and pushed aside a thicket, revealing an elderly gnome who was still grumbling good-naturedly to himself. His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, but his eyes were a brilliant blue, darting all over the place.

“Mr. Grumblegood!” cried Josie, rushing forward to give him a hug “It’s me, Josie. And Gillian. And Laurence and Philip. Where’s Mrs. Grumblegood?”

“Bless my soul” said Mr. Grumblegood, peering up at them “Is it really you? You’ve really come back? This calls for celebration” He danced up and down with delight. “Mrs. Grumblegood is indoors with a nasty sniffle she caught yesterday. Come inside, come inside” Mr. Grumblegood led them a little way down the bank then pulled aside a tangle of branches and moss, revealing a narrow entrance. They squeezed in after him, following a labyrinthine warren of narrow tunnels which widened out as they got further in. Finally they emerged into the Grumblegoods’ living-room, which was invitingly warm and cosy.

“What a lovely house you have” said Gillian, who was always polite in company.

“We had to move from the other one in a hurry, I’m afraid” sighed Mrs. Grumblegood. She blew her nose. “Do excuse me. I’ve the most wretched head-cold. Mr. Grumblegood and I have been out in all weathers rushing to get this new house built in time”

“Why did you have to move from your old place?” enquired Josie innocently. Mr. and Mrs. Grumblegood exchanged worried glances.

“It’s a long story” said Mrs. Grumblegood “But sit down and we’ll all have something to eat first” Mr. Grumblegood threw another log onto the blazing fire, and they all sat down to the Grumblegoods’ favourite dish – cottage pie, followed by jam roly poly. After they’d eaten their fill and Mr. Grumblegood had lit a briar pipe, Mrs. Grumblegood began to tell them of all that had happened since they were last in Albion. What follows is a summary of Mrs. Grumblegood’s narrative, which would take forever to tell if it were transcribed in full, due to the constant interruptions and corrections from Mr. Grumblegood.

In order to enter Albion you either have to be a child or become a child. It is in fact very difficult for anybody to get into Albion, though it does happen occasionally. This is because it is protected by a very potent magic to stop humans blundering in and destroying it. At one time in the distant past, when the world was less corrupt, there existed many more secret entrances to Albion but these had gradually been sealed off. When Ermentrude became ruler of Albion she made doubly sure that no human could ever again enter her domain, either by design or accident. She had succeeded in blocking all entrances and exits - or so she thought. What she hadn’t counted on was that there was an even older magic which stated this: once a human child has entered Albion it is theoretically possible for them to return at any time, providing they were able to find one of the secret entrances. It goes without saying that natives of Albion could enter the human world whenever they wished but of course nobody ever did. Occasionally a few of the less timorous souls had popped their heads through, only to scuttle back through in horror. The experience was enough to bring on a fit of teeth-chattering and abject terror. Most of them had rightly concluded that they were much better off where they were. And so Ermentrude had encountered very little opposition from her subjects when she strengthened the magical barriers, sealing off ancient portals that had stood there for centuries. She had even achieved a degree of short-lived popularity. Her abiding concern, of course, was not so much the protection of her subjects but to prevent outside interference. As time went on Ermentrude had become more ruthless and power-hungry, and the creatures of the forest now found themselves utterly helpless, powerless to do anything as their companions were savagely hunted down and abducted in the dead of night.

It might be useful at this juncture to interpose a few words about the denizens of the forest for the benefit of those readers who are unfamiliar with Albion. Many people imagine that the Little Folk are all alike, but nothing could be further from the truth. Take the faeries and pixies, for instance: invisible most of the time, they flit effortlessly between realms. Being winged creatures, this gives them an added advantage over earthbound creatures like gnomes, goblins, and trolls. The pixies are carefree and light-hearted as children. Although they are not by nature mean or spiteful, like goblins, their fun-loving nature and sense of mischief means they are not too reliable in a crisis, as they tend to vanish at the first signs of any unpleasantness.

As for the gnomes, they are hardworking and reliable. They have a positive, cheerful outlook on life which can best be summed up as “Live and let live” and “You don’t get something for nothing”. They treat their neighbours with courtesy and consideration and expect to be treated in the same fashion. If they have a fault it is their love of creature comforts and an aversion to change. They are by nature cautious, liking to weigh up the pros and cons before taking action, but for all this they are good sorts – patient, stoical, and tolerant of others. Gnomes like to argue and debate and are happy to discuss differences of opinion, whereas a goblin is more likely to knife you in the back or snatch at your eyes if you challenge one of them.

Whereas gnomes are able to laugh at themselves, goblins are a different kettle of fish altogether: they take themselves very seriously and rarely laugh, except at the misfortune of others. Avaricious and grasping by nature, goblins live by their wits and low cunning, and have an aversion to honest work – preferring to steal anything they can get their hands on. Goblins and trolls are creatures of the underworld, and largely dwell in caves and subterranean tunnels – anywhere dark and dank – where their shameful deeds go unrecorded. Trolls are immensely strong, with powerful shoulders and long arms that scrape the ground like shovels as they tramp along. Their heads are flat on top, almost squashed into their necks, with small beady eyes and enormous sharpened teeth (they can eat a wild boar at one sitting, the tough bristly hide presenting no problems) Like most predators they are most dangerous when still: despite their clumsy and awkward gait their hearing is acute, and it’s best not to breathe if you suspect one to be in the vicinity. They like to conceal their ungainly bodies behind the trunks of trees - which they can climb as well as any gorilla - and have been known to drop from the branches above and club their victims to death.

“What I don’t understand” said Josie after Mrs. Grumblegood had finished speaking “is why Queen Ermentrude is so wicked – what made her like that?”

“Nobody really knows” said Mrs. Grumblegood “What I heard was that their parents were out flying one evening in their royal chariot when she and her twin sister were babies: somehow Ermentrude was dropped or fell out. It was a terrible tragedy at the time and the Queen never forgave herself. They did look for the little mite’s body but it was never found. Anyway, legend has it that the baby was caught mid-air by a passing eagle who placed it on the ground, thinking that her parents would find her. But she was taken by a pack of wild wolves who taught her to hunt and tear living creatures to pieces. So the little girl grew up motherless and fatherless, with no-one to show her affection or love. She was left to fend for herself most of the time, and the only reason she survived was because of her faery magic, which prevented the wolves from killing her”

“I think that’s really sad” said Gillian “No wonder she can’t love anyone if no-one has ever shown her love”

“Well, don’t go feeling too sorry for her” said Mr. Grumblegood “Her temper is terrible. And she doesn’t like being crossed. A good friend of ours – one of the red squirrels - had his paws chopped off for a facial twitch, which she interpreted as impertinence. And much worse has happened to those who openly defy her” He shuddered “It doesn’t bear talking about” Mrs. Grumblegood nodded in agreement.

“A dreadful business. And as for those goblins, we’ve just about had a bellyful of them, I can tell you. You can’t trust a single one of them. Nasty spiteful creatures”

“Are they all like that?” asked Josie.

“More or less. It’s their nature, I expect” replied Mr. Grumblegood “They don’t hail from around these parts, and they’re envious of what we have. It all started when a group of them arrived in the dead of night seeking sanctuary – so they claimed – from cruel persecutors in the North. Most of us were taken in by it, and we offered them food and shelter. We agreed to it so long as they pulled their weight. Fair enough, we thought. Can’t be uncharitable to folks in need. Well, it wasn’t long before things started going missing. The more we did for them the more they wanted, until it wasn’t asking any more it was demanding, wasn’t it?” He turned to Mrs. Grumblegood for corroboration.

“That’s right. They demanded the best trees, the best hilltops and the best streams where they could settle. After all the help we’ve given them you’d think they’d be a bit more grateful. Instead, our friends have been intimidated and chased out of their own homes. Now they’re marching around saying they don’t want to share the forest with us. They want it for themselves”

“And when some of us got together and said enough was enough they started getting violent” said Mr. Grumblegood “Before you knew it, it wasn’t safe to go out any more. Folks going about their daily business were attacked by bands of lawless goblins roaming around freely, looting and robbing…”

“Why didn’t you send them packing?” interrupted Philip “That’s what I would have done”

“Because there’s too many of them” sighed Mrs. Grumblegood “After that first group arrived, more and more of them started to show up – all claiming to be victims, mind. It didn’t ring true somehow, because they all had this greedy glint in their eyes”

“And if anyone dares to complain about it, they’ve got Ermentrude to back them up” added Mr. Grumblegood.

“But why does she allow them to stay here?” asked Gillian “It sounds as if they’re just common thieves”

“It suits her purposes - divide and conquer. She’s got us all at each others’ throats, and that’s the way she likes it. She’s done nothing to prevent them coming here because they act as spies for her. She knows she can count on them, the same as they can count on her. She’s got a whole army at her disposal ready to turn on her own people. The way things are going, war will soon break out between the goblins and the gnomes” said Mr. Grumblegood darkly. “It’s not just that we’ve come to the end of our patience: if we don’t defend ourselves soon there won’t be anything left to defend – no more singing and laughing, no more social visits and tea-parties. They’re a miserable lot, and they’d like us all to be as miserable as them. That’s why we’ve got to do something about it, before it’s too late”

“It’s not going to be easy unless we free the wolves” added Mrs. Grumblegood. “Although there are a few wild wolves who are still loyal to Albion, most of them are under her thrall and do whatever she tells them”

“How did she manage to get the wolves on her side?” asked Laurence.

“Well, don’t forget she grew up with them so she knows their ways” said Mrs. Grumblegood. “In the beginning she made them false promises, that they’d be able to fly like the faeries. Well, they can fly alright but only when they’re yoked to her sleigh.”

“You’d think they’d run off” said Philip “Like deserters in wartime. They could refuse to work for her” Mr. and Mrs. Grumblegood looked at each other.

“Anyone who defies Ermentrude is branded a traitor” said Mr. Grumblegood. “Like us, for instance: a price has been put on our heads, because it’s known that we’re friends of Darius. And as for harbouring human children, that’s the death penalty. Have you any idea what happens to traitors?” The children shook their heads.

“You don’t really want to know.” said Mrs. Grumblegood “That’s why we had to go into hiding. A little bird tipped us off that Ermentrude was planning one of her midnight raids, so we had to move ourselves out before nightfall”

“It must be awful” said Gillian “having to live in fear all the time. Can’t she be stopped?” Mr. and Mrs. Grumblegood once again exchanged anxious looks. On their own the forest-dwellers were powerless to combat the magic of Ermentrude, explained Mr. Grumblegood. There was no chance of deposing her or of lifting the reign of terror unless they could enlist the aid of the Faery Queen. Strictly speaking, Esmeralda had no real jurisdiction over Albion and only ever intervened when things were starting to look desperate. But things had been desperate now for some time, which is why Darius had taken the decision to go in search of the Purvis children.

“When the two baby girls were born, Ermentrude succeeded as ruler of Albion and her sister Esmeralda became the Queen of Faeryland. Both sisters were given equal power over their respective domains; in any contest between them neither would win. This was ordained in the beginning so as to prevent either of them destroying the other should they become corrupted by power, but nobody could have foreseen how Ermentrude would abuse her position or how corrupt she would become. Esmeralda thinks her sister isn’t entirely to blame for the way she is now, and that she could change, given the right circumstances. I’m afraid we don’t agree, and neither does Prince Darius. He knows what he’s talking about because he’s travelled to different worlds. He says that tyrants just get worse and worse, and that you have to put a stop to them otherwise life wouldn’t be worth living”

“I think he’s absolutely right” declared Philip, looking around at the others “Look at Hitler or Stalin. If they’d been allowed to carry on we’d all be in slave camps. I think we should give Darius our full support”

“Well, that’s where you come in, you see” said Mr. Grumblegood. “Darius wants you to help try and persuade Esmeralda to intervene. She’s bound to listen to you because you’re human. You can tell her how things have gone from bad to worse since you were last here..” Josie hopped up and down with delight.

“I’ve always wanted to meet the Faery Queen - when can we go?”

“Hang on a minute” objected Laurence “While we’re in Albion under Queen Ermentrude’s rule that makes us traitors. And if she captures us, she’ll kill us. I don’t suppose anybody’s thought of that?”

“Some of us happen to think freedom is more important than saving our own skins” said Philip loftily. Laurence scowled. Why did his older brother have to be so supercilious all the time? Mrs. Grumblegood sneezed at that point and Mr. Grumblegood handed her a steaming mug of some hot cordial.

“Here, drink this, my dear and you’ll feel better. Now it’s time we all got some sleep because we’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow” The children were settled down for the night underneath an enormous eiderdown, while Mr. and Mrs. Grumblegood snuggled up together in front of the glowing embers of the fire. It was so snug and warm that they drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

Chapter 6 – The Sinister Woods

Josie was the first to awake. For a moment she couldn’t think where she was until she remembered that all four of them had clambered into the hollow beech tree outside their bedroom window, and somehow ended up in the forest of Albion. Mrs. Grumblegood was toasting bread on a long fork in front of the fire and Mr. Grumblegood was nowhere to be seen.

“Shall I help with that?” offered Josie, sitting up.

“Bless you, dear, I didn’t know you were awake” said Mrs. Grumblegood, turning around “Did you sleep well? Mr. Grumblegood went down to Cedar Grove to fetch the news – he should be back soon”

“Yes, thanks. But I had a very frightening dream…” Before Josie could relate her dream, which was about being separated from the others in a dense swirling fog, Mr. Grumblegood entered the room, looking grim.

“Someone else was taken last night” Mrs. Grumblegood looked up in alarm.

“Oh no! Who?”

“Hector. I have it on reliable authority. I checked the Tree Post first (there are two messages for us, by the way) and then the Squirrel Express for news” The others were all fully awake by now and listening.

“The Grey Squirrel Express” explained Mrs. Grumblegood, seeing their puzzled looks. “It’s awfully good – we get it twice a day. If you go to Cedar Grove (that’s the nearest listening post) and put your ear to a tree you hear all the latest news”

“And a fair bit of gossip too” added Mr. Grumblegood “You’ve got to listen really hard because it comes in so fast sometimes it’s garbled, but the squirrels do their best.”

“The Red Squirrel Chronicle is not half as reliable because it only comes once a week” said Mrs. Grumblegood “and by the time we get it it’s mostly out of date. And Hector is a friend of ours, a hedgehog – he’s annoyed quite a few goblins because he’s so frank and outspoken”

“Hector apparently managed to decoy them into a holly thicket where he was captured” continued Mr. Grumblegood “But his family managed to escape”

“I don’t know what the forest is coming to, really I don’t” said Mrs. Grumblegood despairingly “What’s going to happen to him now?”

“Doesn’t bear thinking about” said Mr. Grumblegood, shaking his head “The forest is buzzing this morning. I was speaking to some beavers downstream and they reckon-”

“-Not the Bragwells – the ones with the swanky new lodge?” interjected Mrs. Grumblegood “Ever since Bertie built it they’ve been giving themselves airs and graces”

“Bertie seems to think Ermentrude will keep Hector prisoner for a while just to frighten him, and then he’ll probably be released. After all, his only offence was to annoy some of the goblins”

“Is that an offence?” asked Gillian in astonishment.

“It is now, unfortunately. In return for acting as her spies, they persuaded Ermentrude to bring in this new law which makes it an offence to say anything derogatory about a goblin. What it boils down to, of course, is that you can’t criticise any of them – no matter how outrageous their behaviour - or they report you to the Goblins’ Commission”

“What happens if the goblins say derogatory things about gnomes?” asked Laurence.

“Nothing. That’s what’s so sickening” said Mrs. Grumblegood gloomily. “If you happen to disagree with what goes on then you’re branded a traitor, which means you can be arrested under the new treason laws. Mr. Grumblegood and myself have been branded “enemies of Albion”, would you believe, we who’ve always loved the forest and would lay down our lives to preserve and protect it…” The mood was subdued as they breakfasted on toast with damson preserve.

“I should fill your bellies while you can” advised Mr. Grumblegood “Because you won’t get delicious jam like this where I’m taking you”

“Stop it” admonished Mrs. Grumblegood “You’ll frighten them, the way you go on. Now tell us about the two messages”

“The first was from Darius. He’s trapped on the southern boundary of the Sinister Woods. He says the goblins are swarming all over the place, and the trolls are armed to the teeth; some of them have even been given spiked balls and chains” Mrs. Grumblegood shuddered.

“Are you sure you still want to help?” she enquired anxiously “If you want to back out, dears, we’ll understand”

“Now is the time to say” added Mr. Grumblegood, looking sombre “Before this goes any further”

“Of course we still want to help” Philip answered stoutly, and Josie nodded her head vigorously to show their support.

“Besides, everyone knows that if you stand up to bullies they turn tail and run” declared Gillian “They’re just cowards, really. That’s why they always gang up on people who are smaller and weaker. At least, that’s what our headmistress says” she added less confidently, as her remarks were greeted by silence.

“It’s because they’re such cowards that you have to watch out for them, twit” muttered Laurence under his breath. Trust a girl to know nothing about bullies. She was right about them being cowards, but in his experience they didn’t turn tail and run, they just made sure you were outnumbered before they attacked you. Once they decided to gang up on you there wasn’t much you could do about it, because they didn’t fight fair. One of Watkins’ favoured techniques was to leap on top of boys when they were half asleep and unable to defend themselves, and suffocate them with a pillow. Or he and his cohorts would stand you upside down in a lavatory until you were gasping and choking for breath. Fortunately this sort of thing generally only happened to unpopular boys, like his cousin Harold Broadbent.

“What was the other message, dear?” asked Mrs. Grumblegood.

“I haven’t finished telling you the first one yet. Darius has arranged another rendezvous; unfortunately I won’t be able to take you that far because I don’t know where it is (it’s top secret) but he’s sending a pixie scout called Tipsy to guide you”

“A pixie?” Josie’s eyes lit up “I’ve heard about pixies but I’ve never met one before”

“You wouldn’t. Not unless they wanted you to” said Mr. Grumblegood “We call them the Untouchables because nothing ever touches them. Catch one of that lot getting a common cold, or being captured by Ermentrude. Not on your life” He rolled his eyes ceiling-ward, in mockery, and Mrs. Grumblegood laughed.

“Now don’t go giving them the wrong idea about pixies. If we could flit off to Faeryland whenever we felt like it, we’d probably do the same. You can hardly blame them. They’re merry little creatures and they have such dear sweet little faces it’s impossible to get annoyed with them”

“Speak for yourself. They can be downright mischievous, and they have a tendency to vanish just when you need their help most“

“Are humans allowed to enter Faeryland?” asked Gillian.

“Good heavens, no!” exclaimed Mr. Grumblegood  “It wouldn’t be Faeryland any more if humans were allowed in. Dear me, whatever next?” Catching sight of the look Mrs. Grumblegood gave him, he added “Oh, I do beg your pardon, that must have sounded very rude. What I meant was, Faeryland was created for the Faeries alone and none of us will ever experience it; we can only imagine what it must be like” He sighed.

“Then how will we get to meet Esmeralda?” asked Gillian “I thought Darius wanted us to persuade her to intervene”

“You don’t need to be in Faeryland to meet the Faery Queen” said Mrs. Grumblegood. Josie looked disappointed. “She’ll choose the time and place if she wants to meet you.”

“Now, about the other message” said Mr. Grumblegood with exaggerated patience.

“Thought you’d never get around to it” said Mrs. Grumblegood “How you do ramble on sometimes”

“Not my fault if I keep getting interrupted” retorted Mr. Grumblegood “Now the second message was a bit of a mystery. It was signed by Miranda…”

“Miranda?” Mrs. Grumblegood looked puzzled “We don’t know anyone of that name” Mr. Grumblegood held up a hand.

“All will be revealed. Anyway, the big news item this morning is that the white wolves are on the prowl, they’re mobilising in the White Mountains...”

“Oh my goodness, that’s terrible news!” cried Mrs. Grumblegood “Then what hope is there for us?”

“No, wait. The wolves are on our side! They are loyal to Albion and the message was from their leader, Miranda. …” Here he pulled a piece of bark from his pocket, on which were scratched some strange markings “It’s in the old tree-language - what used to be spoken throughout Albion – but it’s only used by the trees themselves now. We all had to learn it when I was knee-high to a hedgehog …” At the mention of hedgehogs Mrs. Grumblegood blew her nose loudly. “I’m a little rusty” went on Mr. Grumblegood “But here goes:

Friends of Albion, we have seen too much bloodshed and strife. Our homes have been wrecked, our brothers and sisters betrayed and tricked into slavery. We will reclaim our freedom and our homeland from those who threaten its existence. The forest of Albion will once more echo to the sound of laughter, and the woodland creatures will be safe from molestation by those who seek to destroy this ancient sanctuary by unlawful usurpation. The goblins and trolls shall learn to respect the sanctity of life, and our venerable traditions – the right to free speech, our right to govern ourselves, and the right to free assembly. Otherwise they will be expelled and driven out. Take heart, all you Little Folk, creatures of the forest: all those who are friends to Albion shall have our protection, all those who are enemies – let them heed this warning! We are on the prowl. And our numbers are growing daily. Fear not. Miranda”

“What wonderful news” exclaimed Mrs. Grumblegood “The wolves are so fierce, you see. You wouldn’t want them as enemies. We must send a message back immediately, thanking Miranda”

“Yes, well, we can’t stand around gabbing all morning” agreed Mr. Grumblegood. “Darius wanted us to make a start as soon as possible” Mrs. Grumblegood bustled around packing food for their journey, while Mr. Grumblegood filled flasks with tea.

“How long will it take to get there?” asked Josie.

“About two days I expect” replied Mr. Grumblegood “Unless we run into any trouble. By which I mean Goblin Patrols. Where did you put those cloaks, my dear?”

“I’ve got them here” said Mrs. Grumblegood, returning with four heavy woollen cloaks.

“You’re to keep those hoods up at all times” said Mr. Grumblegood “You’ll want them up anyway because it’s quite windy once we leave the shelter of the forest”

After they had all fastened their cloaks and shouldered their packs, Mrs. Grumblegood stood back to survey them critically.

“Do you think they’ll pass as gnomes?” she asked Mr. Grumblegood anxiously.

“Doubtful” said Mr. Grumblegood, shaking his head “The little one is small enough but the others are too tall. You three” he looked at Philip, Gillian and Laurence “will have to hunch yourselves up a bit – like this, see” As Mr. Grumblegood already had a stoop it was quite easy for him to make himself even smaller. “So that if anyone should catch a glimpse of your silhouettes you look like a troop of gnomes. Right, my dear, I think we’re just about ready” He pecked Mrs. Grumblegood on the cheek. “And I think it’s best if you lie low while I’m gone”

“What if something happens to you - what shall I do?”

“Probably the worst that will happen to me is sore feet” replied Mr. Grumblegood. “If I’m not back by the fourth day go to Cedar Grove and send a message to Darius” Mrs. Grumblegood fussed over them for a further twenty minutes before they were able to take their leave, ensuring that they had enough to eat and drink and that they would be warm enough.

They had not travelled more than a few hundred yards before they came across a beaver who was just putting the finishing touches to an elaborately constructed lodge. He dropped the branch he had between his teeth in order to greet them.

“Morning, Grumblegood” he called “Bad news about Hector, eh?”

“Too bad” agreed Mr. Grumblegood, hurrying on by.

“Got visitors, then, have you?” Now it was obvious that Mr. Grumblegood had visitors with four children in tow, and it was equally obvious that Bertie Bragwell was just being nosy.

“Cousins of Mrs. Grumblegood” he muttered vaguely.

“Have you seen the new lodge yet? Rather proud of it, actually. Even if I do say so myself” Bertie was standing tall and proud on the river-bank now, with his paws crossed behind his back, admiring the fruits of his industry. “Perhaps you’d care to have a look around” He gestured expansively.

“Don’t say anything” Mr. Grumblegood whispered to the children, and then aloud “Why, that’s very kind of you. It’s a magnificent lodge, to be sure…” Bertie’s chest visibly swelled with pride “but another time, perhaps. They’ve a boat to catch. We’re late as it is”

“Oh” said Bertie, clearly disappointed and bursting to show off his achievement. “As far as lodges go, it’s quite unique. Do you see the way I’ve dammed the far section down there?” He pointed further downstream “And the walkway leading to our winter store?”

“Must dash” said Mr. Grumblegood. Bertie was still bragging aloud to himself after they were safely out of earshot.

“Is he always this modest?” enquired Philip with a smile.

“Always. But to give him his due, he is very talented at what he does. He builds a new lodge every year, and each one is bigger and better than the last. But frankly, it doesn’t do to be too ostentatious in these uncertain times. If the goblins see it they’ll want it for themselves; they haven’t got any scruples whatsoever about seizing other peoples’ property”

“I wouldn’t stand for it” declared Philip “Allowing strangers to come barging in and taking what doesn’t belong to them”

“You heard Mrs. Grumblegood last night. They’re starting to outnumber us and we’re not strong enough to withstand them. Not without help. The beavers don’t yet understand how serious the situation is, otherwise they wouldn’t be showing off like that to their neighbours. There are far more important things to think about right now. The future of Albion is at stake, no less” Sobered, the children pressed on, penetrating further into the heart of the forest. Weighed down by a sense of foreboding, they wondered what was in store for them. As they passed Cedar Grove, Mr. Grumblegood stopped to commiserate with a family of hedgehogs, the mother of whom had her ear pressed against a tall cedar.

“No news of Hector?” he asked sympathetically. She turned around, brushing away a tear.

“Only that a falcon - Freddie it was - saw the Queen’s sleigh flying over Lake Mortmere in the early hours of this morning. He thinks they were headed for her palace. Hector was trussed up in the back, being tormented by those odious goblins. Freddie dived for their eyes but had to beat a retreat because Ermentrude threatened to turn him into a worm” She choked back a sob “It’s so typical of Hector, never a thought for his own safety. He ran straight out in front of her wolves, giving us time to escape…” Gillian went over and put her arm around her.

“Everybody thinks he’ll be released soon - if not, we’re going to storm the castle, isn’t that right?” She looked around at the others for confirmation.

“We’re off to join forces with Prince Darius” concurred Philip solemnly “and the white wolves have come over to our side”

“Ssssh” said Mr. Grumblegood “You never know who might be listening. But it’s true – the wolves are baying for blood. Things are definitely looking up. I tell you what, why don’t you take yourself off to our new home - not as comfortable as our old tree-house I’m afraid, but the best we could do in the circumstances. I’m going to be away for a few days and I’m sure Mrs. Grumblegood could do with the company: you could cheer each other up, so to speak” He looked at the two young ones, who were clinging to their mother for comfort “And I know for a fact she made some delicious treacle tart yesterday” Two small snouts twitched in anticipation, as their mother smiled gratefully at Mr. Grumblegood. After wishing them a safe journey, the family of hedgehogs scampered off through the undergrowth, their good spirits temporarily restored.

The first leg of the journey was delightful. The forest floor was carpeted with bluebells, wood sorrel and wild violets, and the woods were brimming with iridescent butterflies and fat bees bumbling in and out of nodding flowers. Beechnuts and bright crimson berries lay nestled between the crevices of sprawling tree roots.

“Look at those red and white spotted toadstools!” cried Josie “Aren’t they pretty?” She stooped to pick one, and experienced a sharp prick in her arm “Ouch! I think I’ve just been stung by a wasp”

“I should have warned you” said Mr. Grumblegood “Those are pixie toadstools. And whilst they don’t mind you looking, they don’t like you to uproot them. It’s considered quite rude, like tipping someone out of their favourite armchair” A couple of pixies were hovering invisibly, listening with amusement to this conversation. Mr. Grumblegood’s remark about armchairs had been fairly close to the mark, for both pixies had in fact been comfortably perched on the toadstools, whilst chatting excitedly about a forthcoming picnic. None too pleased at having their seat snatched from underneath them, the one called Tipsy had just stuck a bramble thorn into Josie’s arm. The two of them flew around her, tittering.

“Isn’t that a human child?” said the second pixie, who was called Moonbeam.

“Certainly looks like it” replied Tipsy. “Did you hear about the human boy captured by Ermentrude? Well, it was me who rescued him”

“Really? I thought you forgot to deliver a crucial message and that it was Prince Darius who rescued him” said Moonbeam.

“Oh no, I was especially chosen to mastermind the entire operation. I’m the cleverest pixie in the forest” crowed Tipsy “And that’s why everybody loves me so. Mind where you’re going, human creature, or I shall give you another jab!” Josie took a step backwards, frowning and rubbing her arm.

“Aren’t you supposed to be keeping a lookout for some humans?” enquired Moonbeam of Tipsy “I’m sure this must be them. You’re supposed to guide them to the meeting place with Darius”

“Oh no, these aren’t the ones” replied Tipsy knowledgeably “Why would they be dressed up as gnomes? What truly awful hoods” she tittered, nudging Moonbeam. “Doesn’t it make you glad you’re not human?” Moonbeam nodded, giggling. The two pixies flew off in search of further entertainment.

The children trudged through the forest with Mr. Grumblegood in the lead. At length they came to a fork in the track, which seemed to confuse him. Up until now whenever the path had forked he had unhesitatingly chosen either the right or left branch, forging ahead confidently.

“Which way?” asked Laurence.

“I’m not sure” admitted Mr. Grumblegood “I’d have thought Tipsy would have shown up by now. But perhaps we haven’t gone far enough. There’s been a goblin camp here recently – you can see where they’ve burnt down a lot of the trees and bushes. There used to be a rowan tree over there” He pointed to a clearing where the earth was scorched and blackened “And I’m certain there was a badger sett somewhere around here; they always used to invite me in for a cup of tea”

“Speaking of which” said Philip, shifting the weight of his satchel from one shoulder to the other “Mightn’t it be a good idea if we stop for a breather while you decide which direction we should take?”

“Don’t see why not” agreed Mr. Grumblegood “This is as good a place as any to stop for lunch. We won’t be stopping once we enter the Sinister Woods”

“Why are they called the Sinister Woods?” asked Josie, as they divested themselves of their loads and sank to the ground - their backs against the bole of a colossal tree.

“Because of the fog” replied Mr. Grumblegood “Amongst other things. It descends without warning and wraps itself around you like some cold and clammy sea-serpent” Gillian shivered, pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “The fog is so dense you can’t see or hear a thing” went on Mr. Grumblegood  “and that’s why folks get hopelessly lost” He paused for effect. “The woods are said to be sinister because not everybody who enters them comes out again” Josie looked thoroughly alarmed.

“That sounds just like a dream I had last night”

“Fog doesn’t bother me in the least” declared Philip “At home we’re used to sea-mists and the thick fog you get rolling in across the moor”

“I doubt whether you’ll have seen fog like this” remarked Mr. Grumblegood, biting into a smoked salmon sandwich. Philip passed around a flask of hot tea, and they tucked into their lunch – cheese scones, tomatoes, sandwiches, and whatever Mrs. Grumblegood had managed to throw together at the last minute.  Josie found a loaf of sticky gingerbread in her satchel, which they washed down with the remains of the tea.

“Fill up the flasks with fresh water while we still can” directed Mr. Grumblegood. “Once we’re in troll territory you’ll find that most of the streams have been polluted and drinking water is hard to come by”

“I’m not sure I want to go into troll territory” said Josie, glancing nervously over her shoulder. “Didn’t you say the goblins have armed them with balls and chains?”

“We don’t have much choice if we’re to meet up with Darius” said Mr. Grumblegood. “But I’m afraid you’re right. Until recently, they relied on oak cudgels - one of the reasons why oak trees detest them so much”

“This entire expedition is starting to sound sillier and sillier” observed Laurence. “We know they eat children and I for one don’t want to end up in the cooking pot”

“I won’t pretend that we’re not facing great danger by proceeding beyond this point” said Mr. Grumblegood, clearing his throat  “But we have two distinct advantages: firstly, trolls are so stupid they can’t distinguish between a hedgehog and a bramble bush. I’ve actually witnessed a troll bludgeoning a bramble thicket” The children were not very reassured by this since it only served to demonstrate that anything that moved within the vicinity of a troll was likely to be clubbed to death. “Secondly, there is a secret underground tunnel through the woods – which is unknown to either trolls or goblins – and that is what we’ll be aiming for”

“How do you know they’re not aware of it?” objected Philip “I thought you said they live in underground caves, so it’s quite likely they could have stumbled upon it. It would be an ideal place to ambush us, lure us into some underground passage and then…” Mr. Grumblegood held up a hand.

“I understand your fears. I share them also, but Darius assures me the entrance and exit to the Tunnel is guarded night and day by his people. Unfortunately it doesn’t yet extend the full length of the Sinister Woods, which means we run the risk of encountering a Goblin Patrol before we reach it. Boris – he’s one of Darius’s chief councillors - conceived of the idea of a tunnel which would run underneath the Sinister Woods, affording everyone a safe passage, and Darius was so impressed that work was started on it right away. But the badgers were halted in their burrowing by a fresh invasion of goblins only last month, and had to be recalled by Darius lest the goblins spot what they were up to and jeopardise the entire project” He sighed “In practical terms it means we’ll have to penetrate the south-west perimeter of the woods and remain above ground for at least a couple of miles with no protection”

“That’s a fat lot of use then” said Laurence gloomily “Get eaten by trolls before we even reach the entrance to the tunnel”

“Shut up, you” said Philip. He turned to Mr. Grumblegood “What about the free wolves – didn’t their leader, Miranda, say they’d be looking out for us?”

“Good point. The wolves are predators too, and an enraged wolf is a match for a troll any day, believe me. The Sinister Woods hold no terrors for them. It’s their old stamping ground, so to speak”

“There you go then” said Gillian to Laurence “There’s no point in panicking. We might as well press on” After filling the two flasks with water from a nearby spring, they shouldered their considerably lightened loads and resumed their northward march - Josie lagging behind as she stopped every now and then to exclaim over the flowers.

“Remember what happened last time” Gillian called over her shoulder as Josie stooped to examine some beautiful wild orchids “Don’t pick them”

“I wasn’t going to-” began Josie crossly when a husky voice enunciated in a barely audible whisper “Stay still, Little Girl. Don’t move. And don’t utter a word” Startled, Josie froze, wondering who could have spoken. The others were a few yards ahead of her, and before any of them could react they were surrounded by about a dozen jeering goblins, who had emerged onto the path in front of them. The goblins hadn’t yet noticed Josie, who was concealed behind a stout ash tree.

“Three humans!” cried one of them triumphantly, yanking back their hoods “And one gnome. A very ugly one at that” They were evidently unaware of Josie’s presence, as she crouched behind the tree, her heart hammering.

“If you want to see something really ugly, just take a look in a mirror” retorted Philip, who was struggling with three goblins but was soon overpowered.

“The Queen will be well pleased” said another “And we’ll be rich. There’s an enormous reward for humans” His eyes glittered with avarice.

“But not for gnomes” declared another “I say we kill him. I hate gnomes. The only good gnome is a dead gnome” They spat in Mr. Grumblegood’s face, laughing.

“Roast him over a fire” said another “That’ll teach him to come nosing around, trespassing on our territory”

“It’s you who are trespassing” retorted Mr. Grumblegood “You are uninvited and unwelcome. The forest of Albion belongs to the woodland creatures and to the Little Folk”

“Not any more it doesn’t” jeered one of them, fetching him a stinging slap “It belongs to us now. And we’re going to drive you lot out”

“We won’t be driven out, we-” Mr. Grumblegood’s protests were silenced as something was stuffed in his mouth to shut him up. By this time all four had been bound, and Josie could only hear muffled sounds as her brothers and sister were kicked and punched.

“Be still, Little Girl” the unknown voice continued in a husky whisper “It will not help matters for you to be captured too” The sounds of the goblins and their captives became fainter as they were marched off to an uncertain fate. Biting her lower lip to stop from crying - she was all alone in a strange forest, completely at the mercy of whatever savage creatures might be roaming about - Josie tried to identify the source of the mysterious whisperer who at least seemed well-disposed towards her.

“If somebody’s there could they please show themselves” said Josie in a tremulous voice, patting the bark of the tree from which the voice seemed to be emanating.

“Have you forgotten so soon that trees talk? My name is Ash. Unfortunately, I was unable to warn your sister and brothers as they weren’t close enough. Apart from a few bruises they are unlikely to come to great harm because, as you heard, the Queen will pay an enormous ransom to get her hands on them. As for your elderly friend, I’m afraid it doesn’t look good. Goblins and gnomes are like chalk and cheese – they simply loathe each other”

“What can I do?” wailed Josie, pressing her face against the bark of the tree “I can’t let Mr. Grumblegood be roasted alive, and they plan to hand my brothers and sister over to Ermentrude. And now I’m lost. I have no idea where I am”

“To find yourself in an unfamiliar place is no bad thing, and you have not lost your self, which is a far more serious matter. Take comfort from that. The most sensible thing you can do in the circumstances is to wait here until a better course of action presents itself. I would not advise wandering off on your own” Josie had no intention of leaving her new friend, who was her only safe point of reference. Despite his towering height and imposing appearance Ash seemed kind, and she was nervous about being out in the open. She pulled her hood over her head in an attempt to make herself invisible, and wedged herself in between his mossy roots which harboured a variety of plant life, including pink campion and some peculiar-shaped mushrooms.

“Pssst!” A badger popped its head out from the roots of the tree. “We know your friend Grumblegood - he usually drops in for a cup of tea. Nasty business back there. These abductions are becoming all too common. Come on in then, if you’re coming. It’s cold out here” The black and white striped nose vanished and Josie bent down and crawled through a gap in the roots into the heart of the tree. Inside the trunk it was dark, apart from a glow of light emanating from below.

“Hold on to the roots and climb down” directed the badger. Josie descended into the badgers’ living room, using the tangled tree roots as a ladder. When she arrived at the bottom a ball of black and white fur separated into three smallish badgers, and three pairs of bleary eyes blinked up at her.

“Is it time to get up already?” asked one, yawning “We don’t usually come out of hibernation this early, do we?”

“Who’s that?” asked another, rubbing his eyes “Am I still dreaming?”

“We’ve got a visitor” explained Josie’s guide, extending a paw “Boris, at your service. One of the Prince’s trusted advisors” he added.

“Prince Darius?” interjected Josie excitedly “But we were all on our way to meet him, only the others have been captured-”

“Goblins, eh? Say no more. The sooner we get that tunnel finished the better. We were making great progress: we’d burrowed our way from the north edge of the Sinister Woods almost through to the south perimeter when some goblins set up camp right above where we were working, can you believe it? Of all the rotten luck. We were planning a celebration, but all work has been halted now until they move on”

“You know about the secret tunnel?” asked Josie, leaning forward. Perhaps these badgers would be able to lead her to Prince Darius.

“But of course. I was appointed Group Leader of the detachment detailed to work on the final section…”

“Boris” interrupted one of badgers “Some of us are trying to get some sleep. I’m not really very happy about being woken before the end of the hibernation period. Could you possibly take your visitor elsewhere? I don’t wish to seem rude, Miss whoever you are...”

“Josie. And I’m awfully sorry for disturbing your sleep. I’ll leave now”

“You’ll do no such thing” said Boris indignantly, pulling her back “I really must apologise for their appalling manners. Here we have a human girl in our midst (I am deeply honoured, I assure you) and all this lazy lot can think about is snoozing. You can see now why I was appointed Group Leader…” This was greeted by the sound of snores. Boris gestured in despair “You see what I mean? A little discipline would not go amiss. But it’s hopeless. The thing is, I’m fully awake now, and I don’t seem to need as much sleep as the rest of them” He was already climbing up the roots, beckoning for Josie to follow. As she crawled out the way she’d come in, she heard a familiar husky cough.

“Ahem. If I may be permitted to make a suggestion: I would strongly recommend that you make your way to the Nymphs Grotto, since it is a place of enchantment and goblin-proof”

“I had already decided upon that course of action” replied Boris, who hadn’t. “Any other advice, O Wise One?”

“Advice? I see and hear virtually everything that goes on in this forest but as you can see, I’m rather rooted to the spot. Which does make me more predisposed to reflect than to act and react. How can I help? I really don’t know, apart from passing on messages” At the mention of messages Josie now recalled the Grumblegoods’ conversation earlier that morning about the Grey Squirrel Express, and how certain trees acted as listening posts as well as transmitters of information and news.

“Could you get a message to Prince Darius?” she now asked “I don’t know his address but-”

“It’s not necessary to know his address – the squirrels will forward it. I take it you don’t know tree-language?” Josie shook her head “In that case I’ll compose the message for you – presumably a distress call, requesting immediate reinforcements?”

“Best to just let Darius know where he can find us, don’t you agree?” said Boris, turning to Josie, who nodded her assent.

“If I could have a moment’s silence” requested Ash. In the silence that followed Josie heard the rustling of leaves and branches swaying in the wind. Moments later two squirrels alighted on one of the lower branches. They nodded rapidly, apparently absorbing the message they were to deliver, and vanished almost as soon as they had appeared.

“Any reply I get I’ll forward to the next listening post” promised Ash “There is a splendid elm overhanging the Nymphs Grotto - a very dear friend of mine, as it happens - please give her my regards”

“Thanks for all your help” said Josie, hugging the tree.

“My pleasure. And be careful, both of you”

“Yes, Ash” replied Boris wearily “I hear and obey. The thing about trees” confided Boris to Josie when they were out of earshot “is that they can be over-protective. And bossy”

“I thought he was awfully nice” said Josie “And helpful”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, most trees are helpful if you give them a chance” said Boris “But because most of them have been around for centuries they naturally think they know best. And that they have all the answers”

“Well, I should imagine they do” said Josie “Think of all the things they’ve seen and experienced that we haven’t. We must seem like babies to them”

“I expect his bark is worse than his bite” said Boris, chortling at his own wit. He stopped for a moment to forage for some nuts and berries. “Want some?” He offered a pawful of hazelnuts to Josie, who declined politely.

“No thanks. I’ve already had lunch” Actually it was several hours since she had stopped with the others for lunch. Just up ahead she could hear the sound of water gurgling, and a few moments later they came up against a fast-flowing river in full spate. The water cascaded in a series of minor waterfalls and swirled around boulders, dislodging twigs and debris in its path.

“Oh dear, have we got to cross that?” asked Josie, dismayed.

“Afraid so. You’ll be alright if you hold on to me. We’ll be carried downstream for a bit, but it’s a lot safer in the water than out, believe me. Trolls hate getting wet” He glanced at her “Oh, I forgot, humans don’t like getting wet either, do they?”

“I don’t really mind getting wet, and I can swim. But people do drown sometimes, don’t they?”

“I suppose it could happen” Boris looked vague. He hadn’t much experience of humans and their fears, but understood that Josie was reluctant to jump in the river. “Really, it’s just a question of keeping your head up and not swallowing too much water”

“And won’t it be awfully cold? I’m wondering how I’ll dry off afterwards, especially since the sun’s gone in”

“I hadn’t thought of that” admitted Boris. Like most other woodland creatures he had a waterproof fur coat which kept him warm and dry. Josie’s woollen cloak was not the same thing at all; once soaked through it wouldn’t provide much warmth and she was likely to get a chill. She was already shivering. Darius wouldn’t be at all pleased if he heard that the girl child had come to harm through his negligence. It was bad enough that the other human children had fallen into the clutches of a Goblin Patrol.

“I tell you what” said Boris “Let’s wait for a friendly otter or beaver to escort us. They know everything there is to know about water. With an otter you can’t go wrong. If one of them says it’s safe then it must be” Josie was not too convinced by this argument. Just because it was safe for an otter didn’t mean it was safe for her. They could breathe under water whereas she couldn’t. She was just about to suggest they walk further downstream to see if the river got any narrower when Boris hailed a water vole who had just slipped into the water from the opposite bank with a splash.

“Excuse me” called Boris.

“What?” The water vole sounded annoyed at being interrupted.

“Could you spare a few moments?”

“Not really, no” replied the water vole crossly “I’m rather busy”

“I have a human child with me” continued Boris “and we need to cross the river…”

“Well, swim across then! For heaven’s sake, if that’s all you wanted to know-” There was a flash of gold as the vole snatched at a passing trout and missed “Now look what you’ve made me do: I’ve been waiting for a trout like that to come along this past half hour, and goodness knows when the next one will happen along. I’m tired and hungry, and I want my supper”

“I have a smoked salmon sandwich I’d be happy to share with you” called Josie, taking the sandwich she had not eaten earlier from her satchel, and holding it out over the river. The vole swam to the bank in a trice and eagerly accepted the offering.

“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” he managed to get out between voracious bites “What’s this nasty stuff?” He discarded the bread “You can have that back again. I don’t eat gnome food” When he’d finished eating, he looked up at them both expectantly. “Well? I take it you want some sort of favour?”

“Do you know this river well?” enquired Boris, a little put out by the water vole’s attitude. If the truth be known there was some outstanding rivalry between badgers and voles, the former having been chosen by Prince Darius to take charge of the tunnel project. As experienced burrowers the voles considered they could have done the job equally well, and didn’t like playing second fiddle to badgers.

“What sort of a question is that? Do I know this river well? I only live here, that’s all!” came the sarcastic reply.

“In that case, perhaps you would be able to tell us whether there’s a crossing not too far from here?” enquired Josie politely. “The current looks quite strong”

“Hmmph” The vole considered Josie for a minute, then relented “Well, I have no quarrel with humans” The emphasis he put on the last word seemed to imply that he did have a quarrel with badgers “And you did offer me a tasty morsel, very nice it was too. If you carry on downstream for about half a mile you’ll come across a troll bridge. You won’t even need to get your feet wet. But be warned: there’s usually one of them lurking underneath the bridge. Catch them when they’re asleep, then tiptoe across quietly” Having imparted this sage advice, the water vole dived underneath the water and was soon lost from sight. Josie looked at Boris.

“Well, at least he warned us of the troll. Shall we give it a try?”

“Alright. But we must proceed very quietly from now on. I’ll go first, and you follow behind. Not even a whisper. Trolls have very acute hearing” Boris and Josie set off in the direction indicated by the water vole, and followed the river downstream for about half a mile. It took them quite a while to reach the bridge because Boris kept stopping to listen. Josie was forced to come to a standstill behind him whilst Boris’s ears and snout twitched, his head swivelling in either direction. As they neared the bridge - a sturdy but primitive construction consisting of several logs sloppily nailed together and a rope handrail - Boris turned to whisper in her ear: “I can’t see or hear any trolls, but I can smell one alright. They never wash if they can help it. You wait here behind this tree and don’t move until I signal the coast is clear” What happened next took Josie completely by surprise. Boris put one foot on the bridge and jigged up and down.

“Yoo hoo, stupid ugly troll. I know you’re there, I can tell by the smell. But you can’t catch me. You can’t catch me…” A spiked iron ball landed on the bridge beside Boris’s forepaw with a thud, having evidently been hurled from beneath the bridge. Boris danced nimbly out of the way as a large hairy hand made a grab for his hindmost paw. As Boris raked his claws across the hand at lightning speed, a bellow of rage issued forth from the troll’s hiding place beneath the bridge. The spiked ball, which was attached to a chain, had been retracted and was now hurled with such force that it nearly splintered one of the logs.

“Why not destroy your own bridge while you’re at it?” taunted Boris “Though I must admit I’ve never seen such a shoddy piece of work. Any self-respecting beaver would be ashamed to be associated with such a-” There was a thundering crash as the troll swung himself onto the bridge with frightening speed and lunged at Boris, who leaped over the side into the swirling water below. From the river, he pulled faces at the troll, waggling his ears and sticking out his tongue. “If you want some badger meat you’ll have to move faster than that. Think you can catch me?” Growling with rage, the troll leapt off the bridge into the river, putting the lie to Boris’s earlier assertions about trolls not liking to get wet; evidently they didn’t mind if they were mad enough. Waist-deep in the water, he swung the ball and chain around his head, picking up momentum and almost losing his balance. The spectacle was so ridiculous Josie could have laughed aloud if she wasn’t so frightened: with his clumsy methods the troll didn’t stand a hope in hell of catching Boris, who was far more agile and able to manoeuvre easily in water.

At this point Boris signalled frantically to Josie to make a run for it. Hesitating for only a second, she ran across the bridge, trying to be as quiet as possible. But the troll must have heard her, as he lumbered across the river to the opposite side and clambered up the bank in pursuit. Josie dashed into a bramble thicket, her heart pounding with fear. She could hear the troll blundering about in the bushes, getting closer and closer. He could probably smell her, and if she stayed where she was she had no doubt whatsoever that she would be eaten. In a desperate effort to distract him she picked up a handful of beechnuts and threw them as far as she could. Momentarily confused, the troll looked in the direction of the noise where the nuts had landed, giving Josie the opportunity to hare off in the opposite direction.

She tore through the woods, scratching herself on thorns and tripping over tangled tree roots, as the troll - realising his mistake - came after her in long loping strides. She couldn’t hope to outrun him. Any minute now he would catch her. As she gasped and strove to catch her breath, she noticed a thick yellowish fog creeping towards her. The fog descended without warning; it happened in the blink of an eye just as Mr. Grumblegood had described. She could no longer hear the troll, as all sounds were muffled by the heavy fog which had wrapped itself around her like a mantle. She was unable to call out to Boris, for fear of alerting the troll to her whereabouts. She stood still for a minute, trying to get her bearings.

Wrapping her cloak about her for warmth, Josie took a tentative step forwards and listened. The fog was all-pervasive, enveloping everything with its clammy tentacles. It was as if the entire forest – from the dense canopy overhead down to the forest floor - was swathed in heavy cotton wool, muffling all movement and sound. There were no chattering birds or squirrels, not even a soft breeze to ruffle the branches overhead. When they had set off on their journey that morning she had heard woodpeckers tapping out their territorial tattoos on tree trunks, and rooks cawing high up in their airy perches on the topmost boughs. Added to this was the continual skittering and scurrying of small feet as woodland creatures went about their daily business. She hadn’t at first noticed the absence of noise, being too preoccupied with escaping the furious troll, but once the fog had come down it had effectively blanketed and blotted out all sounds of life. The silence was eerie, almost palpable.

Josie pondered which direction she should take. Forwards, not backwards. She would never be able to cross back over the bridge again on her own without Boris’s help. But which way was forwards – was it in front of her, behind her, to the right or to the left? Josie realised she was hopelessly lost. The nightmare she’d had about being separated from the others in a thick swirling fog had come true, and there was no-one to whom she could turn for help. She should have remained where she was with the hibernating badgers, snug in the safe harbour beneath the sheltering ash tree and his mammoth roots. The reason the woods are said to be sinister is because not everybody who enters them comes out again… Josie almost screamed in fright as a hairy paw shot out and grabbed her hand.

“Ssssh! It’s me” whispered Boris “I saw the troll going after you and followed. I shouldn’t wonder he’s lost his sense of smell in this thick fog and gone back to the bridge. Trolls can’t abide fog” Boris had said much the same thing about trolls and water, but Josie was so pleased to see him she refrained from comment.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you” Josie whispered back, throwing her arms around the badger.

“Nice to be appreciated” mumbled Boris, somewhat embarrassed. “Come on, we must get out of here” Led literally by his nose, Boris forged a path through the undergrowth, Josie clutching his paw tightly so she wouldn’t get left behind.

“Are we in the Sinister Woods?” she whispered.

“Afraid so. The fog is not very pleasant, but at least it makes us invisible. And I’m sure we’re not very far from the Nymphs’ Grotto. Listen out for a waterfall” They crept through the dense mustard-coloured fog, listening intently for anything that might give them a clue as to their whereabouts. Josie was starting to despair of ever finding their way out when she heard a muffled roaring in the distance.

“I think I hear the waterfall” she said to Boris, who squeezed her hand.

“I think you’re right. The ground’s getting very soggy underfoot” They squelched through what felt like mud and wet leaves towards the booming sound, which grew louder as they approached.

“Ugh, this is horrible” said Josie “I wish we could see where we’re going. Now I know what it’s like to be blind”

“We’ll be able to see very clearly soon” Boris assured her “The fog can’t penetrate the Nymphs’ Grotto - it’s enchanted” His words were cut off by the thunderous sound of the waterfall. The pearly mist parted like a curtain to reveal a perfectly round and glassy aquamarine pool into which water cascaded, throwing off sheets of silver spray. The odd thing was that the scene before them was bathed in sunshine, despite the fact that night had fallen and they were deep in the heart of a very dense forest where no rays of light could penetrate the green canopy overhead. The thick fog which had enveloped them only an instant before had completely dispersed, so that they could clearly see the entrance to the grotto which was just to the left of the waterfall. They both stood still, struck with wonder. The waterfall was like a liquid rainbow, its myriad colours sparkling in the sunlight. Sounds of laughter came from the pool, and Josie bent to peer into its pellucid depths. Three slender female forms shimmered beneath the surface of the water, their long hair floating underwater like silver and gold strands of seaweed. One of them swam up to the surface, and greeted them shyly.

“Are you lost? Pursued by goblins? Fear no more – nothing evil can penetrate this sanctuary” Josie was practically tongue-tied at the sight of these beautiful gentle creatures, who clearly wished them no harm. Boris was the first to find his voice.

“Forgive us for intruding. We are lost, and were being pursued by a troll. May I introduce myself: Boris the Badger – First Lieutenant to Prince Darius – at your service” He bowed. “And this is a human child whom I am escorting through these perilous regions. We would both be much obliged if we could avail ourselves of the nearest listening post: there may be an urgent message awaiting us” The nymph dived underneath the water again to pass on this information to her two companions, whose merriment was clearly audible. Boris waited patiently until the three nymphs swam to the surface, all smiles. One of them pointed to a magnificent wych-elm, sited a few yards from the pool. Thanking them, Boris led the way to the elm tree and placed his ear to a large whorl in the bark. After a moment he beckoned to Josie.

“The message is for you” Josie listened intently. At first she could hear nothing but whispering sounds, but gradually she could make out distinct words and then sentences:

This message was transmitted in response to an earlier distress call broadcast by Ash on behalf of the human girlchild lost in the Sinister Woods…Calling all pixies, calling all pixies. The annual picnic is to take place by the Lily Ponds. Please reserve your lily float now, first come first served…

Another voice cut in at this point: “Are you getting this, my dear?”

“Who said that?” enquired Josie, intrigued by the idea of a Pixie Picnic, which of course had nothing to do with Darius’s message but had somehow filtered through along with the general gossip and news.

“Why, the Receiver of course - myself” replied Dame Elm “And how is my dear friend Ash?”

“Oh, he’s very well and sends his regards” said Josie politely.

“The only time we get to see each other is on one special night of the year” said Dame Elm somewhat wistfully “It’s known as the Festival of the Trees or the arboreal awakening. That’s when all the trees in the forest can walk, you know”

“Really? Do they travel far?” asked Josie excitedly. She pictured an entire forest of trees lumbering along, bumping into each other, and thought what an alarming sight it must be for anyone else who happened to be abroad that night.

“Some do. But it would be foolish to go too far because if you’re not back by sunrise, you’re rather stuck. Rooted to the spot for a whole year in a strange place surrounded by strangers. It once happened to me and it wasn’t very pleasant. I underestimated the time it would take me to get back to the Grotto and was hurrying through the Sinister Woods as fast as my roots would carry me, when the sun rose. My new neighbours were perfectly horrid to me, said I was encroaching on their space, but that’s another story. Now listen carefully, dear, or you’ll miss the message…” Josie screwed up her face in concentration, as the rustling and crackling sounds resolved themselves into words:

Josie, message received. Stay where you are with Boris. Safest spot. We know where your brothers and sister are being held captive. All alive and well. Be with you soon. Darius.

“We’d better send an acknowledgement” said Boris in a brisk tone. He scratched some markings on the tree, then tore off the strip of bark and scampered up the trunk with it clamped between his teeth. An inquisitive grey squirrel, who had been hovering in the vicinity, snatched the bark off him and promptly disappeared.

“The postal system seems really efficient” commented Josie “though I’m still not sure how it works”

“Quite simple really” declared Boris, with an air of self-importance “My message will be delivered by one of the squirrels, who transcribes my markings onto the bark of a royal oak such as Old Knotty (All messages to and from the prince are conveyed via the royal oak) Now trees speak several languages – the language of the wind, the language of leaves, not to mention the language of humans. So all the receiver - the oak tree - has to do is convert the message into a form that you or Prince Darius can understand: occasionally it gets mixed up with the other languages, which is why you can hear those rustling or whistling sounds, but with practise it gets clearer. So not only do certain trees act as listening posts, they also act as descramblers, do you see?”

“I see” said Josie, who was still somewhat confused “But what if the message is delivered after Darius has passed Old Knotty, won’t he have missed it?”

“No, because the oak in question will immediately forward it to the next listening post. All oak trees are loyal to Albion and completely trustworthy, which is why Darius always sets up his camp within an oak grove. I’ve just informed him that we have reached the Nymphs Grotto safely, and will await here until further notice” He turned to the elm tree, bowing very correctly.

“My thanks to you, Dame Elm. Perhaps we’ll meet up again at the Festival of the Trees? I know Ash looks forward to another moonlight dance with you” The boughs of the elm tree swayed back and forth in mirth. As there was no wind about, they could only assume she was laughing. When they returned to the pool, they saw that the nymphs had been busy constructing a leafy bower, which would provide shelter for the night. They flitted to and fro across the glade, laying down grass, leaves and branches. They were just adding the finishing touches, garlanding the arbour with wild flowers.

“This is really pretty” marvelled Josie “There was no need for them to have gone to such trouble” She turned around to thank them, but they had already retreated to the grotto, where they peeked out shyly from behind a boulder.

“I told you, they’re very shy” said Boris “Don’t know about you, but I’m going to tuck in. The food here is always marvellous” Inside there was a pile of nuts and berries for Boris, and savoury snacks and sweet cakes for Josie, accompanied by a fruit-flavoured cordial. After they’d partaken of their meal they settled down to sleep, content to let the worries of the day recede until the morrow brought more news.

Chapter 7 – Troll Mountain

Whilst Josie slept soundly in a forest glade, the other three children were propelled along a track through the woods at a punishing pace. As they were being marched in single file and closely guarded, they were unable to converse with each other. Every time Philip twisted his head around to see if the others were alright, a goblin thwacked him with an oak cudgel to keep him moving. It was obvious that the goblins were nervous about running into a pack of free wolves or one of Darius’s scouting parties before they could hide their captives. When Gillian’s hood slipped down one of the goblins yanked it back up sharply, so that her face was concealed and anyone watching from a distance might mistake the children for gnomes; presumably the capture of gnomes by goblins was now so commonplace that their presence would have gone un-remarked. At length the track widened out and the trees became sparser as they emerged from the forest. Ahead of them loomed a steep mountainside strewn with boulders and loose scree. One of the goblins directed them to start climbing, and they began the slow toil upwards, stumbling over the unfamiliar terrain in the encroaching darkness. A great bird of prey – either a buzzard or falcon – wheeled overhead, uttering harsh cries.

“We can’t climb that” moaned Gillian despairingly, as two of the advance guard abruptly halted before what looked like a sheer rock face. As they skirted the mountain’s eastern flank, a narrow cleft which had been invisible until they were right on top of it, came into view. It was just wide enough to permit a child to slip through sideways. Two of the goblins eased themselves through the fissure, disappearing almost immediately from sight, and the other goblins crowded around the children, indicating they should do likewise.

“No” said Gillian stubbornly “I’m not going through there. We don’t know what’s on the other side, and we might never see daylight again. I won’t!” At this show of defiance, four goblins seized hold of her and started to force her towards the gap, tugging and shoving.

“Stop that!” shouted Philip. He lashed out with his feet at one of the goblins who had grabbed a handful of Gillian’s hair and was pulling it; he was promptly struck on the head with a cudgel. It was clear to Laurence that Philip had been struck quite hard as he staggered back a few steps, reeling under the blow.

“You can either go through of your own accord, or we’ll beat you unconscious and drag you through” said the goblin nastily “And the more trouble you cause us, the worse it will be for him” He spat at Mr. Grumblegood in contempt, whose muffled sounds of protest were silenced by another heavy blow. “We were thinking of cutting him up into pieces and feeding him to the trolls, who are very fond of gnome stew. But if you decide to cooperate, who knows?” He grinned, exposing a row of rotten teeth “We might let him off”

“Alright, we won’t give you any trouble” said Gillian, whose scalp was smarting from having had her hair yanked.

“But only on the condition you don’t harm our friend” said Philip grimly “If you do, we’ll tell the Queen how you insulted us and you’ll be arrested for treason” This was a smart move on Philip’s part, as evidenced by the scowls which greeted his remark. It ensured that Mr. Grumblegood would suffer nothing much worse than verbal abuse, to which they were all becoming quite hardened. They squeezed through the tight gap, one at a time, in silence. Inside it was pitch black and they couldn’t see a thing, until one of the goblins struck a blue light from what looked like an old-fashioned tinderbox. Ahead of them was a dimly lit passage, which sloped steeply downwards. As they descended into the bowels of the earth the air became cooler and clammier. Occasionally the passage widened out into an echoing chamber in which enormous stalactites and stalagmites glistened like the ivory tusks of some prehistoric mammoth.

“We must be quite a way down now” whispered Gillian to Philip. They all felt apprehensive and uneasy. None of them voiced the unthinkable: that they would never see daylight again.

“Don’t worry, they won’t keep us here” he whispered back “because they’re desperate for the reward Ermentrude is offering. Everyone knows how greedy the goblins are” They were distracted by a wavering light in the distance, which became brighter as it came closer. For some reason they had all stopped, and stood there waiting in a huddle. As the approaching light illuminated the cavern, they saw why the goblins had come to a halt: two feet from where they stood was a vast body of black water, and a bobbing lantern was attached to the stern of a rowing boat which was manned by a sullen-looking troll. His ankles were chained to two iron rings so that if the boat were to capsize he would drown. Perched behind his shoulder and urging him to row faster was an evil-looking goblin who wielded a whip twice the length of his body.

“We won’t all be able to fit in the boat at once” whispered Gillian “they’ll have to split us up” Gillian proved correct, as Philip was put into the boat first with three other goblins whilst she and Laurence waited for its return. After about five minutes a second boat appeared out of the darkness, manned by a similar-looking crew – a troll supplying the muscle power and a goblin issuing the orders. At the sight of Gillian and Laurence the troll started to salivate and drool. The whip cracked and whistled around his head.

“These ones are not for you” barked his master harshly “You’ll get something to eat later” Gillian and Mr. Grumblegood were loaded into this boat, with four guards, and Laurence was left on the shore with the others. He had a long cold wait as there were only two serviceable boats, and the journey took about twenty-five minutes either way. After nearly an hour had passed, the first boat returned and Laurence was pushed into it headfirst, crammed in with three other goblins to guard him. Halfway across the lake they passed the second returning boat, which was on its way back to pick up the remaining contingent of goblins. Eventually the lake narrowed to a waterway, which continued for about half a mile with dark tunnels branching off on either side. After knocking his head painfully on an overhanging stalactite for the third time, Laurence learned to duck in anticipation every time they rounded a corner. It was quite impossible to see what was looming up ahead, and none of the goblins cared whether he hurt himself or not. They gabbled among themselves in a strange guttural tongue, occasionally spitting in his direction, which annoyed Laurence no end. If you have ever been on the receiving end of goblin spit - a horrible slimy green viscous substance - you will know how nasty and unpleasant this is: not only does it sting worse than being stung by a jellyfish, it is very difficult to get off. The more you try to rub it off the more it seems to stick.

Laurence huddled underneath his cloak and edged closer to the front of the boat, away from the goblins who were indulging in a spitting competition at his expense. This meant he was now squeezed up next to the troll, whose stench was overpowering. Before the goblins started to arrive in Albion in vast numbers, most trolls were troglodytes - that is to say, simple cave-dwellers - who saw no reason to alter their anti-social behaviour, such as never washing. And doubtless they would have been content to carry on like this indefinitely – stockpiling the bones of their unfortunate victims in their mountainside lairs – if the goblins had not hit upon the idea of using them as slave labour. They were physically strong, which meant they could be forced to toil for hours at backbreaking work the goblins themselves were disinclined to do – being idle by nature – but they were also immensely stupid, and therefore easy to manipulate by those who were more cunning and ruthless. Almost before they knew what was happening, the vast majority found themselves completely enslaved and unable to do anything about it. The goblins had a well-deserved reputation for being hard and merciless taskmasters. A handful of wild trolls were still free to roam at large in the vicinity of the Sinister Woods, but most had by now been captured and set to work in the subterranean goblin mines and tunnels, from whence they seldom surfaced. The troll suddenly swung around and sniffed at Laurence, bringing his large hairy nostrils up close.

“Yum yum. Smells good. Eat you for my supper tonight”

“You’ll have no supper, you great reeking troll turd, if you don’t watch where you’re going” returned his master as the boat scraped against the wall of the tunnel - now only wide enough for one boat at a time. He lashed the troll across the back of his shoulders with the whip, leaving an angry red stripe. The troll hardly seemed to feel it, but his features resumed their sullen expression as he veered the boat around so suddenly that his tormentor banged his head against a protruding rock spur. Perhaps he wasn’t so stupid after all, thought Laurence. Raging, the goblin unsheathed a knife, threatening to cut off one of his toes.

“You’ll feel this alright, you great lumbering lump of troll blubber” The troll gnashed his teeth in defiance, a jet of steam hissing from his nostrils. The goblin reached down and sliced off the end of the troll’s big toe, and blood spurted from the wound, splattering Laurence’s shoes. The troll howled in pain, stamping his chained foot so that the boat rocked dangerously. Whilst the troll continued to howl pitifully all the goblins started shouting at once. As the sounds were magnified underground, echoing around the walls, the racket was unbelievable. Laurence plugged his ears with his fingers and huddled further into his cloak, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Eventually the troll calmed down. He was not so stupid that he didn’t have the sense to avoid unnecessary pain, and they continued their nightmarish journey without further incident. What with the rocking motion of the boat and the foul reek emanating from the troll, Laurence felt sick to his stomach. He was on the point of throwing up when a red beacon signalled in the distance, flashing on and off. A few moments later the boat drew up to a makeshift stone jetty and was moored to an iron ring.

Laurence looked around for the others as he was hustled out of the boat, peering through the gloom. They were soon marching off in close formation down yet another tunnel, the goblin with the lantern leading the way. Where on earth were they taking him? He’d been tramping all day more or less, and was blistered, footsore and aching all over. As Laurence trudged along, stumbling in his weariness, he failed to notice that the light was getting brighter as they approached the entrance to an immense cavern illuminated by firelight. Goblins scurried to and fro yelling and stamping, whilst half-naked trolls tended enormous fires over which cauldrons bubbled and steamed. Although they were supposed to be cooking, the trolls could not resist occasionally fishing out a bone and sucking off the flesh before it boiled away, despite being scalded in the process. Either they were not very sensitive to pain, or their greed was much greater than their instinct for self-preservation. Laurence was led over to a dark corner and chained to the wall. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark he could make out the forms of his brother and sister, who were similarly chained. Philip was the first to spot him as Gillian was sitting with her head between her knees in an attitude of despondency.

“Are you alright?” asked Philip.

“I suppose so” returned Laurence, who was immensely relieved to see them. For a horrible moment he had feared they might have suffered the fate of the other poor creatures whose remains were being boiled in the cauldrons.

“Excuse me” said Philip to a passing goblin “But if you plan on handing us over to Queen Ermentrude it wouldn’t do to starve us beforehand. Could you bring us some proper food please, and something to drink” Scowling, the goblin hurried off to confer with his confederates. Filthy looks were cast in their direction, but evidently someone in charge must have recognised the sense of Philip’s words, as three goblins reappeared ten minutes later bearing a large jug of water, a smaller jug of some sour wine, a loaf of stale bread and some hard cheese.

“How are we supposed to eat if we’re chained to the wall?” enquired Philip. Laurence felt that he was pushing his luck, and was proved right a second later when Philip was smacked in the nose.

“I’d rather not drink any of that” said Gillian, indicating the smaller jug “It looks like it’s got things floating in it”

“What’s good enough for us is good enough for you” One of the goblins tried to force it down her throat, but wasn’t quite tall enough. Eventually the goblins realised they would have to unfasten their manacles, as Philip had anticipated.

“What about Mr. Grumblegood?” said Gillian, rubbing her wrists “You’ll have to take his gag off so he can eat”

“Gnomes should neither be seen nor heard” sneered one of the goblins “The only good gnome is a dead gnome”

“We’ve heard that one before” said Philip “Can’t you think of anything original to say?”

“Never waste food on a gnome” agreed one of his cohorts, spitting at Mr. Grumblegood.

“He is our friend” insisted Philip firmly “If you ill treat him, we’ll tell the Queen”

“Shut up!” screamed one of them in a rage “You just wait. Once the Queen has interrogated prisoners she normally hands them over to us. And we get to do what we like to them. Nobody gets out of those dungeons alive, and we’ll see whether you’re so cocky then, human filth” Laurence could see that Philip was ready with another sharp retort and elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. There was no point in antagonising them further. Mr. Grumblegood’s gag was nevertheless removed.

“I should take no notice, if I were you” said Gillian to Mr. Grumblegood. “Mum always says if you give these types enough rope they eventually hang themselves” The goblins stood guard over them as they ate and drank, watching their every move with narrowed suspicious eyes. The children were feeling so faint with hunger and thirst they ate all the stale bread and cheese, washing it down with the water. After they’d finished they were chained up again. In their hurry to leave the goblins forgot to gag Mr. Grumblegood, which meant they could talk freely amongst themselves.

“Do you think it likely Darius would ever be able to find us here?” Gillian asked him, without much hope.

“Anything is possible” replied the gnome, whose voice sounded hoarse and ragged. “But I think it highly unlikely, my dear. The goblins are very secretive about their subterranean strongholds: after all, how many of you humans are aware that goblins live amongst you in your world?”

“I thought that was just fairy tales” said Gillian, intrigued.

“They are fairy tales, but very true for all that. Legend has it that the faeries themselves used to inhabit certain localities on earth - and may still do for all I know - though many of them have now decamped to less hostile realms. The goblins, however, have lived amongst you for centuries. When they think they can get away with it they abduct humans and spirit them away to their underground caverns”

“Why has their existence never been discovered?” enquired Philip, somewhat sceptically.

“Because they are cunning enough to inhabit regions which are still largely unexplored – deep in the very bowels of the earth. You would not even suspect their existence, as they rarely venture out above ground. And humans who have been abducted by goblins would never be able to find their way out of these underground labyrinths. Bottomless pits abound. Those who tried to escape perished, seeking but never finding the way out”

“Good job none of us are claustrophobic” said Philip “There was a boy in our school like that who got locked in a broom cupboard by the other boys. By the time they returned he was hysterical, foaming at the mouth”

“That sounds more like rabies to me” commented Laurence. “There’s no cure for that”

“Why do boys do such horrid things to each other…” began Gillian.

“Sssssh!” said Philip “Here they come” A contingent of goblins was headed in their direction, preceded by one who seemed to have some natural authority over the others. He planted himself in front of them and studied them for a few moments before speaking.

“My name is Gervase, Goblin Chief and Head of the Goblins’ Commission. You will be held here for two nights, after which you will be taken to a place where you will be met by our sovereign Queen, who is anxious to make your acquaintance” He smirked, as if he knew something they didn’t. “Your time in captivity can be pleasant or unpleasant, depending upon your attitude. We have treated you well so far, even going so far as to provide you with food and drink despite your uncooperative and hostile behaviour. When the Queen questions you, you will tell her how well you have been treated by us. In deference to your wishes, we have decided not to kill the gnome, despite the fact that he is a traitor and an enemy of Albion…”

“I am no enemy of Albion!” shouted Mr. Grumblegood indignantly “My only enemies are the goblin invaders, the usurpers-” The goblin chief gave orders for him to be gagged again. A bundle of rags was hastily stuffed in his mouth.

“You are quite welcome to tell the Queen a pack of lies if you wish” said Philip “but as for me, I shall stick to the truth. We have done nothing wrong”

“So be it” said Gervase, almost choking with rage. They could see that Philip’s replies had infuriated him, but for some reason he was endeavouring to control his temper. Laurence suddenly realised that the goblins were terrified of Ermentrude. The Queen had obviously been informed of their capture so the goblins had no option now but to turn them in, but they weren’t actually sure at this stage whether the humans would be treated as honoured guests or as prisoners: Philip’s confidence had thrown them into confusion. It was clear to Laurence that they were now having second thoughts about how the humans should be dealt with, just in case the Queen should be offended by any reported ill treatment. Until they knew for certain what kind of reception she had planned for them they were taking no chances.

“I wouldn’t trust any of them further than I could spit” muttered Philip to the others, when the goblins had moved off. Not a very good choice of words in view of the fact that Gillian was still trying – in vain – to rub off some of the slimy green goblin spit from her face.

“Whose idea was it to put us within spitting distance in the first place?” retorted Laurence, who was feeling very sorry for himself. Here he was, chained up in an underground cavern, at the complete mercy of a bunch of rabid goblins and slavering trolls. Ermentrude had made it abundantly clear that she detested meddling humans. What aroused her fury more than anything, though, was treachery. In fleeing from her and allowing himself to be rescued by Darius, there was only one interpretation that could be put on his behaviour. The immediate future looked very bleak.

“This is no time to indulge in I told you so” said Philip, somewhat savagely “Our first priority is to get out of here and then go in search of Josie”

“Our lives are in danger and we need to stick together, not squabble” added Gillian, giving Laurence a reproachful look.

“Oh, so it’s my fault is it? Might have guessed.” The other two ignored him and continued to converse in low tones. Philip’s fighting talk about getting out of here and going in search of Josie was plain ridiculous. It was quite obvious to Laurence they couldn’t go anywhere. The goblins would not let the children out of their sight, especially not once they were above ground. There was too much at stake. And as for Gillian’s pathetic notion that Darius would somehow be able to “rescue” them, Darius didn’t have a clue as to where they were being held. He hadn’t even been able to meet them because he’d been foolish enough to pick a rendezvous bang smack in the middle of troll territory, which was swarming with Goblin Patrols. Even Mr. Grumblegood, who ought to have known better, had unwittingly led them right into the goblins’ hands. They really hadn’t stood a chance.

No, the only person who’d shown any common sense, right from the start, was himself. Earlier on, when they’d stopped for lunch he had raised objections about venturing into troll territory, but his warnings had been ignored. And now that they found themselves in a mess who did they blame? Him, of course. They both thought they could carry on behaving as they would have done at home. But they weren’t at home, they were in an unfamiliar place surrounded by hostile strangers. Nobody had invited them here, which meant they were unwelcome intruders, not guests. Queen Ermentrude reigned supreme in Albion and her word was law. Everybody said that her magic was unassailable. To cross her was sheer madness. If he were to survive, he had to get back into her good graces one way or another. Not only must Laurence ingratiate himself with the Queen, but he must somehow convince her that she could depend upon him as a loyal ally. He had been offered untold treasures: a magnificent castle of his own, a flying chariot which would take him wherever he wished, and he had thrown it all away - all because some ignorant fish had turned up on Darius’s say-so. Who was Darius to go around issuing orders anyway? He had the audacity to call himself a prince but in Albion he was a fugitive and an outlaw. His harebrained scheme of attempting to persuade Esmeralda to exert her influence made no sense: according to the Grumblegoods the Faery Queen had no real jurisdiction in Albion. Even if she had wanted to intervene she had no authority over her sister.

As Laurence continued to ponder their plight, an idea gradually began to take shape. If he could somehow manage to reach the Queen before the others, he could tell her that he had been kidnapped by Darius and dragged off against his will. He could say that he had gone back to fetch his brother and sisters and had been leading them straight to her, and it was hardly his fault if they’d been captured by a Goblin Patrol. He had kept his side of the bargain. After all, if he had meant to betray her why would he have returned to Albion of his own free will? All he had to do now was bide his time. The goblins would deliver them into Ermentrude’s hands, but then it was up to him to seek a private audience with her before the others opened their big mouths and ruined it for him.

“I’m beginning to wish we never climbed out of the window into the beech tree” declared Gillian in a disconsolate tone “We didn’t ask to come here, and I for one want to go home now”

“One minute you’re all for helping Prince Darius, and the next you want to go home because it’s not as easy as you thought it would be” sneered Laurence “You’re just a typical girl”

“Oh belt up, Laurence” said Philip “Don’t make things worse than they already are”

*****

An eerie spectral glow emanated from the twin pinnacles upon which the Queen’s palace was perched. Jagged bolts of light flashed like forked lightning from the cliffs of blue crystalline rock, sparking off electric storms in the ambient air and scaring off all winged creatures in the vicinity. An eagle which had been gliding on the air currents suddenly banked, and took off at top speed before he was fried in the ensuing maelstrom. Everyone knew to keep well clear when the Queen was working magic. To say that Ermentrude was annoyed was an understatement. She was incandescent with rage. Her rage was not directed at her usual targets – meddling humans and traitorous subjects  – but at treacherous elements from within her own ranks. She had always believed herself secure in the support of the wolves. Although the white wolves were not yet under her yoke, she believed it was only a question of time before they swore allegiance alongside the grey wolves, who had by now been completely subjugated. Those who offered resistance had been skinned of their fur and then boiled alive. That very morning she had intercepted Miranda’s communication to the Grumblegoods which began: Friends of Albion, we have seen too much bloodshed and strife…

Naturally the Queen was not fooled as to the identity of Miranda. Her sister was an adept at transmogrification and could morph into any shape she chose. The fact that she had elected to take the form of a wolf was a double insult and a direct challenge to Ermentrude’s authority. The rumours concerning her upbringing were to a large extent true. She had been suckled by wild wolves, after tumbling from the royal chariot. Although a search party had been despatched almost immediately no trace of the infant could be found. She had been pounced upon by a pack of wolves who had dragged her off to their lair. The rest was the stuff of legend. As a faery child she possessed enough magic to keep from being devoured. The wolves had taken to this tiny dark-haired creature who showed no fear of them and was running with the pack almost as soon as she could walk. She had soon proved herself to be the deadliest and most ruthless predator of them all, drinking the warm blood of her victims as eagerly as she had drunk the milk from the teats of the she-wolf who had suckled her. From necessity she had honed and sharpened her magical faculties, impressing the wolves with her remarkable displays from an early age. Her very survival had depended upon it, and by the time she was fully grown her reputation for sorcery was fearsome. She had conjured this palace out of thin air when she was a mere slip of a girl. Many of the wolves had remained with her out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. Their fierce protectiveness towards her soon turned to terror when they witnessed her temper tantrums, which were truly awesome to behold. Much of her rage stemmed from an early sense of abandonment, and even now the sight of loving parents and happy families - all things that she had missed out on during her formative years - enraged her. And the person who enraged her the most was her twin sister, Esmeralda.

The more reports reached her of her sister’s surpassing beauty and effortless popularity the more envious and furious she became. The fact that Esmeralda’s subjects were all singularly devoted to her she took as a personal insult. She couldn’t help but contrast this with the half-hearted and insincere protestations of loyalty she received from her own subjects. She was well aware that the forest-dwellers only obeyed her because they feared her, not because they loved her. She was not a fool. They whispered behind her back, denigrated and disparaged her when they thought she wasn’t listening. But they all seemed to genuinely love Esmeralda who had done nothing to deserve such popularity, who had been born with a silver wand in her mouth, and had the added advantage of doting parents supporting and encouraging her at every dainty step she took. Ermentrude was convinced her own parents had never really loved her, otherwise they would have come looking for her instead of abandoning her to her harsh fate. And now her sister, who had never had to struggle for survival, had the gall to openly taunt her and incite rebellion amongst her subjects, to even issue a warning to her imperial Highness, ruler of all Albion. How DARE she? The Queen stamped so hard on the floor that the entire palace shook to its foundations. All her vassals and minions were in hiding, cowering in dark corners and keeping well out of her way. Many of them made a private note to appear especially craven and grovelling if summoned to the royal presence, and all of them fervently hoped they would not be.

Ermentrude strode across the room and opened the doors of a hidden cupboard, revealing the crystal block in which was embedded the Talisman presented to her by the human boy who styled himself the ruler of Cadbury. For a moment she contemplated the Talisman, resplendent in its glittering purple foil, then reached in and broke off another square – the last but one – savouring the chocolate flavour which was unlike anything she had ever tasted. Although she had little appetite and no need for material sustenance, try as she might she was unable to resist this magical food, which was strangely addictive. The more she tried to ignore it and put it out of her mind she more she craved it. The magic it contained must be very potent indeed. She would have to procure a secret supply, she decided. Somewhat calmer, she twisted the viewing ring on her finger three times until the large ruby glowed and the hinged lid sprang open, to reveal a small opaque black screen. She had presented Gervase, the chief Goblin Commissioner with a similar ring as a reward for his loyalty. As long as he wore the ring, she had promised him, no harm could befall him as he was under her special protection. This was a lie. The ring was a tracking device and enabled the Queen to monitor the goblin’s movements and conversations whenever she chose. She trusted no-one, least of all this oily little creature who had grown rich and powerful under her patronage.

The black screen cleared and she was able to see the miniature figures of Gervase and his troop of goblins leading the humans down the mountainside. They were on the way to her palace and she would be meeting with them shortly. So far so good. The gnome Grumblegood was with them, she noticed. Even better. She had been after the Grumblegoods for some time. It was known that they had harboured the Pretender who should have been executed along with his parents, and who was even now plotting the overthrow of her realm. Outright treason, the Queen muttered to herself, her anger mounting again. They would all be dealt with harshly, with the utmost severity once she had them in her clutches. She reached for another square of the Talisman and hesitated. It was the last one. What if she was unable to get her hands on any more? She turned her attention back to the viewing ring, twisting it counter clockwise seven times. Now the voices were audible, though faint. Another twist and she could hear the conversation as clearly as if they were in the next room. The girl child had evidently said something insulting to Gervase, as he now spat in her face. She stood very rigid with her arms clamped to her sides and began to recite in a high shrill voice: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but goblin spit will never hurt me. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but goblin spit will never hurt me” The girl continued her repetitive litany. Gervase was hopping about with rage.

“Do you know who I am?” He slapped her across the face. “The Queen happens to be my personal friend. Do you have any idea who you are talking to?”

“No” replied Gillian “But my father always says that when people ask that question it usually means they’re Nobody” Ermentrude smiled a twisted smile as Gervase worked himself into a paroxysm of rage. At least the human child had courage; perhaps she had some wolf-blood in her veins. And she spoke the truth. The goblins were insignificant nobodies who had come from nowhere. Gervase was merely one of her subjects, and only tolerated insofar as he did her royal bidding and carried out her commands without question or prejudice. And how dare that squeaking goblin claim a personal friendship with her? Ermentrude had no personal friends and prided herself on this fact. Only mortals and other weaklings with limited life-spans needed friends. She admired no-one and trusted no-one. This was the motto she had lived by ever since infancy and it had served her well.

So this Nobody thought he was a Somebody did he? This was the most entertaining piece of news she had received all morning and went some way to restoring her good humour, or what passed as good humour with Ermentrude. She calculated that at their ponderous pace it would probably take the party another two days to reach her palace, when she would be able to visit retribution on Gervase for the crime of hubris and on the gnome for harbouring fugitives and traitors. The humans would afford her entertainment of a different sort until their fate was decided. Seized with impatience, Ermentrude decided she would meet them herself halfway. They were encamped on the shores of Lake Mortmere, a short sleigh ride away. Summoning six of her grey wolves, she conjured up her silver sleigh, and gave the command for flight. They rose from the frozen ramparts and sped off into the night sky.

*****

In a clearing in another part of the forest Darius paced up and down impatiently, glancing skywards every time he heard the beating of wings. Earlier that morning he had emerged from the southern entrance of the secret tunnel, fully expecting to be met by his pixie scout, Tipsy, who was supposed to have escorted the children to the appointed rendezvous. There had been nobody there, which had not boded well. After waiting anxiously for more than half a day, he had set off for the nearest listening post – which happened to be Old Knotty – and received Josie’s despairing message informing him that the others had been intercepted by a passing Goblin Patrol and marched off to some unknown destination. Ash had appended the following cryptic footnote: Human girl now headed in the vicinity of the Nymphs’ Grotto, accompanied by your faithful adjutant Boris. Probably in safe hands. Darius broadcast an urgent request for any information on the whereabouts of the other three children, and as an afterthought, any sightings of Tipsy - prefacing his message with the emergency priority code. A reply was soon forthcoming. It was preceded by a series of whistling sounds, which indicated that a translation was in progress from bird language to tree language.

Greetings, Sire. Subsequent to enquiries made concerning your recent communication, my cousin states he was flying high above Troll Mountain when he spotted a procession of goblins hurrying up the northern face. They had four prisoners with them – one gnome and three humans. He lost sight of them when they disappeared into a cleft in the side of the mountain, but is able to identify the location if required. Pursuit highly unadvisable. This is a known goblin stronghold – heavily fortified and guarded at all times. Am willing to offer my services and will be with you in approximately 20 minutes. Postscript: Tipsy is at the Lily Ponds attending the annual Pixie Picnic, and according to reports, is in an advanced stage of intoxication. Freddie.

Darius sighed heavily. All his carefully laid plans were going awry. Tipsy had obviously not met the children, as had been agreed, but that was nothing new. Pixies were notoriously unreliable and always put pleasure before duty. The other news was more worrying: he had stood a fair chance of rescuing the children when they were above ground and in the open, but the fact that they were all being held captive in the subterranean warrens beneath Troll Mountain rendered this prospect remote, to say the least. Few people who entered the caves which led down to the goblin mines – whether under duress or by mischance - ever came back to the surface. They were either put to work in the mines where they laboured until they dropped dead, or they were killed instantly to provide food for the troll-slaves. Despite being given clear instructions and the best descriptions he could obtain of their physical appearance, Tipsy had somehow missed them. How? She would probably be very contrite when she saw him, and there was bound to be some excuse. Darius would end up forgiving her as he always did. He had a soft spot for pixies: during his long period of exile when he had wandered the length and breadth of Albion, friendless and homeless, the pixies had welcomed him into their midst, providing him with sustenance and good cheer when he was at his lowest point. Darius felt a draught of air as Freddie swooped down behind him without warning, landing on his shoulder.

“Good timing” commented Darius, with an attempt at cheerfulness he was far from feeling.

“Am I ever late?” responded Freddie.

“No” Darius had to concede. Falcons were good friends to have, he reflected. The swiftness of their flight, the acuteness of their vision, and the enormous distances they were able to cover in a short space of time, meant they didn’t miss much. Not for the first time he wished he had been able to persuade Freddie to join his inner circle of advisers. When this had originally been put to him, the falcon had shot him a wry look from over the top of his long curved beak.

“Sit in council with a badger and a squirrel, squabbling over orders of precedence? I rather think not, but thanks all the same. We falcons value our independence too much. Hunting is my life” Freddie had added  “I require open spaces and mountains in order to breathe”

“I know” Darius had replied with genuine regret. Tenacious had been instrumental in setting up the Grey Squirrel Express, which had greatly enhanced the existing network of listening posts provided by the trees. Boris had also proved a valuable addition to the prince’s council, despite his occasional pomposity. His contribution to the tunnelling project had been outstanding, not least for his ability to keep the other badgers involved and motivated. Darius was perceptive enough to recognise that pomposity is often a self-defence mechanism and not necessarily a character defect. After careful deliberation he had decided to appoint a pixie to make up his triumvirate of special advisers. Tipsy had proved to be an enthusiastic if somewhat erratic messenger, keeping him informed about what was happening in the forest, and also acting as ambassador for the faery folk, who were increasingly alarmed over goblin incursions and raids.

“Where to, prince?” enquired Freddie.

“Stay with me for a while. I’d be much obliged for your company. I’m hoping that the younger girl, Josie, at least managed to reach the Grotto safely. I want to make a detour to the Lily Ponds to find Tipsy. I mean to find out what happened”

“You’ll be lucky: they’ve all drunk so much nectar they can’t fly straight. Most of them are flat out on their backs” The truth of this observation soon became apparent when they emerged from the grassy ride leading down to the Lily Ponds, which formed a natural basin consisting of three large lakes connected by meandering waterways. Darius paused for a moment, contemplating the dazzling spectacle before his eyes. The scene was one of unimaginable gaiety and abandon. The picnic, which was really a boating party, had attracted pixies from all over Albion, attired in all the colours of the rainbow. Almost every available lily had been commandeered by the pixies, who deliberated bumped and jostled each other on the water. Others lounged in the sunshine, drifting indolently, whilst partaking of fairy cakes and other choice delicacies. Floating on water was a novel sensation for pixies, who are normally airborne, and the picnic was a grand social occasion when they could renew old acquaintances and exchange gossip. The picnic had been in progress for several hours, and many of the guests were in an advanced state of inebriation, quaffing nectar from bluebells and buttercups which had been filled to the brim. Freddie had certainly not been exaggerating. Darius was loath to interrupt the festivities and merriment. What a carefree life they led, he thought wistfully, as two pixies playfully jousted with reeds plucked from the shore, balanced precariously on their respective lily pads.

“Come on, Moonbeam” urged a spectator from a neighbouring pleasure craft. “Topple him in the water. You can do it” Darius recognised Tipsy’s constant companion, Moonbeam, who at that moment looked up and caught sight of him standing on the shore.

“Hallo, it’s Prince Darius. I say, Tipsy, look who’s here” A supine figure, head thrown back, gestured feebly.

“You say something? Don’t rock the boat. Don’t feel too well. Feel sick” Tipsy attempted to sit up, then collapsed again, trailing languid fingers through the water. Freddie flew over and perched on the edge of their lily, capsizing them. Moonbeam escaped a soaking by rising in the air, but Tipsy was too far gone to react in time and was thoroughly drenched. She surfaced a second later, spluttering and gasping.

“Stop it. Who did that? Not fair” Tipsy fluttered her gossamer wings, shaking off the droplets of water.

“Pull yourself together” said Freddie in an imperious tone “The prince would like a word with you” Tipsy looked around, then saw Darius and waved delightedly. Perceiving the gravity of his expression, she flew over to them.

“It’s been a simply wonderful picnic, Darius. You should have got here sooner. But never mind – we’ll probably be partying all night long. Want something to drink? Want some nectar?”

“Tipsy” said Darius sternly. Tipsy widened her eyes innocently. As Darius continued to regard her steadily, Tipsy suddenly recollected the mission she had been tasked with “I didn’t see any sign of the humans, truly I didn’t, Darius…” Moonbeam coughed delicately “And you wouldn’t have wanted me to miss the picnic, surely? I so look forward to it, and all my friends are here…”

“So I see. Of course I wouldn’t want you to miss out on all the fun. If you’d let me know about the annual Pixie Picnic, I’d have sent someone else. The point is, Tipsy, I really don’t see how you could have missed them. They were apparently captured by goblins only a few hundred yards from where you were instructed to meet them”

“By goblins?” faltered Tipsy, who was by now quite sober.

“All except the younger girl, who somehow evaded capture. I have to say that I am sorely disappointed in you, not least because they have been placed in grave danger and may not come out of this alive” He let his words sink in, in order to impress upon her the gravity of the situation. “You gave me an undertaking that you would escort the children safely as far as the southern exit of the tunnel beneath the Sinister Woods. Had you not deserted your post, you would easily have spotted any goblins in the vicinity without them even being aware of your presence. You have the advantage of invisibility, which none of us here possess!” Tipsy hung her head and looked thoroughly wretched.

“But I was there, Darius” she protested in a small voice “I did look out for them, truly. Moonbeam can vouch for me” Moonbeam cleared her throat and prepared to defend her friend.

“We did catch sight of some gnomes, sire. It’s quite possible the humans were disguised as gnomes in order to avoid detection and that’s how we missed them”

“Hmmm” said Darius, who was not terribly impressed by this feeble excuse. If a falcon could distinguish between a human child and a gnome he was pretty certain that none of the faery folk would have been fooled for an instant. They were normally quite observant. It was partially his own fault, though, for entrusting such an important assignment to a pixie. “Tipsy, where are you going?” Tipsy had crept underneath a mulberry bush. “Are you sulking?” No reply. Darius knelt down and poked his head through a gap in the bush.

“She’s too ashamed to be seen” said Moonbeam.

“In that case all you need do is make yourself invisible” remarked Freddie with characteristic bluntness. “What point are you trying to make?”

“Come on out, Tipsy” said Darius “I really don’t have time for this. I’m not mad at you, more at myself for a serious error of judgement. I blame myself, not you” At that, Tipsy flew out and hovered a few inches from his face.

“You shouldn’t blame yourself. It’s all my fault. I thought I’d be able to catch them up later. I didn’t mean to stay so long at the picnic, but I had a few drinks and then I must have completely forgotten about it”

“I know. According to my sources Boris is with the girl child at the Nymphs’ Grotto, where they are both waiting for me, but at my pace it will take me the best part of a day” Darius hesitated. He had reason to believe their communication system was not as secure as formerly and had decided to rely on personal messengers until he could have a word with Tenacious. “I’ve had a sudden change of plan. Do you think you could fly on ahead and deliver a message to them for me?” Tipsy nodded eagerly, glad of a chance to redeem herself in the prince’s eyes.

“You’re too soft-hearted, you know” remarked Freddie, after Tipsy had flown off. “What can I do to help?”

“Since you ask, didn’t you say your cousin could identify the precise location on Troll Mountain where the children were taken?”

“Indeed”

“It’s unlikely that the children will be held in the underground caverns for very long. I need someone to keep a close watch over the entrance and to let me know immediately when they appear. Only a falcon or eagle could hover in the vicinity without rousing suspicion”

“Say no more. Presumably you want them followed as well?” Darius nodded.

“As long as we can track their movements there is still a chance”

“Leave it to me. I’ll be off then”

“Thanks, Freddie. I appreciate all your help”

“Don’t mention it” called Freddie from a great height “I’ll be in touch” Darius watched, shading his eyes, as the falcon soared high above them and dwindled to a small speck in the distance, then vanished from sight altogether. With a lingering glance at Moonbeam and the others - who were rounding off the afternoon’s revelries with a fast and furious game of musical toadstools - Darius continued on his way, with only his thoughts for company. For the next couple of hours he climbed steadily, passing through vast tracts of forest once green and verdant, but which now bore the unmistakeable signs of occupation by goblin encampments. Once the goblins moved in the streams and springs became polluted and eventually dried up. The grass was withered, the bushes were stunted, the flowers trampled underfoot and the birds had fled. Tree-houses formerly occupied by cheerful and carefree gnomes had been destroyed. The enchanted fairy dells with their tinkling streams and mossy arbours remained inviolate, but many of the pixies had flown off to Faeryland, deserting the forest for the invisible realms.

The further north he travelled, where the ravages were worst, the further depredations he witnessed. The once lush forest glades, filled with an abundance of ripe autumn berries, hazelnuts and acorns – enough to feed an army of squirrels – had been reduced to scorched patches of dry yellow grass. He paused to rest for a moment on a tree stump (the goblins hacked down any tree they suspected of being hostile towards them), his head in his hands. Ever since his parents had been brutally murdered over two years ago Darius had been subject to attacks of melancholy and gloom, which descended upon him without warning and which he suffered in private, not wishing anyone else to witness his despair. The only reason he had survived was because he had not been in his bedchamber on that fateful night when the assassins had appeared. Darius frequently rose early, and would slip out the postern gate and make his way down the slippery cliff path to the hidden cove where a boat was always kept moored. He was some distance from the shore, contemplating the first rosy flush of dawn as it suffused the distant horizon, when Freddie came hurtling from the sky like a missile, the bearer of tragic tidings. Darius had been warned to sail onwards towards the Enchanted Isles and to never return.

Darius entered the Sinister Woods and began the weary trek back to where he had temporarily set up camp, which he estimated would take him three days. Few of the forest folk, apart from a handful of trolls and goblins of the worst sort, chose to live in these desolate regions. The terrain was harsh and inhospitable and the inhabitants did not exactly extend a warm welcome to strangers. He might as well seek shelter himself for the night; it was getting colder and he was dangerously exposed. His presence had probably already been noted by spying eyes watching his every move, as Ermentrude had set a price on his head. There was an enormous reward for information leading to his capture – untold riches and treasure – enough to tempt the weak or anyone who wished to curry favour with the Queen. The newly-formed Goblin Commission had issued numerous decrees and ordinances which outlawed social gatherings, feasting and banqueting, and merry-making in general. Statutes governing every activity - such as the right to roam freely – were posted with increasing frequency, and those who failed to comply were deemed traitors. The inhabitants of Albion grew ever more fearful, always looking over their shoulder and not daring to voice any criticism for fear of being overheard by the Queen’s spies.

During his long exile Darius had travelled the length and breadth of Albion, listening to the tales of woe, and wishing that he could redress their wrongs. Wherever he went it was the same story: intimidation, fear, despondency and gloom. Forest dwellers now only made necessary journeys, avoiding open or exposed clearings, and running for cover as soon as the sound of growling wolves - which generally heralded the Queen’s approach - was heard. Gnomes who used to dance in the forest by moonlight seldom visited each other any more but stayed at home, holed up in their hillside retreats (though if you held your ear against a grassy mound you could sometimes hear the sounds of song and laughter from within) Beavers and otters built ever-more elaborate and interconnected tunnels on the banks of rivers, so they could communicate with each other secretly without attracting the attention of Ermentrude’s spies. As for the common woodland creatures like squirrels, foxes, hedgehogs, rabbits and badgers, they hibernated for longer and longer periods, rarely poking their noses out of their burrows. The nature sprites hid behind waterfalls and in rock pools, only surfacing infrequently, or concealed themselves within the hollow trunks of friendly trees.

Although most of the trees were well-disposed, it was a sad fact that some of them couldn’t be trusted. Many were terrified of having their branches lopped off or being cut down altogether - and the mere threat was often enough to make them toe the line. There were a few traitors amongst them, who had no qualms whatsoever about entrapping their unwary victims and handing them over to Ermentrude. Anyone who has ever tried to free themselves from the muscular embrace of a mature ash or beech knows that their branches are as tough and pliable as the tentacles of a gigantic squid, and that you might as well resign yourself to your fate. The vast majority of trees do, however, have a conscience and prefer to offer protection than violence.

Before the reign of terror ushered in by the Goblin Administration, most gnomes had lived in tree-houses and Darius had been a frequent visitor to his close friends, the Grumblegoods. Their former home was nestled high up in the sturdy branches of an enormous beech tree, and he would gaze up at the immensity of space and the panoply of stars - lulled by the motion as the house swayed and creaked like a ship in the night breezes. In his mind’s eye he always pictured their house as a vessel floating in a sea of stars. Waking in the mornings, he had been greeted by chattering starlings, housemartins and sparrows, who poked their beaks though the windows, regarding him with inquisitive but friendly eyes. The central tree trunk, through which messages from outside were transmitted directly, had thrust its way through the floor of their living room: there had been no need to make the trek to Cedar Grove - their nearest Listening Post – in order to pick up the news or morning post.

At one time a tree-house had provided safe anchorage, but this was no longer the case. Many of the trees were being chopped down from sheer spite, and gnomes like the Grumblegoods had long since gone to earth, retreating underground where they felt less exposed. It had taken them a while to get used to the damp, but this was the least of their problems and had eventually been solved by Mrs. Grumblegood, who had lined the walls and ceiling with woollen blankets. Darius’s heart was heavy as he thought of the mortal danger in which he had placed Mr. Grumblegood, who was completely at the mercy of his goblin captors. It seemed like only yesterday that the interlopers had started to arrive in numbers. Over a very short space of time the goblins had chased out the gnomes, appropriating the better tree-houses for themselves. Aided and abetted by the Goblin Commission, which daily provided “evidence” of nefarious plots and conspiracies against her Majesty, the Queen had become convinced she was surrounded by traitors and enemies, whipping herself into a frenzy of paranoia. The number and frequency of night-time raids on innocent forest-dwellers had increased dramatically. Ermentrude was relentless in the pursuit of her quarry, and those who presented a real or imagined threat were hunted down mercilessly.

Sometimes he wondered where it would all end, and whether he would prove equal to the task which faced him. Once the goblins got a foothold – and this had already happened – they would seek to consolidate their position. This was only natural and to be expected. But they would not stop there. It had become painfully obvious to all who had eyes to see that they were not content to settle peacefully alongside the indigenous population of Albion, who had lived happily together for as long as he could remember. They would seize the things they wanted for themselves and destroy everything else. The natural diffidence and self-effacing character of the gnomes had prevented them from asserting their rights and standing up for themselves, until it was too late. Because the denizens of the forest were for the most part considerate and tolerant neighbours, they were ill-equipped to deal with goblins and trolls who had no such qualms, and who were not troubled with either a conscience or any of the finer sentiments.

But the destruction and havoc wreaked by the goblins went far deeper than the merely physical - chopping down trees and polluting streams: they had fostered a climate of fear and mistrust. Motivated by a sense of inferiority, they were natural troublemakers, adept at fomenting strife and stirring up trouble. Nobody knew whom they could trust any more, and nobody could speak their minds or safely make a joke at the goblins’ expense without incurring very severe penalties. Jokes about gnomes had been circulating in the forest for centuries (as had jokes about badgers and beavers) and simple folks like the Grumblegoods either shrugged them off or saw the funny side. But right from the very beginning, when the goblins were still feeling their way in the forest, they had been very quick to take offence, imagining slights where none were intended. The Ministry for Goblin Affairs and its offshoot, the Commission for Goblin Equality, had been set up almost overnight and was always poking its nose into other peoples’ affairs and monitoring their conversations.

Although it had no legitimate backing from Ermentrude, who really couldn’t care less whether the goblins were insulted so long as her own authority wasn’t undermined, the Ministry had extended its own powers further and further, reaching out its tentacles like some malign octopus. Any chance remark or harmless observation was seized upon as evidence of “treason” and an excuse to confiscate the property of gnomes. Naturally the chief beneficiaries were the goblins themselves, who represented themselves to the Queen as guardians and enforcers of the “law of the land”. The vast majority of reports flooding in from the Goblins’ Commission were ignored by the Queen, who was bored by the lengthy citations and accusations which were now a daily occurrence, but this didn’t stop the Commission from acting on its own initiative and wrongfully imprisoning anyone who spoke out of turn.

Seeing what they could get away with, the goblins increasingly interpreted the law of the land as a license to enforce whatever laws they wished, furthering their own interests at the expense of the forest-dwellers, since the Queen couldn’t be bothered with the minutiae and the more mundane aspects of day-to-day government. Ermentrude had never been a popular ruler but her popularity had sunk to an all-time low, as she was seen to be in collusion with the goblins and did nothing to stop the outrages and atrocities being committed in her name. The Commission for Goblin Equality had become a byword for intolerance and for the most blatant discrimination of anyone who was not a goblin. The creatures of the forest had always been tolerant of each others’ foibles and eccentricities - their motto being Live and let live - and this was one of their greatest strengths. But the goblins viewed tolerance of others as a weakness they could exploit to their own advantage. To their way of thinking it was the height of folly to tolerate your enemies instead of destroying them. They despised the gnomes because they thought they were soft. And it was for this very reason, reflected Darius - because of their innate decency and reluctance to resort to violence – that the gnomes appeared to be losing the battle.

A great spotted woodpecker alighted on a cedar tree, and started drumming with its beak – a solitary and defiant tattoo which pierced the surrounding silence - rousing Darius from his reverie. The woodpecker’s tenacious tapping seemed to echo his own thoughts: But we are not soft, and we will show them we are not. Taking heart, he stood up and stretched. The fit of melancholy had passed, leaving him resolute and determined. One of the masters at Laurence’s school had said that the pen is mightier than the sword. That might be so in the world in which the humans had their existence: Darius had no way of ascertaining the truth of this. But in Albion the wand was mightier than either the sword or the pen, and those who possessed strong magic had the final say. But Ermentrude was not the only possessor of a wand, Darius reminded himself. The vision of Esmeralda the Fair floated into his mind, a vision which would sustain and nourish him through the dark times ahead.

Chapter 8 – The Pink Citadel

“Do you know who I AM?” began Gervase for the twentieth time that morning, standing on his toes to peer into Philip’s face. They had been travelling since daybreak, when the children had been un-manacled and herded through the subterranean tunnels up to the surface of Troll Mountain. Breakfast had been a hurried affair of more hard cheese, stale bread and vinegary wine.

“No not really” yawned Philip “I’ve already forgotten. You couldn’t have made much of an impression on me” He was being deliberately provocative, and received another blow to the head.

“Didn’t you say you had some Smarties in your satchel?” Laurence asked Gillian in an undertone.

“I might do” replied Gillian warily “Why? I hope you’re not considering a bribe. It won’t work-”

“Not them, idiot. The Queen. We have to get her on our side somehow. Besides, you should never greet a foreign ruler empty-handed. You should always come bearing gifts” Philip gave him an appraising look.

“Good thinking, Laurence. It’s not much to offer but it’s better than nothing”

“If you slip the tube to me when they untie us” continued Laurence “I’ll present it to the Queen. She’s met me before, you see, so it’s best if I do the honours”

“I suppose it’s worth a try” agreed Gillian “Though I think we should just tell her the truth and say it’s not our fault we ended up here, but that now that we are here could she please let us go home, and let Mr. Grumblegood go as well because he hasn’t done anything wrong”

“We promised Prince Darius we’d do what we could to help, and he’s gone to a great deal of trouble on our behalf” Philip reminded her “Even if she let us return home, it wouldn’t be fair on the gnomes and the other woodland creatures to leave them to their fate” Philip was feeling especially guilty about Mr. Grumblegood, who had been gagged throughout and unable to utter a word in his defence. If it weren’t for them he would be safe at home, smoking his pipe by the fire.

“How are we supposed to help if we’re prisoners at the Queen’s palace?” objected Laurence. “If we tell her the truth we’ll be killed as traitors. So we have to pretend that we don’t know Prince Darius, and not mention that we agreed to help him, don’t you see?” He couldn’t believe that they would both be so stupid as to jeopardise their only chance of survival by attempting to keep their foolish promise to Darius.

“I think Laurence is right” said Philip finally, much to Laurence’s relief  “For the time being we’ll have to pretend that we don’t know anyone called Darius. We can just say we asked a friendly gnome for directions because we’d lost our way in the woods, and that will let Mr. Grumblegood off the hook too” As Philip was speaking, they emerged into a clearing on the shores of a vast black lake which was evidently some kind of goblin base camp, as there were even more of the creatures milling about. Two of them were squatting on their haunches, tending a fire. One of them came rushing up to Gervase.

“The Queen will be here any minute now, High Chief Commissioner. She is anxious to see the prisoners as soon as possible, but they are to be detained securely until she arrives”

“Laurence” said Gillian in a loud voice so the Goblin Chief could hear “can you fetch my handkerchief out of my satchel so I can wipe off all this horrible green slime, otherwise the Queen might think the goblins have been ill-treating us” Hearing this, Gervase allowed the children to clean themselves up, untying their hands. Whilst Laurence rummaged in Gillian’s satchel for a handkerchief he unobtrusively slipped the tube of Smarties and a Cadbury’s Flake up his sleeve, then transferred them both to his pocket a moment later when no-one was looking.

“Remember to tell the Queen that you have been treated with courtesy” admonished Gervase “Otherwise it will be the worse for him” He kicked Mr. Grumblegood “once we have him behind the Red Door” He grinned evilly, and was about to say more when one of the goblins pointed skywards and shouted. Queen Ermentrude’s sleigh was hurtling towards them from the sky. The wolves in front had their muzzles pointed downwards and front paws extended, their ears pinned back and fur flattened by the rushing wind. The goblins scattered to clear a space as Ermentrude reined in her charges at the last moment and landed the sleigh expertly. Laurence watched, torn between admiration and fear, as Ermentrude advanced towards them. She appeared to glide along the ground, as ghostly apparitions are said to do, and the effect was sinister and unsettling. Cloaked from head to foot in black, she towered over them like a hawk mantling its prey. All the children took an involuntary step backwards, and then Laurence surprised them all by dashing forward to meet her. He was immediately hurled backwards by a powerful force which threw him to ground. The Queen was evidently protected by some kind of invisible shield, which prevented any of her subjects from coming too close. Laurence picked himself up and knelt on the ground before her.

“Your Majesty, I am overjoyed to see you again. I have done as you commanded, and was bringing the other rulers of Cadbury to meet you, when we were set upon by these fierce goblins and taken prisoner-” The Goblin Chief was frowning, and interrupted.

“Your Highness knows full well these humans were considered a threat to your Majesty’s realm. We found them near the southern edge of the Sinister Woods in the company of this gnome, who was no doubt leading them to the Pretender’s hideout where they planned to rendezvous-”

“In which case, fool, you should have allowed them to continue on their journey so as to reveal his whereabouts” snapped Ermentrude, regarding him with disfavour. “instead of which, owing to your lack of foresight, the Usurper has once again eluded capture!”

“But your Majesty gave me instructions to capture the humans” faltered Gervase, who was looking distinctly unhappy at the way things were turning out.

“And we don’t know anything about a Pretender” added Philip “We somehow got lost in the woods and only stopped to ask this gnome for directions..”

“Silence! I cannot think with all this babble. You!” she pointed at Laurence with her wand “If you are not in league with the Pretender explain why you ran off with him and escaped. Be brief for my patience wears thin!” Gervase permitted himself a smirk.

“Pretender?” asked Laurence, feigning puzzlement. “Oh, you mean that mad person who kidnapped me whilst I was out hunting with your Majesty? I was terrified when he grabbed hold of me. He said he would slit my throat if I didn’t follow him. I tried to get away but he dragged me towards a tree, and somehow I found myself back in my world..”

“Why did you not do my bidding and return with the others immediately? Speak, before I am tempted to shrink your world to the size of a grape and then stamp on it” They looked at each other, aghast. Could she do that?

“I did not know how to return to Albion without the magical Talisman I had already presented to your Majesty” replied Laurence, truthfully “I had to journey to a dangerous cave filled with monsters in order to find another Talisman…” Philip and Gillian exchanged bemused glances. This was the first time they had heard this story, but neither of them interrupted, sensing that Laurence’s inventiveness might well save them all. “If I didn’t mean to keep my promise, why would I have returned?” asked Laurence. Ermentrude had no ready answer for this, and merely eyed him suspiciously. She had no way of knowing that they had found themselves in Albion quite by accident and involuntarily.

“Where is this other Talisman? If you are speaking the truth show it to me” Laurence seized his opportunity and reached in the back pocket of his shorts. Kneeling, he reverently presented the tube of Smarties to her.

“I brought this gift for your Majesty; its potency is even greater than that of the first Talisman” Gervase listened in dismay. How could he have been so stupid as not to have searched the humans?  If he had come across the Talisman first and kept it for himself, who knows what powers he might now possess? Gritting his teeth with rage at having been outwitted, he nevertheless attempted to retrieve the situation.

“As your Majesty can see and the humans will testify, no harm has come to them whilst they were in my custody. I’m sure you will be satisfied to hear that I have captured the well-known traitor Grumblegood who is known to harbour enemies of the realm. Would it please your Royal Highness if we were to conduct him to the dungeons and commence interrogation, whilst awaiting your Majesty’s pleasure with respect to the human prisoners?” He used the word “prisoners” deliberately as a reminder that the humans should be treated accordingly, and not as honoured guests. He wondered whether he dare mention the question of the reward promised him for their capture, but decided now was not the time. Ermentrude ignored him completely as she shook the tube so that the Smarties inside rattled audibly. Not wishing to reveal her ignorance before an audience, the Queen slipped the Talisman into a fold of her cloak, where she could examine it later at her leisure. She turned to Gervase.

“I will take the ruler of Cadbury with me. You will bring the gnome and the other two human captives to my palace with all due haste. None are to be taken to the dungeons unless I decree it” She beckoned to Laurence, who looked back at the others apprehensively as he climbed into the royal sleigh. Clearly there was not room for them all to travel with the Queen and he knew he ought have felt pleased at his preferential treatment, but he was filled with misgivings.

“We’ll see you soon, Laurence” called Philip, with a show of bravado.

“Yes, good luck” added Gillian, sounding slightly wistful at being left behind with the goblins instead of riding in the royal conveyance. Ermentrude raised her wand and pointed aloft. The sleigh rose in the air and skimmed the treetops. Laurence leaned over the side gazing down at the others, as they stood huddled in the clearing gazing upwards. Once they had cleared the forest and were sailing over a high snow-capped mountain peak, the Queen withdrew the tube of Smarties and examined it with interest.

“What magical power does this confer on its owner?” she asked him with a slight sneer “It seems to me a very poor sort of wand”

“The secret treasures are contained within” replied Laurence. “Would your Majesty like me to demonstrate?” There was a short pause whilst the Queen considered this proposal. She was not in the least bit worried about allowing a human to unleash dangerous and unknown powers, since she knew that any magic they possessed must be feeble in comparison to her own. Otherwise they would not be subject to disease, accident and sudden death. They could not even fly of their own volition or change their shape without resorting to base trickery. Besides which, if his Talisman was so potent, why had he not used it to escape the goblins? Finally, curiosity got the better of her.

“You may show me the workings of this thing. One treacherous move on your part will ensure your instant annihilation” Laurence snapped off the plastic cap and tipped the multi-coloured Smarties into his hand.

“What are these? Coloured pebbles that I can collect from any beach?” She was clearly not impressed and Laurence’s brain worked feverishly. The colours gave him an idea, and he separated them into small piles.

“The colours represent the elements in our world, which can be controlled by whosoever possesses these gemstones. The green is water, the orange is fire, the brown is earth, and pink is air”

“Go on” said Ermentrude, sounding slightly more interested now. “What do these control?” She indicated the yellow and red.

“The yellow represents our sun and the red represents blood...”

“The power of life and death?”

“Yes. I am afraid they do not work here in Albion” went on Laurence hastily, “but supposing you should ever find yourself in our world - without these, you could do nothing. Your magic wouldn’t work there. But with these stones – we call them Smarties – your power would be greater than anyone who has ever lived.” The Queen stopped to consider this. She was not entirely ignorant of the human world, and she knew that the four elements of earth, fire, wind and water were common to all domains including Albion. There were seven different colours of gemstone and she knew seven to be a magic number, which made it likely that he was telling the truth.

“What about these ones?” She indicated the purple Smarties. Laurence was at a complete loss as to what to answer. Finally, he said “Nobody knows. They are a great mystery, since they do not appear to work in our world” Ermentrude smiled to herself. The human could not possibly have known that her own blood ran purple, like that of all the Immortals. It was likely, therefore, that the purple gemstones controlled immortality, and these could not be allowed to remain in the possession of a mere mortal.

“Give those to me this instant” commanded the Queen. Fumbling in his nervous haste to comply, Laurence handed them to her. “How do the gemstones confer power on the owner?”

“They should be eaten” replied Laurence. This reminded the Queen of the irresistible flavour of the chocolate Talisman she had already consumed, and that it was imperative she procure another supply as soon as possible. At that moment she noticed the Cadbury Flake’s yellow wrapper protruding from Laurence’s pocket.

“What is that?” she asked sharply. Laurence reluctantly presented it to her. Gillian had kept very quiet about the Flake and he had been hoping to be able to scoff it in private.

“This is the second gift I brought for your Majesty. It has no magical power but it is the most delicious food in our world and only eaten by the rulers of Cadbury. Once you have had one bite you will want more” Laurence offered to take a bite to show her it was harmless. As Ermentrude watched, he broke off a piece of the crumbliest flakiest chocolate in the world and allowed it to melt in his mouth. Then he handed the rest to the Queen, who followed his example. Although she said nothing he could tell that she was pleased with his gifts. She took out a small flask of the cordial she kept for privileged guests and offered him a sip.

“Your brother and sister will be held hostage. They will not be ill-treated unless your loyalty to me wavers. As you have kept your promise to me, from henceforth you will be able to call the Pink Citadel your own, and all the servants therein are yours to command at will” Laurence let out his breath in a sigh of relief - she had believed his story. Ermentrude’s original plan had been to destroy all of the humans, but it now occurred to her that Laurence would prove more useful to her alive than dead, as he could be used as the bait to lure the bigger fish – the traitor Darius. She did not for one moment believe their ridiculous story that they had just happened to be lost in the Sinister Woods, since it was a good day’s march from any of the known portals. She did not, however, entirely discount the possibility that there might be other portals whose existence she was unaware of. Moreover, if she could discover from the humans the exact whereabouts of the tree through which they had entered Albion she could have it chopped down so that no others could blunder through. And although the coloured gemstones were of no use to her at present, there might come a time in the future when the human world overlapped with that of Albion - as in olden times when the Little Folk had lived amongst mortals. With the Smarties Talisman in her possession she would have the power of life and death over humans. None, not even her twin sister Esmeralda the Fair would be able to challenge her power then. She would be omnipotent.

Of course the humans could not now be allowed to return to Cadbury since they knew too much. But as long as they were prevented from returning to their world she did not consider that they posed any real threat to her. They might even afford her some entertainment, unlike the goblins who were so dull and uninteresting she could scarcely endure their company. Most of her subjects cringed and cowered in her presence, which became boring after a while, and the Queen had a very low threshold of boredom. She would enact a new law which made it a crime to be dull, she decided, a crime which carried the death penalty. That would take care of Gervase, who was proving to be a thorn in her side. She would grant the ruler of Cadbury an illusory freedom whilst keeping him on a loose rein, lavishing upon him gifts and privileges that would ensure his loyalty and gratitude - ensnaring him in a mesh from which he would not be able to escape. She had already pinpointed his weakness: it had not escaped her notice how his eyes had lit up when she had promised him a winged chariot. So long as she gave him his heart’s desire whilst withholding any real independence of movement, he would belong to her entirely and be eternally in her debt.

“Thank you, your Majesty” replied Laurence, feeling more optimistic. Once the Queen realised she could trust him, he had no doubt his brother and sister would be released. He thought he had done rather well and was just congratulating himself on his cleverness - Outsmarted by Smarties - when the Queen broke in on his thoughts.

“Of course your new position involves certain duties and obligations. You will receive your instructions after you have settled in” Laurence nodded uneasily. He hoped she did not want him to do the kind of things the Goblin Chief did, such as interrogate prisoners. He would rather not get involved with that side of things. “Your new duties will be very simple” continued the Queen, almost as if she’d read his thoughts. “You will be required to send and receive messages”

“Oh, yes, I would be happy to do that” cried Laurence “I can write quite well for my age-” His words were cut off as the sleigh took a nosedive, and he experienced a nauseating roller coaster sensation in the pit of his stomach - why did she have to drive at such maniacal speeds? As they plummeted through the clouds, Laurence could discern the pink battlements and towers of the cliff top citadel, and the surge of the green sea beyond. The ground tilted at a diabolical angle and Laurence covered his eyes. He needn’t have worried. Ermentrude was a reckless but skilful driver, at no time losing control of either her sleigh or the wolves yoked to it. As they landed in a flag-stoned courtyard, Laurence opened his eyes and looked around, blinking. A knot of shabbily-attired servants - including a weasel and red squirrel, a stout red-cheeked person in a white apron, and a wizened old gnome - stood huddled together in a far corner. This motley crew constituted the welcoming party.

“Is this any way to greet your new lord and master?” said the Queen in a loud and imperious voice. “Step forward and swear your allegiance to the ruler of Cadbury who will henceforth rule over you” The servants hobbled forward and bent on one knee with heads bowed, waiting. The Queen turned to Laurence and placed a ring on his finger.

“I give you this ring as a token of my patronage. As long as you wear it you are under my protection. You must ensure, therefore, that no-one steals it and that you never take it off” Laurence nodded, feeling somewhat overwhelmed. The ring, which sported a large ruby, was heavy and probably quite valuable.

“Thank you, your Majesty. You are most kind. Are you leaving now?”

“There is no need for me to remain” she replied curtly “These servants will attend to your needs. Do not treat them too well lest they grow soft and complacent” Laurence felt panicked. Although the Queen’s presence unnerved him, he was uneasy at the prospect of being left alone with a handful of retainers who didn’t look especially pleased to see him. And what about the chariot she had promised him? Without his own means of transport he would be trapped here, as the citadel was perched on the top of a sheer-sided precipice inaccessible from the ground. The only way in or out seemed to be from the air.

“Your Majesty did mention” began Laurence “that I would have the use of a chariot?” His voice rose on a high uncertain note, as she looked at him with icy disdain. Did she think him ungrateful? Had he presumed too much? Then she smiled her peculiar twisted smile.

“I have not forgotten my promise. Your chariot is parked on the north-west turret and responds to the following spoken commands:

RISE to rise from the ground and to travel upwards

DOWN to land the chariot and to travel downwards

HALT to bring the chariot to a halt

NORTH, SOUTH, WEST and EAST to travel in a given direction

FASTER or SLOWER to vary the speed

Is that clear?” Laurence nodded his head vigorously, practically bursting with excitement. The commands were easy to remember and quite straightforward. He couldn’t wait to try it out. A thought occurred to him. If the chariot was so easy to fly what was to prevent any of the servants from using it, or making off in it and leaving him stranded? But the Queen had anticipated his next question for she continued “Only the bearer of this ring is able to command the chariot, which is why you must not lose it or take it off. There is one other command you may find useful: HOME. If you journey too far and become lost this command will cause the chariot to head homewards immediately” The Queen took off without a backward glance, leaving him alone in the middle of the courtyard. Laurence set off in the direction of an arched doorway through which he passed, then crossed yet another quadrangle. He was confronted with a heavy iron-studded oak door. After trying the handle, he discovered to his annoyance that it was locked.

“Why isn’t this open?” he called to one of the servants “This is my castle. You heard what the Queen said” The aged gnome, who bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Grumblegood (hardly surprising since they were cousins) hurried forward and produced a large brass key.

“We were not expecting your Grace this evening, otherwise we would have made adequate preparations”

“Oh, didn’t the Queen tell you I was coming? Who are you?”

“I am Pragmaticus, the castle steward” As a matter of fact Pragmaticus had been Darius’s tutor, and had narrowly escaped being arrested for treason when the goblin assassins had burst into the kitchens. He had had the presence of mind to claim he was just one of the household servants. “If your Grace would kindly indicate what you desire for your supper, I will instruct the Cook forthwith”

“I’ll have shepherd’s pie, followed by lemon meringue” said Laurence, incredulous that all he had to do was ask for something for it to be provided. The steward hurried off to impart this request to the cook and returned a few moments later.

“At what hour would your Excellency like to dine?”

“Fairly soon I should think” said Laurence, who was famished. “But you’d better show me to my rooms first. Don’t bother showing me everything now. The castle seems quite huge. We can leave that until tomorrow. Who lived here before me?” asked Laurence curiously, as they mounted several flights of stairs and negotiated numerous winding passageways.

“Why, Prince Darius of course” replied Pragmaticus, astonished that Laurence did not know this.

“The Pretender, you mean?”

“Some do call him that, sire” Pragmaticus maintained a neutral expression, deeming discretion the better part of valour. Until he knew whom he was dealing with he judged it wisest to maintain the fiction that he knew nothing - either of the prince’s whereabouts or of his campaigns on behalf of the forest-dwellers. Up until that fateful night when his parents had been assassinated, Darius had led a carefree existence as a much-loved only child, content to pass his days in boyish pursuits. During his lessons, he had revealed a more serious side and had started to ask his tutor questions about the history of Albion, and about the new “settlers”. The goblins had only just started to arrive then and nobody knew much about them except that they were greedy, work-shy and antagonistic towards the gnomes. Pragmaticus drew another key from his pocket and opened an external door that admitted an icy blast of wind. Ahead of them stretched a very narrow land bridge connecting the main castle to a tower perched atop a promontory jutting out over the sea. On either side of the land bridge was a sheer vertiginous drop to the sea, hundreds of feet beneath them. Laurence stared at the steward in horror.

“You surely don’t expect me to walk across that? It’s too dangerous. There are no handrails. Besides, I told you I don’t feel like exploring the castle this evening. Take me to my rooms please” Laurence made as if to turn around and go back the way they had come, but Pragmaticus stood his ground.

“That is the North-West turret, sire, where the prince had his private apartments. The headland is called Stormy Point and faces west with views across to the Enchanted Isles, and the sunsets are quite spectacular. This tower was chosen for the prince’s private apartments, as it is the easiest to defend in the event of an attack. Enemy invaders who managed to get this far would have to proceed in single file, where they could be picked off at the other end by the prince’s bodyguards” He spoke in the patient didactic tones of one who is accustomed to explaining elementary concepts to wayward and refractory pupils. “There is a postern gate on the seaward side which leads to a hidden path down the cliff. At the bottom there is a concealed cove in which a boat is always kept moored in the eventuality of a surprise attack…”

“But it’s not safe!” protested Laurence, who had caught a brief glimpse of this path from the Queen’s sleigh. Even a mountain goat would have had difficulty negotiating such a hazardous and slippery descent. If you lost your footing you’d be dashed to pieces on the rocks below and drowned.

“The descent to the cove is possible, though difficult” conceded Pragmaticus “At the top there is a stout rope hidden beneath a boulder, to which it is advisable to cling on a stormy night. But the young prince was as nimble-footed and agile as a deer-”

“-Never mind about Darius” snapped Laurence, annoyed at the way he kept harping on about the prince’s feats “The Pretender has been banished for plotting against the Queen. This is my castle now and I would rather have my rooms in another part of the castle. I shan’t be using this turret at all”

“As your Excellency wishes” Pragmaticus bowed. “No other chambers are at present prepared, but I will give immediate instructions for your accommodation elsewhere. Of course you will not now be able to avail yourself of the conveyance provided by the Queen, since none save yourself has been vouchsafed permission to fly the chariot” Laurence stared at him in dismay. He had just remembered that Ermentrude had said his chariot was parked on the North-West turret, which meant crossing over to Stormy Point. And he couldn’t entrust any of the servants with the ring - which he supposed to be some sort of ignition key. Ermentrude had said he was not to take it off or let it out of his sight. He realised he wanted that chariot more than anything, especially now that it appeared to be receding from his grasp. It represented his passport to freedom. Laurence hesitated. The land bridge was certainly wide enough for one person to cross, and if Darius had crossed back and forth on a daily basis there was no reason why he should not be able to do the same. Laurence made a quick decision. He would have to make the crossing if he wanted the chariot. Besides, if he didn’t, he would look like a coward and none of the servants would respect him. Once he had retrieved the chariot and flown it back across to the other side, he could insist on alternative accommodation.

“It’s not as bad as it looks” said Pragmaticus encouragingly. “It’s a clear night – a little breezy perhaps” He refrained from pointing out that on a foggy night the walkway could be treacherous. A couple of servants had been larking about one evening fencing with wooden swords, when a sea-fog had crept in. Foolishly they had carried on with their game. One of them had lost his footing and plunged to his death. “If your Grace would like to follow me” continued Pragmaticus “Take care not to look down and you’ll be across in no time…” As Pragmaticus stepped out onto the narrow corridor, Laurence took a deep breath and followed closely behind – keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the steward’s head. He placed the palms of his hands on his temples, like a horse’s blinkers - so that he could see neither to the left nor the right - and willed himself to look straight ahead. In less than three minutes they were both across, standing on a wide platform of rock.

“Well done, your Grace” said Pragmaticus, who couldn’t help reverting to his tutorial manner. He unlocked another heavy iron-banded door set into the cliff, and they proceeded up a spiral stone staircase. They emerged onto a circular landing where he flung wide a set of double doors leading to the private apartments. Laurence looked around him. The rooms were sumptuously furnished with everything he could possibly require, but he couldn’t help thinking that it all looked very familiar. There was the same log fire blazing away merrily, the same plush carpets and comfortable armchairs. The reason it looked the same as the apartments he had occupied at Ermentrude’s palace was because both had been conjured by magic. Ermentrude had furnished both according to her ideas of human taste, and hadn’t taken the trouble to introduce any new variations.

“I’ll leave you to settle in” said Pragmaticus, bowing politely. ”Dinner will be served in the Dining Hall. The bathing chambers are through there” Laurence caught a glimpse of a pillared archway leading into some vaulted chambers which looked suspiciously like the ones in the Queen’s palace. “When you are ready to dine simply retrace your steps. When you reach the Long Gallery, proceed down the central staircase…”

“Wait” said Laurence. If they thought he was going to attempt that treacherous strip of land again on his own in the dark, they were very much mistaken. “Please have my supper brought to me on a tray here. I shan’t be going out again tonight”

“Very good, sire. Would your Grace care to sample some of the fine wines or ciders from the castle’s cellars?”

“I would like some ginger beer, if you have some” replied Laurence. His parents had once let him taste some wine, and he had found it bitter and foul-tasting. Grownups had peculiar tastes.

“Certainly” Pragmaticus bowed then retired. Left alone, Laurence wandered over to the fire and sank into a luxurious armchair. This was more like it, he thought. There was no need to dine alone in the huge echoing hall. He would get the servants to erect a stout wooden railing on either side of the crossing to Stormy Point, since it would be a shame not to carry on using these rooms, which were actually quite comfortable. And once his brother and sisters joined him everything could be rearranged. For the first time in several hours he found himself wondering what they were all doing right now. It was a little unsettling to think of his younger sister Josie wandering all alone in the Sinister Woods, where the fog could come down at any moment. It would be dark now and she would be very frightened. But the pixie scout would have been keeping an eye out for her, and it was more than likely that she was with Darius now. He had mixed feelings about Darius. On the one hand he couldn’t deny that Darius had rescued him from a horrible fate. But on the other hand that nitwit was responsible for sending them on this wild goose chase that had nearly got them all killed. He seemed to have an awfully high opinion of himself. And if he was successful in persuading the Faery Queen to lend support to his rebellion, then he was bound to want his castle back again. Which wouldn’t be fair. After all, if it weren’t for Laurence’s quick thinking they would all be languishing in some dungeon at the mercy of Gervase and his goblin henchmen. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in” called Laurence. The weasel he’d seen earlier entered the room accompanied by the red squirrel, both bearing aloft silver platters from which wafted mouth-watering aromas. The weasel lifted the lid from the first dish, uncovering a shepherd’s pie hot from the oven. The squirrel set down a jug of ginger beer then they both stepped back from the table, eyeing him curiously.

“Is there anything else your Grace requires?” asked one of them.

“No, that will be all” replied Laurence, anxious for them to be gone. Once they had left Laurence tucked into the shepherd’s pie, which was cooked just how he liked it, with layers of creamy mashed potato on top. He swirled the peas and carrots into the meat and gravy and took a swig of the ginger beer. After finishing the first course, he lifted the lid from the second dish and started on the lemon meringue. It was delicious, with a sharp citrus tang; the sugary white meringue, lightly browned on top, dissolved on his tongue. The food was certainly very good here, thought Laurence. He had no complaints on that score. As he nodded off by the fireside, dreaming of labyrinthine passages and spiral staircases leading to the stars, down in the kitchens the servants were discussing their new master.

“What’s ‘e like then?” enquired the Cook of Pragmaticus.

“I don’t think he’s wicked” replied the tutor, as they all helped themselves to shepherd’s pie. “But he’s undoubtedly foolish, and ignorant of the circumstances surrounding the prince’s exile. However, he is young and has probably never learned that once you accept gifts from a corrupt benefactor you become corrupted yourself”

“Yes, but what’s ‘e really like?” persisted the Cook, who was called Groanalot. “Did he say thanks for his meal? I only ‘ad ‘alf an hour’s notice and I think I done pretty well. Even if I does say so meself”

“I don’t recall him saying thank you” said Pragmaticus thoughtfully “But he did use the word ‘Please’ on two occasions. He is obviously fatigued and has had a harrowing journey. Everything is still new to him…”

“There you are then! Told yer, didn’t I?” declared Groanalot. “There ain’t no-one like Prince Darius. His manners was perfect, he didn’t give ‘imself no airs and graces and he didn’t talk down to yer. I misses him. I’m tellin’ yer, I don’t like it. This stranger comes waltzin in ‘ere and makes ‘imself at home without so much as a by-yer-leave”

“There is nothing we can do about it” said Pragmaticus “He has the Queen’s protection and we’ll simply have to put up with it for the time being. I would advise extreme caution in what we say in his presence”

“He’s got to be a spy, though, hasn’t he?” interposed the squirrel, who was called Gingernut  “Stands to reason. What else would he be doing here? And I agree with Cook. I don’t like the idea of some impostor taking over the castle and ordering us about. The King and Queen, rest their poor souls, would turn in their graves if they knew what a pretty pass things had come to”

“I don’t like it either” said Pragmaticus “But it could be a lot worse. Could you imagine what it would be like if the Queen had installed the Goblin Chief here? Our lives would be a living hell”

“Wouldn’t it just” shuddered the other two in horror. Their loathing for Gervase was greater than their fear of Ermentrude. He had ordered the execution of Darius’s parents, who had been sleeping soundly in the East wing when the goblins had attacked. He had set the wolves on them and shown no mercy. Darius had narrowly escaped because he had arisen before dawn and taken the boat out. The Queen had been furious when she learned of Darius’s escape, and Gervase had wanted to make an example of all the servants; fortunately for them, he had been immediately recalled to Ermentrude’s palace to give a full account of himself.

“I ‘opes I never live to see another night like that one” said the Cook. “It were the worst in my living memory. I can still hear their screams as they was ripped to pieces, poor souls. Thanks be to ‘eaven the young prince weren’t there to see what ‘appened”

“I say we cut our losses and leave now while we have the chance” said the weasel, who was called Wilfred. “We know he’s in cahoots with the Queen and he might turn on us. You can see he’s not used to living in a castle and being waited on, and the ones that aren’t born to it get above themselves. They can turn right nasty. I’ve seen it happen before. I vote we sneak across to Stormy Point while he’s having his dinner, get down to the cove and make off in the boat before he knows we’re gone”

“And where would we go?” countered Pragmaticus with the weary air of someone who’d heard this argument many times before. “We have no reason to suppose we’ll be ill-treated. I don’t deny he’s a bit selfish, like all boys, but I’d stake my beard on it he’s not vicious. Hasn’t the stomach for it” Pragmaticus considered himself a fairly good judge of character. “Why, he had to be coaxed across the strip like a small infant. He was scared stiff”

“That’s as may be” muttered Groanalot “But the cowardly ones are the worst. They’ll stab you in the back as soon as look at you. And they get other people to do their dirty work for ‘em. Soon as he gets a taste of good living there won’t be no stopping ‘im. We’ll be slaving for ‘im morning, noon and night. I’m getting old, and me feets hurt” grumbled the Cook “I can’t be up all night cooking fancy dishes for the likes of ‘im”

“Only last week you were moaning about how bored you were” pointed out Pragmaticus “Naturally we must be circumspect, but it’s not fair to judge him before he’s had a chance to properly introduce himself to us”

“He had an opportunity to introduce himself to us earlier” Gingernut reminded them. “No matter how tired he was it wouldn’t have harmed him to say I’m so-and-so, pleased to make your acquaintance. Bad manners, if you ask me, and that’s never a good sign. But what can you expect from a human?” he added contemptuously “They’ve all got bad manners, where he comes from” And what makes you an expert, pray? thought Pragmaticus, who could see they were determined to find fault with the newcomer. He had not been particularly impressed with Laurence either, but he had learned to refrain from judging others too hastily until they’d had a chance to prove themselves.

“Nevertheless, we are better off here than in the forest which has been overrun by goblins” argued Pragmaticus, sensible as always. “You seem to be forgetting that Albion isn’t safe any more. The goblins are swarming all over the place, and believe me we’re far better off here than we would be in some goblin mine or held captive beneath Troll Mountain. As long as we keep our heads down, we pose no threat to anyone. And we might even be able to help Darius if we stay put” Eventually the others were persuaded by the force of his arguments. Groanalot was secretly relieved that Wilfred’s escape plan had been dropped; he couldn’t remember when he had last set foot outside the castle walls, and the prospect of launching a tiny boat on the storm-tossed sea made his legs turn to jelly. There had been some half-hearted talk of walking out before but most of them preferred the monotony and familiarity of their present surroundings to facing unknown perils.

Over in the North-West turret, Laurence awoke from his slumber feeling refreshed. Faced with a choice between going to bed or for a spin in his chariot, Laurence didn’t hesitate and accordingly headed for the balcony. He didn’t pause to marvel at the splendour of the setting sun or at the dramatic shades of the darkening sky: he could hardly contain his excitement as he approached the gleaming silver chariot parked beside the parapet. He had imagined a primitive conveyance with a footplate where the driver stood upright, like the Roman chariots in Ben Hur. The plush seat was luxuriously upholstered in velvet, and large enough to accommodate three persons. The sides were high – above head level – so as to afford protection against the wind, with the front barrier set much lower so as to maximise visibility.

As Laurence settled himself into the seat, he immediately became aware of warm air blowing from side vents. Ermentrude must have noticed that he had been cold when he travelled with her before, and had added this feature for his benefit. There was even a fur cloak folded on the seat. She was really quite thoughtful, thought Laurence, who was coming to admire some of her character traits. She did not waste time in superfluous talk and was able to sum up a situation in a glance. She kept her own counsel and was not weak enough to confide in her inferiors. Even the wolves, with the most reason to hate her, accorded her a grudging respect. What she could not abide was disloyalty and treachery: retribution was swift for those who betrayed her trust. But as long as you didn’t go behind her back or go out of your way to annoy her then there was nothing to fear.

“RISE” commanded Laurence, somewhat nervously. To his immense delight, the chariot rose in the air and hovered about thirty feet from the ground. He repeated the command and it rose higher. Now, which direction should he choose? He remembered that the steward had said his balcony faced west towards the sea. But what if something were to go wrong when he was in mid-air and the chariot hurtled downwards towards the sea? He would be drowned. It would be wiser to try out all the commands in a safe place first. But where? There wasn’t much room for manoeuvrability on the balcony. He could practise over the courtyard, but he would have to re-cross the narrow land bridge first: he could see it, stretching out beneath him like a faint ribbon in the moonlight.

“EAST” said Laurence tentatively. The chariot swung around and headed inland, so that the castellated battlements of the main castle stretched out before him. There was now nothing beneath him except the sea, which was alarming. The land bridge was several feet to his left. In order to glide above it parallel to its surface, he would have to manoeuvre the chariot further to the left - either north or south. Which one was it? In his confusion he gave the wrong command SOUTH and the gap widened. He was even further over to the right. “NORTH” said Laurence hastily, correcting his error. Through a process of trial and error he managed to position the chariot three feet above the bridge. He skimmed along its surface fairly confidently until he suddenly realised he was in danger of crashing into the stone bastions on the opposite side.

“STOP!” shouted Laurence. The chariot continued to move forward and he repeated the command, panicking. Seconds before he collided with the wall, Laurence remembered the proper command. “HALT!” The chariot immediately came to a halt a foot in front of the castle wall and he breathed a sigh of relief. If he’d been going any faster he might have been seriously injured.

“RISE” said Laurence. The chariot rose in the air, clearing the pink ramparts. The courtyard was ahead of him to the right. “SOUTH” continued Laurence, to position it to the right, then “EAST” to move it forward. “FASTER” he added, gaining confidence. Once he reached the centre of the courtyard he practised all of the commands until he was confident enough to turn around and head west again. Moments later Laurence was cruising at an altitude of about three hundred feet over the ocean, freewheeling through the immensities of space. He was so elated and carried away with his success, he started to shout aloud all the silliest songs he could think of – Christmas carols such as Ding dong merrily on high, followed by Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh.

There was nobody to hear him and he could make as much noise as he wanted. He was in fact making such a racket that he was beginning to attract the creatures of the deep, who were roiling beneath the ocean’s surface, rolling with the swell. Laurence continued on his way, still singing at the top of his voice, and executing ever more elaborate and fancy manoeuvres. Sometimes he dived towards the sea, skimming its surface so that he was drenched with sea-spray, then swerved upwards again. If he said “NORTH-EAST-SOUTH-WEST” really fast the chariot would go into a spin, and then followed it up with the FASTER command it would rotate wildly like a spinning top. He was starting to feel giddy but didn’t want to stop he was enjoying himself so much. “Good King Wencelas last looked out, On the Feast of Stephen. When the snow lay round about, Deep and crisp and even. Brightly shone the moon that night…DOWN” shouted Laurence, swooping towards a big wave, then “SOUTH-EAST-NORTH-WEST” so that he reversed the direction of the spin to counter clockwise. He spun around and around crazily like a whirling dervish. It was better than riding a fairground waltzer. A huge wave crashed over the chariot, drenching him with cold briny water. Because his mouth was open he swallowed several mouthfuls, and was still gasping and choking, half-blinded by sea-water, when another tall wave towered over him. Or so he thought. Suddenly his eyes bugged in horror. It was no wave coming towards him but an enormous long-necked sea serpent with snapping jaws and a gaping maw.

“RISE!” screamed Laurence in terror. The sea serpent rose out of the sea at an enormous height to pursue its prey. “RISE, RISE, RISE!” He didn’t feel safe until he had risen two hundred feet in the air, well out of harm’s way. Teeth chattering, he wrapped himself in the fur robe, and decided he’d had enough adventures for one night. He must be more careful in future, he told himself. Who knew what might swoop out of the sky at any moment - what if there were flying monsters, such as dragons? Besides, he was soaked through and uncomfortable. It was really time to go home and climb into his nice warm bed. He was so disorientated by all the spinning he no longer had any idea which was north, which was west and which was east. It was a good job Ermentrude had thought to provide him with the HOME command -  the only one he had not yet tried out, thought Laurence, as he hung suspended beneath a panoply of winking stars.

“HOME” commanded Laurence. The chariot tilted and swivelled before orienting itself, then sped off. When given the HOME command, the chariot seemed to travel at a much faster speed so that everything rushed by in a blur, as though he were being sucked through a tunnel by some tremendous force. Although he must have been travelling for well over an hour, maybe even two, the chariot brought him back to Stormy Point in a fraction of the time, less than five minutes. The HOME command was so powerful that he didn’t even need to say DOWN and HALT. The chariot landed gently on his balcony of its own accord, and remained stationary. He had just sufficient energy to get undressed then tumble into his bed before sinking into a deep sleep.

The following morning Laurence rose early and donned the princely attire which had been laid out for him on a chair. There was a crimson tunic of some rich velvet material trimmed with rabbit fur, leather leggings, and a thigh-length fur cape. He looked around for a bell or some means of summoning the servants, but couldn’t find anything. If he wanted breakfast he supposed he would have to make his own way to the Dining Hall. Though he could always take the chariot. Why not? Minutes later, Laurence landed in the central courtyard feeling very pleased with himself. One of the servants came rushing out.

“Could you show me to the Dining Hall please” said Laurence, addressing the weasel.

“If Your Worship would like to follow me” responded Wilfred, darting off underneath an archway which led into a cloistered passageway. They passed through a double set of doors, and a traversed a long draughty corridor before Laurence was ushered into a lofty vaulted room with an enormous fireplace at one end. Gingernut was attempting to get a blaze going, frantically piling on the logs. He kept singing his paws and snatching them back from the flames. Laurence took a seat at the end of a long table where a place had been laid for him.

“How would you like your eggs done, sire?” enquired Wilfred. Earlier that morning Pragmaticus had consulted a dusty tome in the Library entitled Dishes Humans Are Fond Of and they had all pored over the Breakfast section. Wilfred was reasonably confident that the new master would request porridge, followed by eggs – either scrambled, poached, boiled or fried – accompanied by toast. Sometimes they had sausages and bacon, or even kippers. He hoped so because he was rather fond of kippers himself.

“I won’t need a full breakfast” said Laurence “A soft-boiled egg if you please, with toast and marmalade” Wilfred nodded sagely, proud of his newly-acquired knowledge, and was just hurrying off to inform the cook when Laurence called after him. “No toast with the egg – just soldiers” Wilfred froze in his tracks. Soldiers? It had said nothing in the recipe book about any soldiers.

“Soldiers! What’s ‘e mean by that then?” exploded Groanalot, upon hearing of Laurence’s request. “Cor blimey, luv a duck, I’ve ‘ad just about enough of ‘is airs and graces...” He slammed a saucepan down on the huge range which lined one wall, and started to slice a loaf of bread. Pragmaticus looked up from his reading, his spectacles perched on the end of his nose. In the mornings, they all tended to congregate in the kitchen, where it was warmest.

“Soldiers are warriors. But he can’t possibly mean those types of soldiers. Humans don’t eat other humans, at least most of them don’t” A faint shadow of unease passed across the tutor’s face. He had read about certain savage tribes who indulged in cannibalistic practices, but this boy struck him as being fairly civilised. He picked up the recipe book again and flicked through the chapter on eggs. “Let’s see, omelette, Eggs Benedict, Welsh rarebit…. these sound quite interesting, but no, there’s nothing here about soldiers. Best thing is to ask him. If in doubt, always ask”

“You ask him then” suggested Wilfred, who would rather avoid further contact with the human. Sighing, Pragmaticus struggled out of his fireside chair and returned a few moments later, smiling triumphantly.

“Take a slice of bread, butter it, then cut it into long strips. Those are soldiers”

“I knows ‘e does it just to be awkward” grumbled the Cook. “Why can’t ‘e eats ‘is bread like the rest of us do?” When the breakfast tray had been taken into the Dining Hall they all crept into the adjoining room to peep through a spy-hole in the wall. The spy-hole enabled them to listen in on the conversations of their betters. They justified its existence on the grounds that it made it easier for them to anticipate requests in advance, pick up useful tips and generally offer a better quality of service. In reality, it was an invaluable source of gossip and news, enabling them to keep abreast of internal politics and shifting allegiances within the castle itself, and to gauge the mood of those who were responsible for their welfare. It also added spice and interest to the dreary monotony of their existence, which was mostly lived in the kitchen. More spy-holes had been bored elsewhere in the castle: the Drawing Room, the Library, the Gaming Room, the Ballroom – in fact anywhere where guests were received or where the occupants were likely to gather for conversation or entertainment. The result was that very little went on in the castle without the servants’ knowledge. The butler who had originally devised the plan and had subsequently been taken prisoner by Gervase, had drawn the line at the Royal Bedchamber, insisting that the King and Queen were entitled to some privacy.

Of course since the demise of the King and Queen and the prince’s exile, they hadn’t much use for the spy-hole, and were unlikely to glean much from the spectacle of Laurence dining alone. Nonetheless, this didn’t stop them from taking turns to watch whilst Laurence tapped the crown of his egg with his spoon three times. Having cracked the shell, he then proceeded to peel off the top third, carefully depositing the pieces of discarded shell in the cavity at the bottom of the eggcup. Next he scooped off the top of the egg with his spoon and ate it. At this point in the proceedings, Groanalot shoved the others out of the way and was just in time to see Laurence pick up one of the “soldiers” and dip it in the yolk before swallowing it.

“Fascinating” murmured Pragmaticus, who was taking notes by candlelight. They would all be doing the same thing themselves tomorrow morning.

After he’d breakfasted, Laurence took off in his chariot, leaving instructions for his supper: toad-in-the-hole followed by spotted dick with custard. Grumbling and muttering, the Cook despatched the weasel to catch a toad, though where they were expected to find one perched on top of a cliff he couldn’t say, and he’d be buggered if he was going to go traipsing up and down the stairs to inspect the well outside. Wilfred solved the problem by disappearing into the wine cellars, where he’d once seen a family of toads hopping about near the drains. He was relieved not to have been asked to do any dusting, which had been his chief duty in the old days when he had reported to the Head Butler, who was something of a disciplinarian and a martinet. He considered dusting to be a thankless task which nobody really appreciated. No sooner had he dusted a room than the dust simply settled back into place so that he might as well not have bothered, especially since no-one seemed to notice the difference. The Cook’s job was much more rewarding, since everyone appreciated a tasty meal. About twice a year he gave the rooms a once-over, rushing up and down the stairs and half-heartedly flicking a duster over the banisters. Occasionally Gingernut would offer to help, leaping from table to chair and swishing the dust away with his bushy tail, but as this frequently left a trail of muddy paw prints in his wake he was more of a hindrance than a help. He was also liable to get distracted by the chimes of the big grandfather clock, swinging on the pendulum until Pragmaticus put a stop to it. By dint of hanging around the castle drains, Wilfred managed to locate a toad without too much difficulty.

“What are we going to do about the hole?” enquired Groanalot when presented with the toad, who eyed them all distrustfully. He suspected a conspiracy.

“Nothing” replied Pragmaticus “Nobody could possibly expect you to cook a hole. It would be like carrying water in a sieve. You’ve heard of Hercules’ labours?” They all shook their heads. “Never mind. The point is, we’re being put to the test, don’t you see?” The toad had been following the conversation with considerable interest, and had heard enough by now to resolve that he would not be party to the conspiracy, especially if it involved being roasted in a hot oven. Now the Cook had been thinking along similar lines, and was half-inclined to forget the whole idea. Like a lot of people who are forever groaning and grumbling, he was actually quite soft-hearted and was always leaving scraps of food out for stray birds, since he hated to see any living creature go hungry. Both the weasel and squirrel had started to feel distinctly vulnerable. If it was toad-in-the-hole today what might it be tomorrow? Weasel-in-the-well? Squirrel-on-a-skewer? Nobody made a move to go after the toad, therefore, when it suddenly recalled it had an urgent appointment elsewhere, emitted a powerful croak, and hopped out of an open window.

Chapter 9 – Blind Badgers’ Buff

Gervase stood before the Queen with his head bowed. He was not exactly sure what he had done to incur her displeasure, but the coldness of her manner towards him was unmistakeable. And the contemptuous tone in which she had spoken to him in front of the other goblin guards had been calculated to humiliate him. Once she had departed from the base camp – taking the human creature with her - the other goblins had hesitated before carrying out his orders, obeying with casual negligence as if they were no longer afraid of him. Gervase swiftly realised that without Ermentrude’s powerful backing, his position as Goblin Chief was no longer tenable: as soon as the Queen had dealt with her prisoners she would turn her attention to him, and he had no intention of being her next victim. After the goblins set up camp for the night by the shores of Lake Mortmere, Gervase had waited until everyone was asleep, then had crept out under cover of darkness. He had not gone far when he was snatched by an enormous buzzard, which swooped down from the sky and seized him in its talons. He had at first thought that if he put up enough of a fight it would fly off in search of easier and smaller prey; buzzards did not normally trouble goblins or gnomes, but preferred to attack smaller creatures like voles, dormice, and squirrels. He struggled and fought to free himself, but the sharp talons tore into his flesh, gripping him tighter as they soared high above the forest canopy. He was half-frozen with cold and terror by the time the jagged peaks of the Queen’s palace came into view. With a sinking feeling he realised that the buzzard was no ordinary buzzard but one of the Queen’s spies who had been sent expressly to capture him.

“Well?” said the Queen, enjoying his discomfiture. “I have known all along that you would betray me, you contemptible worm. Did you really think you could elude me?” Gervase swallowed and stared miserably at the floor. For once, he could not think of a single thing to say in his defence. Nevertheless, he had to try.

“I thought I served you well, your Majesty, by uncovering plots against the throne and apprehending the traitors who now await your Majesty’s pleasure. Somehow I have offended you, I know not how; I therefore decided the honourable thing to do was to resign from my position and take myself to some dark place where I might spend the rest of my days in sorrow and regret”

“Do you think you can fool me with this goblindegook? You were instructed to bring the other captives here. Instead you deserted your command, and stole off in the middle of the night. This is serving me well? You reason like a gibbering troll. As to the captives, I have questioned them myself and their only offence is to insult the Chief of Goblins, which I consider no offence. You are a nobody, a cypher: any offence or insult offered to you is of no consequence to me. You were ordered to arrest those deemed a threat to our sovereign majesty, and instead what do you bring me? A cringing hedgehog and a gnome who, had he been left at liberty would have led you straight to the Pretender’s lair! Is there nothing rattling around in that hollow and worthless brainpan save those chattering teeth of yours? Remove this wretched creature from our sight!” Three of her vassals rushed to do her bidding, and dragged the screaming Gervase towards the Red Door.

*****

Josie awoke to feel something fluttering around her face, and opened her eyes as a pair of iridescent wings lightly brushed her cheek. Tipsy had harnessed a passing dragonfly and was attempting to make it land on Boris’s striped snout, from which emanated loud snores.

“Why can’t you use your own wings and leave me alone” buzzed the dragonfly crossly. He’d had quite enough of this game.

“You know you love it” returned Tipsy, for whom teasing was as natural as breathing. The dragonfly was about to retort that on the contrary pixies were the bane of his life when Josie opened her eyes wider.

“Are you the pixie scout who Prince Darius sent to meet us?”

“Yes. Sorry I’m late” Tipsy alighted from the dragonfly, allowing it to fly off, and stood before Josie. “You’re not mad at me, are you?” she asked anxiously.

“No, of course not” responded Josie, delighted to be talking to a pixie. “Though I don’t know what I would have done without Boris…” Here they both looked at the sleeping badger, who sounded like a slumbering volcano. Tipsy could not resist tickling his left nostril with a blade of grass, and they both giggled as he sat up with a start and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

“Harumph. What’s going on?”

“Darius sent me to deliver a message” said Tipsy, becoming serious. She was determined not to bungle it this time “You are to escort the human child to the concealed tunnel entrance in the Sinister Woods. I hope you know where it is because I don’t have a clue”

“Of course I know where it is” interrupted Boris impatiently “My team has been working on it for months. But what about the Goblin Patrols? Are you sure you’ve got the message right?  Darius seemed quite adamant we should sit tight here and wait for him because it’s the only safe place in the forest”

“Obviously, you haven’t heard the latest” returned Tipsy “The goblins have done a runner. Hundreds of them have been seen heading towards Troll Mountain. Freddie says they’re holding some kind of meeting to appoint a new leader”

“Why, what’s happened to Gervase?” said Boris, sitting up and really taking notice now.

“Nothing yet. But the Queen is displeased with him, and you know what that means” Everybody knew what that meant. Gervase was history. “He’s been accused of hubris… Freddie overheard everything”

“What’s that?” asked Josie.

“Getting above yourself. He’s also been accused of boring the Queen, which is a capital offence under the new laws. He’s been found guilty of both and will probably be sentenced tomorrow”

“First I’ve heard of these new laws” said Boris, frowning.

“Oh, they won’t affect us” continued Tipsy cheerfully “Let’s face it, none of us are ever boring. Only the goblins will be affected…”

“You mean you lot aren’t affected” corrected Boris “What it is to be immortal, eh? The pixies come under the Faery Queen’s protection” he explained to Josie. “They’re untouchable. They’re not affected by any of the laws the rest of us have to live by. So the goblins have gone to ground” mused Boris, half to himself “which means the coast is now clear. But once they’ve appointed a new leader, they will regroup and return in greater numbers. Their sort always do. Still, I suppose we ought to be thankful for small mercies. At least there won’t be any Goblin Patrols in the woods”

“Is there any news of my sister and brothers?” interjected Josie anxiously, addressing Tipsy.

“Not yet, but the prince has a plan” said Tipsy importantly “It’s top secret and I’m not allowed to reveal any more at this stage” Actually, Darius had not revealed details of his plan to anyone, as he wasn’t yet sure whether it would work.

“We had better make tracks then” said Boris briskly. If Tipsy wanted to be secretive, he wasn’t going to let on he was bothered. And if Darius was keeping his own counsel, there was probably a good reason for it. Josie hurried off to say goodbye to Dame Elm.

“I always seem to be saying goodbye to people – or trees – I’ve just met, and hurrying off somewhere else” she confided in the wych elm.

“I’ve found that it’s best to go with the flow, dear” said Dame Elm soothingly. “And I’m sure we’ll meet up again on the Big Night”

“What Big Night?” asked Josie. Everyone was being so mysterious.

“Why, The Festival of the Trees of course” Her voice dropped to a whisper “It’s the one night of the year when all the trees of the forest are permitted to move”

Josie was disappointed to discover that Tipsy had disappeared by the time she got back. Boris insisted they had better get a move on.

“Where does Darius live?” asked Josie, after they had been trudging through the forest for over an hour.

“He used to live in the Pink Citadel over at Stormy Point but he doesn’t have a permanent home anymore” Boris explained briefly about the assassination of his parents and his narrow escape, much to Josie’s wide-eyed horror. “He’s been a fugitive ever since. And if the Queen ever catches up with him he’ll suffer the same fate as his parents. Worse probably. That’s why we’re so protective of him. None of us would give him away, but there’s a few in the forest you can’t trust”

“But why hasn’t Esmeralda done something? Isn’t Prince Darius her nephew?” Boris laughed.

“Where did you hear that – from the Grumblegoods?” Josie nodded. “Bless them, they don’t know any better. I think I know where the rumour might have originated. The Faery Queen will occasionally “adopt” a mortal if she likes the look of them. It’s no secret that she’s always liked Darius. But the fact remains that the only ruler of Albion is Ermentrude. Always has been and always will be. Nothing can change that, except magic maybe”

“But you mean he doesn’t really have a claim to the throne?” said Josie in dismay.

“No. But he never claimed he did. That’s what other folk go around claiming on his behalf. All Darius wants is for the abductions and the terror to stop, and for the goblins to be expelled. We all want the same thing – to be able to live our lives free of fear and without interference. The gnomes want their tree houses back: living underground just doesn’t suit them. Speaking of which, if you look straight ahead you’ll see a magnificent example of a ground-level gnome residence” Josie peered in front of her but couldn’t see anything except an enormous misshapen tree.

“Where?”

“Look closer and you’ll see that it’s a stand of sycamores growing close together. The gnomes who used to live here – the Fretwells - cleverly filled in the gaps between the trunks with earth ramparts, moss, strips of bark and twigs. It’s all been packed so tightly together that you wouldn’t realise that the structure has evolved from half a dozen different trees. The original door’s been blocked off because the gnomes didn’t want the goblins moving in. So far it’s escaped their notice”

“Is anybody living there now?” asked Josie, intrigued.

“No, they thought it was too risky to go on living there, so they sealed the entrance and are now living inside a hollow hill. As we just happen to be passing, you really ought to see inside….” Boris had already scrambled up onto a projecting bole, and beckoned for her to follow.

“But won’t the owners mind?” said Josie hesitantly, unsure about entering someone’s house without their prior permission.

“Good heavens, no. The Fretwells are old friends of mine: they said to pop in and make myself at home if ever I was in the area. You can climb, I take it?” It wasn’t like climbing a conventional tree as there weren’t any lower limbs to grab hold of. Owing to its squat shape and unconventional method of construction the tree bulged outwards in places, and Boris directed her to balance her weight on the bulges. Josie was able to hoist herself up by degrees, using knot-holes and other lumpy protuberances for leverage. Eventually they had climbed high enough to be able to grasp hold of a branch. Boris swung himself up to where there was a gaping hole in the trunk. Josie peered down the hole, which was like looking into a well. She couldn’t see a thing.

“You’ll have to jump” said Boris “But don’t worry, there’s a heap of moss at the bottom so it will be a soft landing. I’ll go first and when you hear me shout All Clear, then you jump. Alright?” Josie nodded.

“All clear” came Boris’s voice moments later. Josie lowered herself into the hole then jumped. The moss was soft and bouncy. It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the gloom, before she could discern that they were in a comfortably furnished living area with low tree stumps and cushions scattered about. “We just came down the chimney” grinned Boris. “The hearth is underneath that pile of moss you just landed on. Like a cup of tea?” Whilst rummaging around for some tea, he found a tin with some walnut cake. As they munched the cake and drank their tea, Josie reflected that Boris seemed quite at home, as though he were a frequent visitor. A sudden thought occurred to her. How would they get out? Although it might be relatively easy for a badger to run up the walls, it would be an altogether different matter for a human. The walls were a lot smoother inside than outside, where the gnarled boles and whorls in the bark had provided toeholds and handholds.

“What are you doing?” enquired Josie of Boris, who had started to burrow in a corner, throwing up little heaps of earth.

“All will be revealed in a moment” With a flourish, he lifted a concealed trapdoor, uncovering a passageway sloping downwards into the darkness. “This is it!” announced Boris triumphantly “The entrance to the tunnel. I should have let you know earlier, but I wanted to give you a surprise”

“How clever!” exclaimed Josie in amazement “I would never have guessed”

“It was my idea to extend the tunnel up into the Fretwells’ house” said Boris proudly. “Of course they don’t know about it yet, but I’m sure they’ll have no objections. Come on then - are you ready to meet the others?” Josie descended first so that Boris could shut the trapdoor behind them.

The descent was steep and Josie found it rough going, particularly since it was pitch black and she couldn’t see where she was going. However, she wasn’t the sort to complain and was thankful that she had a reliable guide. Whenever there was an unexpected hump in the ground or a rocky outcrop which might cause her to trip, Boris called out a warning. Eventually the tunnel levelled out and widened. Ahead of her, Josie could see wavering torchlight and hear the faint sound of voices and laughter. All of a sudden she felt herself gripped by strong pairs of claws either side of her, and stifled a scream.

“Halt! Who goes there?”

“It’s me, Boris, you fool” said Boris “And the girl child I was asked to escort to safety. Where’s Darius?”

“Say the password” insisted one of the badger sentries.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Alright then, DidgerieBadgerDooHulloHowAreYou. Satisfied? Or do you want me to say it backwards?”

“Just doing our job” muttered one of the badgers. They were escorted through the central section of the tunnel, which was lit with glowing salamanders. As they tended to crawl around and reposition themselves on the walls and on the roof, the effect was like that of mobile flickering fairy lights. Some glowed orange or green, and others emitted a pink or mauve light. Darius came hurrying over to meet them. He was covered in earth and had a mattock slung over his shoulder.

“Am I glad to see you two. We were just about to take an afternoon break as it happens. We’ve been hard at it all morning” Josie assumed he meant digging, and was a little surprised to see that Darius mucked in with all the rest of them, doing his fair share of work. From one of the passageways came a distant rumbling sound, which became louder and louder. Josie was alarmed, thinking a roof might have caved in and that the tunnel walls were collapsing around them, but no-one else seemed worried. By the light of the salamanders she could dimly discern some dark shape – like a huge boulder – rolling towards them. The boulder resolved itself into a barrel, with four badgers pushing it from behind.

“Phew!” said one of them, straightening up and wiping his brow. “Those barrels are heavy. Wouldn’t like to have to roll it uphill”

“About time too” commented one of the spectators, as everyone surged forward at once “Some cold cider would go down a treat right now”

“Compliments of Old Knotty: matured in the finest oak” said Boris to Josie, as Darius uncorked the spigot. “You won’t find cider like this anywhere else in Albion” After everyone had eaten and drunk their fill they divided themselves into two teams for the Tunnel Torch Races. A pair consisting of a badger from each of the two teams was then chosen to race from one end of the tunnel to the far west wall and back again. As there were eight in each team, eight races were run in all. Josie and Darius were invited to join in, and were placed on opposing teams so that they were each paired with a badger. After the torch races, more games followed. Blind Badger’s Buff was the most exciting, with the blindfolded Boris pursuing his screaming victims down subterranean passageways, as they attempted to conceal themselves by squeezing into corners and climbing up narrow chimneys. Josie joined in enthusiastically, shrieking and tearing up and down like the rest of them. She introduced them to some new variations like “Pin the Tail on the Donkey” – the donkey being Darius and the “tail” being a very cross salamander, who took his revenge by nipping the royal posterior.

“Ouch. Point taken” laughed Darius “Who else would like to be the donkey for a change – any volunteers?” No-one volunteered. “Alright, since we’ve got a visitor I think we’ll finish work and call it a day” Very early on in the project, Darius had realised that all work and no play was not the right way to motivate badgers. The games had been incorporated into the daily routine in order to provide entertainment and light relief. Mornings consisted of digging and carting away heaps of earth, followed by a two hour break during which they took refreshment and played games. Then work on the tunnel was resumed until Darius called a halt for the day, when everyone would gather around for story-telling. The prince’s stories were much in demand as he had travelled to far off places and had many adventures to relate.

“Tell us about the Enchanted Isles, Darius” piped up someone.

“It’s always summer there. It never snows or rains, the skies are always blue and the water is as clear as crystal” Darius had been happy to spend his days swimming with the mermaids and porpoises who resided by the shores of the Pink Lagoon, so-called because the sands were pink-tinged from the coral shells.

“Tell us about the Squid Squad!” clamoured some of the younger ones.

“Well, I’d only been there about a week when the mermaids were menaced by this giant squid. The entrance to the lagoon is only a few feet wide” explained Darius “and fortunately the squid was so huge he couldn’t get through. But they can elongate their bodies and squeeze through the tightest spots” he added, to a chorus of Ooohs and Aahs. “So they were all getting quite worried, especially since he was hurling himself against the rocks like a battering ram. It was only a question of time before he broke through their defences”

“What did you do?”

“I had the idea of forming a Squid Squad. We organised a school of porpoises to mount an assault on the squid”

“Weren’t you scared it might grab you with one of its tentacles?”

“The squid was wedged in so tight between the rocks on either side of the entrance it could scarcely move. Porpoises aren’t scared of squid; they reckoned the worst that could happen was that they’d obtain a fresh supply of ink for their school”

“What happened next?” prompted his listeners.

“You know very well, since I’ve told you before. I rode one of the porpoises, with two more on each flank and the mermaids bringing up the rear. The squid saw what we were up to, of course, but he just kept his mouth wide open thinking to himself: ‘Here comes lunch. I haven’t even got to make an effort’’” Darius had their full attention now and everyone listened, spellbound. “We were heading straight for its mouth, but as soon as we got in close we unfurled this huge net the mermaids had made. The porpoises took the top end of the net and swam upwards over the squid’s head, whilst the mermaids took the bottom end and swam beneath. We all shot out on the other side and scooped the ends together and tied it in a big knot” Everyone screamed with laughter.

“The squid was furious” went on Darius “We had him stitched up. We did lose one porpoise, unfortunately, who aimed too low and was swallowed up...”

“Tell us about the Big Whirly!” shouted someone.

“That’s a gigantic whirlpool everyone avoids” Boris explained in an aside to Josie.

“We towed the squid out to sea and threatened to toss him into the Big Whirly. But he said he’d learnt his lesson and promised he wouldn’t bother the mermaids any more, so we let him go”

“Why did you leave the Enchanted Isles?” asked someone “If that was me I’d have stayed there”

“The novelty wears off after a while” said Darius “The mermaids spend most of their time combing their hair and gazing at their own reflections. Countless sailors have drowned, foolishly trying to get a glimpse of them. The mermaids don’t lure them to their deaths deliberately: it’s just that they’re so vain, always on the lookout for new admirers. They wanted to make a pet of me, and besides, I was getting restless. My home is here in the forest, with all of you….” Everyone cheered at this. Before the noise had died down, Darius was called away by a messenger.

“What news do you have?” Darius enquired of Tenacious.

“The children are on their way to the Queen’s palace and will be passing above our heads in roughly two hours time” replied the grey squirrel.

“How many goblin guards?” asked Darius.

“Twelve” replied Tenacious “But without their leader they’re an undisciplined rabble. They spend more time squabbling between themselves and looting than guarding the prisoners. They’re already starting to question whether it’s worth their while carrying out the Goblin Chief’s orders since he’s fallen out of favour. Half of them want to press on to the Queen’s palace because of the reward. They think that, with Gervase gone, there will be more gold to share out between them. And the other half are in two minds lest they suffer the same fate, and are all for taking the captives back to Troll Mountain…”

“It looks like I’ll have to put the plan into action sooner than I anticipated” muttered Darius, looking worried.

“If I were you I’d go for it” advised Tenacious “While they’re outnumbered. The crew you’ve got down here numbers eighteen. Freddie’s offered his services and Diogenes says he owes you a favour and to count him in, which makes a total of twenty-one, including yourself. I don’t see how you can lose”

“The problem with that is that the smaller badgers are scared stiff of Diogenes, and won’t venture above ground if he’s anywhere in the vicinity” Diogenes was a great horned owl whose enormous wing-span and glowing eyes terrorised most of the nocturnal creatures of the forest – hedgehogs, moles, and badger cubs. He even went after baby weasels and foxes.

“He’s given his word he won’t lay a talon on any of your crew” said Tenacious, adding “It would be good to have him on our side. Freddie’s good, but Diogenes is a lot bigger. And we need to attack from the air as well as the ground to create as much panic as possible” Darius nodded, seeing the sense in this. “There is a further complication, sire” went on Tenacious “The humans have been split up” Darius frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“I knew you wouldn’t like this. Ermentrude visited the goblin base camp at Lake Mortmere yesterday and I understand that she took one of the humans on ahead with her. The rest were left to proceed on foot to the palace” Darius puzzled over the possible reasons for this. If the Queen wished to question them separately this could have been done at the lake. Why not let their goblin captors bring them all to the palace together? The delay would have been negligible since Lake Mortmere was only a two-day journey from the palace. The likely explanation was that she anticipated an ambush and had taken one of them with her as a hostage. “It was the same boy whom you rescued before” added Tenacious “The Queen did not seem ill-disposed towards him, for Freddie observed them conversing in her sleigh shortly afterwards. He then lost sight of them, as he felt that you would prefer that he keep the others under close surveillance” So Laurence had been singled out for special treatment - punishment or reward? Darius reached a decision.

“This news alters everything. If we were to attempt a rescue now she would take her revenge on the human she has in her custody. Until I have the backing of the free wolves my hands are tied. Allow them to proceed to her palace, but at the first sign of any danger to the humans or the gnome, Freddie and Diogenes are to launch an immediate attack, and you’re to sound the alarm. Oh, and one more thing, Tenacious. It has come to my attention that our enemies may be listening in on our transmissions. Would it be within your capabilities to devise a foolproof code for accessing the Grey Squirrel Express?”

“Within my capabilities?” repeated the squirrel, a wide grin slowly spreading itself over his normally taciturn features. There was nothing he liked better than tinkering around with codes and symbols. His quick understanding and natural aptitude for languages had caught Darius’s attention, who had arranged for Tenacious to specialise in the study of cryptology. He had exceeded everyone’s expectations by devising an ingenious series of cryptograms based entirely on the positioning of hazel twigs - known as the Twig Alphabet (the cipher key being retained by Darius) This had in turn led to the invention of the Grey Squirrel Express, which far surpassed all previous communications systems in its subtlety and ease of use. Up until recently the forest dwellers had relied exclusively on the Red Squirrel Chronicle for news and messages, and although this was still widely read most of them now preferred the Express, since the news was rarely more than a few hours old and they didn’t have to wait so long for a response to a message.

“I will start on it right away, sire” began Tenacious excitedly “In less than two days I can come up with a code than cannot be cracked by an enemy. It would involve acorn shells and certain strategically placed markers-”

“Nothing too elaborate, Tenacious” advised Darius. “It has to be readily comprehensible to us mere mortals, and of course it will mean re-training everyone at short notice. In the meantime could you broadcast a general message to all users that the Grey Squirrel Express is temporarily out of action, with the exception of emergencies” Tenacious scampered off to carry out his new commission.

Two hours later when everyone was sound asleep, Darius emerged from the trapdoor into the living room of the Fretwells’ tree house. He called up for a rope to two red squirrels posted as lookouts in the topmost boughs of the tree. The rope ladder was kept in a concealed hollow high up in a fork of the tree  - accessible only to squirrels or birds – the idea being that if any goblins did manage to find their way in, they would be effectively trapped whilst the alarm was sounded. This was one of the new security measures recently introduced by Darius. Once the squirrels gave the All Clear signal, Darius mounted the last rung of the ladder and surveyed the surrounding area for signs of activity. He had a secret assignation with the leader of the free wolves, who had requested a meeting with him. In his haste and eagerness to start work on the new security system Tenacious had almost forgotten to deliver her message:

Hail, prince. The day of reckoning draws nigh, and you may count on our support. The die is cast and we need to discuss battle plans. Show yourself at dusk and you will be led to a pre-arranged meeting point. Miranda.

Darius climbed down, or rather squirmed his way down the outside of the tree, and leaped to the ground, landing lightly on his feet. He made his way through the dense undergrowth as quietly as possible, careful not to attract any more attention than necessary. The shadows were lengthening as night fell, and there was a tangible excitement in the air, which he was picking up from the trees. Although many of their comrades had been chopped down by the goblins and a few had gone over to the enemy, this year’s arboreal awakening would be a special occasion - a night to remember when the vast majority of trees would show their solidarity and support for Albion. As he passed an otter camp on the banks of a gurgling stream, one of them called out to him.

“Hey, look who it is. The Melancholy Prince. Come and join us for a bite to eat, Darius” Before he even had time to respond, a muscular branch shot out and grabbed Darius in a tight hold, so tight that he could scarcely breathe.

“Got you” enunciated the yew tree in a hoarse whisper “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment, and I’m not letting you go” The otters looked on in dismay. They hadn’t meant to betray Darius and had called out to him unthinkingly, without pausing to consider who might have been listening.

“Let me go” said Darius patiently, addressing the yew. “By detaining me you’re acting against your own interests. Why spy for the Queen when you could join our ranks and save Albion from being overrun by the goblin hordes? Don’t you value your freedom?”

“For shame” came the chorus from a neighbouring group of trees “Let the prince go”

“No” replied the yew stubbornly “I am acting in my own interests, as it happens. I don’t intend to get chopped down, oh no, not me. And what’s more, the Queen has promised that any tree who hands over the prince will enjoy complete freedom of movement not just on one night of the year but on every night. Do you think I’m going to pass up an opportunity like this? So you lot can just shut up or I’ll report you for treason” Darius sighed. This was what was happening all over Albion. You didn’t know who you could trust any more. Some of the forest-dwellers, and that included the trees, had been corrupted by promises of an illusory freedom which could only end in further enslavement. They had allowed selfishness and greed to predominate and blind them to their true interests. Wittingly or unwittingly, they were colluding with dark forces which sought to abolish and overthrow ancient privileges and freedoms they had all enjoyed since time immemorial.

“If you don’t release the prince right now we’ll all come after you” threatened an outraged ash tree “And then you’ll be sorry”

“That’s right” muttered a silver birch “I may not be as strong as some of the others, but I know right from wrong and we won’t let you get away with it” The yew tree hesitated. The arboreal awakening was tomorrow night, when they would all be able to move. He had never been menaced by other trees before, and it left him feeling rather uncomfortable. He was still undecided as to what to do when he heard a low growling just behind him. Three white wolves sprang from the undergrowth, launching a concerted attack on the branch that held Darius in a tight embrace. The yew tree mobilised its other branches in a vain attempt to entangle the wolves and prevent their sharp fangs from sinking into his bark, but the onslaught of the wolves was too ferocious and he was soon covered in bite marks. The bark was being stripped from his trunk, and the ground was now strewn with branches that had been gnawed through and snapped off.

“Alright, truce, truce!” cried the yew tree, trembling with shock and fear. He relaxed his grip on Darius, who jumped clear. The other trees in the vicinity all cheered.

“Follow me” said one of the wolves to Darius “We will take you to our leader” Darius followed the wolves to the edge of the forest and to the top of a grassy knoll where Miranda was waiting for him. Out in the open Darius felt exposed and vulnerable. The moon’s silver radiance cast an ethereal glow over the scene; the She-wolf’s fur gleamed silver-white and her deep violet eyes seemed to give off sparks.

“I am grateful to you for coming to my rescue” said Darius “Being captured by a disgruntled yew tree would be an ignominious start to my venture”

“Perhaps you would care to explain your venture to me in greater detail” responded Miranda, regarding him with a level unblinking gaze. “Rumour has it that you seek to dethrone Ermentrude, and install yourself as ruler of Albion – would this be correct?”

“It would not. I have two objectives: firstly, to expel the goblins. They are thieves and assassins, deeply unpopular with the gnomes and all the creatures of the forest, and yet nobody can say a word against them for fear of being arrested. Since they arrived the number of prohibitions and laws have multiplied, and so have the number of arrests. My second objective is to put an end to the Queen’s nightly abductions and raids which strike terror into the hearts of all”

“A tall order” commented Miranda “The first is probably achievable, though I should warn you that the goblins are mobilising in the North and by tomorrow will be marching south. However, your other objective may prove more problematic. Ermentrude is the rightful ruler of Albion, although you and I might wish otherwise. She may arrest whom she chooses, and she may issue any decree or prohibition she chooses, no matter how senseless it might appear to you. As for the abductions, the Queen loves to hunt. Why should she willingly forgo a pursuit which affords her so much pleasure, a pursuit with which we wolves can readily identify?”

“I don’t know” admitted Darius candidly “Nobody can compel her to do anything she doesn’t want to do, and that is the problem”

“So what do you want from me?” persisted Miranda.

“Your help in driving out the goblins. Whilst they have the Queen’s ear they sow dissension and strife amongst the inhabitants of Albion. They have somehow managed to convince Ermentrude that she is surrounded by conspirators, but the truth is that most folk simply wish to be allowed to go about their daily business without interference or prejudice”

“We wolves have no liking for the goblins, and will take great pleasure in chasing them from the forest. However, now that we have declared our interest, the goblins are taking no chances. Roving trolls have been pressganged by Goblin Patrols and forcibly conscripted into their ranks, whilst those enslaved in the underground mines and caverns are being trained as fierce fighters. We wolves are a match for goblins any day, but with the trolls on their side they now outnumber us by three to one.”

“We will be ready for them” replied Darius. “I had hoped to enlist the aid of the Faery Queen as she is the only one whose magic is equal to that of Ermentrude, but I have not been able to make contact with her, and now there is no time” He sighed heavily.

“I see now why you are known as the Melancholy Prince” chided Miranda gently. “Why do you think the Faery Queen has not so far responded to your plight?” Darius hesitated.

“Perhaps she is not aware of how serious the situation is, or perhaps there are other pressing matters she needs to attend to within the invisible realms. She must have her reasons”

“What would you say to her, if you had her ear?” Darius thought for a moment.

“You will never get the chance to say anything to her, you scheming traitor!” A bluish-purple mist had been creeping up the hill unnoticed by either of them, and Ermentrude suddenly materialised in front of them. “Prepare to die, for you have spoken your last words!” She raised her wand threateningly. Darius was gripped with terror. There was nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide.

“Oh no you don’t” said Miranda, quite calmly. From a point somewhere just above the crown of his head, Darius found himself sheathed in a shimmering cone of blue light. He could neither move nor speak, but he could hear and see everything. To his astonishment he saw the wolf’s body change shape before his eyes, metamorphosing into a tall figure with red-gold hair and emerald eyes: Esmeralda, Lady of the Forest.

“How dare you?” thundered Ermentrude “Give him to me”

“Greetings, sister” said Esmeralda, facing her twin “I had not thought to meet with you so soon, but this encounter may yet prove felicitous. I think it is time we spoke”

“I have nothing to say to you” returned Ermentrude icily “You have no jurisdiction over my realm. Leave now while you can” Esmeralda laughed.

“These are empty threats since we are both immortal. You should know better than to attempt to intimidate the Faery Queen. I am not one of your cowering subjects, in awe of your magic” In reply Ermentrude threw a bolt of lightning, which zigzagged across the intervening ground, dazzling Darius but leaving him otherwise unharmed. Momentarily blinded, he marvelled at the potency of his protective shield, which even Ermentrude’s magic was unable to penetrate.

“Why have you come here?” Ermentrude demanded of her sister with scarcely suppressed rage. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to see for myself what is going on. I have for some time been receiving disturbing reports from the pixies, who are increasingly concerned at the incursions by the goblins, and at the punitive measures enacted against forest-dwellers who stand up for themselves”

“I do not interfere with the pixies or any of the immortals” declared Ermentrude, her eyes flashing.

“Only because you cannot. They are under my protection. However they are not prepared to stand by whilst their fellow creatures, who are not blessed with immortality, are chased from their homes and suffer wrongful arrest”

“The only ones who suffer are the outlaws and traitors whose foul treachery has been brought to light, like that one” She pointed at Darius, who was unable to say anything in his defence “Why are you protecting him?”

“I have seen into his heart, and it is pure. If he is an outlaw it is because you have made him one. He has no designs upon the throne of Albion, which I concede is yours in perpetuity. This prince whom you call traitor is an innocent whose parents were butchered in cold blood, and who has been forced into exile by the goblin interlopers whom you choose to protect. Might I ask why, when they are rank outsiders who have no allegiance either to yourself or to Albion?”

“Outsiders are best placed to uncover plots hatched against our throne since they do our bidding without question, and display no drooling sentimentality towards malefactors and enemies of Albion.”

“And if I were to inform you that the goblins have a vested interest in making you believe the enemies of Albion are from within rather than from without? The real treachery comes from these outsiders who are motivated purely by greed, and seek to destroy what they are incapable of appreciating. You surround yourself with fawning sycophants who dare not speak the truth for fear of reprisals: tell me, has it escaped your notice that the number of so-called traitors and law-breakers has swollen to fantastic proportions since you allowed the goblins to oversee such matters? How can this be? It can only be because the numerous laws and statutes drafted by the Goblin Commission merely serve to advance their own interests. They have nothing to offer and much to gain. With your collusion and connivance they seek to dispossess and deprive the native woodlanders of what is rightfully theirs, so that they can seize and enjoy the fruits of the forest for themselves. They have abused their position in order to enrich and empower themselves at the expense of your true and loyal subjects, who would willingly lay down their lives to protect and preserve the forest of Albion.

“Look around you” continued Esmeralda “All this will disappear, and there will be nothing left for you to rule over save warring goblin factions who will chop down every tree and kill every living creature that stands in their way. Once they have stripped the forest bare of its wealth they will depart, seeking other lands to conquer and despoil, leaving you with nothing. They will never fight for or cherish a land for which they have no affection or natural affinity. What will it profit you as ruler of Albion if the flourishing verdant forest over which you now have dominion is turned into an arid and barren wasteland full of disgruntled subjects who hate and mistrust you? Loyal subjects may turn into rebels overnight if they are mistreated. You will have so many rebels on your hands plotting your downfall you will not be able to sleep at night. Is this what you truly want? To be sovereign of a realm which has lost its true worth and value because you were foolish enough to squander your rich inheritance?”

“ENOUGH! How dare you presume to lecture me on how to govern my own subjects? These are matters which do not concern you. I am not answerable to you, and you have no power over me”

“True, but I can make your reign more troublesome by lending my support to the free wolves, who oppose you. The grey wolves, now under your thrall, might also welcome the prospect of their liberation. As Faery Queen I am forbidden to interfere, but there is no magical law which states that a wolf cannot fight. Henceforth, you will know me as Miranda, Leader of the free wolves, and your goblin henchmen will learn to fear me” As Esmeralda changed back into the white wolf, Ermentrude simultaneously assumed the shape of an enormous grey wolf which hurled itself at its opponent. Darius heard the sound of Esmeralda’s mocking laughter as the grey wolf was repelled by the invisible force field that always surrounded the Faery Queen. Snarling in impotent fury, the grey wolf rose on its hind legs before vanishing from sight.

“She has learned nothing, but she will return” observed Miranda in a resigned tone. She turned to Darius “Come, walk with me. We have much to discuss” The blue pyramid of light dissolved, and Darius felt a tingling sensation as the numbness departed from his limbs. He followed the white wolf into the secret places of the forest, where they conversed far into the night about all manner of things. Darius was curious about the approaching Festival of the Trees and plied her with questions, to which Esmeralda responded patiently.

“Dwelling within the forest itself is an ancient elemental magic, which comes to the fore one night of the year when the trees are able to move of their own accord. We call this the arboreal awakening” As Darius listened an idea was forming in his mind.

“What if we could organise the trees into an army whilst they are able to move?” he suggested excitedly. “Wouldn’t it be permissible for you to invoke the mighty power of the forest to combat her magic? The goblins would be petrified and would surely run for their lives”

“There is no more terrifying sight than a forest of trees on the move” she conceded “Unlike an army composed of flesh-and-blood warriors, it is virtually unstoppable. But I would hesitate to invoke that power, and it would only be used as a very last resort, should the free wolves be unsuccessful in prevailing against the goblin hordes”

“But if the trees possess such powerful magic why can’t they use it to help themselves?”

“Were I to unlock the true power which lies latent within the forest, it might spell disaster for all. Great havoc could be wrought on the land – a far greater destruction than the goblins could achieve on their own. If trees could move whenever they wanted we would be completely at their mercy. Have you any idea of the sheer strength of just one mature oak tree?” Darius remembered being imprisoned by the yew tree and how he had been unable to move until the wolves freed him “Now multiply this power by the number of trees in the forest and who knows what force might be unleashed? Far back in the mists of time it was decreed that this power must remain dormant lest it be misused and harnessed for evil ends, to the detriment of all. For these reasons restrictions were placed upon the trees. They are permitted to move, but only at specified times of the year, and only for the purposes of revelry not war”

“But why would they wish to misuse their power?” argued Darius. “Most of the trees I have known wouldn’t harm us. They are stout-hearted, well-intentioned and wise”

“So they are. They have learned wisdom through age and experience. It is true they have many admirable qualities. Their great patience and stoicism comes from centuries of watching, waiting, and enduring – not from pursuing short-term and selfish interests. Are you familiar with the expression Most people cannot see the wood for the trees?” Darius nodded. It had been a favourite saying of his old tutor, the gnome Pragmaticus. “The trees of the forest see and understand all. Through not being able to act they have learned to reflect, through not being able to move they have been able to observe the follies of others and to draw far-sighted conclusions. They have absorbed all the secrets, the passions, and the accumulated experience of those around them”

“But what good does all this accumulated wisdom do, if they can’t act upon it?” protested Darius.

“In the right circumstances, the strong magic which dwells within the forest may be channelled by someone who is able to tap into this fount of knowledge. It has happened once before and it may happen once again. But the circumstances would have to be exceptional and Albion would have to be in mortal danger” He suspected that Esmeralda was referring to herself when she spoke of the “someone” who could unlock the secrets of the forest and channel the magic for the good of the land. But she had made it equally clear that she was unlikely to resort to such measures unless the forest of Albion was actually imperilled and stood in mortal jeopardy. Darius was disappointed that she seemed reluctant to unleash the power which lay dormant within the forest, but he accepted that he must bow to a superior wisdom and that there were many things beyond his comprehension.

“Don’t look so downhearted” she told him  “All will be well. Now you must go and get some rest, for tomorrow you must rally your troops, and I mine. The goblin hordes will be upon us by this time tomorrow evening and you must be prepared. Remember, I will be there when you need me”

Chapter 10 – The Winged Chariot

“Did yer say somethin’ or were yer just mutterin’ to yerself? Sign of madness, that” Groanalot looked up from the table where he was pounding a mixing bowl, in response to something Pragmaticus had just said. The latter, who had a habit of talking to himself whilst reading or ruminating, was absorbed in the cookery book they now consulted on a daily basis.

“He aint ‘alf fond of ‘is chocolate cake” grumbled the Cook “I don’t know ‘ow many I’ve baked while ‘e’s off gallivanting in that chariot of ‘is. We never sees ‘im from dawn ‘til dusk.…” Their new master had been ensconced at the Pink Citadel for almost a week now, and things had settled into a routine. The only time they saw Laurence was in the morning when he came into the Dining Hall for breakfast, and requested a packed lunch of sandwiches, chocolate cake and ginger beer.

“Boys will be boys” commented Pragmaticus “I say, this is interesting. Do you remember he asked for Bubble and Squeak the other day and we thought he was testing us again because it’s not possible to eat a bubble, and a squeak is a sound? But it says here you take some left-over cabbage..” Pragmaticus was interrupted by the squirrel, who came rushing into the kitchen, followed closely by the weasel.

“Guests! He’s got guests!” exclaimed Gingernut excitedly, dipping a paw into the cake mixture before Groanalot swatted him away.

“Who, when, where, how, why, what?” responded Pragmaticus, who still talked and acted like a tutor.

“More humans” Gingernut informed him “Two of them, a girl and another boy. They’re coming from the Queen’s palace…”

“They’re expected later this evening” added Wilfred glumly “His Lordship mentioned it as I was clearing the table. I’ll never get the dusting done in time, it’s hopeless”

“If you’d only stop moaning about it, and do a bit every day then the castle wouldn’t be in such a state” remarked Gingernut unkindly. He turned back to the others “They’ll be dining in the hall. He wants a big roast dinner followed by Spotted Dick with custard”

“What’s that when it’s at ‘ome? As if I ain’t got enough to do” groaned the Cook, who was banging pots and pans about and muttering angrily to himself. “That’s all I need. More meals to cook, more mouths to feed when me back’s playing up, me feets is all swollen…” Groanalot sighed heavily “Oh, me achin’ back. No rest for the wicked…”

“I’ve just found it here under Sundry Puddings and Sweet Desserts” announced Pragmaticus “A steamed suet pudding stuffed with sultanas…” The Cook merely grunted.

“We’ll be able to spy on them” went on Gingernut excitedly “Tell you what, I’ll just go and enlarge the spy-hole in the Drawing Room…”

“Never mind spying, you go and see to the fires” admonished Pragmaticus “We’ll need stacks of firewood. And you’d better get dusting, Wilfred. There’s no time to lose” With a doleful expression on his face, the weasel picked up a duster.

“I’ll help if you like” shouted Gingernut as Wilfred slunk up the stairs, head bowed under the weight of his responsibility. “Once I slide down the banisters a few times you’ll be able to see your own face reflected in them” He scampered up the stairs after the weasel. For the rest of the morning the castle was a whirlwind of activity. Pragmaticus did a cursory check of the rooms to be occupied by the guests. He decided on a bright sunny room with sea views for the girl and the room directly opposite with mountain views for the boy, then went in search of some bed-linen stored in an oak chest at the end of a draughty corridor. The carpets were threadbare but there was nothing he could do about it at such short notice. Nobody contributed to the upkeep and maintenance of the castle, and since the other servants had left all the housework now fell to the three of them. Groanalot had enough to do in the kitchen and flatly refused to help with any other domestic chores. Apart from the North-West turret, where the furnishings were maintained by Ermentrude’s enchantment, the rest of the once magnificent castle was in a sad state of dilapidation and disrepair. In many places the accumulated dust was an inch thick. Out of the corner of his eye, Pragmaticus spied Wilfred manically dusting an unused lumber-room.

“Leave that” said Pragmaticus “The guests are unlikely to go in there, and there isn’t the time to do it all. Must be at least a hundred rooms - you’ll wear yourself out. What the eye doesn’t see the heart doesn’t grieve. If in doubt leave it out”

“Where shall I dust then?” responded Wilfred, who appeared to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

“You can start with the blue room down the other end of the passageway. And then do the green and gold one on the opposite side. The rugs will have to be taken outside for a beating. And where’s that wretched squirrel got to? I thought I told him to go fetch some firewood”

“He was sliding up and down the banisters last time I saw him” volunteered Wilfred.

“Never does what he’s told, that’s his problem” muttered Pragmaticus to himself. “And when you’ve finished up here, Wilfred, concentrate on the Entrance Hall, the Dining Hall, and the Drawing Room. Oh, and don’t forget the Library” he added, since he spent a fair amount of time in there himself, and was always coughing and wheezing from the dust. “We’ll keep the shutters closed and dim the lights. Don’t let in the sunlight if you can help it and remember, if in DOUBT leave it OUT” Having had made up the beds and hung some heavy brocade curtains, Pragmaticus hurried downstairs again. The banisters were gleaming as though they’d been newly polished: Gingernut’s bushy tail had worked wonders. Guided by scrabbling sounds emanating from the adjoining room, he found the squirrel in the Drawing Room, gnawing through the spy-hole.

“Right” said Pragmaticus, snatching him from his perch “I want the fires lit in all the main rooms, and some kindling fetched for the two bedrooms I’ve just made up”

“I’ve done quite a good job with the spy-hole, don’t you think? This is my big opportunity to get an article in the Red Squirrel Chronicle. Everyone’s dying to hear all about the humans – what they talk about, what they eat, how they behave - and because I’m on the spot I’ll get the scoop” Gingernut danced up and down with glee. “Tenacious thinks he’s the bees knees, but I’ll show him. Folks might have to wait a whole week for the Chronicle, but it’s worth waiting for”

“The whole point of news” countered the gnome, who was well aware of the ongoing rivalry between the two main news providers in Albion “is that it should be up-to-date and current. Otherwise what you’re reporting is historical fact”

“And what’s wrong with that?” demanded Gingernut “At least we take the trouble to get our facts right”

“Nothing’s wrong with it – your commentary is first-rate. But history isn’t news. The Chronicle’s fine if you want to know what happened last week and what so-and-so thinks about such-and-such, but what Albion needs right now is a fast and up-to-date communication system so that we can outwit our enemies and keep one step ahead of them. That was the brief Darius gave Tenacious, and I must say I’m impressed with what he’s achieved so far” Gingernut looked sulky “But I haven’t time to stand here all day arguing with you about the merits of the Chronicle versus the Express. The guests will be arriving soon and the rooms need warming up. It’s freezing in here” Pragmaticus shivered. Being a gnome, he suffered from the cold more than either the weasel or squirrel, whose fur coats kept them warm. This was the main reason he spent most of the day down in the kitchens with Groanalot, when he would have preferred to be in the Library with his books. The conversation might not be very stimulating, but at least he could toast his feet in front of the big range, which was kept alight from early in the morning until late at night.

Three hours later they were all feeling pleased with themselves. The castle actually looked quite welcoming for a change. The roast was in the oven and all the fires were blazing away merrily. Gingernut had cleaned out the grates and swept the hearths. Places had been set at the dining table, the silver had been polished, candles had been lit, and the heavy velvet curtains drawn (on the advice of Pragmaticus, who insisted that any floating dust particles would be less noticeable in artificial light) The bedrooms were warm and inviting with crisp clean sheets and fresh eiderdowns on the beds. The stone corridors and passageways were as draughty as ever, of course, but nobody lingered in them. Now all that remained was to await the arrival of their human guests. Groanalot had stayed behind in the kitchens to baste the turkey at periodic intervals and to ensure that the potatoes were evenly roasted, whilst the other three stood huddled around the mantelpiece of the colossal fireplace in the Entrance Hall.

“It sounds like his Lordship’s back” observed Gingernut as Laurence’s chariot landed in the central courtyard. A moment later Laurence appeared in the hall.

“My brother and sister are being brought from the palace to live here for a while” he announced. Ermentrude’s message had been delivered the previous night by a buzzard whose sinister croaking had awoken Laurence from a deep sleep.

“I think you will find everything in order, sire” replied Pragmaticus “The rooms have been prepared, and the dinner is almost cooked”

“I’ve dusted everywhere” ventured Wilfred shyly.

“And I lit all the fires” added Gingernut

“I’m sure Cook will not disappoint” said Pragmaticus “His culinary skills are renowned throughout Albion”

“Good” said Laurence, wanting to thank them for their efforts but feeling awkward, as he couldn’t remember any of their names “I’ll be in the Library”

Laurence was just unfurling an ancient map of Albion that Pragmaticus had found for him when he heard the sound of wolves snarling and growling. Dropping the map, he hurried outside to meet the royal party. Ermentrude remained seated as Philip and Gillian dismounted from the sleigh, looking somewhat bewildered.

“Hello” said Gillian to Laurence in a hushed voice, as she looked around the central courtyard “Do you actually live here now?”

“I say, is that your chariot?” asked Philip, by way of greeting. He seemed impressed. Laurence scarcely had time to say hello before he was beckoned over by Ermentrude for a private conversation.

“So. Is the winged chariot to your liking?” she enquired, meaning Have I not rewarded you generously?

“It is the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me” replied Laurence truthfully. The Queen looked satisfied at this answer, before continuing “The gnome Grumblegood is being retained as a hostage, alongside the hedgehog Hector. Both will be released in due course, provided you keep your side of the bargain” She paused for effect. “Gervase has been sentenced to death for high treason. He was foolish enough to disobey my instructions and think he could get away with it” Laurence didn’t show any emotion. “You are to arrange a meeting with the Pretender as soon as possible. You will lead him to believe that you are on his side”

“I would gladly do this for you, your Majesty” responded Laurence “but I have no idea where the prince, the traitor I mean, is hiding”

“That is precisely why you must let him come to you, fool. You need do nothing but wait for him to contact you”

“But what if he doesn’t?” said Laurence nervously “He hasn’t contacted me so far”

“You need not concern yourself with that” snapped the Queen, who had already reached her own private conclusions on this point. It was obvious that Darius had not so far contacted Laurence because he didn’t trust him. It had occurred to her that if she allowed the humans to associate freely, Darius was far more likely to get in touch since he needed their help in his plot against the throne. This was why she had decided to release the other two after a very cursory interrogation that had yielded nothing of value. “Once the Usurper has established contact, you will get the girl to reply to his message. Then when you are not being watched you will communicate the time and place of the assignation to me by the secret method shown you” Laurence nodded. The buzzard had told him that when he wished to communicate directly with the Queen he was to twist the ruby ring in an anti-clockwise direction, whilst saying aloud the magic word Albiononomatopoeia.

“What was all that about, Laurence?” asked Philip, once Ermentrude had departed.

“She said that Mr. Grumblegood hasn’t been harmed but she’s holding him as a hostage, so we can’t afford to offend her. Oh, and that odious little goblin got his comeuppance. He’s been arrested for high treason”

“Serves him right” said Gillian, coming up to them. “Are you going to show us around then, Laurence?” Laurence led them into the galleried Entrance Hall then called out to Pragmaticus, who was hovering at a discreet distance.

“Could you show my guests to their rooms, please” Pragmaticus bowed.

“Certainly, sire. Supper will be served in half an hour’s time, if that suits?”

“Thank you, that will suit us perfectly” replied Laurence, dismissing him. Philip gave Laurence a peculiar look.

“Don’t go getting too comfortable, Laurence. Ermentrude’s just using you, you know, to get to Darius”

“Phil’s right” said Gillian “Everybody knows how wicked she really is. And she could take all this away from you in the blink of an eye”

“You think you know everything” retorted Laurence “But you’re both wrong, as usual. And I don’t think she’s half as bad as people make out. Besides, you’re just jealous, because she happens to like me” Philip and Gillian exchanged knowing glances, and Laurence realised he’d said the wrong thing. He was supposed to make them think he was on their side, and against the Queen. Philip was whistling softly to himself, an annoying habit he had when he was sceptical or disbelieving.

“Let’s not argue” said Gillian in a conciliatory tone “Have you had any news of Josie yet?”

“No” admitted Laurence. “But I’ve just managed to get hold of a map of Albion. We’ll go into the Library after dinner and I’ll show it to you”

“But how are we to get out of here?” interrupted Gillian. “The cliff sides are sheer”

“The winged chariot of course” said Laurence, producing his trump card “It’s magical. I can fly anywhere I want” He had the satisfaction of seeing their amazed expressions as they gaped at him. Philip was the first to speak.

“But that’s fantastic. We could organise a search party immediately. We could find Darius. Anything is possible”

“Before you get too carried away” said Laurence “The chariot belongs to me and it only obeys my commands” Philip might be the eldest but he would have to realise that things were different now. Laurence was the Queen’s favourite and he was in charge. Philip eyed him sharply.

“I say, you’re not going to be tiresome are you, at a time like this? Snap out of it, Laurence. Whether the chariot belongs to you or not is irrelevant. Our sister is lost somewhere in the Sinister Woods-”

“Why don’t we all go and get changed and then talk about it over dinner” suggested Gillian brightly.

“Alright” agreed Laurence “We’ll meet in the Dining Hall in about half an hour’s time”

“Mr. Grumblegood said we were approaching the Sinister Woods just before we stopped for lunch” remarked Gillian, as they tucked into the first course “If we could pinpoint the exact spot where we were captured by the goblins then we’d stand a good chance of finding her..”

“Well, I’ve already done that, of course” said Laurence, who hadn’t. “I’ve been keeping a lookout for her when I go out in the chariot. But it’s not that easy, you know. The woods go on for miles. And once the fog comes down you can’t see a thing”

“You mean, you’ve already been scouting around looking for Jo?” said Philip “Sorry, Laurence, I was being a bit unfair back then”

“I only discovered the map this morning” admitted Laurence “But you wouldn’t believe the adventures I’ve had. I was chased by a sea-monster – its neck must have been a hundred feet long…” In their eagerness to hear about his escapades all their differences were forgotten. Much to the disappointment of the servants clustered around the spy-hole, supper was a hasty affair. The children bolted down their food and rushed into the Library to consult the map of Albion.

“According to Mr. Grumblegood we were close to troll territory before we were captured” said Gillian “That was the last time we saw Josie ..”

“Right, let’s get going” said Philip, grabbing the map “Come on, what are you waiting for?” Somehow they all managed to squeeze into the chariot together, Gillian and Philip squabbling over who would get the outside seat. “I’m the oldest…” began Philip.

“Oh shut up!” snapped the other two simultaneously. This struck everyone as funny as Gillian and Laurence rarely agreed on anything, and they all laughed. Laurence surprised them by declaring that they could both sit on the outside, since the view from the middle was just as good.

“RISE” commanded Laurence. The chariot rose in the air.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” asked Gillian nervously, as they hovered over the North West turret. Huge waves crashed against the rocks hundreds of feet beneath them. Even Philip, who had feigned nonchalance up until now, was looking a bit green at the gills.

“Perfectly” replied Laurence, manoeuvring the chariot to face inland. They headed towards the central courtyard away from the sea. From an upper window he could see four upturned faces pressed against the glass, gazing curiously at them.

“How far is it to the Sinister Woods?” asked Gillian.

“I don’t know” replied Philip “This map doesn’t appear to have a scale which tells you how many inches to the mile”

“It wouldn’t make any difference” said Laurence “You can travel all day in the chariot but once you give it the HOME command it will take you back to Stormy Point in a few minutes”

“That would explain why there’s no scale on the map” reflected Philip “Because travel here isn’t governed by the laws of physics, but by magic”

“EAST” said Laurence. “Which direction, Phil? North-east or south-east? You’re the one with the map”

“I’m pretty sure we need to go in that direction” said Philip, pointing to the jagged peaks of a distant mountain range. “Stormy Point is marked here on the map, and the Sinister Woods are there, so all we have to do is head north-east..”

“And that must be Troll Mountain” said Gillian, peering at the map “I don’t want to go back there again, unless we really have to”

“NORTH” interrupted Laurence “FASTER” Now that he had a captive audience, he couldn’t resist showing off his skills.

“The woods shouldn’t be that difficult to find because there’s a river running roughly parallel to the southern edge” said Philip, who was studying the map “It appears to have its source in this mountain here – I say, Laurence, could you stop swooping up and down while I’m trying to navigate”

“It’s making me feel quite sea-sick” agreed Gillian, as Laurence veered off to the left.

“We’re not over the sea, we’re over land, so I don’t know how you can feel sea-sick” retorted Laurence “You probably ate too much spotted dick at supper – that’s why you’re feeling queasy”

“Oh look!” shouted Gillian suddenly “A troll” Laurence sent the chariot into a steep dive for a closer look.

“So it is” observed Philip. “It doesn’t sound very happy” They could hear the troll roaring with rage, as it lumbered across the stony outcrops in pursuit of some invisible prey.

“Let’s bait it” suggested Laurence, ignoring Gillian’s protests “DOWN. SLOWER” Since trolls tend to walk with their heads scraping the ground, they were able to get in quite close before it even noticed their presence. Suddenly the troll’s hairy nostrils twitched and it looked around, scratching its head.

“It’s smelt us” said Philip “Watch out, Laurence!” Laughing wildly, Laurence sent the chariot whizzing past its left ear “FASTER. RISE” The troll snatched at the air, but it was too late. Laurence circled around, preparing to dive-bomb the troll a second time.

“Do you have to be so childish, Laurence?” objected Gillian “Philip, tell him. He’ll get us all killed”

“Only a bit of harmless fun” said Philip, siding with his brother “Buzz him from behind, Laurence. But watch his hands. He’s more alert this time”

“Here we go. DOWN. FASTER. NORTH” Quick as lightning, one of the troll’s hands shot out and gripped the back end of the chariot. Trolls have a surprisingly long reach, which takes most people unawares. “RISE, RISE. FASTER!” yelled Laurence in a panic. The troll was still hanging onto the back of the chariot and had now risen with them. They were about thirty feet from the ground, with the troll dangling in the air and bellowing at the top of his voice. With his free arm he was trying to grab the children.

“We’ve got to shake him off!” screamed Gillian “He’s got hold of Philip” She turned around in her seat and pummelled the troll with her fists, trying to ignore the awful stench. Philip managed to land a punch on the troll’s nose, which had little effect. Laurence was desperately trying to shake off the troll by veering wildly from left to right, but he realised that if he succeeded Philip would plummet to the ground as well, since the troll now had him firmly in his grasp. Just as things were starting to look dire, a falcon appeared out of nowhere and dived straight for the troll’s eyes. The troll let out a bloodcurdling yell and released Philip, before hurtling to the ground.

“Phew! That was a close call” commented Philip, once he’d got his breath back. The troll had by now picked himself up and stamped furiously, twin jets of steam issuing from his nostrils.

“That was a very foolish game, if you don’t mind my saying so” remarked the falcon, eyeing them with disapproval “Trolls regard human children as delicacies, and will go to great lengths to ensnare them. You should never underestimate their strength or their cunning”

“Er, yes, well thanks for your help” muttered Philip, who had the grace to look ashamed.

“Actually, we’re looking for our sister Josie” added Gillian “I don’t suppose you’ve seen her?”

“She’s with Prince Darius” stated the falcon “I’m Freddie, by the way”

“Could you take us to her?” asked Gillian excitedly.

“I could, but the prince’s whereabouts are a secret, known only to a select few. I will return to you once I’ve received his instructions” With that, the falcon soared into the air.

“Wait!” cried all three, but by this time the falcon had disappeared over a ridge. Laurence then did something very foolish, and steered the chariot towards the dense belt of forest just ahead of them. He had not forgotten his first hunting expedition with the Queen, and wanted to recapture the exhilaration of their wild headlong flight through the woods.

“What do you think you’re doing, Laurence?” demanded Philip “You’ll crash the chariot – there are too many trees”

“Stop!” cried Gillian as Laurence made for an opening through the trees, but it was too late. Seconds later they were plunged into darkness as the light of the moon was obscured by the opaque greenery of the foliage.

“SLOW” commanded Laurence, advancing cautiously. Philip and Gillian were surprised to see a beam of light in front of them, illuminating their path as they penetrated the dense undergrowth. This was a trick he had not yet shown them: when visibility was poor the chariot provided its own light. Several small creatures scurried into hiding. Laurence careened through the forest, weaving and dodging trees, then found a relatively safe course by skimming along the surface of a stream, disturbing the fish. A family of beavers hastily dived for cover.

“DOWN” commanded Laurence, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch. Several pairs of glowing eyes peered out from behind trees, watching their progress. As the river meandered and wound its way through the forest Laurence frequently had to guess at the direction. Once he shouted “WEST” instead of EAST, and they nearly collided with a tree.

“I don’t see how this is going to help find Josie” remarked Gillian “What if we run into a Goblin Patrol?”

“What if we do?” retorted Laurence “They won’t be able to catch us now. Goblins can’t fly” As a matter of fact, Laurence was rather hoping they did run into some goblins so he could hunt them down.

“We’ll give them a dose of their own medicine” said Philip, echoing his thoughts. Gillian was doubtful. From what she’d seen, goblins rarely travelled alone, and if they did come across any they were sure to pelt them with stones. As luck would have it, shortly after this exchange Philip spotted a pair of goblin scouts who must have been sent out in advance of the main army on a reconnoitring mission.

“To your right” he breathed. “Two of them, creeping along the ground. After them, Laurence” Laurence didn’t need telling twice and aimed the chariot straight at the goblins, who were blinded by the beam of light. Mistaking the chariot for Ermentrude’s sleigh, they took to their heels and ran. Word of the former Goblin Chief’s horrible fate had spread, and none of the goblins were now prepared to risk encountering the Queen in person. Laurence pursued them through the undergrowth, ignoring the overhanging branches which clawed and whipped across their faces as they careered through the forest. The two goblins ran across a clearing, momentarily illuminated by the beam of light, then dived underneath a tangled thorn bush where they disappeared from sight. Laurence brought the chariot down low to the ground, and scythed right through the bush. Much to his disappointment there was no sign of the goblins, who had evidently kept going. He peered into the gathering gloom, trying to discern their shapes but only succeeded in startling a night-owl, who took wing and flapped off into the darkness.

“Trouble is, we’re making too much noise” muttered Philip “There are too many places to hide and they can hear us before we get close”

“Watch OUT!” screamed Gillian, but it was too late and they crashed into a tree with a sickening thud. There was a stunned silence from all of them as the chariot absorbed the shock of the impact, then shuddered to a halt.

“RISE” said Laurence, when he had recovered his voice. Nothing happened. The chariot had come to rest at the foot of the tree, straddling its roots. Laurence repeated the command, but the chariot failed to respond. They looked at each other, as their plight sunk in. Not only were they deeply entrenched in enemy territory with no means of escape, but they had been foolish enough to advertise their presence, and it was only a question of time before the goblins realised their mistake: they were not been chased by Ermentrude but by mere mortals who had no magical powers. The news would be swiftly relayed, and their enemies would soon be swarming all over the place. The hunters had now become the hunted. Gillian put her finger to her lips, and signalled for the others to remain quiet.

“We should camouflage the chariot with bracken and branches to cover our tracks” whispered Philip. Ordinarily this would have been the sensible thing to do, but Gillian disagreed.

“There’s no time. We have to assume they saw us crash, in which case we have to get out of here as soon as possible. We have to find somewhere to hide. Quickly” she urged. The others saw the sense in this and clambered out of the chariot. They tiptoed through the forest in single file, stopping every now and then to listen, but the silence was all pervasive. “Ugh, this fog is really horrible, I can hardly breathe it’s so dense…” Gillian’s voice sounded faint.

“We must have reached the Sinister Woods” observed Philip “It’s exactly as Mr. Grumblegood described it” Laurence stumbled over a tree root. “Stop making so much noise, Laurence. You sound like an elephant crashing about”

“I can’t help it” muttered Laurence, blundering forward blindly “I can’t see a thing” Philip grabbed hold of him.

“Listen, can you hear that? It sounds like a rumbling noise”

“What’s happening?” asked Gillian in alarmed tones “The ground is shaking” They could all feel it now; it had started off as a barely noticeable vibration, but the movement beneath their feet became more violent. There was a tearing sound followed by a dull thud as an elder tree uprooted itself before their eyes, rocking back and forth for a moment before it regained its balance.

“Phew! Thought I was going to topple there for a minute - I’m getting too old for this lark. It’s alright for the youngsters, they’re supple enough not to break any limbs if they fall” The children looked around to see where the voice was coming from.

“Well, it wasn’t a goblin” declared Philip “And it didn’t sound hostile”

“I should think not!” retorted the elder tree indignantly, taking an unsteady step towards them “Do I look like a goblin? Watch your manners – haven’t you been told to respect your elders? Elders, get it? Ha ha ha” As the children looked on in amazement (and some fright) at the spectacle of a tree being able to move of its own accord, the ground beneath them continued to tremble and shake. Roots were wrenched from their subterranean moorings, or stretched taut as the mighty trees began to flex their roots underneath the surface. Gillian was the first to find her voice.

“What’s happening – is it an earthquake?”

“An earthquake!!” repeated the elder scornfully “Were you lot born yesterday? It’s only the arboreal awakening, the most important night of the year. If I were you I’d get out of the way fast. All the trees will be on the move soon. We’re just flexing our roots at the moment. Cramp, you know, from being rooted to one spot for so long”

“But, do you mean all the trees in the forest will be able to walk – like you?” asked Gillian in bewilderment.

“That’s what I just said, didn’t I?” The elder tree waved a root in the air experimentally “If you hang around here for much longer you’re in danger of being trampled. Most creatures tend to burrow underground - if they’ve got any sense, that is.”

“But where can we go?” asked Philip “I mean, if all the trees in the forest can move then we’re not safe anywhere”

“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic” responded the elder tree “You youngsters see everything in black and white. Haven’t lived long enough, that’s your problem. You could head for that stream over there, for a start, and hunker down in the middle if you don’t mind getting a bit wet. Few trees, if any, will take that route. Even the willows and alders, who are fond of water, tend to cling to the banks. Alternatively, you could hitch a ride with me. Hoist yourselves up onto my lower limbs and enjoy the show. Where’s your sense of adventure, eh?” As a gigantic beech uprooted itself and others followed suit, the ground shuddered. In panic, the children made a beeline for the stream, wading knee-deep into the water.

“Smart move” observed a beaver, eyeing then inquisitively. “Any minute now it’ll be a stampede. Wait for it. They’ve only got twelve hours to get to where they’re going to, and they don’t hang about, believe me” All around them, trees were rousing themselves from their winter stupor and waving their limbs about excitedly at the heady prospect of freedom. The more agile amongst them were capering with delight; others were marching purposefully to new stamping grounds, either singly or in groups. There was a great deal of bumping into each other, and quite a few near-collisions. Everyone seemed to be in an awful hurry, but that was probably because many of them had distances to travel. Nearby on the bank two willows were having a discussion.

“Where are you off to this year then?” asked one of them.

“I thought the Lily Ponds. Get myself a ringside seat for the Pixie Picnic. Find myself a nice quiet spot beside a clump of bulrushes or reeds. I must be beside water, you see, and a lake would make a change from this boring little stream. Better views for a start and more sunlight”

“That was my idea!” sniffed the other petulantly “I thought of it first. You always pinch the best spots - it’s not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war. We’ll just have to see who can get there first, won’t we? Race you” The willow who’d just spoken began to glide along the ground gracefully, trailing her fronds like long green hair, whilst the other hobbled along behind, shaking her fringe and protesting loudly.

“You know I can’t go as fast as you, ever since I was lamed. Wait for me!” This seemed to be the signal for all the other trees in the vicinity - slender larches, silver birches and poplars, red-berried rowan trees – to follow suit. The noise became steadily louder as the trees took their first tentative steps before rushing off to fraternise with distant friends and partners.

“It’s worse than Charing Cross tube station in the rush hour” commented Philip, who had once spent an Easter vacation in London with a school chum.

“Well, at least the goblins are likely to stay out of the way with all this commotion going on” remarked Gillian “I suppose we’d better stay here until all the fuss dies down” At the prospect of being cold and wet for another twelve hours, Laurence’s heart sank. They should have taken the elder tree up on his offer and gone along for the ride. It would have been a lot more exciting than huddling together in the centre of a stream.

“We must find Darius” said Laurence “I wonder what happened to that falcon called Freddie?”

“We were out in the open then” said Philip “I doubt whether he’d be able to find us in here the fog is so dense. Though it does seem to be lifting a bit”

“All the more reason to get back into the open so we’re visible from the air” urged Laurence, seeing his opportunity. If the falcon could lead them to Darius and Laurence was able to get a message to the Queen, then he would have fulfilled his mission and she would be pleased with him. She was bound to reward him – maybe with another chariot, one that didn’t crash.

“I think I can hear something” said Gillian, who had the acutest hearing of them all. Philip and Laurence had to strain to hear anything above the racket the trees were making. Soon they could all hear the harsh cries of a great bird wheeling in the sky above them. With his keen eyesight the falcon spotted them first, and circled lower, eventually alighting on an alder tree, which straggled half way down the bank.

“Follow me” said Freddie in a brisk businesslike tone “Stay in the water and follow it downstream for about three miles. I’ll be right ahead of you”

“What about goblins?” asked Philip.

“The ones that haven’t been trampled have commandeered tree-posts and are hanging on for dear life. The trees aren’t happy about it and are trying to shake them off. If I spot any goblins trying to creep up on you I’ll give you ample warning”

“-Are you taking us to Prince Darius - where is he?” interrupted Laurence eagerly. Freddie glanced at him sharply.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. Be prepared to duck for cover if I give the signal. I’ll screech twice like this” Freddie emitted a piercing shriek which sounded like the blast of a train’s whistle, before soaring aloft in order to spy out the terrain. Laurence fidgeted with the ring on his finger nervously. He realised that Freddie was too cautious to reveal the prince’s whereabouts to any casual listener; he would simply have to be patient and let the falcon lead them straight to Darius. He slipped off the ring surreptitiously and pocketed it.

“This is tedious” remarked Philip, after they had trudged through the stream for what seemed like more than three miles, stumbling over boulders and stray driftwood. “I vote we climb that tree over there and rest our legs for a bit” He pointed to a mature oak, which was lumbering along the bank beside them at a stately pace. Gillian looked dubious.

“Well, I’m not sure whether we should. Freddie told us to stay in the water and follow it downstream”

“The tree is following the same course as us” pointed out Laurence “So what’s the difference?”

“And what’s the point of being cold and wet when we can be dry?” added Philip. “Come on” He struck out for the bank, and after a second’s hesitation the others followed - Gillian more reluctantly.

“Want a lift, do you?” enquired the oak tree, obligingly lowering his branches so they could clamber up. He chuckled to himself. Unbeknownst to either of them this particular tree was a portal. If they climbed into his secret places there was a very good chance they would end up back in the world they had come from. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, reflected the tree. He had nothing against humans, as such, but they didn’t really belong in Albion. As if the goblins weren’t bad enough, now here were three ignorant and clumsy humans, doubtless intent on causing trouble. In the olden days folks kept to themselves and were content to remain at home instead of blundering into other realms where they had no business being. It was just another sign of the times, and it made him uneasy.

“Oh, wait! Wait for me” cried Gillian, as she lost her footing and slipped down the mossy bank. Typical beastly boys, she fumed. If they hadn’t behaved so childishly by chasing the goblins, Laurence would not have crashed the chariot and landed them in trouble. And now they had both raced on ahead without even bothering to wait for her. By the time she had regained the top of the bank, the oak tree - together with Philip and Laurence - had completely vanished.

*****

“Oh, no not again” thought Laurence with a sinking feeling as he stepped out onto a deserted cricket pitch. It simply wasn’t fair that he had ended up back at school when the others were having the adventure of their lives in Albion. Things were just starting to get exciting, too. Someone came up behind him just then and gave him an almighty thump on the shoulder. At Brocklebank a thump could either signify friendliness or belligerence, depending upon who was doing the thumping.

“Why aren’t you in afternoon Prep?” demanded Watkins truculently.

“Why aren’t you?” returned Laurence, rubbing his shoulder resentfully.

“Because I’m supposed to report to the Prefects for cheeking one of them in the dinner queue. Hope it’s your brother and not Peterson” So Philip must be here too. And if Philip was a Prefect then he must be in the Sixth Form. Which meant that Laurence must be a Third Year. He looked down at himself and was gratified to see that he was wearing long trousers instead of shorts.

“Watkins, how old am I?” Watkins gave him a funny look.

“If you don’t know how old you are, Purvis, you must be even dozier than I thought”

“I meant to say, how old are you?” Laurence corrected himself  “You had to re-sit a year didn’t you?”

“What of it? That was yonks ago. Listen, you might be brainier than me but I’m bigger than you, and that’s what counts”

“Look, I’ve got to go” said Laurence. He had to find Philip quickly before both their memories faded.

“Off his rocker. Completely round the bend” commented Watkins to himself, shaking his head. Laurence made his way to the Sixth Form Common Room in search of his brother, and knocked timidly on the centuries-old oak door.

“Enter” came the peremptory summons from within. Laurence opened the door and looked around him. Half a dozen older boys were sprawled across shabby furniture with plates of sausages. It was almost an hour until the gong sounded for tea, and Laurence was aware of his stomach growling. The delicious aroma of sizzling sausages permeated the room, but needless to say nobody offered him a bite.

“State the purpose of your intrusion” said someone in a bored tone. “Name? Form?”

“Laurence Purvis. IIIc. Actually, I was looking for my brother Philip”

“Phil never mentioned any brother” Laurence was subjected to a swift appraisal. He knew that any comparison between him and Philip was not likely to be in his favour.

“You don’t look like him in the least” concluded the other boy finally “Proof?”

“Wh- what?” stammered Laurence.

“Have you any proof that you’re related to Phil? If not, clear off”

“Well, I am” said Laurence, disconcerted. How could he possibly prove he was Philip’s brother, and in any case he didn’t see why he should have to. “I am his brother” he insisted, standing his ground.

“Repeating yourself over and over does not advance the argument” observed someone else “You merely involve yourself in a tautology” The speaker was a thin boy with a shock of bright red hair and startling green eyes. Laurence recognised him as Nicholas Postlethwaite, reputedly the cleverest boy in the school. Rumour had it that he had devoured the Encyclopaedia Britannica – all ten volumes – before sitting his Eleven Plus. He had come very close to being expelled for responding to a question from the History Master with “You spoke, Earthling?” It was fortunate for him that Godwin was one of the more tolerant members of staff. The Master had let the incident pass but not without setting him extra work which should have kept his supercilious nose to the grindstone for at least two weeks. Nicholas had dropped the assignment on his desk half an hour later. Not being able to fault his work and suspecting plagiarism, Godwin had kept Nicholas after class and set him an essay on the Russian Revolution, watching him like a hawk. Nicholas bent his head to the task, and twenty minutes later handed in a flawless piece of work which caused Godwin’s jaw to drop.

“If it comes to that, do we have any real proof of your existence?” Nicholas pondered aloud, contemplating Laurence “Your birth certificate, for instance?” Laurence said nothing, as he didn’t want to run the risk of repeating himself and being accused of tortoisology. He judged it wisest not to speak until he was asked a question he could answer with some degree of confidence. Nicholas now stood up and circled around him, tapping him experimentally with his silver-topped cane, rather like a doctor tapping someone’s knee with a mallet in order to test the reflexes. Nicholas was not an especially cruel or sadistic boy – at least, not in the physical sense – but then neither was he overflowing with the milk of human kindness. Mostly he was just curious.

“It appears to be some kind of carbon-based life form” concluded Nicholas, having completed his cursory examination. He looked around the room. “According to Plato’s calculations, the tyrant is 946 times unhappier than the wise and just ruler. It is for this reason, Purvis, and this reason alone that I shall show mercy and refrain from slicing off your ears and poaching eggs in them” Everyone tittered.

“Why do you want to speak to Phil?” asked the first speaker “Is it some sort of family emergency?” Laurence shifted on his feet and nodded.

“Dobson” Nicholas addressed a rotund boy who was licking the grease off his fingers with relish “Shift your rotting carcass and see if you can find Phil. His sibling wishes to speak with him” Dobson dashed off in the general direction of the playing fields. Laurence was left standing in the centre of the room, feeling awkward and embarrassed, whilst the others continued to scoff what was left of the sausages and discuss him as if he weren’t there.

“I once had a younger brother” remarked Nicholas “I tried drowning him in the bath when I was five, but, alas, my mother’s untimely appearance..”

“Wasn’t it your brother who was caned for that Tarzan stunt two weeks ago?” piped up someone else. Postlethwaite Minor had hit upon the idea of swinging from the heavy velvet curtains in the Assembly Hall, whilst yodelling at the top of his voice. Not to be outdone, his fellow accomplice Watkins had swung across from the opposite end of the stage, bringing the curtains crashing down. Nicholas shrugged vaguely, not wishing to admit up to the fact that he had a younger brother in the Lower School who was alive and well - if somewhat deficient in grey matter - and currently nursing a broken arm.

“How the groundlings comport themselves is of no interest to me” A further ten minutes passed and then Dobson reappeared, with a very annoyed Philip in tow. Philip grabbed Laurence as soon as he saw him and elbowed him into the corridor, out of earshot of the others.

“What do you want? You’d better have a good reason for dragging me away from rugby practice. I thought I told you, that whilst we’re at school, you’re not supposed to speak to me, or tag along after me like some baby”

“Albion is in dire peril” cut in Laurence “It stands in mortal jeopardy” He quoted Darius’s exact words. Philip looked momentarily confused, his eyes unfocused. “He said we’re to climb the horse chestnut tree and go through the portal” Philip clutched his head as if he had an especially bad headache. This always preceded memory recall of events in Albion, and was accompanied by a roaring in the ears and a pounding in the temples. Laurence waited patiently for the internal tempest to subside. He remembered Darius’s explanation: the older you get the harder it becomes to remember. He pulled his brother out into the sunshine away from the building. Through the open window of the Sixth Form Common Room he could hear Nicholas’s clear ringing tones as he pronounced sentence on someone who had just been hauled before a kangaroo court for unspecified transgressions.

“He shall first be suspercollated and thereafter defenestrated. See to it” Laurence had once caught a glimpse of a small leather-bound volume - carefully preserved over the generations - which contained a list of the school rules, the punishments for breaking those rules, and various other matters of protocol and etiquette. Nicholas was a stickler for tradition. The first part of the sentence was accomplished by means of several donated ties. The second part of the sentence was carried out minutes later when the miscreant was hurled out of the window, landing on the grass outside with a thud. As it was a ground floor window the victims usually suffered nothing worse than a few bruises and scuffed knees. Watkins picked himself up off the lawn, rubbing his shoulder.

“Ow, that hurt” As Watkins started to head towards them in that peculiar loping stride of his, swaying from side to side like a mad dog with rabies, Laurence tugged at Philip, who still looked dazed. He protested feebly as he was propelled across the grass.

“I’m feeling queer….I think I need to go to the San and lie down for a bit”

“Shiny new conkers” added Laurence encouragingly as an inducement  “We’ll be able to bag the biggest and the best if we get there first.” They had reached the foot of the big horse chestnut tree and Laurence swung his leg on to one of its lower branches. Philip didn’t look very well or as if he quite understood what was happening, but allowed himself to be half-cajoled and half-hoisted into the tree.

*****

Gillian looked around in dismay. Her brothers seemed to have vanished into thin air. As she straightened up to take stock of her situation she saw something glittering in the mud at her feet. Without thinking she picked up the ruby ring and slipped it on her finger. How I wish I could go home. Home, she thought. There was a whooshing noise above her head and the winged chariot suddenly materialised before her astonished eyes. Convinced it was irretrievably damaged, they had left it at the site of the crash. But that had been over two hours ago, and somehow it had flown to her of its own accord. Before she could ponder this mystery further, Gillian became aware that a battalion of yews was marching purposefully in her direction and panicked. Although these trees had no sinister intent (their natural enemies were goblins, not humans) there is something very menacing about an army of trees on the move. Gillian wasn’t taking any chances and hastily clambered into the waiting chariot.

“Er……RISE” she commanded. Much to her relief, the chariot rose about ten feet into the air. “RISE….FASTER” repeated Gillian, using the same instructions she had heard Laurence use. She had by now cleared the tree-tops and was hovering far above the forest. The trepidation she had initially felt when the chariot had started to ascend now turned to exhilaration. It was easy. All she had to do was keep a sharp lookout for Philip and Laurence, who must surely be nearby (they couldn’t have gone far) and then they could all resume their search for Josie. Unfortunately the canopy was so dense that any creatures on the forest floor were completely invisible from the air. She was debating which direction to take when the falcon called Freddie plummeted from the sky.

“Where are the others?” he asked, in an annoyed tone “I thought I told you to follow the stream. If you can’t even obey simple instructions I don’t see what earthly use you’ll be to Darius”

“We were following the stream” retorted Gillian, vexed at being blamed for her brothers’ folly “It was their idea to hitch a ride with an oak tree. I told them not to”

“Oh ho. So you’re the sensible one?”

“As a rule, yes” snapped Gillian “Girls are far more sensible than boys. Frankly, I find you rather rude” she added “Going off and leaving us like that, when you know perfectly well we’re strangers here and don’t really know our way around”

“Frankly, your opinion is of no consequence to me whatsoever. And if it weren’t for my promise to Darius, I wouldn’t waste any further time on you” He flapped his wings disdainfully “In my experience, most humans are a waste of space” Gillian tilted her chin defiantly.

“My mother always says If you can’t say something nice about someone then don’t say anything at all” She pulled the map of Albion out from underneath the seat and spread it on her lap, ignoring him.

“Stubborn as well as foolish? A map is not much use if you don’t have a clue where you are. The direction in which I’m heading is west. If you have any sense you’ll follow me” He flew off without a backward glance. Gillian may have been stubborn but she wasn’t foolish. On her own, she hadn’t a snowflake’s hope in hell of finding the others. The only sensible thing to do in the circumstances was to follow Freddie, who obviously did know his way around. Although his manners left a lot to be desired, he did not strike her as being dishonest or untrustworthy. After some hesitation, she gave the command.

“WEST”

In another part of the forest Darius addressed his followers, who were gathered to hear him speak at the foot of an enchanted Tor shaped like a plum pudding. Apart from a stand of royal oaks which crowned its summit, it was one of the few areas not encroached upon by the forest, and there was therefore plenty of room for everyone to sit down. All eyes were on Darius as he cleared his throat. They were looking to him for direction and guidance, he realised, as he gazed at the sea of upturned expectant faces. Darius was a reluctant leader and had no interest in personal power or self-aggrandisement, but he considered he had no choice in the matter. Desperate times call for desperate measures. For the first time in living memory the magical realm of Albion stood in mortal jeopardy, and was in danger of perishing altogether unless drastic action was taken.

“There comes a time” said Darius, looking around at his listeners “when it is no longer enough to defend our position, when it becomes imperative to go on the attack” He paused “That time has now come. None of us wanted war but it is now inevitable. The battle lines have been drawn.” The denizens of the forest listened in silence as Darius informed them that the goblins had appointed a successor to Gervase who was hoping to forge a new alliance with the Queen. Ambitious and ruthless, Gerhardt made no secret of his plans to establish a system of rewards and exemptions which would encourage forest-dwellers to denounce and inform on their neighbours. Special committees were to be set up with increased powers to enforce the new statutes and to appropriate the assets of known traitors. All of these measures would secure greater power and influence for the goblins, giving them total control over the administration and day-to-day running of Albion – whilst enabling them to wreak revenge on their old adversaries and critics by seizing their homes and driving them from the forest.

“It simply can’t be allowed to go on” declared the beaver known as Bertie Bragwell “We’ve got to do something”

“What CAN we do?” objected another “Anybody who complains is arrested for treason. Look what happened to Hector and to countless others who’ve disappeared.”

“Things are starting to look more hopeful” Darius assured them. “I had a secret meeting with Miranda, the leader of the free wolves, and she has declared open war on the goblins. White wolves have been sighted in the eastern pass of the mountains which separate the Northern Territory from our lands”

“Wolves” shuddered a hedgehog “But they are bound to be ravenous. I confess they frighten me more than goblins or trolls” The wolves were known to travel in packs and were the deadliest predators in the forest. “Won’t they be tempted to attack helpless creatures like ourselves, instead of protecting us?”

“Not all wolves are bad” replied Darius “You need have no fear on that score, as I have reached an understanding with their leader. Because our foes are ruthless and determined, our defence of the realm must be equally ferocious. This is no time for faintheartedness. Many of you have sharp teeth and claws, so use them to good effect. The pixies and nature sprites must of course take a neutral stance, as it is not fitting for immortals to take part in bloodshed. The Faery Queen forbids it. But as for the rest of you, every single one of you has something of value to contribute. Those who feel they are not equal to the task may retire now” Darius looked around “No blame will be attached to anyone who decides not to take an active part. Those who do not wish to fight can act as our eyes and ears, gathering intelligence and manning communication posts….” A female hedgehog stepped forward.

“I’d be happy to volunteer for any services underground” she began “You see, if anything were to happen to me, I don’t know what would become of my two young ones. Since my Hector was taken they would have no-one to look out for them…”

“Of course” said Darius kindly “There is lots of useful work to be done underground and I will speak to you directly after the meeting”

“What do you mean they would have no-one, you silly sausage” chided Mrs. Grumblegood gently “Haven’t we always been the best of friends? Any news of Mr. Grumblegood, Darius?” she asked anxiously. “He must be missing his pipe” No self-respecting gnome was without a pipe, and the thought of Mr. Grumblegood locked up in some cold dark dungeon without even the solace of his pipe was enough to make her weep with frustration. At this reminder of the devastation the goblins had wrought to their homes and to their peaceful way of life, all the gnomes began to mutter angrily.

“If any harm comes to either Hector or Mr. Grumblegood, those goblins will answer for it. I’m ready to fight!” shouted a gnome.

“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be” echoed others, taking up the cry. “I say, let’s march on the Queen’s palace-”

“Hear, hear!” shouted someone else. Darius quietened them by raising a hand for silence.

“It would not do to alert our enemies by an overt show of force. For the time being, let us be circumspect and prepare ourselves for battle. Now to strategy: the wolves will spearhead our attack on the Northern front, with the gnomes as reserve fallbacks should any goblins slip through their ranks. Led by Diogenes, the hawks and falcons will mount a massive aerial attack” continued Darius with a glance at Diogenes, who had already used his talons to devastating effect on more than one occasion. “I have not, so far, been able to persuade the eagles to join the fray but they have agreed to keep an eye out for the vultures and buzzards deployed by the Queen, thereby providing an early warning system. The wounded and injured will be taken down to the Tunnel by special Badger Convoy” Boris swelled with importance, as it would fall to him to organise the convoy “Those with more serious or mortal injuries will be carried to the Nymph’s Grotto, as the healing powers of its pool are well-known. Thanks to your efforts and hard work, the Tunnel now extends the length of the Sinister Woods, and we have been stockpiling weapons and provisions down there for many months”

“-Pardon me, sire, for interrupting” Tenacious had elbowed his way through the crowd and was dancing up and down with excitement. “Freddie’s back, and he’s got the other human girl with him! Look” he pointed skyward at a dark blob which increased in size until they could all clearly discern the shape of a chariot heading for the hilltop. Josie came rushing up the hill and hurled herself into the chariot, as it came to a halt. As the two sisters embraced and eagerly exchanged news, Darius looked on in some bemusement. Freddie flew up to him and perched on his fist.

“I know what you’re thinking, sire. The fact is, I had all three within my sights, but the two boys vanished in all the confusion. The trees are on the move” he added in an undertone. The date for the battle had been set for Midsummer’s Eve, the night of the arboreal awakening, for the Faery Queen had finally granted Darius his request. The trees had been mobilised for the express purpose of ridding the forest of goblins.

“You realise they must be found without delay” said Darius gravely, referring to Laurence and Philip “However, sending out search parties at this stage could jeopardise all our carefully-laid plans. The enchantment lasts for only one night of the year, which means the battle must be fought and won before dawn breaks. Without the support of the trees, our chances are slim. We are few, the goblins are many. But with the trees on our side...Welcome to our camp” said Darius, suddenly remembering his manners and extending his hand to Gillian “Forgive me if we have not greeted your arrival with all the fanfare it would normally warrant, but everything is up in the air at the moment” He ran a hand through his hair distractedly “The badgers here will give you an armed escort back to the Tunnel where you should both remain until-”

“-Absolutely not” said Gillian staunchly “Now that we’re here we intend to fight alongside the others”

“But can you fight?” asked Darius dubiously. The goblins were mean and vicious by nature, but now that they were under real threat they would be resorting to every dirty trick imaginable. And they would not baulk at torturing anyone they captured for information. He had been sickened by some of the reports of atrocities now reaching his ears: gnomes had been strung up by their thumbs from trees and their tongues cut out. A family of fox cubs had been fed live to drooling trolls, whilst the vixen had been made to watch, before having her paws chopped off.

“Of course we can fight” replied Gillian indignantly “With the chariot we could attack from the air and club them with branches….” Darius and Freddie exchanged looks.

“Quite a handful, that one” muttered Freddie to the prince, referring to Gillian. “But I wouldn’t underestimate her. Stubborn and determined” Darius turned to his adjutant.

“Boris, I understand that our forces captured a troll this morning. I take it he was armed?”

“Indeed he was. We relieved him of his ball and chain, a most dangerous weapon in the wrong hands. He, um, in fact knocked himself out with it, which was why we were able to capture him with such ease”

“I see” said Darius, suppressing a smile. “Fetch his weapons and give them to the girls” Gillian smiled triumphantly. Darius turned to them “You have two hours in which to train and prepare yourselves for battle. We are relying on you” He strode off to organise his troops. For the next hour Gillian and Josie trained furiously. They nearly crashed on two occasions when Gillian was concentrating so hard on whirling the ball and chain around her head - aiming at an imaginary enemy - that she almost lost control of the chariot.

“SLOW!” commanded Gillian, slowing the chariot to a stop. The heavy ball and chain was tiring her, and they had succeeded in infuriating a sycamore tree, who did not take kindly to being whacked in the trunk, even if it was by accident. “Sorry” muttered Gillian “We have to get in as much practice as possible, and there’s not much time”

“Well, kindly practise elsewhere” returned the sycamore, wheezing. “I’m not as young as I used to be”

“Oh dear, are you hurt?” asked Josie, immediately concerned.

“Just winded, that’s all. Bloody lethal, those things” grumbled the sycamore. A grey squirrel hopped up to them.

“Darius says everyone is to stop training and take a break. And I’m to coach you in the rudiments of the newly-revised communications code. There are only two places left for the next session so you’ll have to hurry. Follow me” The squirrel bounded off through the underbrush and they did their best to keep up, keeping his bushy tail in sight as it bobbed up and down. They emerged into a sheltered hollow, where a number of creatures were squatting on their haunches. Gillian and Josie managed to squeeze themselves into the circle, as Tenacious hopped into its centre.

“Everyone here? Right. Pay attention because I’ve got to cram two days worth of instruction into a half hour lesson” Once he was satisfied that they’d all grasped the basics, Tenacious dismissed them impatiently.

“Next please. Can you all please vacate your seats to make room for the next class. Come on, come on, there’s no time to lose”

“Gosh, I hope we’re not going to be tested on this” whispered Josie to Gillian “I didn’t understand hardly any of it, did you?”

“I think Tenacious has rather over-cooked the pudding” remarked a beaver with a prominent paunch and whose voice sounded vaguely familiar  “I ask you, is it absolutely necessary to memorise four separate codes in order to transmit a simple message such as Help, I’m being clobbered by a troll” His family, who were obviously expected to laugh at his jokes, tittered dutifully. Gillian nudged Josie.

“Isn’t that Bertie, the one with the swanky new lodge?” Josie nodded, suddenly reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Grumblegood. It now seemed an age since they had all set out from the Grumblegoods’ home and become separated in the Sinister Woods. Events were moving so fast that the two sisters had barely had time to greet each other, and they now seized the opportunity to catch up on each other’s news. Gillian related their ordeal at the hands of the despicable Gervase, their imprisonment in the subterranean caverns of Troll Mountain, their meeting with Ermentrude at Lake Mortmere, and their brief sojourn at the Pink Citadel, whilst Josie chattered about the pixie she’d met called Tipsy, the Nymph’s Grotto, and games of Blind Badger’s Buff in the Tunnel…

“Weren’t you frightened – being all on your own in the fog?” asked Gillian curiously.

“I was at first. But then I met Boris, who’s awfully kind. And Ash, quite the nicest tree I’ve ever met, except for Dame Elm. Actually, I think she and Ash are, you know…”she giggled, pointing at two trees engaged in a stately waltz. “They’ve been dancing for hours” Ash was nodding gravely in answer to something Dame Elm had just said, trying to avoid stepping on his partner’s roots. Everyone was talking nineteen to the dozen, swapping the latest gossip and rumours when Darius appeared in their midst. He informed them that the goblin army was in disarray, owing to their being taken totally unawares by the arboreal awakening, and that the enemy had sustained heavy losses. Everyone cheered, including two hawks engaged in a mock aerial dogfight. They stopped sparring in order to hear the rest of the news.

“However, there’s no cause for complacency” went on Darius, looking grim. “The goblins have regrouped under their new chief Gerhardt, and an army of ten thousand strong is marching this way. They are burning trees in their path. The forest is being destroyed as we speak” A deep rumble of rage reverberated from the remaining trees.

“What are we waiting for?” thundered an ancient oak. “Let the battle commence”

Chapter 11 - Philip’s Progress (2001)

Philip was sitting in his garden in Kingston-upon-Thames, watching his grandchildren dart in and out behind trees and bushes as they searched for the eggs his wife Rebecca had hidden. She had been busy painting the eggshells the previous night, in anticipation of their visit. It was Easter Sunday, and although it was a bright day the air was crisp and cool, with fresh breezes. The sun shone fitfully from behind the clouds, and Philip arranged a tartan blanket over his knees, which his wife had thoughtfully left on the arm of his chair. How good the sun felt when it did finally struggle through. He tilted his head back, watching its stately progress as it sailed through a bank of clouds (of course this was an illusion as the sun hadn’t moved) to emerge in a sudden burst of golden splendour, its therapeutic rays warming him. They’d had such a miserable winter with unprecedented flooding all over the country. Swollen rivers had burst their banks while individual householders and shopkeepers engaged in desperate sandbagging measures, with little or no help from the local authorities, who shrugged off their civic responsibilities.

“Granddad, Granddad!” His four year-old granddaughter April came bounding up to him excitedly “We found another one!” She showed him the artificially coloured blue egg, cupped in her tiny hands.

“I just can’t keep up with you. Your poor old granddad hasn’t even found one yet!”

“Never mind, Granddad” she consoled him “You can have one of mine if you like”

“That’s very kind of you. Now where’s that brother of yours? Danny” he called anxiously “Don’t get too close to the river, will you” The five year-old Danny emerged from beneath a bush, holding aloft a purple egg.

“I found another one!” he cried triumphantly, running towards them.

“Put it in the basket then with the others” said Philip, relieved to have them both in plain view. It was one of his abiding fears that one of his grandchildren would topple into the fast-flowing river, and he would be powerless to prevent them from drowning. The stroke had left his mobility severely impaired and it was not yet known whether he would recover his physical coordination and balance to the extent where he would be able to walk unaided. He had so far confounded all the original prognoses. When Philip had emerged from a coma with not only all his mental faculties intact, but - it has to be said - outperforming those of the doom and gloom merchants hovering over his bedside, new prognoses had arisen to take their place like the many-headed hydra: He would be a quadriplegic, unable to move of his own volition. A few days after this dire prediction, Philip was sitting up in bed and flexing his arm muscles. He would be permanently blind and unable to speak. He had fully recovered the use of his speech and his eyesight was improving daily. He would be a paraplegic and confined to a wheelchair. When, with growing impatience, Philip insisted on intensive physical therapy and managed to walk around the garden – albeit unsteadily, and leaning on a male nurse – the doctors were sufficiently impressed to “shut the fuck up and mind their own business” as Philip himself succinctly put it. As a top neurosurgeon Philip did not need to be told by those less qualified than himself what his chances were of a full recovery.

“The fact of the matter is, no-one knows” he had stated. He had remained consistently upbeat and positive, insisting he had nothing to complain about. Friends and colleagues were astounded at his fortitude: some said it was Philip putting on a stiff upper lip – characteristic of his generation – and that the façade would have to crack sooner or later. The position he found himself in must be truly ghastly. How on earth, they wondered, could someone who had led such an active life, both mentally and physically, cope with that kind of disability? But Philip had not only coped – and was continuing to cope remarkably well – his progress was nothing short of miraculous. He had badgered Rebecca to get him a walking stick and wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had at first been reluctant, terrified he would attempt to walk when nobody was around and fall. That walking stick was now his most prized possession. It meant more to him than his very first bicycle – a gleaming red Raleigh. Like the former, it represented the Holy Grail of independence, something he had hitherto taken for granted.

Every day he forced himself to make several circuits of the garden, despite his aching limbs, which felt like leaden weights. The physical therapy program he had devised consisted of exercising daily with weights, and twice-weekly swimming sessions at a hospital pool. Although he loved being in the water and the sensation of buoyancy, the loss of motor control over his limbs frightened him. The fear of drowning was ever-present - akin to the sensation of sinking in quicksand – something he had actually experienced as a boy in Cornwall when he had strayed too far out onto the sands when the tide was out.

“The sun’s starting to come out now” observed Rebecca, appearing at his side “I think it’s warm enough to have a picnic, don’t you?”

“All in favour, say aye” responded Philip, winking at the children, who responded with an enthusiastic chorus of Ayes.

“And whose birthday is it tomorrow, I wonder” added Rebecca, who had just put the finishing touches to a birthday cake, complete with four candles.

“Mine!” shouted April delightedly.

“In that case I think we should have a birthday party as well as a picnic” declared Philip “And we should all wear silly hats.” Both children laughed.

“Your shoe-lace is undone, Granddad” observed Danny.

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to tie it up for me” As Danny crawled around the grass at his feet, Philip sipped through a straw at the plastic beaker of tea Rebecca had brought out on a tray.

“Why do you drink out of one of those, Granddad?” asked April, pointing to his plastic beaker “Why don’t you have a proper mug like Grandma?”

“Grandma doesn’t spill things like I do” replied Philip.

“Only babies drink out of those” returned Danny, with a touch of scorn.

“Yes, well, you see I’m nothing but a big baby” Both children giggled.

“No, you’re not! Stop pretending to be a baby. And I can’t find your shoelace” Philip looked downwards.

“That’s because it’s tucked down beneath the tongue of my shoe – see? Just pull it out”

“Why does your shoe have a tongue?” asked April, puzzled “Does it speak?”

“I give up” said Philip to his wife “How do you argue against the inexorable logic of a four year-old?”

“They’ve got to the age where all they do is ask questions” said Rebecca “Penny told me she was fetching them from the nursery the other day, and got stuck in traffic because of the rush hour. And Danny pipes up ‘Why is it called the rush hour, Mummy? No one is rushing’” Philip laughed, and Danny flashed them an impish grin.

“Your mother will be back soon” said Rebecca “Whoever finds the most eggs gets a prize” They scampered off down the garden excitedly. “It must be wonderful to be that age” remarked Rebecca, taking a seat beside her husband. “Everything is so fresh and exciting”

“Everything still is fresh and exciting. It just depends on your viewpoint” said Philip. The early flowering of the big chestnut tree at the bottom of the garden with its pink blossoms, the warmth of the sun on his face, the fragrance of damp earth following a sudden shower: all these things were like some potent heady wine - exhilarating for someone who had clawed himself back from the brink and whose senses had unexpectedly reawakened. “But yes, I know what you mean. I remember when my parents announced they were taking us to the seaside, and feeling so happy I felt my heart would burst. But this is wonderful too, just being able to sit here in the sun and enjoy the colours, even if my vision is still blurred. Being able to taste solid food again instead of being fed through a tube. I know it sound like a cliché, but each day is precious to me. I feel immensely privileged to be here at all” Rebecca placed a hand on his arm.

“How do you manage to be so popular? You must get as many visitors as the Pope”

“Not quite. Perhaps we should hire a barge to sail down the river, and I could perfect my royal wave” Rebecca laughed. In company, Philip was as witty and entertaining as ever, and she suspected this was half the attraction. Many of his well-wishers had started off by commiserating with him, but encouraged by his positive attitude, had recently begun telling him their own problems, knowing that Philip would offer a solution that was both sensible and practical. Rebecca was a little alarmed at this development and sought to protect him. She felt that they were over-taxing his strength.

“Nonsense” Philip had retorted “Everyone has limitless inner resources they can fall back on. Optimism, for instance, is a renewable energy source more people ought to tap into. You just reach out and grab some of it when you need it”

“But it must get tiring” said Rebecca. “You’re not superhuman, Philip. They’re supposed to be offering you moral support – you nearly died, after all – and yet you’re always cheering them up, rather than the reverse”

“What’s wrong with that” smiled Philip “Better than being miserable, isn’t it? Besides, the visitors provide hours of entertainment. The sillier and more foolish they are the more it amuses me. All I have to do is listen, and throw in the appropriate comment every now and then” Few of his visitors were on an equal intellectual footing but this didn’t seem to bother him. Reading had been one of his greatest pleasures, and it was unfortunate that his eyesight was not good enough to permit him to resume this occupation. Rebecca knew that this was a source of frustration for him, though he didn’t dwell on it. He was impatient to be able to use a computer again, but found this difficult also as his vision had not settled down enough. He had made an appointment with an eminent opthalmologist, who also happened to be an old school chum of his.

“How are your eyes today?” she asked.

“Not too bad. My focus isn’t good enough to watch TV yet. My eyes keep bouncing around the screen. But the brain is an amazing thing. Because I can hear what’s going on, and see flashes of colour it sort of fills in the gaps for me like a jigsaw puzzle. So I can follow the most ludicrous soap opera with very little difficulty - is that the phone ringing?”

“Yes, it is. I’d better go and answer it. It might be Penny calling to say she’ll be late” Rebecca hurried across the lawn. She reappeared a moment later, carrying the cordless phone.

“Philip, it’s for you. Trevor. Says Gillian’s walked out, or gone missing or something” She handed the phone to Philip.

“Hello, Trevor. What’s happened?” Philip listened while his brother-in-law recounted the events of last night. He sounded wretched.

“It’s as though she just vanished from the face of the earth, Philip. One minute she was in front of me in the woods, and the next minute she was gone. And I was the last person to see her, so naturally the police think…..I mean, the husband is always the first person they-”

“-You’ve contacted all her friends, the ones in Bristol too?”

“All the ones I know of, yes. But she didn’t have any money with her or anything”

“Do you know that for sure? Look, I don’t want to suggest anything to upset you further, but she’s more independent than you realise. If you two had a row, say, she may have just made her way to the train station and checked herself into a hotel until she calmed down. She wouldn’t necessarily have told you if she was upset with you - do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Yes” said Trevor miserably “To teach me a lesson, you mean? I had thought of that, but the nearest railway station is twenty miles away, and there are hardly any services running at that time of night anyway. She would have had to hitch a ride with a stranger, and Gillian has more sense than that. She’s not some silly teenager, Philip”

“Unless she had arranged to meet someone in a car” said Philip. There was a short silence.

“You mean you think she could have been having an affair?”

“I’m just trying to consider all the possibilities. Has she been going out more than usual, or taken up any new activities?”

“Only those bloody protesters” burst out Trevor bitterly “They live in trees, like monkeys. She’s been taking them food, God knows why”

“Wait a minute – what protesters? You should have mentioned this first”

“Eco-Warriors they call themselves” snorted Trevor “Dossers by any other name. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them”

“Right. There’s your first line of enquiry. It sounds like she got friendly with them and that’s who she’s with. But get the police to check it out immediately, just in case she’s being held against her will”

“The thing is, Philip, they were all arrested by the police just before she disappeared. I saw it with my own eyes. They were driven away in police vans”

“All of them? There’s got to be some connection there, Trevor. I’m sure of it. Maybe she’s hiding out at their encampment, to show solidarity”

“Alright” sighed Trevor wearily “I’ll go over there and have a look myself. I hope you’re right, Philip. Thanks anyway. I didn’t want to disturb you, but I thought you ought to know. I’ll call you later this evening, is that alright?”

“Of course it’s alright. If you don’t call me, I’ll call you. Have you contacted anyone else in the family, incidentally?”

“I tried to call Laurence early this morning but they said he hadn’t been in the office, and all I got was an answering machine when I tried him at home”

“He spends a lot of time at that club of his - I’ll try there later. No point in troubling Josie until we know something more definite”

“That’s what I thought. Isn’t she a bit…” Trevor left the sentence unfinished.

“Schizo? Frankly, I think she puts it on to keep people at arms’ length. Since my stroke, I look at the world and everything in it differently. Her reality is no less valid than yours or mine. But let’s not get into all that. You check the Eco-Warrior encampment, and if neither of us has turned up anything by this evening then I’ll call Josie. There’s a remote possibility that Gillian may have made her way to Wales” A very remote possibility, Philip told himself. Although they had been fairly close when they were growing up and Gillian still felt protective towards her younger sister, they had grown apart over the years. Temperamentally speaking, they were poles apart. Gillian would have to have been quite desperate to show up on Josie’s doorstep (and vice versa) but if she and Trevor were experiencing marital difficulties, she could well have been desperate enough to attempt the journey. Wales was not so very far from Somerset, after all.

“Hello, Dad” Penny leaned over and kissed his cheek “Have the little horrors been behaving themselves?” Not waiting for an answer, she went on “I managed to pick up some ice-cream, which should keep them quiet for a while” At the mention of ice-cream the two little horrors hurled themselves in the direction of their mother, as Philip filled her in briefly about Gillian’s mysterious disappearance.

“Aunt Jill’s gone missing? But that’s terrible…No, you can have the ice-cream LATER. Not now”

“Want some ice-cream now!” clamoured Danny, tugging at her skirts.

“Mummy, did you get me a present?” asked April “I’ve been good. Haven’t I, Granddad?”

“You’ve both been very good” agreed Philip.

“Well, since it’s your birthday, I suppose you might as well open your present now” Penny relented “You can share it with your brother”

“NO! It’s MY present, it’s MY birthday. I don’t want to share it with Danny”

“Wait until you see it. It’s much more fun if you share it… has uncle Trev gone to the police? When did she go missing?”

“Yesterday. Apparently, the police are doing all they can”

“Mummy, you promised! You said I could have my present now” April clutched at her mother, pleading with upturned face.

“I’m afraid they’re getting awfully spoiled” sighed Penny apologetically. Sometimes his daughter sounded just like his own mother had sounded, reflected Philip. She had the same self-deprecating manner and the same air of weary resignation, beleaguered on all fronts by the never-ending demands of small children. “I’ll be back out in a minute, Dad. Let me just see to the children” As Penny disappeared indoors, still remonstrating with her offspring, Philip took the opportunity to hoist himself unsteadily to his feet, leaning on his walking stick. Rebecca came rushing out.

“Philip, what are you doing? You know you can’t stand on your own”

“I’m doing just that. Fait accompli. Don’t fuss, Becky. I’m fine, really. Now I’m going to take a little walk – as far as that tree over there – are you coming?” Rebecca took his free arm and they set off across the lawn together. It took them a good five minutes to cover twenty yards, Philip shuffling his feet as if they were alien blocks of wood attached to his legs. “What’s happening here” said Philip conversationally, as they finally reached the spreading sycamore tree “is that the old motor neurones appear to have packed up. My feet won’t pick themselves up of their own accord. I have to will them to take each step…. but it can be done”

“What I’m worried about” said Rebecca “is your balance. That seems to be the main stumbling block”

“Was that an intentional pun, my dear? Because that’s what I feel like. A stumbling block” Rebecca giggled.

“Look at Granddad!” cried Danny, appearing at the open French windows and pointing at them. Penny stuck her head out.

“Take it easy, Dad. Shall I fetch your chair?”

“No, I’m coming back” called Philip “I want to sit in the sun” He and Rebecca started to retrace their steps. Once Philip nearly stumbled and fell.

“Granddad nearly fell over” observed Danny, who had come outside to watch their slow but steady progress.

“He’d make a good commentator at the races” remarked Philip “All place your bets now. Will he reach the finishing post in time?”

“The grass needs cutting again” said Rebecca nervously “It’s all this rain we’ve had”

“Want to fly my new kite, Granddad?” April came rushing up to them, trailing a shiny new red kite.

“Careful you don’t knock Granddad. He has to concentrate” said Rebecca “No, you fly it, darling, and we’ll watch you” When Philip had regained his chair, Rebecca showed April how to unwind the string and then they all watched the kite flapping about in the breeze.

“Don’t fly it too near the trees or it will get tangled up in the branches” called Penny, as she started to lay the picnic table – setting out plates of food and baskets of fresh rolls. A sudden gust of wind tugged at the kite, and April laughed delightedly as she ran after it. Danny leaned his elbows on Philip’s knees, and studied him.

“You can’t walk very fast, Granddad. I bet I could beat you in a race”

“I bet you could” conceded Philip ruefully.

“Anybody home?” called a male voice from the house. A tall spare man with an ascetic cast to his face and a small gingery beard stepped out of the French windows onto the lawn.

“It’s your old school chum, Nick Posterior” Penny grimaced as Nicholas Postlethwaite strode across the lawn.

“Nicholas, you old reprobate!” Philip cried with undisguised pleasure. “I thought you said you couldn’t fit me in until Tuesday”

“I happened to be in the neighbourhood and …I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Of course not. We’ve had an Easter Egg hunt and now you’re just in time to join us for a picnic”

“And it’s my birthday” added April proudly.

“I could murder a cup of tea” sighed Nicholas, sinking into a canvas deckchair. “Left the car at the bottom of the hill  – thought I could do with the exercise”

“I used to jog up that hill” said Philip in a matter-of-fact tone with no trace of self-pity.

“But Phil” said Nicholas, leaning forward  “How did you manage to keep the ice from falling out of your whisky?” Philip laughed. Penny resignedly set another place at the table and poured Nicholas a cup of tea.

“So, it’s your birthday is it, young lady?” enquired Nicholas of April, who was blowing soap bubbles from a plastic wand. She nodded.

“Not over the cake, April” said her mother “You don’t want it to taste of soap, do you?”

“Like a god creating ephemeral planets” said Nicholas, watching April. “The Divine Pneuma” Penny raised her eyes skywards, and Nicholas caught the look. “If you think I’m a pretentious old git now you should have met me at school. I was quite insufferable. Ask your Dad”

“I’ve already told them all about you. Your sarcasm was legendary. I think you must have modelled yourself on Soames”

“Sarcasm is a legitimate weapon employed by the clever against those who are stupid, boring, ignorant or all three. And it is perfectly justified, in my opinion. Otherwise what defence would they have against the unrelieved tedium of having to rub shoulders with imbeciles? Besides, I never insulted people who were sensitive or intelligent”

“I think you have a very short memory” chortled Philip.

“But I never insulted you, old chap. Never insulted anyone for whom I had a modicum of respect”

“You certainly never insulted me after I smacked you in the jaw” Philip reminded him with a smile “You learned to be more circumspect with your language” Nicholas grinned.

“Do you remember the time you sent me flying across the Common Room and I landed on the floor with my nose lodged up Dobson’s backside? He chose that precise moment to break wind after demolishing a pound of liquorice. You couldn’t have devised a more fiendish punishment if you’d been plotting it for days” Philip and Rebecca laughed.

“We all thought you were going to join the Secret Service when you left school” said Philip “What happened?”

“When I applied for the job I was interviewed by a complete arsehole. Naturally, I didn’t hesitate to apprise him of that fact…”

“Did you not stop to think that such a frank observation might adversely affect your application?” enquired Philip teasingly.

“No, because I was applying for a job as a secret agent, not a diplomat. Anyway, to cut a long story short I decided to take up medicine, and ended up specialising in eye complaints. Rather apt when you consider blindness is the root of all evil. Metaphorically speaking, old chap” He leaned over and patted Philip’s shoulder.

“Didn’t your younger brother become a communist or Marxist? Though I suppose being lumbered with a name like Peregrine Postlethwaite, he could hardly do otherwise” Penny giggled.

“Perry was a socialist, like a lot of young people in the sixties and seventies. He was always quoting Das Kapital to my poor bewildered mother who was remarkably patient with him” Nicholas’s brow creased slightly. “He later became a heroin addict and died alone in some squalid bedsit”

“I had no idea” murmured Philip “Sorry to hear it” Nicholas waved a hand in mute dismissal of their sympathy.

“It was nearly thirty years ago. He was convinced that he was being oppressed by evil fascists. The tragic truth was that he was oppressed by his own mind, which became a prison from which he could not escape” Nicholas tilted his chin downwards, seemingly sunk in some private reverie until Rebecca prompted him “Were you yourself ever seduced by the socialist ideal?”

“I think I’d better take the children indoors for some ice-cream” said Penny tactfully, rising from her chair.

“And I want two scoops of ice-cream” insisted Danny “Not one, Mummy. Two. You heard me” Penny disappeared indoors, followed by her children.

“I am easily seduced by what I have been persuaded is for the common good” said Nicholas, in answer to Rebecca’s question. “But I take some persuading, and the notion of some kind of egalitarian utopia where men hold property in common and all are rewarded equally for their labours is a mirage. To my mind the socialist ideal is rather like the Christian ideal.  There has only ever been one true Christian and that was Christ himself. And this is the problem I have with socialism, not the ideal - that all men are created equal and deserve equal treatment  - but the Marxist interpretation which leads to the political system of Communism. It all depends whether you believe in the perfectibility of the human race. I’m sorry to say that I don’t. We are much too fallible”

“But at school you always professed yourself a humanist” protested Philip “You were always raving about Leonardo, Renaissance Man, until someone – I think it might have been me - gave you a black eye”

“And I am eternally grateful for that black eye! No it wasn’t you, dear friend, it was some other boy whose name I forget. In closing one of my eyes, he succeeded in opening both of them! I would be the first to acknowledge that mankind does have many redeeming qualities, but for every da Vinci who is born there are ten thousand vicious little thugs who should have been aborted at birth”

“Aren’t abortions generally performed before birth?” interposed Philip.

“They would be if expectant mothers knew what devil seed they spawned” Rebecca smiled at this “But as to socialism in its pure form: to my knowledge, there have never been any socialist governments in the history of the world. There has been a lot of theory and dogma but it has never been translated into practice, due to the inherent corruptness of the political process. All attempts have resulted in dismal failure. Many naïve and misguided people have been seduced by the theory, only to be swiftly disillusioned by the practical application, which invariably results in Stalinist totalitarianism or Chinese-style communism. Which nobody in their right mind wants. The egalitarian model has produced a political system where the people are equally poor and equally powerless against an all-powerful State monolith which has appropriated all the nation’s wealth to itself: in other words, State Capitalism. Communism isn’t about the workers owning the means of production, it’s about the State owning the means of production and the people owning nothing. The only thing that the people are left with is poverty and fear. That is the unpalatable reality faced by the unfortunate citizens of governments who claim to be “socialist”, and anybody who seriously doubts this should emigrate to one of these countries and find out for themselves”

“So what is the alternative” enquired Philip “private capitalism as we know it?”

“Well, it’s a damned sight better than State Capitalism. Capitalism may not be ideal – there are a lot of very ugly facets such as rampant materialism, organised crime and so on – but it works in the real world because it recognises that people are flawed and unequal in their abilities and that some will always achieve more than others. It doesn’t seek to deny human nature by forcing on them an unnatural equality - a state of affairs so unnatural it has to be imposed by force. Once you have to impose a system by force you’ve abandoned democracy in favour of tyranny and dictatorship. That is why I firmly believe that capitalism, with all its attendant evils, is the only effective antidote to totalitarian dictatorships. By providing an economic infrastructure which enables individuals and organisations to accumulate wealth - and corresponding power bases - it serves to keep the State in check and thereby safeguards democracy. Of course this is not the avowed aim of capitalism, which is to increase profits, but it is one of the more fortunate by-products. And we all benefit greatly.

Every time I hear about someone as rich as Bill Gates I think “Good. Here is someone who is rich and powerful enough to cock a snook at the government bully boys, to stick two fingers up and tell them where they get off.” Whether he is a kind and caring man or whether he is a complete bastard is immaterial. The important thing is that such people exist in capitalist societies. Immensely wealthy individuals, such as private landowners or business entrepreneurs, can actually mount successful challenges to the government - for instance, over their agricultural policies or their development strategies - which is forced to take their views into account whether they like it or not. Frequently they don’t like it: the State would like to have a complete monopoly over all manufacturing and service industries – a stranglehold over the economy. But private capitalism does not permit that to happen: instead we have numerous companies, organisations and groups all competing for power. It is this ongoing and dynamic competition which enables democracy to flourish: everyone gets to have their say. Under private capitalism, power is by definition diluted so that it is not wholly concentrated in a centralised State, leaving everyone else totally powerless.

The instinct to control and herd the populace is very strong under Communist regimes – it’s part and parcel of the totalitarian mind-set – since the self-appointed ruling elite distrust and fear the common people. However, the instinct to resist centralised control and to go their own sweet way is equally strong in most healthy human beings. Totalitarian governments seek to disempower the individual at the expense of the State, by stripping them of wealth and power. But the competition that is rife in a free enterprise economy allows such individuals to flourish. Most hard-line communists are well aware of this, and that is why competition is such a dirty word in their books. They would like to stamp it out at an early age by prohibiting all forms of competition in schools, for instance. But they will never be able to stamp it out because it’s fundamental to human nature. Inequalities will persist as long as the human race persists”

“But then what happens to the people who are not “as equal” as the others, who are disadvantaged by birth - physically or mentally handicapped in some other way - what happens to them?” asked Rebecca.

“They suffer to some extent, I suppose. As they would under any political system. Fate dealt them a poor hand. But it is sheer folly to imagine that you can eradicate human suffering by means of a political system. Suffering is inherent in the human condition, and we should really cease attempting to impose unrealistic utopian experiments onto an unwilling and uncomprehending populace. We do our fellow human beings a great disservice and stunt human growth in the process. People cannot be squashed into some political mould. Socialists are at best misguided and naive, at worst arrogant and downright dangerous. It’s about time that all these ideologues and fanatics accept people as the flawed beings that they really are, and stop trying to meddle and interfere with their lives”

“But is all government interference meddling? Left to their own devices a lot of people just couldn’t survive” argued Rebecca “Surely one of the duties of government is to provide aid and assistance where needed, which is why we pay our taxes”

“Taxies are levied in order to enrich the government. Our motives may well be altruistic (we could scarcely be persuaded to part with such a substantial part of our earnings unless we thought it was for a good reason) but if you seriously imagine their first priority is to help those in need you are not paying close enough attention to their actions. One of the first things a newly elected government does is to vote itself massive pay rises, and thereafter to enact legislation specifically designed to ensure that it remains in power. But just supposing you are right, that some political leaders do actually take their duties and obligations seriously. I don’t know that any one government will ever be able to solve the world’s food shortage. The depressing answer is that the solution is probably beyond us. I have a hunch that certain nations will always be disadvantaged and will continue to hold out the begging bowl to more affluent nations. How to explain it? Maybe there is a God, and maybe it’s true what they say: God only helps those who help themselves”

“But are you saying that if people are starving it’s because they won’t help themselves, that it’s somehow their fault? You cannot expect an economy to be self-sustaining in areas of the world where food shortages are caused by drought and harsh climatic conditions.”

“Are they? I happen to believe that global starvation is caused by political corruption rather than climatic conditions, which only exacerbates the problem – it is not the root cause. The real reason people are starving is due to the criminal negligence of the administrative elite who rig elections to keep themselves in power and do not really give a shit about the people. With respect to the Arab states, the wealth generated by oil production runs into billions, and yet none of that immense wealth is used to improve the living standards of ordinary people. And have you any idea how much of Nigeria’s national wealth, or Zaire’s for that matter, has been transferred into private bank accounts by the ruling military elite?”

“But if the problem lies with their own governments” declared Rebecca “then surely we have a moral duty to do something about it?”

“Such as?”

“Well, imposing economic sanctions for a start. It’s the only way we can show our disapproval without resorting to violence”

“Very good. So the people suffer even more. What else do you suggest?”

“We can give direct aid to the starving to ensure that the people don’t suffer”

“We can ensure no such thing. For a start direct aid is a myth. Any economic aid i.e. hard cash is promptly seized by their governments who enrich themselves at our expense. Any food parcels or clothing we send are intercepted by the military who are in charge of distribution. Let us at least face facts. We are not to blame for this lamentable state of affairs. There is very little we can do about it except wring our hands and moan. And, really, what is the bloody point. What on earth is the point of dropping a few hundred sacks of grain here and there - assuming they ever reach their intended destination – simply to prolong the lives of chronically malnourished babies for a few more hours or days? To make ourselves feel better? But why should we feel so guilty in the first place?”

“Because we have a conscience” said Rebecca.

“Because we have an over-inflated sense of our own importance in the scheme of things, more like! As far as I can see we have two alternatives. Target the bastards who are responsible for this wretched state of affairs and blast them to kingdom come, or accept that the problems are of such a magnitude that we cannot and should not even attempt to solve them, and that it is none of our damned business. The first alternative would involve us in a permanent state of war with virtually the entire planet, so the second alternative – mind our own business – would seem to be the more sensible of the two and the most likely to ensure our own survival”

“But isn’t that tantamount to a policy of laissez faire…” objected Rebecca. “To sit back and do nothing?”

“The principle of Live and let live is not tantamount to laissez faire, which is let us live whilst others starve. There is a qualitative difference, small I grant you, but crucial nonetheless. The former advocates tolerance of others’ beliefs and the latter callously ignores suffering by pretending it doesn’t exist. We know it exists, but at least we don’t go out of our way to inflict suffering on others. A succession of British governments is undoubtedly to blame for the deteriorating state of our own public services, but they are most emphatically not to blame for the abysmal state of affairs in Third World countries – the lack of sanitation, water shortages, disease, poverty, high mortality rate, human rights abuses - the list is endless. If you want an example of laissez faire, you need look no further than the Third World; it is a policy which suits their leaders very well as they can then point the finger at wicked American or British imperialism, so as to detract blame from themselves and keep the flow of U.S. dollars coming their way. As for us, we should have the humility to accept the fact that we are not Superman or John Wayne. We can’t just storm in there with a posse of good ole boys and run the baddies out of town. It is simply not within our power to alleviate suffering which occurs on such a global scale. And that is the honest truth so let’s stop kidding ourselves. We are only a small and over-crowded island with limited resources and enough problems of our own” Penny popped her head outside the French doors.

“I think we’re just about ready to eat now, everyone”

“Yes, alright” replied Rebecca “Bring the children through. There’s some freshly-made lemonade in the fridge”

“But why oh why did we ever feel compelled to convert the heathen?” continued Nicholas, quite oblivious of the interruption. “Why on earth couldn’t we just have left them alone? What a can of worms we opened”

“Are you using the royal we here, Nick” interjected Philip “or do you take personal responsibility for wielding the can-opener?”

“I was referring to our imbecilic forefathers. Particularly with respect to our former overseas colonies. They had to go poking their noses into what was none of their business, and now we’re left with the legacy. Ranging from the Middle East to the great continents of Asia and Africa, they now have a convenient scapegoat to blame for all their woes. Far better for all concerned if we had remained ignorant of their existence and they had remained ignorant of ours”

“Blame the missionaries rather than the explorers” said Philip. ”And the Spanish were ten times worse, particularly in South and Central America. I don’t know who was worse - the conquistadors or the Catholic priests. Their motto was: if it moves let’s torture it. But all the major European powers were involved in opening up trade routes, from the French and Spanish to the Portuguese and Dutch, so there is no reason why the British should be especially reviled”

“There’s no mystery about it. A dog which has been kicked about and ill-treated will bite the hand that feeds it. And the more you do for people who have little to offer in return the more you will be reviled. It is in fact their own dependency which they resent. Many doctors and psychiatrists are attacked by their patients for the same reason”

“But there are times when we have to make a moral stand” persisted Rebecca “Take Sierra Leone. These so-called warlords were rampaging around the countryside terrorising people, hacking off their limbs with machetes”

“It’s deplorable I agree. But what did our involvement achieve? The country is no more stable than it was before, and those same warlords with a penchant for hacking off peoples’ limbs are now over here claiming state benefits and free housing. Would you want one of them as your next-door neighbour? The same applies to Afghanistan or Bosnia. Are the people any safer or more secure since our military involvement? It could perhaps be justified on humanitarian grounds if, by our intervention, the vulnerable benefited. But they go on suffering as usual. And what happens once the peacekeeping forces are withdrawn? The country continues to be torn apart by fighting factions led by tribal warlords and plunges once more into chaos. And in the aftermath of war those who’ve committed atrocities don’t hang around waiting to be tried by the International Tribunal for War Crimes. They do what criminals have always done - save their own skins. They flee the country, leaving behind their wives and children, their elderly parents, and let’s face it most of them end up claiming asylum with the British government. The ones who seem most successful at gaining entry to the UK are all single young men with criminal contacts and the financial wherewithal to pay off the human traffickers. Unfortunately our intervention overseas never benefits the real casualties of war. I don’t notice any amputees or rape victims storming the Channel Tunnel every night do you? We end up harbouring bloodthirsty mercenaries and dangerous criminals fleeing justice”

“Nicholas, weren’t you going to examine Dad’s eyes to see whether there’s been any improvement?” Penny reminded him.

“But of course. I left my bag of tricks inside, and Philip and I shall repair indoors as soon as we have done justice to this delicious spread. May I help myself to one of those mini pork pies?” Rebecca passed him the plate. “What is that terrible screeching noise? Oh, it’s your grandchildren” said Nicholas, looking down. “What’s the matter with them – do they have toothache or something?”

“Children don’t like adults talking over their heads” said Penny with a meaningful glance in Nicholas’s direction as she dished potato salad onto paper plates. “They hate being ignored”

“When will they be going to school?” enquired Nicholas.

“They’re already both at infant school and then will probably attend the local primary, but after that, well, obviously I should like for them to receive the same sort of education we received” Penny sighed “But I just don’t think that’s possible within the State system any more. And we simply can’t afford to go private”

“My God, you’re starting to sound like the Broadbents” said Philip. “They used to bore my mother to tears - their recalcitrant offspring eventually had to be educated at home with private tutors because no school would take them. You remember my cousin Harold, surely?” he said to Nicholas.

“I think so” said Nicholas vaguely “He had a mania for collecting things – toenail clippings, wasn’t it? No, teeth - that’s it! He collected teeth. Remember old Soames and his rallying cry? All boys should be flogged twice daily for their own good. They’d have him up for child abuse these days”

“I don’t believe I was ever caned once” remarked Philip “Not that the prospect ever really worried me. There was always the Pad”

“The Pad?” queried Rebecca.

“Something boys used to stuff down the back of their trousers if they were due for a caning” explained Philip “One of the boys sewed some socks into a pillow case-what is it, Danny?” Danny was tugging at his grandfather’s sleeve in a vain bid for his attention. A sea-gull had swooped down out of the sky, gliding on the air currents.

“I want one of those” said Danny suddenly, pointing at the sea-gull “Mummy, I want one of those”

“Don’t be silly, Danny. That’s a bird. Why don’t you ask April nicely if you can fly her kite”

“I don’t want the kite!” he insisted” I want one of those”

“Won’t be fobbed off with inferior imitations, eh?” chuckled Nicholas “He wants the real thing”

“Don’t encourage him” said Penny “I’ll never hear the end of it” Danny went over to Nicholas and studied him for a moment.

“Why aren’t you ever quiet? Why do you talk so much?” Philip chuckled, and Rebecca covered a smile with her hand.

“Danny, I have told you before NOT to be rude to people” said Penny, pulling him towards her “Say you’re sorry right now unless you want a spanking” Danny stuck out his lower lip and looked mutinous.

“We want Grandad to play with us” declared April. She uncurled a tiny fist and pointed an accusing finger at Nicholas “and that man won’t let him. He keeps on talking”

“Please don’t make them apologise” said Nicholas “I am not in the least offended” He addressed Danny and April, who were regarding him solemnly. “I really am an eye doctor and I came to look at your Grandad’s eyes, and once I’ve done that I shall be off and then he can play with you” Both children looked satisfied at this. As Philip struggled to his feet, Nicholas got up too.

“Enjoy the rest of your picnic, dear ladies. It’s been an enormous pleasure. And thank you for indulging an old windbag”

Chapter 12 - Metropolitan Blues (2001)

Laurence walked through to his office, and hung his jacket on the door. He switched on his PC and adjusted the blinds so as to reduce the glare on his screen. Neville appeared in the doorway a few moments later.

“Back in the land of the living then?” Laurence grunted by way of reply.

“Some of us do have a life outside the office, you know”

“Of course. How are things, old chap?”

“Tolerable”

“That bad, eh? Expect we could both do with a break. Taking the wife to Prague for a long weekend, as it happens. Interesting architecture. Ever read Kafka?”

“Can’t say that I have” replied Laurence, settling back into his chair.

“By the way, have you sent off that contract to Randall yet?”

“No” replied Laurence. “I’ve been waiting for an e-mail before faxing it to him. I’ve already checked my mail and there’s absolutely zilch”

“That’s a bit worrying” said Neville, frowning “I don’t suppose he’s got cold feet. Tell you what: think I’ll get on the blower. What’s the time difference?”

“About six hours I think” Twenty minutes later, Neville reappeared.

“He says he’s sent you two e-mails which you never replied to”

“Rubbish. Have a look for yourself. There’s nothing from him in my Inbox” Neville scanned through Laurence’s messages.

“That’s peculiar. Everything else seems to be getting through all right - can anyone access your e-mails?”

“Not as far as I know. They’d have to have my password”

“But if you left your machine unattended for a few moments and you were already logged on?”

“Of course it’s possible. I nipped out to the Gents earlier. But if they were deleted someone would have to be pretty damned quick, and there’s no trace of anything in the Deleted folder. Let’s get Emily in here.”

“What could be happening” suggested Emily brightly “is that all messages from that particular sender are being blocked. Then they wouldn’t be downloaded to the server”

“But that would have to be deliberate” said Laurence.

“Oh yes. People do it to block unsolicited junk mail. It’s an option on your mail program. Shall I check to see?” Within a moment Emily had located a message rule blocking all messages from Tom Randall.

“This is going too far” said Laurence, turning to Neville, when they were alone again. “I can take a joke, but this is downright malicious. It’s affecting business. Randall is one of our biggest clients and James knows that”

“Let’s not be over-hasty” Neville procrastinated, scratching his chin “Do we have any proof that James is the perpetrator? He told me about the AutoCorrect thing, and that you accused him outright. But he categorically denied any involvement”

“And you believe him? He’s a pathological liar. His behaviour is affecting the other staff. He’s a bad influence on Emily, and he’s rude to Hasan”

“How do you know it wasn’t Hasan?” said Neville ”He’s a bright lad, but he just doesn’t have any team spirit. If he could just bring himself to join the others for a drink once in a while”

“He’s a Muslim, and his religion forbids the imbibing of alcohol. I seriously doubt whether Hasan had anything to do with this” Get a life you sad wanker was not the sort of language Hasan employed, thought Laurence. “He’s glued to that screen – never stirs from his desk” Neville shook his head.

“He puts in the hours alright, but he lacks a certain…what’s the word I’m looking for? Warmth? Humour? He could learn a lot from Emily. Do you realise that since she joined us we’ve notched up record profits. I don’t know how she does it, but she has them eating out of her hand”

“A lot of dirty old men out there” observed Laurence drily. Neville chuckled.

“But I hired her for her brains, old chap”

“Bollocks. You wouldn’t have taken her on if she looked like the back end of a bus” Neville chuckled again.

“True. But James is also a handsome young chappie – appeals to the ladies, you see.” Laurence refrained from comment. “Charisma is what sells these days” continued Neville “And I want a sexier go-getting image for this firm”

“Doesn’t experience count any more then?”

“Of course, that’s why you and I handle the important stuff. The youngsters can cut their teeth on the accounts below fifty grand”

“He’s been putting it about that I’m a Freemason. I have nothing against the Brotherhood, but as it happens I have no such affiliations”

“Oh, staff always speculate about the private life of their bosses. It will probably all blow over. The thing is, Laurence, if we confront him with this, he’s likely to take off. Were you aware that all these head-hunters are after him?” Laurence snorted.

“A pack of lies. He’s always on the phone to his mum, whinging about his ill-treatment here and the 12-hour working days he puts in. He’s off out of here before 5pm and straight down to that champagne bar in Mayfair, with Emily in tow”

“Is that where they go?” enquired Neville, who was usually out the door himself before 5pm and therefore not in a position to monitor James’ erratic timekeeping. “I’ve heard it’s frequented by rich Arabs and high-class call girls. Not really the sort of watering hole where you’d expect a nice girl like Emily to hang out”

“Shouldn’t she be warned then?” Neville laughed.

“You never cease to amaze me. Chivalrous instincts beat in that buttoned-up breast, after all. She’s a big girl and in any case James will look after her. We can’t interfere in their private lives, old boy. It’s none of our business. Now that reminds me: I’ve organised a staff get-together in the downstairs bar of the King George at six o’clock sharp this evening” Laurence groaned.

“What on earth for? Count me out”

“No, you’re not wriggling out of this one. We’ve all got to work together as a team. The drinks are on us, by the way”

At six-fifteen a morose Laurence was ordering a round of drinks for everyone in the bar, bitterly resenting the waste of his time and the not very subtle efforts of Neville to engage James and himself in a three-way conversation.

“Laurence was just saying how pleased he was with your report” lied Neville. James looked unconvinced “We’ve decided to go with the software you recommended” Laurence knew for a fact that Emily had done all the research for the project James had taken the credit for. She was standing a little to one side, chatting to Charlotte, who had just passed around some photographs of a recent holiday in Egypt.

“Dear girl, where are the pyramids? And the camels?” asked Neville “They all seem to be of you and – what’s his name?”

“David”

“Here you both are again – in a car park - grinning into the camera”

“Is that your boyfriend?” said James, peering to get a closer look “Have you got any bikini shots of you on the beach?”

“I left them at home” said Charlotte ”I’m not showing those to you lot”

“Don’t see why not” laughed Neville “We’re all one big family here” Laurence grimaced.

“Here, Laurence, you haven’t seen them yet” Charlotte thrust a pile of photographs into his hand. Laurence shuffled through them disinterestedly like a pack of cards and returned them to her.

“Fascinating” Emily turned away, trying to hide her amusement. Offended, Charlotte moved off to converse with the office manager, Dinah Crawford.

“That David looks like a right plonker” commented James to Emily, when Charlotte was out of earshot.

“Couldn’t you at least pretend to be interested?” said Neville to Laurence.

“No I couldn’t” snapped Laurence, who was tired of people parading their holiday snaps at work. If you feigned interest it only encouraged them, like those doting parents who bored people stiff with anecdotes about their tiresome offspring. Charlotte was always pestering the staff to buy raffle tickets for dubious charities, or getting up “collections” for tedious social occasions like weddings and birthdays. James had sidled closer to Emily, and was regaling her with some story that was affording them both considerable entertainment: Laurence strongly suspected he was the butt of their jokes.

“Get in another round of drinks” Neville ordered Laurence “before they all start drifting off into little cliques” At that moment a crowd of male revellers came clattering down the stairs, and monopolised the only remaining tables. James left Emily’s side for a moment, and one of the men seized the opportunity to send a drink over to Emily, who looked surprised but smiled in gracious acceptance. Laurence walked over to her and took the drink out of her hand.

“You shouldn’t ever accept drinks from strangers, you know” She looked confused.

“Why?” It was his turn to look embarrassed. It wasn’t her fault she had the kind of looks that wouldn’t be out of place on a catwalk.

“Because some men are not above spiking the drinks they offer young ladies. I’m sorry to have to say this kind of thing goes on. I’d have thought you’d have had more sense”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that” James returned to take his place by Emily’s side, eyeing Laurence suspiciously.

“Just getting in some more drinks” said Laurence gruffly “What are you two having?”

“Same again” said James “Cheers, Laurence. I expect this isn’t coming out of your own pocket, anyway” he added. Damn right, thought Laurence. He was tempted to pull rank, but as he was taller, older, and richer - not to mention being their boss - there was no real need. Conscious of his superiority, Laurence walked over to the bar and ordered another round of drinks for everyone. Having discharged this onerous duty, he retired to a quiet corner occupied by Dinah Crawford. She raised her gin and tonic by way of greeting.

“Thank you, Laurence. Most generous of you”

“Neville’s idea” muttered Laurence, glancing at his watch and wondering when he could decently make his excuses and leave. In another ten minutes, he decided. If he had to socialise he’d rather be with like-minded sorts at his club, where he wasn’t expected to exchange pleasantries with people he had nothing in common with. Evidently Moneypenny agreed with him, for she remarked “I always think it’s so contrived and unnatural when people are pressurised to mix socially with the people they work with, don’t you?”

“My sentiments entirely” agreed Laurence. Far from promoting esprit de corps, Neville’s staff get-togethers only served to accentuate existing divisions and rifts; the workplace was never intended to function like a club or a family. It may have worked in previous years when employees tended to be of the same generation, class, race, and gender. But what could he possibly have in common with a twenty-year old receptionist like Charlotte, whose idea of a fun evening out was Karaoke night at the Porcupine and Pineapple, and whose idea of a fun night in was watching some soap opera with her soppy boyfriend whilst consuming an Indian takeaway?

“It’s not that I dislike anybody here” said Moneypenny “but when you see them all day why should you want to see them out of working hours?”

“Quite”

“It must be rather an ordeal for Hasan, who doesn’t even drink. Such a dear boy, don’t you think?” Hasan was nursing a pineapple juice, and largely ignoring Charlotte’s attempts at conversation.

“Hmmm” said Laurence noncommittally. Someone put some money into a jukebox, and the peace was instantly shattered by loud thumping music - the sort of noise pollution enjoyed by the mentally deficient and which makes civilised conversation impossible: you might as well go and stand in front of a pneumatic drill. At least he would have a perfect excuse not to talk. Neville popped up in front of them, beaming broadly.

“Enjoying yourself, Dinah? Cigar, Laurence?” Laurence accepted a cigar, out of pure boredom.

“It’s rather loud” said Moneypenny, raising her voice as much as dignity would permit. “I think I heard someone say there’s going to be a disco” Sure enough, a DJ had materialised and was busily setting up his equipment, cue for all sane people to leave.

“Think I’ll be off now” Laurence said into Neville’s ear.

“Oh come on, it’s just starting to liven up” returned Neville cheerfully “Lighten up, Laurence. Chill out. That’s what my kids are always saying. Chill” Laurence looked at him in disbelief. Surely he couldn’t be enjoying this?

“Do you seriously expect me to bop about on the floor like some silly teenager? I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. Good evening, Moneyp, er, Dinah” he added, nodding in her direction, though he doubted whether she’d heard. On his way out he collided with Emily, inadvertently burning her bare arm with the end of his cigar. “I’m so sorry” he muttered, clumsily attempting to brush the ash from her arm as she jumped backwards. She had removed her jacket, under which she was wearing some sort of silk chemise. Rather too much flesh on display, he thought.

“It’s alright. You’re not going, are you? So soon?” She looked disappointed.

“Afraid so” said Laurence, tight-lipped.

“Actually, I was going to ask you if you’d like to dance?”

“I don’t dance” He hadn’t meant to sound so brusque, but if this flame-haired siren thought he was susceptible to her feminine charms then she was very much mistaken. “That is to say, I don’t care to” He qualified his original statement.

“Why not?” she asked, widening her eyes.

“Because I’m a boring old fart. I would imagine any of the younger fellows would be happy to dance with you” he added, disentangling himself. “that is, if you really feel the need to make a spectacle of yourself”

“Why are you so….” She struggled for an appropriate word that wouldn’t sound insulting, then gave up. “Couldn’t you at least smile?”

“Why - would it make you feel more secure?” She looked at him strangely then. Women were downright peculiar, Laurence told himself. There was no getting away from it. He continued on his way towards the bar, where Neville caught him up.

“Heartless bastard, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“She’s got a crush on you, you idiot”

“That is your opinion” And a load of old codswallop, he privately thought.

“It happens to be true” said Neville, laughing at him “Do you realise how many other men in this room would like to be in your shoes?”

“No” said Laurence wearily.

“I have this theory” went on Neville “that beautiful women get bored with men drooling over them, so when they come across someone like you who doesn’t give a rat’s arse, they’re intrigued. It’s a challenge”

“If you’re through with dissecting my non-existent love life, I’ll say goodnight” said Laurence. They were standing on the steps outside. Neville clapped him on the back.

“Good night, old boy. See you tomorrow” He chuckled, shaking his head.

Whilst riding home on the Central line, Laurence studied his reflection in the glass of the window. He’d been considered handsome when he was younger, and he still had a good head of hair. He hadn’t gone to seed like a lot of men his age who had pronounced paunches, and wasn’t much heavier than he’d been in his twenties. At five foot eleven he was a respectable height for a man. It was just conceivable that Emily did find him desirable, incredible though it seemed. It was true that he wasn’t bad-looking, but there must have been plenty of men in her age-group who were far more physically attractive - what on earth did she see in him? He didn’t go in for small talk or social chitchat. Few women took the trouble to get to know him and those who did were swiftly repelled, their advances rebuffed. He had never stopped to think that his behaviour could be construed as hurtful or wounding. He was of the opinion that courtship should be a private affair, in any case, and not conducted under the public gaze.

A gang of drunken louts boarded the train at Tottenham Court Road, and proceeded to bawl un-tunefully at the top of their voices. A lone middle-aged woman, who had been quietly absorbed in a novel, got up and changed carriages; he felt like doing the same but remained seated where he was. One of them urinated on the floor right beside him, hoping for a reaction, but Laurence didn’t give them the satisfaction. Old Soames may have had a point, Laurence reflected. Twice daily floggings was perhaps stretching the point, but clearly something needed to be done. Unless a sizeable portion of the male population was subject to draconian discipline when they were young, this was the result: they ran amok. Decent law-abiding citizens were at the mercy of Neanderthals afflicted with a double helix defect, for which the only known cure was millennia of evolution. And even then it was touch and go. Unemployment was no excuse, so far as he could see. Neither was the excessive consumption of alcohol – all the standard excuses given for obnoxious behaviour. The Prime Minister had recently suggested that such anti-social behaviour should merit on-the-spot fines, with miscreants being frogmarched to the nearest cashpoint and ordered to pay up. Laurence was left wondering how this would be enforced since police officers were now compelled to spend most of their time behind a desk filling out innumerable forms, instead of pounding the beat. And what was to stop corrupt law enforcement officers from pocketing the cash?

Each successive generation was getting worse, he reflected gloomily, as the least responsible and least intelligent members of society were reproducing the fastest - probably because they hadn’t sufficient imagination to do anything much except drink and copulate. The scrounging classes in particular had no incentive to practise contraception or exercise any restraint since the State (funded by taxpayers like him) were compelled to pick up the tab. Moronic thugs could impregnate as many foolish young women as they chose without worrying about the consequences, or of being socially stigmatised, as in the past. Two or three centuries ago they would have been press-ganged and boarded on sea-going merchantmen – thus not only ensuring Britain’s continuing naval supremacy, but solving the problem of what to do with large numbers of aimless and lawless young men. Since the twin expedients of cannon fodder and shark-bait were no longer socially acceptable, you’d think the mandarins of Whitehall could come up with a modern solution to an age-old problem. Instead of which they were exacerbating the situation by turning a blind eye to the hoards of illegal immigrants besieging the channel ports. You didn’t have to be clairvoyant to foresee the likely consequences of large-scale uncontrolled immigration into a small and over-crowded island with limited space and resources. Race riots, and social tensions were only the tip of the iceberg. And those responsible, a succession of useless and effete politicians who should have known better and probably did, continued to wring their hands and abdicate responsibility because they themselves weren’t personally affected. Not yet. They didn’t use public transport or walk the streets, and they could afford around the clock police protection. They might imagine themselves immune in their chauffeured limousines and fortified residences, but the bomb was ticking and all the futile hand-wringing in the world wouldn’t help when the mobsters and gangsters were running the asylum.

The train stopped at Notting Hill Gate, disgorging most of its inebriated passengers. From the platform, they continued to make obscene gestures and hurl insults.

“City wanker” shouted one of them, evidently offended by his smart suit and tie.

“Up yours” returned Laurence, as the doors closed and the train moved off again, only to lurch to a complete halt in a tunnel somewhere between Notting Hill Gate and Shepherd’s Bush. “What’s happening?” enquired Laurence of a fellow passenger, who shrugged.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The drivers don’t bother to tell us anything” After fifteen tense minutes, the train juddered into action and slowly started to move forward again. At Holland Park they were all told to disembark and continue their journeys by bus or taxi as there were no through trains to Shepherd’s Bush, which had temporarily been sealed off.

“Why?” Laurence asked a platform official, who was speaking into a hand-held radio. Apparently some Albanians had tried to slit the throat of a train driver, angry because he’d warned passengers over the Intercom system not to give them any money. When the police had finally arrived on the scene the perpetrators had already fled, and another driver could not be found at short notice to take his place. In the meantime, a gang of Nazi skinheads had shown up, intent on breaking a few heads - preferably those of ethnic minorities - and the police were still trying to restore order.

Laurence completed his journey above ground on foot, and twenty minutes later he arrived back at his flat, which felt pleasantly warm. In the hallway he stooped to pick up his post – sundry bills, plus the usual quota of junk mail and appeals for charity. He gave one envelope a cursory glance: pictured on the outside was a naked African child with huge vacant eyes and protruding ribs, potbellied with malnutrition. He felt like saying to the anonymous caller who had slipped it through his letterbox - why don’t you take this charity envelope and wave it under the noses of the tyrants with chips on their shoulders the size of their national debt, who lock up their citizens in cages and electrocute them with cattle prods. Ask them to contribute something. Ask them what’s happened to all the money we’ve pumped in over the generations. Daily he came across ambassadors from that dark and unlovely continent lurking in the subways of tube stations and mouthing obscenities at the passers-by. Don’t you show me no disrespect, mon. Or else. The unspoken subtext was that if you “dissed” one of the brothers the penalty was a swift and brutal demise with some sharp pointed object. Hadn’t anyone told them that respect was something that had to be earned? If you’re dumb enough to stand around on a street corner waving a knife you won’t get any respect. What you can expect is to be arrested and banged up for the night. Could expect, Laurence reminded himself - in days gone by when the police were allowed to do their job properly.

The red light on his answer machine was flashing and Laurence pressed the PLAY button: “Hello, Laurence. Philip here. Call me when you get in. Gillian’s gone missing and Trevor’s tearing his hair out. Speak to you later” Laurence made himself some coffee then called his brother. “We were rather hoping she might have showed up at yours” said Philip “and that maybe you’d both gone out to dinner” No chance, thought Laurence. After watching a program featuring kitchen staff doing unspeakable things to the food ordered by diners they had taken a dislike to, he had studiously avoided all restaurants.

“Er, listen, Philip” Laurence hesitated “Some peculiar things have been happening lately and – well, perhaps I should contact Josie first and then call you back”

“Why - do you think Gillian might have made her way to Wales? Are you alright, Laurence? You don’t sound like your normal self at all”

“I don’t know what my normal self is any more. I have a hunch that Gillian may have - well, I’ll wait until I’ve spoken to Josie. Keep me informed if you hear anything” Laurence rang off before Philip could ply him with any more questions. He changed out of his suit and ran a bath half-full before he picked up the phone again to dial Josie’s number. After eight rings, Josie picked it up.

“Yes?”

“Jo? It’s me, Laurence”

“Oh, it’s you. I was fetching in some wood. What do you want?”

“Jo, we need to talk”

“What about – share prices?” came Josie’s tart rejoinder.

“I’ve been to Albion and I’ve met up with Darius. Either that, or I’m going crazy. Thought I’d sound you out before I take myself off to a shrink” There was a pause, then Josie said “Is this your idea of an April Fool’s joke? Grow up”

“I’m not messing about, Jo. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, why do you keep sending me those silly postcards?” There was another weighty pause, then

“So it’s finally started then. Have you told the others?” She sounded excited.

“There’s only Philip to tell. Gillian seems to have vanished off the face off the earth. There’s a massive police search underway. I’ve been talking to Philip, and she went missing at about eight o’clock last night, which is exactly the same time I …the thing is, Jo, the memory’s fading. How long does it last before we forget?”

“I never did forget” she reminded him “When we were kids, the rest of you had forgotten everything after a week had passed”

“I’ve got a few days leave owing to me. You don’t have your own transport, do you?” he asked tactfully. Josie’s driving was atrocious. After narrowly missing two elderly pedestrians and crashing into a generator - which had plunged an entire village into darkness - she had been banned from driving for five years. Not nearly long enough, he thought.

“I’ve got this old banger, but of course I’m not really meant to be driving…”

“Don’t even think about it. What if I drive down to Wales tomorrow then drive us both back to Richmond the following morning? Philip will know what to do.” Josie considered this.

“Alright. The cottage is small so you’ll have to sleep on the couch. I’ll give you directions” Laurence scribbled them down hastily on a scrap of paper. “I’m sure it’s the woods, you know” continued Josie cryptically.

“The woods?”

“Oh, never mind, I’ll explain later. What time are you setting out?”

“First thing. Expect me some time in the afternoon” Laurence rang off then climbed into the bath to soak his aching muscles. He felt like he’d just run a marathon.

Chapter 13  – Lost in Wales (2001)

Laurence awoke bright and early the next morning, feeling quite light-headed at the prospect of a few days away from the office. He called Neville first.

“Something has come up. Can you manage without me?”

“Suppose we’ll have to. You could have given me a bit more notice, old chap” Laurence thought he sounded a little peeved.

“Can’t be helped, Neville. Family business. It’s my younger sister – you know, the loopy one I told you about” Laurence knew Neville wouldn’t press the point further.

“Say no more, say no more. We had one in our family – cousin of mine – had to be committed. That was years ago. They can do wonders with drugs these days. You do what you have to do, old chap, and I’ll see you after the Easter break” After checking the cupboards and finding nothing edible, Laurence took himself off to a small patisserie around the corner, and ordered an almond croissant and a cappuccino. From his window-side seat he was able to savour the rare luxury of watching harassed workers scurrying to their offices at an hour when he was normally at his desk fielding abusive phone calls from irate clients. For once he was a spectator and not part of the spectacle.

An hour later he was in a hired car on the M4 heading for Wales. It had started to rain quite heavily by the time he reached Bristol, and he flicked on his windscreen wipers and checked his speed. He stopped at a motorway services just outside Newport to fill the tank and snatch a coffee, before consulting the map and Josie’s directions again. He’d lost about an hour because he’d been forced to use the old bridge near Chepstow, which only had two lanes, due to an accident on the Severn Bridge. He decided to take the northbound A4042 towards Abergavenny. The sky had darkened and the rain was now torrential, driving against his windscreen in horizontal sheets. The wind had also picked up and the car was being buffeted from side to side in the squall. Visibility was so poor he was obliged to switch on his headlamps, although it was only two o’clock in the afternoon.

A further ten miles down the road, Laurence turned off where a sign pointed to somewhere called Llanrithcrag, which sounded like the name written down on the scrap of paper on his dashboard. He drove for what seemed like miles without seeing any signs of human habitation, apart from one or two remote hilltop farms. Despite the ravages of foot and mouth there were still quite a few sheep dotted about the hillsides, resembling white boulders from a distance. He hadn’t come across any villages, and was now beginning to have serious doubts as to whether he’d taken the right turn-off. Whenever he did see a sign it was in Gaelic, and ambiguously sited (was it pointing north, north-west, or west?) As he pulled up to a T-junction, Laurence peered to see what the signs said: Llanrithcrag to the left and Pant-yr-Pontirath to the right. Neither was marked on his road atlas, which was a fat lot of use, thought Laurence irritably. You’d think you were in a foreign country - even in Europe the road signs were in English.

Glancing at his written instructions again, he realised his error. Josie lived near a village called Llandiglio not Llanrithcrag, so he had no idea of knowing which direction he should now take. Since heading away from the coast he’d completely lost his sense of direction because the roads twisted and turned so much. He opted for the left-hand fork as being the likeliest route to take him in a north-westerly direction.  He’d travelled no more than about six miles before he encountered a roadblock, with a prominent sign warning of severe flooding. There was no way through. He turned the car around in frustration, almost reversing into a ditch because the road was so narrow, and set off towards Pantypontwhatsit, still hopeful of coming across a roadside inn or a shop.

The scenery was what tourists call picturesque, as the road threaded its way between lush valleys and forested mountains festooned with streams and cascading waterfalls, but Laurence was hardly in a mood to appreciate it. He was by now hungry and tired, and totally fed up. Twenty minutes later, much to his relief he saw a display board advertising News of the World, which meant there must be a newsagent a hundred yards ahead. There was but it was closed for Easter, Laurence discovered, as he parked up alongside it. His eye alighted on a red phone box on the other side of the road. He hadn’t had a chance to replace his stolen mobile, but at least he could give Josie a ring and find out how far he was from Llandiglio. Laurence made a dash for it, scuttling into the phone box out of the downpour.  The cubicle was covered in scurrilous graffiti and graphic cartoons along the lines of “Linda is a slag. She does it with dogs” and scrawled beneath this in big letters  “I DO NOT. Kenny does it with sheep” Not especially interested in the fornicating habits of either Kenny or Linda, Laurence picked up the receiver. The line was dead.

“Shit. Bugger” Laurence swore some more, wondering what kind of mentality drove people to vandalise their own public services. Boredom? Sheer bloody-mindedness? It was the sort of thing you’d expect on a council-run housing estate, but somehow he hadn’t expected this in a pocket of rural Wales. He trudged back to his car and sat there for a minute, gloomily contemplating the downpour as solid sheets of rain sluiced the windscreen. Stranded in Wales. There was always the sheep of course, if he got too bored. He could take a leaf out of Kenny’s book. As far as he could see, he had two choices: to turn back until he reached relative civilisation, and ask for clear and precise directions at a fuel pump (but that would mean backtracking for about fifty miles - in this weather and these road conditions reckon on about an hour and a half) or he could keep going and hope for the best. If there was a newsagent and a telephone, it stood to reason that there must be a few houses nearby. It made more sense to go on, he decided.

The valley widened out, with spectacular views of mist-enshrouded mountains. He guessed he was somewhere in the region of the Black Mountains, which lived up to their name. They looked black and menacing, as did the thunderclouds, massing overhead like a battalion of warships. To his astonishment Laurence saw a white roadside van advertising hot snacks, teas and coffees. At first he thought it might have been a mirage, like the proverbial oasis in a desert. It seemed too good to be true. But as he slowed down he caught sight of a man moving purposefully behind a counter. Laurence parked in the lay-by and made his way to the van, his face lashed by stinging rain which had now turned to pellets of hail. The van was rocking in the wind.

“Good lord” exclaimed Laurence, as the man turned to face him “Do you actually get any business out here?”

“You’d be surprised” responded the vendor “We get hikers and climbers out in all sorts. The worse the weather the more of them you see crawling over the mountains. Daft if you ask me. Is it tea you’ll be wanting?” He positioned a chipped mug underneath the spout of a big tea urn.

“I’d love some tea. Milk and sugar, thanks. What hot snacks have you got?”

“Did have some hot pasties and bacon rolls, but a party of climbers came by not twenty minutes ago and cleaned me out. But I’ve got crisps. And Mars bars” He rummaged around in a box “Nope, they took all the Mars bars as well. Kit Kat?”

“That’ll do. Packet of crisps and a Kit Kat. Could you tell me how far I am from this place?” Laurence showed him the piece of paper with Josie’s address on it. “There don’t seem to be many houses around here”

“No, there wouldn’t be. This is the Brecon Beacons National Park” He squinted at the piece of paper “Don’t know that I recognise that. Wait a minute. Llandiglio – that’s north Wales. You’re nowhere near. That’s miles away”

“Are you sure?” asked Laurence, utterly crestfallen. He handed over a five pound note.

“’Course I’m sure – my mother-in-law (nasty woman) lives around there. Just bring the mug back when you’ve finished with it. Have you got anything smaller? I’ve only got two quid in change”

“That’s alright. Keep the change. What would you recommend as the best route to take – I was aiming to get there this afternoon”

“This afternoon?” The man tactfully refrained from pointing out that it was already four o’clock, and any daylight left was fast fading. “Well, we’re talking about seventy miles, no, more like seventy-five. I suppose if you really put your foot down….” There was a peal of thunder, followed by a flash of forked lighting, which lit up the sky. The man peered up at the sky “Not really the weather for putting your foot down, though, is it. You want to watch them hailstones – they can get to the size of golf-balls. Do you know your way around these valleys?” Laurence shook his head dejectedly. The man looked at him with real pity, probably thinking poor bugger, what a head case. “In that case, give me a few minutes to pack up, and then you can follow me. I was on my way home anyway. I’m going in your direction”

Laurence thanked him profusely and returned to his car, where he gulped down his tea and Kit Kat. Thunder rolled across the sky like celestial cannon, and it became as dark as a solar eclipse. Five minutes later his self-appointed guide swung the van out into the road, with a cheery wave to Laurence, who followed close behind. Relieved of all responsibility, Laurence tailed the van for about thirty-five miles. They were now on a good stretch of road, and Laurence began to feel a bit more optimistic that he might actually reach his destination before nightfall. The van stopped close to a junction and Laurence pulled up alongside.

“I go left here. You carry straight on up the A470...” The man reeled off a list of unpronounceable place-names in Gaelic; seeing Laurence’s mounting panic, he added “Once you reach The Black Bull you’re home and dry, man. Keep an eye out for The Black Bull. The mug?”

“Oh, sorry, of course” Laurence handed him the chipped mug through his window.

“You’d be surprised how many people drive off with those. The missus says I should get polystyrene cups, but I like a good china mug myself. All part of the service”

Forty-five minutes later Laurence nearly zoomed past The Black Bull, as the sign was obscured by a large lorry parked awkwardly outside. Inside it was cosy and warm, with a handful of regulars chatting amongst themselves. There was a wide-screen TV bolted to wall brackets, and the six o’clock evening news had just started.

“Half a pint, please” said Laurence, pointing to one of the pumps.

“What a plonker! Wouldn’t yer like to ram his head in a pile of steaming cow shit?” exclaimed an elderly man with tufts of white hair protruding from his cap. Startled, Laurence looked around then realised the speaker was referring to the Prime Minister, who was trying to make out a case for early entry into Europe.

“He needs to be put down before he does any more damage” commented a younger man, who was probably about six foot four. “I hates the French, and I hates the bloody Germans. But I tell you something, their leaders are a lot better than what we’ve got. At least they stick up for their own people. Whereas that tosser...” he gestured towards the screen contemptuously. “What did he think he was elected for, to shit on us?” Laurence leaned over the bar, trying to attract the attention of the bar-tender.

“Excuse me, but I’m trying to find Brambleside Cottage near Llandiglio. I was told it wasn’t far from The Black Bull”

“Eh, well there’s about five Bramble cottages around here” responded the bar-tender “It’s the English woman you’ll be after, is it?”

“Does he think we’re all soft in the head?” interrupted the big man, who was becoming more enraged by the Prime Minister’s speech. Glistening with sweat and looking increasingly ill at ease under the cameras, the PM was attempting to persuade the electorate that it was “patriotic” to surrender British sovereignty to the Europeans. The rhetoric, brimming with references to “European enlargement” and the “dawn of a new world order” was curiously similar to that of the Nazis over sixty years ago.

“Why doesn’t he ever talk to the people on the street, people like us? I’ll tell you why, because the bastard’s talking out of his arse and he knows what he’ll get if he comes around here.” He shook his fist. “I’ll give him what for, I’ll rip his bloody head off” Considering his size, Laurence judged he would be able to accomplish this without much difficulty.

“He started off alright” said the bartender, leaning his elbows across the bar “I mean, I was fool enough to vote for him. I reckon he’s been brainwashed. Look at his eyes, man, listen to him speak – now you tell me, does that sound to you like a man or a robot?”

“I’ve been thinking that myself lately” interjected the pensioner in the cap. “Maybe he’s got one of them electronic implants in his brain that tells him what to say and do. I wouldn’t put it past that lot in Brussels. They could have planted it in him when he was asleep. Maybe he’s got no choice, man, that’s what I’m thinking”

“I heard he’s been paid off” declared the big man contemptuously “Promised millions if he delivers the British on a plate to the Europeans, damn him to hell for a bloody traitor”

“Is it far from here?” interrupted Laurence, who could see where this conversation was heading – Invasion of the Bodysnatchers, killer robots in high office. The bar tender waved a hand dismissively.

“Nah, coupla miles. She expecting you then?” Three curious faces now swivelled in his direction.

“I’m her brother” explained Laurence. “I’m about four hours late, so if you could just point me in the right direction-”

“Oh right you are. You go on down the road for half a mile, then turn off at the pink house”

“The Llandiglio road he wants” cut in the pensioner “But you don’t go into Llandiglio. You pass Malcolm’s farm – there’s a sign asking do you want fresh eggs – and then you’ll pass a blue bungalow”

“No, it’s white now” interrupted the big man “because I gave it a paint job myself. Mrs. Davies didn’t want it blue no more”

“So he goes past the bungalow, the white bungalow, and about half a mile down the road there’s a double-barred gate with a dirt track leading off-”

“-It’s the second double-barred gate” corrected the bar-tender “The first one goes to Henderson’s farm. And he won’t let no-one in there because of the foot and mouth. If he thinks you’re one of those men from the Ministry he’s likely to go after you with a shotgun”

“-Can you blame him, man? He’s lost everything. Those bastards went in and slaughtered his entire flock, and there weren’t nothing wrong with ‘em. If you ask me, they went in and deliberately infected the sheep. Henderson stands up for hisself, and they don’t like that, see”

“So I turn off at the second double-barred gate after the white bungalow” prompted Laurence, somewhat impatiently.

“And that track will take you to the Englishwoman’s cottage. You’d be better off with a four-wheel drive, though, because it’s fair churned up by the cattle. And Henderson brings his tractor down there. You could get bogged down in it”

“But he could get out and walk. That’s if he don’t mind getting his feet muddy” chortled the old man.

“It’s not just mud is it, it’s cow dung” laughed his companion. Upon this note of general hilarity, Laurence cordially thanked them for their help and quitted the bar.

Laurence turned off at the pink house and passed a farm with a sign advertising fresh farm eggs. Further along he came to a white bungalow and began to feel optimistic. The first double-barred gate had a hand-painted sign, which read “KEEP OUT. PRIVATE PROPERTY. ANYONE LAYS A FINGER ON MY SHEEP WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT” Laurence ducked instinctively, hunched over the steering wheel. Fortunately there was no sign of Henderson, or of his sheep either, but Laurence accelerated nonetheless so that he almost shot past the second double-barred gate a few hundred yards down the road. He got out to open it, then eased the car forward through the muddy morass on the other side. He closed the gate, slithering about in the darkness in his city shoes. No wonder people wore wellies in the country, if they had to plod through this foul-smelling sludge. He got back in the car but realised his mistake as soon as his rear wheels started to spin. The car was not going to make it – he would have to get out and walk. Laurence’s progress up the dirt track was laborious and unpleasant, not least because he hadn’t thought to bring a torch and it was pitch black.

“Wallowing in the mire as usual, I see”. Laurence was blinded by a powerful light shining directly in his face. “What time do you call this?” Josie emerged from the gloom, wearing what looked like a forties leather flying helmet with earflaps. “Saw your headlights from the cottage”

“Is it much further?” groaned Laurence, by way of greeting. “Sorry I’m so late, I got delayed by an accident on the bridge and then I managed to get lost somewhere in the Black Mountains”

“It’s just around the bend in the track. You look all done in, Laurence. I thought all Londoners worked out at gyms” They rounded the bend, and the ground beneath his feet became firmer as he stepped over gravel. “My neighbour’s meant to be laying down a hard core, to improve the access” continued Josie “but he hasn’t got around to it yet. I’ve offered to chip in with the cost, but it’s his responsibility really because he owns the land: I’ve just got access rights”

“This neighbour of yours wouldn’t be called Henderson, by any chance? Anyone lays a finger on my sheep will be shot on sight?” Josie laughed.

“That’s him alright. I don’t know who’s more anti-social, him or me. Suits me fine – I couldn’t stand having the kind of nosy neighbour who’s always dropping in for a chat”

“You could have warned me about the track, Jo. Will the car be alright just inside the gate, or will your neighbour be wanting access in the morning?” He had visions of an irate Henderson showing up early the next morning – his path being blocked by Laurence’s vehicle – and crunching it under his tractor wheels like a coke tin.

“Stop fretting, Laurence. Henderson rarely uses this track. It’s not normally this mucky – he took the cattle through there last week to get them out of the way of the men from the Ministry of Agriculture. It was like a stampede. But they went and slaughtered the lot anyway. It was a disgusting business, and he was pretty shook up about it, as you can imagine. Last I heard, he’d barricaded himself in. I don’t go down to the pub much but I hear them talking in the shop. It’s like a siege mentality around here. Nobody trusts the government. They brought in the army to do their dirty work, and on top of that they’re trying to blame the farmers, but everyone around here knows better than that. They’re just trying to cover up their own incompetence. It’s been a total cock-up from start to finish. Anyway, here we are. Welcome to my humble abode” Josie swept the beam of torchlight over a low-slung traditional stone-built cottage, which was sheltered from the wind by the hill at its rear, and flanked by clumps of trees and bramble bushes on both sides. In front, there was a semi-wild garden where Josie had erected a small polytunnel.

“I grow all my own vegetables” said Josie proudly “The water comes from a well and there’s a septic tank outside for drainage. You’d better take your shoes off before you come inside – I’ll get the stew out of the oven.” After exploring the cottage, which was certainly small but quite charming, with an inglenook fireplace and exposed beams – Laurence sat toasting his feet in front of the roaring fire with a bowl of the most delicious lamb stew he had ever tasted.

“I suppose all the vegetables come from the garden?” he enquired politely.

“Of course. I’m as self-sufficient as it’s possible to be in this day and age. The lamb is local and anything I can’t grow myself I get from Malcolm and Rhianna” Despite her eccentric appearance – her hair was cut in a pudding bowl shape as though she’d just hacked it off with a pair of garden shears, and she was wearing a pair of old riding jodhpurs that looked like they’d come out of a jumble sale – Laurence thought Josie was looking remarkably well. “We’ll have to talk about you know what, sooner or later” remarked Josie “But not before the rhubarb crumble” She stood up and went into the kitchen, and came back a moment later with two dishes heaped with crumble and custard. “Oh, and I almost forgot. A bottle of elderberry and blackcurrant wine”

“You make that yourself as well?” asked Laurence, surprised.

“No – but it’s produced locally. The rhubarb’s from the garden, though” She poured them both a glass of wine, and then proceeded to light a pipe. Laurence was dimly aware that other chaps had normal sisters who didn’t smoke pipes or wear such outlandish outfits - but what did it really matter, he thought, beginning to relax with the wine and warmth from the fire. The tobacco was aromatic and reminded him of what his father used to smoke.

“Isn’t that Borkum Riff, the stuff Dad used to smoke..?”

“Yes. I always used to like the smell of it when I was a kid. Let’s drop the social chitchat – what’s been going on? Tell me everything” Laurence started off haltingly, describing the meeting with Darius in his club, and the stroll through Kensington Gardens.

“It just happened in the blink of an eye. One minute I was walking through the park and the next I was in the forest of Albion” He described his capture by Ermentrude and his subsequent rescue by Darius, then hesitated.

“Go on” said Josie “What happened next?”

“I found myself back at Brocklebank. I was eleven years old again, and it was like nothing had changed. And oddly enough Darius was the same age as me, though he’d looked older in London. I had no memory of my present life - or is memory the right word?” He stopped, confused “Because the future hadn’t happened, if you know what I mean – it was as if I was never an adult at all. But it’s like a dream. I could remember everything clearly yesterday, but now it’s starting to get hazy…why is it that you were always able to remember, when the rest of us didn’t?” asked Laurence puzzled. Josie sighed.

“It’s a long story. For many years I didn’t remember. Like you, I grew up and got on with my life” Instead of settling down with a steady job, Josie had gone back-packing around the world - a phase which most young people of her generation went through, but the phase had persisted right through her twenties into her thirties. While Philip, Gillian and Laurence were forging out careers Josie had remained an itinerant, drifting from one place to the other. Occasionally one of them would receive a postcard from somewhere like Nepal, and then she’d fetch up in Central America or Morocco. “I experimented with all kinds of things: ashrams in India, transcendental meditation, Zen Buddhism, shamanism, the Christos technique...”

“What on earth is that?”

“It’s to do with the Third Eye. It’s a specific physical technique that a group of people developed to enable them to re-live past lives”

“Like reincarnation, you mean?”

“Yes, only it was meant to be faster and more efficient. The people I hung out with in those days were all searching for something similar. We were all drop-outs, after a fashion. But it wasn’t so much that we wanted to drop out as to tune in to an alternative reality. A lot of people nibbled magic mushrooms, because the hallucinogenic effects were almost as good. We were young and impatient – we couldn’t be bothered with the years of spiritual training and mental discipline that the yogis and fakirs went through – we wanted instant enlightenment, instant results”

“You’ve lost me there” said Laurence, finishing off his third glass. “You know, this wine is good stuff” Josie refilled his glass. For an instant he had a flashback of Ermentrude offering him the cordial in her chariot. “What’s a fakir anyway?”

“A Hindu holy man. For God’s sake Laurence, did the sixties and seventies just pass you by? Or did you sleep through it all?”

“Well, I never went in for all that swinging sixties stuff” said Laurence, a little huffily “And I never touched drugs”

“I’m not talking about drugs or sex, you idiot. I’m talking about something altogether different” Josie tapped her forehead. “We’ve all got amazing powers if only we can tap into them. Famous rock stars like Jim Morrison were experimenting as well - pushing back the boundaries - but they got sidetracked somehow and didn’t survive, they didn’t come through the experience. It got scary. So some of us tried what we thought were safer routes – astral projection, out-of-body experiences....”

“You’re making me dizzy” Laurence rubbed his temples.

“The wine’s making you dizzy. I told you it was a long story. But that’s how it all started. Someone introduced me to this woman who could do past life regressions, so I went along.”

“What happened?” asked Laurence. Josie tossed another log on the fire, and Laurence sat back as the sparks flew.

“What do you think happened? I started to remember Albion. Talk about floodgates opening. And that’s when I started to have problems” Josie grimaced.

“That’s when you went off the rails?”

“If you want to call it that, yes. Everyone thought I was having a nervous breakdown, and maybe I was. And, predictably, none of you wanted to know. As far as you lot were concerned I was just this penniless tramp who talks to herself and hallucinates. They diagnosed me as a schizophrenic. That’s when I decided I didn’t want any more so-called help from the medical authorities: I didn’t want to be institutionalised, so I just took off”

“Christ, Jo” murmured Laurence, not knowing what to say “We didn’t really know what was going on with you. You didn’t communicate with any of us. We were all really concerned, but nobody knew where you were. You just kept sending these weird post-cards with no return address. It was as if you wanted to cut yourself off from us completely. We wanted to help…”

“-I didn’t want your charity” snapped Josie “Not then or now. I wanted some understanding. A little support at the time would have been appreciated” Laurence looked uncomfortable. “Look, don’t worry about it. I don’t blame any of you, not any more. I’d probably have snapped your head off if you’d come near me. I was defensive and paranoid. I don’t really like people, you know”

“I don’t like people much, either” mumbled Laurence “They’re a pain in the neck”

“They can be a lot worse than just a pain in the neck, believe me” said Josie grimly, hinting darkly “I’ve seen people at their very worst, and I’ve had experiences I don’t really care to remember” Laurence fervently hoped she wasn’t going to confide in him. He gulped down some more of the heady wine. Nobody in the family ever referred to Josie’s homeless period when she’d rubbed shoulders with vagrants, drug addicts and criminals. When they had finally tracked her down – largely due to Gillian’s perseverance and the services of a private detective - Laurence had marvelled at how she had managed to survive on the streets. Josie never talked about the missing years and he never asked. He preferred not to know.

“Let’s just say I’ve been to hell and back again, and leave it at that” Laurence breathed a sigh of relief.

“They think I’m a walking anachronism at the office” he confessed “I was entertaining a client recently at my club, an American, and he was telling me how much he admired the English for their stiff upper lip and their stoicism. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the English aren’t like that any more. You wouldn’t believe the number of able-bodied young men you see just sitting there on the pavement with their hands outstretched. Like babies” Josie made a face.

“The State actively encourages dependency: they can then dictate to people how they should live - independence is not something they want to encourage. That’s why so many people are on benefits. Publicly, government ministers moan about the burden and the cost to the state, but actually it suits them very well. After all, they’re not footing the bill themselves. People like you are. The farmers are still fairly resilient and self-sufficient. They keep tightening their belts and making do with less and less, but you don’t catch them wallowing in self-pity. They just work harder, because none of them want to rely on government handouts. But they must know they’re fighting a losing battle. Henderson’s days are numbered. He’d rather shoot himself than go running to the authorities for help. He represents everything they want to do away with – tough characters who are quite capable of fending for themselves without government interference. That’s why they’re gunning for him. It hasn’t escaped anyone’s notice around here that they moved in on him first. His animals were healthy and disease-free, but they butchered his entire herd. And now they’re waiting for him to crack”

“What do you think he’ll do?” asked Laurence.

“I’ve no idea, but he’s got a lot of local support. I don’t think he’ll crack, he’ll get even. But we seem to have digressed rather a lot. You said you spoke to Philip the other night – how is he?”

“Bearing up very well, in the circumstances”

“I think I know where Gillian is” said Josie musingly “I had a vivid dream about her last night. She was very happy, happier than I’ve seen her in years. She was dancing in a forest. She won’t want to come back, I’m certain of that, which is why we’ll have to go after her. But if we don’t act fast we’ll have forgotten everything, or at least you will have done. We probably have about twenty-four hours before your memories fade completely, during which time you’ll convince Philip that I’m a head case”

“That’s not fair, Josie” protested Laurence.

“You won’t be aware you’re doing it, but you will, Laurence. Not out of malice, but because that’s who you are. We’ve got to find a way to get back to Albion together, but if we drive all the way to Richmond tomorrow that’s just wasting time”

“It’s not that easy for him to come to us, Jo. He’s not that mobile yet”

“Well, of course that would be utterly pointless. We have to decide on the most likely portal and then get Philip to meet us there tomorrow morning”

“Portal?” echoed Laurence, striving to keep up with her.

“A threshold, a means of entry into Albion. Some people think standing stones are portals into another reality or what we think of as the past, and were erected as markers. But we won’t go into all that”

“Please don’t – I’m getting a headache. Do you think we could have some coffee?”

“Might be a good idea” Josie went off to make some coffee, while Laurence contemplated the glowing embers of the fire. He suddenly felt quite exhausted. But then Josie’s conversations always did that to him. He remembered an occasion when they had both met up in a pub after Josie had returned from trekking through South East Asia. Laurence had sat there in his pin-striped suit, gradually edging away and attempting to distance himself from his wild-eyed sister and her excited talk – which ranged from ley-lines to electromagnetic resonance and alien abductions. He hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways, and by the end of the evening his head was reeling. Josie didn’t believe in lowering her voice or being discreet, and was so caught up in her half-baked theories that she was completely oblivious of others. Groups of people had turned to stare at them, while Laurence had cringed with embarrassment. She now returned with a pot of coffee and two mugs, and plonked them on the table.

“What we need to do – while there’s still time – is to make a list of all the ways we managed to enter Albion, starting with the big tree outside our bedroom window”

“OK, there was the beech tree” said Laurence, pouring them both a coffee. “Portal Number One. God, I’m beginning to sound like you. But the house was sold years ago. And the tree was probably chopped down – remember how Mum and Dad used to worry about its spreading roots?”

“Alright – forget Cornwall. There’s Kensington Gardens”

“Portal Number Two – I’m getting good at this, aren’t I?”

“A pattern is starting to emerge – what do all these places have in common?”

“Birds?” queried Laurence.

“Keep going”

“I don’t know – bushes, trees…a tree!”

“Precisely. And now the woods in Somerset where Gillian disappeared. Portal Number Three”

“IF that is what happened, and we’re not dealing with something more sinister” said Laurence “Besides, if there were all these portals knocking about why wouldn’t everybody who went for a walk in the woods disappear?”

“Because you can only return to Albion if you’ve already been there: as children we had a unique experience”

“Excuse me, but how do you know all this?”

“It was explained to us by the gnomes - remember the Grumblegoods? Don’t try and rationalise this, Laurence, because it’s not susceptible to logic. That’s not how parallel universes work. Do you remember that summer we all went to the maze at Longleat and I was the first one out?” Laurence nodded. He and the others had been trapped in the maze for over an hour, plagued by clouds of gnats who were in a feeding frenzy because of the humid heat, whilst Josie had emerged triumphantly at the exit after only five minutes. “It was because I didn’t attempt to apply logic or common sense. I just zoomed around randomly without stopping to think about it”

“Alright, but that was pure luck. I bet you couldn’t repeat the experience”

“Well, that goes without saying. Because chance is purely random – it’s not repeatable. I think it’s the same with portals – one minute they work, the next they don’t”

“In that case it would be pointless to mark the spot, like these standing stones are supposed to do” He rubbed his forehead “Don’t suppose you have anything for a headache - and where am I supposed to be sleeping tonight?” Quite apart from the gruelling journey from London to north Wales, he felt mentally fatigued. Josie never seemed to get tired; he’d known her to sit up all night gabbing.

“Are you feeling tired?” asked Josie, genuinely astonished. “I’ll make up a bed for you on the floor. You’ll be quite cosy here in front of the fire. But you mustn’t go to sleep just yet, Laurence”

“Why not – couldn’t we continue this discussion in the morning?” pleaded Laurence  “We’ll set off bright and early and arrive at Kingston-upon-Thames in the afternoon. Which reminds me – I really ought to call Philip in a minute” Laurence was looking forward to some sane company, and enjoyed visiting Philip and Rebecca who were both quite sensible. Josie could be a bit much sometimes. Why were they visiting Philip anyway? Laurence couldn’t remember. Were they supposed to be having some sort of family reunion? Josie peered at him, then suddenly took him by the shoulders and shook him roughly.

“You’re starting to forget things, aren’t you? I thought we both just agreed we’re not meeting up in Richmond because there isn’t TIME. The nearest portal is in Somerset…you think I’m ranting again, don’t you?”

“Frankly” began Laurence, then bit his tongue. Josie was starting to get angry, and it wasn’t wise to provoke a mad person. There was no telling what she might do. “Look, are you on-line by any chance? I could sent Philip a quick e-mail…” He couldn’t talk freely to Philip over the phone with Josie listening, but if he could access a computer he could clue Philip in on Josie’s state of mind and also warn him of their imminent arrival tomorrow.

“Sorry, but I’m not on the Internet” said Josie flatly. “And I don’t have a computer. Machines don’t like me – they malfunction when I’m around. I can’t tell you how many electrical appliances I’ve had to get repaired. I did once own a laptop, but it started to make strange whimpering noises whenever I touched it” Laurence stared at her.

“Well, that’s perfectly…” he searched nervously for the right word “normal. Wouldn’t worry about it, Jo. Happens all the time, you know. Machines break down in the office. Why don’t you go and get my bedding and I’ll give Philip a bell – let him know what’s happening”

“Oh no you don’t. I’ll speak to Philip myself. And don’t you dare go forgetting what we’ve talked about this evening” She thumped him on the shoulder. “WAKE UP, Laurence, WAKE UP!” Laurence rubbed his shoulder resentfully. He was sure that other chaps didn’t have sisters who treated them like this. And after he’d driven well over two hundred miles in appalling conditions, simply to look in on her and see whether she was alright. She was really selfish. She had no consideration whatsoever for his feelings, never had done.

“Hi, Philip – it’s me Josie” She was on the phone already. “Yeah, Laurence is here. Much the same as usual, only more so, if you know what I mean” She laughed, a strident barking kind of laugh which grated on his nerves. As she got older she reminded him more and more of their great-aunt Drusilla – both in her mannerisms and the way she laughed. “What’s all this about Gillian then?” There was a silence while she listened to what Philip had to say. “Really? You dreamed it as well? I’ve got a very big favour to ask of you, Philip. You know what we talked about last time? Laurence has had the final proof, only he’s in denial. He can’t help it of course, the effects are wearing off. Are you willing to trust me on this? Can Becky drive you to Somerset tomorrow? I knew I could count on you, Philip. Great. We’ll all meet up at Laurel Grove - on second thoughts, no point in dragging Trevor into this until I know whether it’s going to work. We’ll meet up in the woods near the house at twelve o’clock sharp. Got it? Oh, don’t worry we’ll find you. Try not to be late – Laurence gets worse with every passing hour” Damned cheek, fumed Laurence. Anyone would think he was the one who was demented. She put down the phone and turned to Laurence.

“All sorted. We’re going to Somerset tomorrow. I’ll get you an aspirin for that headache, and then we’ll both turn in” As soon as Josie left the room he felt like ringing Philip back, and putting the record straight for once and for all. But he soon dismissed that idea. Josie was clearly deranged and Philip was just humouring her. Josie returned with a sheet, duvet and a pillow which she flung onto the sofa, and Laurence settled down for the night. Despite his misgivings about the next day, he was soon asleep and slept like a log. The next thing he knew it was morning, and Josie was standing over him. He wished she’d take off that leather flying helmet with the earflaps. It looked really creepy.

“I’m going out to fetch some milk and eggs – Rhianna leaves them by the gate. You might be more comfortable shaving over the kitchen sink; the upstairs bathroom is tiny. Not enough room to swing a cat – or broomstick, should I say” She laughed her peculiar braying laugh, before exiting the room. It was going to be a trying day, Laurence thought to himself, as he rose and dressed. By the time Josie returned, he had made a pot of tea and was poking at the ashes in the grate half-heartedly.

“Leave that” said Josie, dumping a cardboard box on the kitchen table “No point in lighting a fire, as we’ll be off after breakfast. I ran into Henderson, and we’ve already shifted your car back onto the road” They breakfasted on poached eggs, toast and marmalade, and were on the road by eight o’clock. Josie seemed quite absorbed in looking at the scenery from the window. After a while she nodded off and Laurence tuned into a radio chat show. The topic was teenage pregnancies.

“Do you think contraceptives should be sold over the counter at supermarkets?”

“No, I don’t!” responded one outraged woman. “All you blokes worry about is getting your end away. If they’re really that concerned about pregnancies why don’t they sell DIY vasectomy kits instead?” Laurence snorted. The debate moved on to truancy and another listener came on air.

“How are we supposed to keep our kids in school if the Council rewards them for bunking off?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Parker, for the benefit of our listeners who’ve just joined us, you’re referring to the recent decision to provide persistent truants with computers so they can work at home?”

“How do you think it makes my kids feel? They show up at school every morning and do their homework, and what do they get? Nothing. Computers so they can visit porn sites on the Net? Makes me sick. No wonder kids grow up into crim-”

“Thank you for your views, Mrs. Parker. We’ve got a Mr. Anderson on the line. Hello, Mr. Anderson?”

“I think the little bleeders should be given a damn good hiding. I’ll have the computer if they want to throw away good money, taxpayers’ money. But that’s just typical of those wankers on the council-”

“-Thank you for sharing that with us, Mr. Anderson, we have another caller on the line” Laurence switched frequencies, and eventually found a station that wasn’t clogged up with prattling DJs who loved the sound of their own voices, and settled down to some easy listening. An hour later he looked over at Josie, who had been dozing and was now awake. He glanced at his watch. It was now eleven o’clock. They had made fairly good time and were heading south on the A37 towards Midsomer Norton.

“God, Laurence, what’s that awful music?” Tom Jones was belting out What’s new Pussycat, Whoa Whoa Whoa . Pussycat, pussycat I LOVE Youoooo. Yes I DO. Whoa Whoa Whoa…WHAT’S new Pussycat..”

“It’s a golden oldies station. The DJ is obviously a big Tom Jones fan. Do you think Phil will actually turn up?” asked Laurence, changing the subject. He still couldn’t quite believe that Philip had agreed so tamely to Josie’s proposal that they all meet up in the middle of some primordial forest.

“If Philip says he’ll do something, he’ll do it” replied Josie. The rest of the journey passed uneventfully, accompanied by the Welsh singer’s lusty renditions of all of his greatest hits, and at about twenty minutes to twelve Laurence drew up outside Laurel Grove.

“Trevor won’t be expecting us” said Josie, frowning. Why, why WHY Delilah? Forgive me Delilah, I just cannot take any MORE! Laurence turned down the volume.

“Jill’s our sister, Jo. And Trevor needs our support too. Besides, I have to park somewhere. We’ll just pop in and say hello” Laurence was hoping that he could slip off to the pub on the quiet with his brother-in-law. They could commiserate with each other over a pint, and leave the loonies to their own devices. He knocked on the front door, and was greeted by Gillian’s daughter Diane, who looked wan and red-eyed, as though she’d been crying. She fell into Josie’s arms.

“Oh, aunt Josie” she sobbed “We just don’t know what could have happened to Mum – the police haven’t got anything to go on”

“Don’t worry, pet” Josie reassured her “She’ll be found safe and well. You’ll see. Where’s your dad?” Trevor appeared in the hallway, his son Brian hovering in the background.

“Come in, come in” Trevor ushered them into the sitting room, while Brian disappeared into the kitchen to make some coffee. Everybody was talking in hushed tones as if someone had just died, and Laurence stationed himself in front of the mantelpiece awkwardly. The gravity of the situation had just hit him. Gillian had been missing for nearly three days, and the general assumption seemed to be that she’d been abducted by a motorist. There was access to a B road from the northern edge of the woods.

“Philip and Rebecca will be arriving soon” said Laurence, not knowing what else to say. Josie shot him a look. Too late he remembered that she had arranged to meet them in the woods at noon. It would be rude - not to mention odd - if they were all to troop off now, having just arrived. Laurence glanced at his watch. “I’ve got an idea” he said. They all looked at him. “It might help if we all went out to lunch, got out of the house – don’t you think? What if I go down into the village and book us a table. I’ll probably pass the others on the road. They’ve got to come that way anyway”

“Uncle Laurence is right, Dad” said Brian “We can take the mobile with us so that the police can contact us if there’s any news”

“Well, I suppose it’s not such a bad idea” said Trevor “Try The White Hart first, Laurence. You can get a good roast dinner in there. And the prices are reasonable”

“I’ll come with you” said Josie to Laurence. As they got back into the car she said to him “Straight to the woods, Laurence” in the same tones you would address a chauffeur (“Home, James”)

“What? But you heard me – I’ve just told them I’m going to organise a pub lunch. You’re surely not thinking of going ahead with this harebrained scheme of yours? Philip will probably be in a wheelchair, anyway. He couldn’t go traipsing about in the woods even if he’d wanted to”

“He uses a stick now. We had a prior arrangement to meet in the woods and that’s where we’re going. NOW. I can walk if you don’t want to drive me – it’s only across the fields” As she made a move to get out of the passenger seat, Laurence resignedly started up the engine. What was the use of arguing, he thought. He’d make sure he had a private word with Philip.

“Look” said Josie suddenly, pointing “Isn’t that their car? They’re already here” Rebecca waved to them from the front window and Laurence parked in the lay-by, just behind them. Philip was already struggling out of the front passenger seat, and Laurence offered him his arm.

“Steady, old chap” he murmured. “Don’t try to run before you can walk” He gave Rebecca a perfunctory peck on the cheek, as she came around from the other side of the car. He liked his sister-in-law, but the intimacy of modern greetings embarrassed him. Everywhere he went, English reserve had been dropped in favour of the cloying Continental habit of kissing and hugging people you scarcely knew. Laurence found the whole business highly distasteful, which was why he avoided dinner parties and social get-togethers. At Mortimer’s the members acknowledged each other’s existence with a grunt or barely perceptible nod of the head. Josie and Rebecca embraced, while Philip looked on, humming the tune to the Teddy Bears Picnic. Laurence saw his chance.

“Listen, Philip. About Josie…” Philip held up his hand, like a policeman stopping traffic.

“It’s alright, Laurence. No need for explanations – I know” What did he know, Laurence wondered, that Josie was mad or what Laurence was about to say? “Splendid day for a stroll through the woods” said Philip, looking around at the others. “Shall we set off without further ado?” So he had decided to humour her. Probably wise, in the circumstances. They set off as a group, Josie leading the way and chattering to Becky. Philip planted his stick firmly on the ground. “Heigh ho, heigh ho, it’s off to work we go” then took an unsteady step. Laurence watched, close at hand to catch him if he fell, then Philip took another more confident step - leaning heavily on his stick - whilst regaling them with a stream of jokes. Laurence was aware that his brother was trying to distract attention from his physical infirmity, and felt for him.

“Less wit and more concentration, Philip” said Rebecca over her shoulder. It was said light-heartedly, but you could hear the concern in her voice. She was afraid he would fall.

“It’s not my leg muscles” said Philip to Laurence “My sense of balance is kaput. But I’m making great progress. I’ll be running marathons before next Christmas. Did you hear the one about Superman?” He proceeded to tell them a joke which had Laurence laughing as well. They followed a bridleway into the heart of the forest, Philip stopping to admire the immense girth of the ancient trees with their carbuncles and gnarled roots. The air was redolent with the heady scents of spring, and gaudy red admirals and purple emperors flitted in and out of the shafts of sunlight which pierced the lattice of greenery overhead.

“So this is the forest they want to knock down to make way for a housing development” commented Philip. “Jill was telling me about it over the phone last time we spoke. She sounded quite upset”

“Shame, isn’t it” said Rebecca wistfully “Such a beautiful forest, what I call a real forest. Not like those hideous conifer plantations that the Forestry Commission keeps planting, with their regimented rows and no breathing space between them. Look at that magnificent oak - must be at least fifteen feet wide - you could hide a small army in there”

“That’s what we’re looking for!” said Josie excitedly. She came up to Laurence and Philip, and said in an undertone “What are we going to do about Becky? She can’t come with us, of course. Not where we’re going” Laurence looked at Philip, who said “Don’t worry, Jo. I’ll take care of it” Josie looked satisfied.

“Am I missing something here?” said Laurence to his brother, sotto voce.

“We play the game” replied Philip. “And Josie calls the shots. She knows the rules better than any of us, so it’s a simply a question of follow the leader” Rebecca moved off a hundred yards to the right, and took a camera from her bag.

“What about posing for me against that tree – all three of you? A family photo” Laurence reluctantly joined his brother and sister, Philip standing in the middle. Having his photograph taken was another thing he detested – he simply couldn’t see the point. The flash-bulb went as Rebecca pressed the button. “Perfect. One more, and this time with you smiling, Laurence” Laurence scowled, then said “No offence, Becky, but leave me out of this. Snap the others if you like – I’d only ruin the picture”

“None taken. One’s enough. Besides, I rather like the scowl. It’s so you” They all laughed. Josie took off her coat and unwound a skipping rope from her waist. Laurence had noticed her wearing a strange belt earlier, but had refrained from comment. He was used to his sister’s sartorial idiosyncrasies.

“When I was eight years old I loved to skip, and I’ve kept this old skipping rope – I bet you can’t buy them like this any more” Josie grasped the wooden handles and started to skip, slowly at first then faster and faster. Laurence folded his arms and leaned against the tree. He was not amused. It was twelve-thirty, and if they didn’t get a move on it would be impossible to get a table. It was Easter Monday and the pubs would probably be crowded. Philip turned to Laurence and said casually “What did you and I used to do when we were kids, do you remember?” Laurence shrugged.

“Argue probably. Play conkers” Josie was skipping backwards now, really fast. “I don’t know where she gets her energy from, do you?” he said to Philip.

“You and I would probably have climbed that tree” said Philip suddenly “Let’s do it” Laurence stared at him.

“Philip, you can’t…”

“Says who? I can get onto that lower branch if you give me a leg up. My arms are surprisingly strong” Philip had flung his stick to the ground on top of Josie’s coat and had already grasped the lower branch.

“Becky, say something” Laurence appealed to her, but she was already focussing the camera, watching her husband.

“Come on, Laurence” said Philip impatiently. “It’s only a couple of feet. Give me your hand”

“I will, if you won’t” said Josie, coming up to them.  The next minute they were all struggling beneath the tree – Josie trying to help Philip climb it, and Laurence trying to prevent an accident. The branch snapped and they all came crashing to the ground in a heap.

“What on earth?” Their aunt Drusilla came rushing up “I turn my back on you children for an instant and you’re falling out of a tree. Come along, before the custard cools” They followed her back to their table beside the open fire in Marjorie’s Tea Parlour.

Chapter 14 – A Call To Arms (1959)

During the winter months Marjorie’s Tea Gardens was transformed into Marjorie’s Tea Parlour. People could come in out of the cold into her front parlour where there was always a blazing log fire, and partake of her marvellous steamed puddings. For the adults, there was ginger pudding with brandy sauce or marmalade pudding laced with whiskey, and for the children – spotted dick or treacle pudding with custard. It was a curious fact that as soon as you walked into the parlour the outside world with all its cares simply ceased to exist and any niggling worries receded into the background. Everybody, without exception, was soon giggling - as carefree and light-hearted as a gaggle of school-children released from the school gates and looking forward to the holidays. People were heard to remark: “We must go to Marjorie’s for tea; the scones are scrumptious” or “I know I shouldn’t really, but let’s treat ourselves. Just this once” For the truly addicted “just this once” turned out to be at least twice a week. Its popularity was due in no small measure to the quality of Marjorie’s cooking, but there was something else that made regulars like Drusilla and Archie keep coming back. They experienced a euphoric sense of well-being and contentment, an impression that all was well and that life couldn’t get much better. This peculiar ambience was simply attributed to the unique “atmosphere” or to the food, but there was another reason: it has been mentioned elsewhere in this story that there are several secret entrances to Albion known as portals. The beech tree outside the girls’ bedroom window was one such portal and the horse chestnut at Brocklebank School yet another - but unbeknownst to most of the patrons who frequented the tea gardens, the latter was a key threshold site: that is to say, when conditions were propitious, it was possible to pass into other realms.

“I might have known you’d be here, Godzilla” declared Archie as he closed the door behind him, shutting out the wintry blasts. “How do you always manage to get the best table - right by the fire?”

“Of course you knew I’d be here, you silly old bat” returned their aunt good-naturedly “since it was I who invited you” Most people could not understand what Drusilla saw in Archie, who was like an over-grown schoolboy with his rosy cheeks and mischievous humour - except the children. It was quite simple. He was amusing and Drusilla liked to be entertained. Archie had been plucked from relative obscurity following a sordid blackmail scandal which had rocked the village. Drusilla had come to the rescue, exposing the blackmailer as a mendacious parasite, and taken Archie under her wing. The middle-aged bachelor and formidable spinster made quite a pair, and tongues wagged. They were always to be found at Marjorie’s Tea Parlour, swapping anecdotes and subtly poking fun at various strait-laced members of the community. Archie now pondered the menu for a moment, then peered at Josie’s plate.

“I see you are tucking into the sticky toffee pudding, a wise choice on such a bitterly cold day…”

“It’s treacle, actually” corrected Josie, licking a big gob of golden treacle from her spoon.

“Even better. Though I have to watch my waistline….”

“Have the ginger pudding laced with Armagnac” suggested their aunt with a straight face. After Archie had placed his order, with a double helping of brandy cream, they got down to the serious business of inventing new parlour games. Philip was first off the mark, as usual.

“Whoever starts has to choose a topic of conversation, and if you can make somebody else laugh you pick up ten points and the person who laughed is out. The next player has only three seconds to pick a different subject which must have no connection with the previous one otherwise they’re out and the last player picks up five points. Got it? Round the table clockwise. You start, Archie” Archie launched into a discussion of fourteenth century fashions amongst the nobility and their partiality to pointed shoes - called poulaines since they originated from Poland.

“They were in some instances 24 feet long and attached by means of hidden elastic straps-”

“How ridiculous” giggled Gillian. “I don’t see how they could possibly walk”

“You’re out, Gillian, because you laughed” declared Philip “and Archie scores ten points. I’m next. Laurence told me that his best friend at Brocklebank is someone called Watkins” began Philip “And that he climbs into his bed at night-”

“That’s a filthy lie!” roared Laurence, looking outraged “I LOATHE Watkins, I never said any such thing-”

“Looks like you’re out, Laurence” smirked Philip “because that’s related to what I just said. I pick up five points, oh make that fifteen because Archie just laughed, which means he’s out too”

“Actually, I was the one who made Archie laugh” declared Laurence “So I get the extra 10 points, not you!”

“Shut up, you twit, you’re out. You’re not allowed to express an opinion”

“Oh oh, look who’s out now. That was related to what I just said”

“Look, idiot” said Philip, leaning across the table “You obviously have difficulty in comprehending simple rules. It doesn’t matter whether anything we say has a bearing on what YOU just said because, in the first place, we’re still IN the game and you’re OUT. Secondly, someone who’s been disqualified is not allowed to keep butting in but is supposed to keep their gob shut..”

“Temper temper” said Archie, shaking with laughter. “Oh dear, it looks like I’ve been caught out. I think it’s your turn next, Josie. Three seconds” Josie thought hard as Philip counted aloud “ONE…..TWO….” before turning to the others.

“I’m really looking forward to next week because Mum says I can go with her when she drives to the airport to pick up Grandma and Granddad” Their grandparents had been away for three months on safari in Kenya “She says there won’t be room for anyone else because of the luggage, so I’ll get to see all the presents first” Philip frowned.

“How come you get to go? I’m the oldest. It should be me”

“Ha ha ha! Got you!” crowed Josie triumphantly “You’re out, because that’s related to what I just said. Five points for me” Everyone laughed except Philip, who looked chagrined at having been outwitted by his younger sister. Their aunt winked at Josie.

“We girls are the cleverest. And for making the other remaining player (that’s me) laugh, you score another ten points”

“That doesn’t count” declared Philip “She tricked me. I didn’t know she was still playing the game”

“Oh, now come, dear boy” said Archie, patting him on the shoulder “The game is played with whatever weapon you have at your disposal – wit, deception, trickery.. She won fair and square, just like you did earlier”

“Pride comes before a fall” said Gillian sententiously “That’s what our Headmistress always says” Laurence was still sniggering at his brother’s discomfiture. Philip could be insufferably bossy, and if anyone ever challenged him as to why he should get the biggest slice of cake or why he should be allowed to stay up later than the rest of them, he would smile maddeningly and bamboozle them with long words. “I am merely enjoying the fruits of primogeniture”. Nobody knew what this meant exactly, but Laurence suspected that Nicholas Postlethwaite, that conceited brain box he was so chummy with at school, had put the idea into his head. And the worst of it was their parents actually colluded in this, as if Philip had pulled off some especially clever trick by getting himself born first. As for Gillian, she had an irritating habit of quoting their parents at every opportunity Mother always says if you give those types enough rope they will eventually hang themselves. Father always says that sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you… Like Philip’s, her school reports were always favourable: “Gillian is a sensible child and generally manages to do the right thing. She sets a good example to the younger girls”

Laurence’s own school reports were more ambiguously worded: “Could contribute far more if he’d only put in some team effort” or “Laurence gives the outward appearance of cooperation, but continues to set his own agenda”. This last comment, supplied by Soames, had completely mystified their mother. “But I don’t understand” She had turned in bewilderment to her husband. “How can an eleven-year-old set his own agenda? Honestly, Roger, I’ve a good mind to give that horrid little man a piece of my mind” His mother seldom took a dislike to anyone and her severest form of censure never went beyond mild terms of rebuke such as “horrid” or “disagreeable”. If really provoked, as on one occasion when a London Hotel Manager had overcharged them then kept them waiting for a further half hour when their father queried the bill (causing them to miss their train home) she had been known to use slightly less restrained language. When the manager had gone on to remark aloud on “that tableful of noisy and ill-mannered brats” she had ventured to suggest that he was a “supercilious twerp” (as well as being “thoroughly unpleasant and perfectly horrid”) Philip and Laurence had kicked him on the shin - returning to the lobby for this express purpose after their parents had already departed through the revolving glass front door. No-one insulted their mother and got away with it.

“I say, that sounds like a frightfully amusing game” remarked someone from a neighbouring table “Can anyone join in?”

“No” replied Laurence rudely to the lady who’d just spoken “The game is private. No eavesdroppers” This set off Archie again, who wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and took another spoonful of his pudding.

“Goodness me, this brandy pudding and ginger sauce is quite delicious..”

“It’s ginger pudding with brandy sauce” corrected Josie.

“What can we eat next?” said Archie, looking around the table expectantly. “How about seconds?”

“But, uncle Archie, your waistline…” giggled Gillian.

“Waist? What waist? Waste not want not” said Archie, provoking more mirth.

“Another two pots of tea, Marjorie” said their aunt “when you have a spare moment. Now, Archie and I have to discuss a confidential business matter. So why don’t you children go and play outside for ten minutes or so. I’ll call you when the tea’s arrived”

“Then we’ll all have a helping of spotted dick with chocolate sauce” added Archie. Their aunt gave him a look.

“I think that’s a bit excessive. Daphne won’t thank me for having spoiled their appetites”

“It won’t spoil our appetites” Laurence assured her “We’re always hungry”

“And wrap up because it’s cold outside” called their aunt as they raced out the door and into the back garden. Gentle snow flurries feathered the air. In one corner of the garden was an ancient wishing well (some said it was a sacred well) and Gillian suggested a game of tag. They chased each other around the well, their breath misting up in the frosty air.

“I’m going to make a wish” said Josie “Has anyone got a spare penny?” Laurence reluctantly fished one out of his pockets.

“Since it’s my penny I get to make the wish” No-one could argue with that, and Laurence leaned over the well and screwed his eyes tight shut. I wish, I wish….he thought confusedly as the black water glinted beneath him.

“Don’t fall in, Laurence” Gillian’s voice faded out, replaced by the metallic sounds of battle, the collision of spears and clashing swords, mingled with shouts, curses and screams.

Philip and Laurence peered down through the branches of a chestnut tree at the appalling scene. The noise was deafening. All around them were the sounds of crashing, rending and bloodcurdling screams, as goblins were strangled and crushed underfoot by trees which had gone on the rampage. The air was thick with dense, choking smoke as trees that had been torched went up in flames. Goblins who’d been foolish enough to cut off their retreat were burned alive, and the ground was saturated with a foul-smelling green slime. Laurence succumbed to a fit of coughing, and his older brother clamped a hand over his mouth to silence him. If they were discovered, they would be butchered. The goblins were desperate which made them especially dangerous. None wanted to return to their barren homelands where life was harsh, the landscape unremitting. Here in the forest they didn’t have to toil for a living; anything they desired could be had, through extortion, theft, intimidation, and murder. They had everything they could have wished for: land, a plentiful supply of food and shelter, and limitless power  – all of which had been wrested from an unarmed and defenceless populace. Thanks to the activities of Gerhardt and his henchmen – the reviled Goblin Military Police - most of the opposition had been effectively stifled.

The boys watched in alarm as the lower limbs of an elm tree were amputated with an axe. The tree in question bore it stoically but a great groan went up from his neighbours. A goblin ran around in demented circles, screeching with pain; a great horned owl had just clawed out his eyes with his cruel curved talons, and was now terrorising another goblin who had become separated from his comrades.

“We’ve got to get out of this tree” whispered Philip “Before it is burnt to the ground”

“We can’t” moaned Laurence despairingly. “We’re trapped” He was panic-stricken because he couldn’t find the ring through which he communicated with Ermentrude.

“Be still, or you’ll give us away” hissed Philip as Laurence searched his pockets frantically, though it was doubtful anyone could hear them over the din and commotion of battle. “Stay here and don’t move” Philip instructed his brother “I’m going to climb higher and see if I can get our bearings” Laurence stifled a cough, trying to make himself invisible as Philip inched his way up the trunk, straining against the creaking boughs. Once he had got as high as he could safely climb, he could just about make out a mountain range in the hazy distance. As far as the eye could see the goblins had left a trail of destruction and despoliation. Mighty trees in their prime had been reduced to smouldering stumps. All this must have occurred in the previous days before the arboreal awakening, he reasoned. Now that the forest was on the move, the trees were not such an easy target and were fighting back. It was clear that the goblin hordes were pouring in from the north where Troll Mountain was situated. To the south and west – the direction in which the goblins were advancing – the forest was still relatively unscathed, which meant that it might still be possible to make their escape. If only he had a compass.

Philip looked down and spotted two dead goblins who had been crushed by an enraged ash tree. Their feet were pointing north-east towards Troll Mountain, which meant that all he and Laurence needed to do was to strike out in the opposite direction and maintain that bearing. As he was making rapid calculations in his head, and memorising as much of the topography as he could, something caught his eye in the distance. It appeared to be a white avalanche tumbling down the eastern flanks of the nearest mountain ridge. Philip screwed up his eyes. The odd thing was that it wasn’t moving in one solid mass like snow; segments of it kept streaking off to the left or right, and at the front it was pointed. Like a spearhead, he thought to himself. He climbed back down to where Laurence was wedged in a fork, and outlined his escape plan in low hurried tones.

“We’ll have to wait for an opportunity and then run for cover over there” He pointed to where a couple of ravens were pecking out the eyes of the two dead goblins. “Their heads are facing south west and that’s the direction we need to take. Don’t go haring off in the opposite direction or you’ll run straight into the arms of the enemy. Got it?”

“Alright” returned Laurence dejectedly. Privately, he didn’t think much of their chances of survival, and was fervently wishing himself back at the Pink Citadel. He thought longingly of his comfortable armchair in front of the fire where he’d dozed off so many times, sheltered from the strong winds which lashed Stormy Point. Though he’d have settled for Brocklebank. Even detention with Peterson had to be better than this.

“Wolves!” suddenly came the cry from the goblins. “The white wolves are heading this way” Utter pandemonium ensued, and the remaining goblins started to flee in all directions, gibbering with fright. Some started to climb the trees they had so recently attempted to tear down, but the trees weren’t having any of it and they were hurled roughly to the ground.

“That must have been the avalanche I thought I saw” mused Philip aloud.

“Hadn’t we better make a run for it?” urged Laurence. The clearing was now deserted and he didn’t want to hang around to be attacked by savage wolves.

“No, we should stay where we are. The white wolves are on our side. Don’t you remember that message of support from their leader that Mr. Grumblegood read out to us? They won’t harm us”

“I hope you’re right” muttered Laurence, shuddering at the memory of the grey wolves yoked to the Queen’s sleigh. He resumed his search for the ruby ring, turning his pockets inside out. Philip gave him a funny look.

“For Pete’s sake, what are you looking for?” His words were broken off by the sound of throaty growls as the wolves closed in on the fleeing goblins. There were several desperate high-pitched screams and then silence. A large silver-white wolf emerged into the clearing, shaking something back and forth in his mouth like a rag doll. There was a snapping sound as the goblin’s spine snapped. More wolves rushed into the fray, fangs bared and snarling.

“They don’t look very friendly to me” squeaked Laurence, his mouth dry with fear. Philip, however, slid to the ground and advanced towards the first wolf, who’d dropped his lifeless victim on the ground.

“Jolly good show. We’re really pleased to see you. I’m Philip, and this is my brother Laurence. We were on our way to the prince when we were captured by a Goblin Patrol. It’s a long story but…”

“Jump on and be quick about it” responded the wolf in gruff tones, as Laurence descended cautiously. “Climb on to my back and hold on tight. I’m your ticket out of here” As Philip hesitated, the wolf growled impatiently. Having just witnessed its ferocity and not being disposed to argue with a savage wolf twice their size, both boys obeyed. There followed the most hair-raising ride of their young existence: they clung onto the wolf’s fur as he sped over the terrain, barely touching the ground. As night fell, the temperature dropped, and to make matters worse they were now travelling through freezing hail-storms and blizzards. Numb with cold and blinded by snow flurries, Philip shouted at the wolf to stop.

“Please stop! We need shelter, food and warmth. If you keep on like this we’ll freeze to death” Laurence’s teeth were chattering so violently he couldn’t speak.

“There is no time to lose” snarled the wolf over his shoulder, ignoring their pleas and racing on. After what seemed like hours of discomfort and misery, during which they scaled mist-shrouded mountains and forded boulder-strewn rivers, the storms gradually abated and the cold lessened. The boys stopped shivering as the night became quite balmy. The trees thinned out and the ground sloped downward as they kept to an overgrown bridle-path. The wolf eventually halted at a clearing on the shores of a lake, and unceremoniously tumbled them onto the ground. Severely shaken and bruised, Philip and Laurence staggered to their feet, blinded by the flickering lights from torches. They were surrounded by hundreds of figures which soon resolved themselves into gnomes, beavers, badgers, foxes, rabbits, hedgehogs, moles, weasels, stoats and all manner of creatures – most of whom seemed to be engaged in fierce hand-to-hand combat.

“Out of the way” said an imperious voice “Can’t you see we’re training?” An enormous badger with white stripes down his nose resembling war paint, elbowed them out of the way. Too weary and feeble to protest, the boys moved further off, away from the flashing swords.

“Boris, would you kindly inform the prince that the humans he was looking for have been delivered safe and sound to his care” said the wolf “I can’t stay - too many goblins to kill. I must rejoin my pack” The wolf rushed off into the night.

In her private chambers, Ermentrude gazed into the small black screen of the viewing ring. When the chariot carrying the three children had first crashed in the woods, she had viewed their panicked floundering with amused detachment. She had omitted to mention to Laurence that the HOME command could also be used to repair the chariot if damaged, or to locate it if it were lost and return it instantaneously to its owner. She had witnessed the arboreal awakening with growing disquiet. Although the Festival of the Trees took place every year, this time the trees seemed much more aggressive, more purposeful. Something else was going on, something subtle and indefinable which filled her with unease. Knowledge was power and a little knowledge was dangerous, which was why most of the ancient texts concerning tree-lore had been eradicated. There were no remaining written records (Ermentrude was too thorough for that) but primordial secrets had been preserved by means of oral traditions passed down through the generations - committed to memory by individuals who were deemed worthy repositories of such wisdom. Identifying such individuals was problematic, as they usually had no conscious awareness of the knowledge they possessed, which had to be activated by a magical trigger.

Her thoughts naturally turned to the Faery Queen, who was not above bestowing special gifts on her favourites. Ermentrude’s lip curled with contempt. How she despised that interfering and meddlesome sister of hers, who was forever rescuing humans and other sentient creatures from spells of enchantment - undermining her authority at every twist and turn. The instinct to protect the weak and defenceless was, to her way of thinking, aberrant and against the natural order. Wolves suckled their young but they did not normally suckle those of another species. It was natural for the strong to despise the weak. She considered it the height of folly and the worst kind of treachery to betray immortal secrets – secrets which should have been kept forever hidden from prying mortal eyes. Even the pixies had the sense not to divulge their secrets to humans: fern-seed confers invisibility, laurel leaves induce visions… If Esmeralda had gone so far as to invoke elemental tree-magic this spelled disaster for Albion.

Ermentrude had worked herself into such a frenzy at the perfidy of her sister that she did not see the two boys clamber into the oak tree and vanish into their world. When she turned back to the viewing ring the vision was lost, as was the opportunity to destroy another portal. The silver surface had darkened into a churning black in which images could no longer be discerned. The wretched boy must have lost the ring, or thrown it away. She had no doubt that he would eventually have led her to the larger quarry she had in her sights – Darius, leader of the malefactors. To be thwarted in her purpose when she had come so close to success was insupportable. She stamped around the palace, conjuring up raging tempests and thunderstorms, which reflected her black mood. She set the wolves on some cowering servants who were unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A trembling Goblin Chief was summoned to the royal chambers.

“Why have you not discovered at least one entrance to the Tunnel?” she thundered. Rumours of the existence of the Tunnel, which supposedly ran beneath the Sinister Woods, had been circulating for some time. Despite the continued efforts of the Goblin Patrols and the newly-formed Goblin Military Police, they had been unable to locate either of the entrances. Most of the traitors had gone to ground and considered themselves safe and beyond her reach. Ermentrude’s dominion was restricted to the surface and the air; she had no powers of enchantment beneath the earth or in any of the underground places, which was why it was so essential to have the goblins and trolls as allies.

“Do you imagine I send you into the woods to play games and disport yourselves, whilst the enemy daily strengthens its defences? You promised me results – where are they?” Gerhardt prostrated himself.

“Most esteemed Majesty, my military police have arrested record numbers of traitors and offenders, swelling the royal coffers in the process. However, due to the arboreal awakening our forces have been seriously depleted. All is confusion and mayhem. Many goblins have been strangled and crushed by trees hostile to the realm. If you give the word, I will order that all trees should be burned…”

“A raging forest fire would not advance our cause. Everyone would perish, including yourselves. Have you thought of that, imbecile?” Not for the first time, Ermentrude wondered why it was that the best brains seemed to be on the opposing side; the new communications code devised by the grey squirrel Tenacious (who was on her Most Wanted list) was so ingenious that none of her intelligence team had been able to crack it. This was a continual source of frustration to her, since the disinformation and lies disseminated by the rebels and swallowed wholesale by the gullible, was seriously undermining the Goblin Administration. Although the Grey Squirrel Express had now been officially banned, the tone of the Red Squirrel Chronicle was becoming more subversive daily, and a warrant had been issued for the editor’s arrest. The letters page, in particular, where readers wrote in to express their views, had Gerhardt grinding his teeth in rage. He had insisted on interrogating the editor personally once he was apprehended. As the latter had gone into hiding Gerhardt had instead vented his fury on the sub-editor, who had been boiled in a vat of oil. The fact remained that nobody had any respect for the goblins, who were rapidly becoming a laughing stock, figures of ridicule.

“I will see to it that the trees are felled instead, your Majesty” amended Gerhardt hastily. Ermentrude regarded him coldly.

“Then depart at once to do our bidding. And do not fail me this time” Her tone was ominous, and Gerhardt felt the first tentacles of fear constricting his heart. His predecessor Gervase had failed her and paid the ultimate price: his inert but fully conscious body was immured inside a black slab of granite at the bottom of Lake Mortmere, where he would remain for four long centuries before the enchantment was lifted.

In his haste to leave the room, Gerhardt tripped and fell flat on his face. Ermentrude turned away in disgust, and once again consulted the viewing ring. The ruby glowed red this time and the hinged lid sprang open as she twisted it. As she gazed into its depths, the opaque surface of the small screen became transparent and the human girl swam clearly into focus. She had evidently commandeered the winged chariot and was alone. A power struggle between the rulers of Cadbury, she speculated? Perhaps the girl had killed both boys and stolen the ring. No matter. The important thing was that the ring would enable her to track the chariot. Ermentrude watched the falcon lead Gillian right into the enemy camp, and heard every word of Darius’s rabble-rousing speech. The news of the wolves’ defection displeased her greatly. But the free wolves had ever been disloyal; she still had the grey wolves on her side. Ermentrude summoned the royal sleigh.

“To the Fairy Hill. Make haste”

Pragmaticus prowled up and down the draughty corridors of the castle. He couldn’t have explained the source of his restlessness, but something was afoot - he could feel it in his bones - something momentous that could change the course of history in Albion and he wanted to be part of it. His former pupil Darius needed his help. He was sure of it. Ever since the humans had departed in the chariot, tension in the castle had been mounting. Nothing had changed – outwardly – and yet nothing was the same. Groanalot continued to cook gargantuan meals, enough to feed an army, and to complain about his aches and pains. Wilfred drifted around like a lost soul, wearing a doleful expression and wielding a duster. And Gingernut was as cocky as ever, boasting about the superiority of the Red Squirrel Chronicle over the Grey Squirrel Express.

“If it’s so superior, how come no-one has seen an edition these past two weeks?” Pragmaticus had countered testily. “I want to know what’s happening outside these castle walls”

“We are still gathering intelligence” Gingernut had responded loftily “Our readers must learn patience-”

“A virtue you yourself are singularly unacquainted with” cut in Pragmaticus sarcastically.

“Oh, stop bickering you two” interjected the Cook at this point “It does my head in, it really does. Fine words butter no parsnips and the Devil makes work for idle hands is what I always say..” He removed a large tray of Yorkshire puddings from the oven. Stung by the implied criticism in Pragmaticus’s words, Gingernut had already scampered off, promising to return with the latest edition of the Chronicle “hot off the press”. Pragmaticus was still pacing when Gingernut thrust a long strip of tree-bark under his nose. Pragmaticus snatched at it eagerly. Being an expert in most languages, including tree-language, it didn’t take him long to translate the strange markings made by the squirrels.

“Anything interesting?” enquired Groanalot, who had put his feet up in front of the range and was enjoying a steaming mug of tea. Pragmaticus read out a list of new decrees just issued.

“It’s now an imprisonable offence to be boring or dull. Hubris is a capital offence: anyone who thinks he’s better than his neighbour can be put down, speaking of which that bloodhound Gervase has just been executed..”

“That’s the only good piece of news I’ve heard this month!” declared the Cook.

“A new tax on mushrooms..” continued Gingernut, reading over his shoulder.

“What?” yelped Groanalot “But there’s plenty of mushrooms in the forest for everyone. And it’s a staple food”

“I expect that’s why they’ve slapped a hefty tax on it” commented Pragmaticus. “Rich source of revenue, isn’t it? It says here anyone caught illegally gathering mushrooms will be liable to heavy fines and detention...”

“Bloody hell!” expostulated Groanalot “What’s next? A tax on fresh air?”

“Almost as bad” continued Pragmaticus “A new river toll. Anyone crossing or navigating a stream or river will have to cough up. All river banks will be patrolled by the GMP – the Goblin Military Police - who will have the power to levy fines on the spot and apprehend law-breakers”

“But that’s outrageous!” they all screamed at once. “How will the otters and beavers survive, not to mention the water voles and toads? It affects everyone” Wilfred looked distinctly unhappy at this news. He had recently begun courting a female weasel with whom he hoped to eventually set up house.

“What’s up with him?” asked Cook, as Wilfred slipped quietly out of the room.

“He’s upset because it will mean they won’t be able to see each other any more” confided Gingernut. Groanalot looked blank until Pragmaticus explained that Wilfred’s frequent visits to his new lady-love necessitated crossing a stream at the foot of the castle ramparts.

“If you want my opinion he didn’t stand a chance with her anyway” remarked the squirrel “Do you know what his first words to her were? ‘I want us to have lots of baby weasels – when can we start?’ and he’d never even laid eyes on her before!”

“Nobody asked for your opinion” observed Pragmaticus. The Cook grinned.

“Sounds reasonable to me – why beat about the bush?”

“Listen to this” said Gingernut “Here’s a letter from a reader who wishes to remain anonymous:

I wish to protest in the strongest possible terms over the proposed river toll. Since the new legislation was enacted, I have seen the value of my lodge and those of others in the vicinity plummet. This stretch of the river used to be one of the most desirable residences to be had in the Forest. I don’t wish to blow my own trumpet but beavers are pillars of the forest; would anyone dispute that the word beaver is synonymous with hard work and industry? And why do you think this is? Because we beavers, more than any class of forest-dweller, have made Albion what is today. Yes, the gnomes would beg to differ. But my quarrel is not with the law-abiding gnomes, who also make a substantial contribution to our way of life, but with the goblin upstarts and intruders who are motivated by envy, greed, and dare I say it pure malice. Yes, we will continue to beaver away, always striving for excellence, and never mind the sacrifices, the blood, sweat and toil. Because that is who we are. We do not steal what does not belong to us, nor do we believe we are owed anything we have not rightfully earned. But who will stand up for our rights, who will protect us as we are hounded from our homes, penalised for our law-abiding ways and forced to pay crippling river taxes because that is where we choose to live? Needless to say, I dare not sign my name to this letter for fear of repercussions. I have family and friends to consider. But I appeal to the reader, how much more are we all prepared to tolerate before we make a stand and agree that things cannot go on like this for much longer?

“Sounds like Bertie Bragwell, that beaver who lives next to the Grumblegoods” commented Pragmaticus “I don’t blame him for remaining anonymous. The GMP have been after him for ages because he’s so prosperous”

“He’s very well-connected, though. That’s a really posh neighbourhood – I wouldn’t mind living there myself actually” Gingernut sighed wistfully “That’s where the Grey Squirrel Express have their headquarters”.

“Don’t matter how well-connected he is” muttered Groanalot “The goblins hate his sort. Because he’s got what they haven’t got. Don’t like him personally – he’s a pompous git - but he worked hard to get where he is today” Pragmaticus scanned the bark to see whether there were any more newsworthy items, then sat bolt upright.

“Great galloping goblinshit, there’s a civil war going on in Albion, and we didn’t even know about it! Listen to this:

For the first time in Albion’s illustrious history, the annual Festival of the Trees has been hijacked for seditious purposes by the Usurper AKA Prince Darius, whose stated objectives are to overthrow the monarchy, and seize control of the administration...”

“-Who are you calling a Usurper?” The Cook rounded on Gingernut “Did you write this rubbish - whose side are you on anyway?”

“We can’t be seen to be supporting Darius publicly” said Gingernut, in self-defence “though of course we’re all rooting for him privately. I’m not responsible for editorial policy; the Goblin Commission sends us a press statement every fortnight, and we have to print it. I mean, the editor took an enormous risk just by printing Bertie’s letter. The Grey Squirrel Express has already been banned, and we’re next if we don’t toe the official line” Pragmaticus continued to read aloud, ignoring the interruptions:

“Under cover of the arboreal awakening, the trees have risen in revolt and now pose a threat to the peace and safety of the realm. For this reason the newly-appointed Goblin Chief Gerhardt has ordered the mass felling of trees from the northern perimeter to the Lily Ponds, where rebel fighting is heaviest. A more worrying development of the war is that the loyalty of the wolves can no longer be counted on, and all denizens of the forest should be especially vigilant. Anyone caught giving succour to the enemy will be executed on the spot. All gnomes should remain at home and desist from going about their daily business, and a curfew is to imposed, which is effective from midnight…”

“What, stay at home and wait to be slaughtered by the goblins?” interrupted Cook scornfully “Just how stupid do they think we are? If the trees AND the wolves are on our side then we might actually stand a chance of getting rid of those mucky little grabbers for once and for all. I don’t know about you lot, but I’m going to volunteer my services right away. Do we stand together and fight for what we believe in or do we roll over and play dead? What are we waiting for?” In his excitement, Groanalot upset a dish of rice pudding, which spread all over the table. The other two looked at each other. Pragmaticus was the first to find his tongue.

“He’s right, you know. If we’re to save Albion, then we all need to join forces with the prince”

“’Course I’m bloody right! I’m not soft in the head!”

“Cook’s right” agreed Gingernut, nodding his head sagely. He dipped his paw into the sticky mess on the table and licked it “This Gerhardt sounds like a nasty piece of work. And I’m fed up to the back teeth of being told what I can write and what I can’t. We’ve always enjoyed free speech, and that’s worth fighting for” Pragmaticus nodded thoughtfully. Either due to ignorance or from motives of secrecy, the writer of the article had omitted to mention that the insurgents led by the prince now had a powerful secret weapon at their disposal.

“Tree-magic” breathed Pragmaticus. This was a very ancient and powerful magic indeed, although it had never been invoked in his lifetime (he was 456 and expected to live for at least another 300 years) The order to fell such a vast quantity of trees could only have come from the very highest authority in the realm – Ermentrude herself. The goblins would never have dared to take such a step without her express approval. But why would she sanction such drastic action unless the trees posed a very real threat to her sovereignty? Destroying the forest was tantamount to destroying Albion, which made about as much sense as polluting your own water source. No, the Queen’s intelligence sources must have alerted her to the fact that the rebels were somehow capable of channelling this elemental magic, which had been suppressed for centuries - suppressed for so long that most forest-dwellers were completely unaware of its existence. And Darius would not have been able to avail himself of this potent weapon without the Faery Queen’s permission. Although the author of the article had not stated any of this explicitly, the inferences to be drawn were obvious.

“We must leave right away” declared Pragmaticus “We can launch the boat from the hidden cove”

“But how do we get down to it?” asked Gingernut “I know there’s a secret postern gate somewhere on the North West Turret, but I’ve never been able to find it. Nobody has ever revealed its whereabouts”

“It is a closely guarded secret” replied Pragmaticus “How else do you think Darius escaped on that dreadful night when the old king and queen were murdered in their sleep? If Gervase had known about it, the goblins would have pursued him” He stood up “Cook and I will get together some provisions for our journey. In the meantime, Gingernut, I want you to find Wilfred immediately and meet us at the North West Turret. As quick as you can” Half an hour later, they were all crossing the narrow neck of land spanning the chasm separating the main castle from Stormy Point. Hundreds of feet beneath them the ink-dark sea churned and foamed. Groanalot, who did not possess a head for heights, could scarcely conceal his terror and eventually agreed to being blindfolded and roped to Pragmaticus.

“That’s it, put one foot in front of the other and you’ll be across in no time” coaxed the latter.

“If you were to slip, you realise you’d drag Praggers to his death as well?” observed Gingernut, with his customary tactlessness. When they finally reached the other side, Groanalot seized hold of the squirrel’s tail and yanked it.

“Ouch! What was that for?” demanded Gingernut in an aggrieved tone. They all ignored him. Once they had reached Laurence’s opulent apartments, Pragmaticus marched straight up to the massive open fireplace and stepped inside, disappearing from view almost immediately. The others followed close behind. The granite wall in front of them was solid and immoveable, but Pragmaticus knelt down and scraped away some cold ashes, revealing a trap door. A hand-hold was faintly discernable, which Pragmaticus now tugged at, exposing worn stone steps descending steeply into the gloom.

“Careful, they’re quite slippery” warned Pragmaticus over his shoulder, chiefly for Cook’s benefit. Judging from the dankness of the walls and the muffled pounding of the sea, they were close to the cliff-face. Moments later they emerged through the postern gate onto a precarious ledge, where they were hit by the full blast of the wind. Groanalot felt as though he were going to be sick. The sheer vertiginous drop to the sea below was making him feel dizzy and nauseous. The waves pounded against the cliffs hundreds of feet below, where the sea seethed and boiled like a cauldron.

“Wh-where’s the cove?” he stammered.

“Dreadful weather” remarked Gingernut conversationally.

“The cove cannot be seen from here” replied Pragmaticus, in response to the cook’s question. “Help me shift this boulder, will you” They rocked the boulder to reveal a coiled rope set in a shallow indentation underneath it. “Not as bad as it looks, I assure you. See, a rope has been provided to help you keep your balance on the path”

“What path?” enquired Groanalot, with dawning horror, as Gingernut pointed to a precipitous and very rugged trail twisting its way down the side of the cliff.

“I’ll go first” announced the squirrel cheerily, bounding off down the path without a backward glance. “Come on, Wilf” he shouted over his shoulder “You and I don’t need a rope. That’s for two-legged creatures like gnomes and humans”

“Do you need any help?” enquired Wilfred diffidently. Pragmaticus shook his head.

“No, you go on ahead with Gingernut and get the boat ready. We’ll follow”

“The trick is to keep your centre of gravity low” Pragmaticus advised Groanalot, who had broken out into a sweat, despite the biting wind and driving rain “I once slid down a glacier on my backside. With the rope, it should be a doddle” It took the best part of an hour to get the Cook down the path; in several places he simply froze and refused to budge, shaking his head and clinging to the rope with his eyes shut tight.

“We’ve got to push off now or we’ll never make it” shouted Gingernut, his voice faint against the howling wind “The tide’s on the turn and we’ll be dashed against the rocks. Come on, fattie, what’s the problem?”

“Just wait until I get my hands on that good-for-nothing little gobmouth” muttered Groanalot, “I’ll wring that scrawny neck of his, I’ll cook him in a casserole…” The Cook’s temper seemed to have got the better of his fear, and between them Pragmaticus and Wilfred were able to cajole and sweet-talk him into sliding down the last fifty yards on his ample posterior. “Come here, you” bellowed the Cook, reaching for the squirrel, who was perched in the bows and gnawing at an acorn nonchalantly.

“Watch out!” called Wilfred nervously, as the boat nearly capsized. Eventually, they managed to launch the dinghy, and set a course for a point further down the coast where they could land safely. The plan was that they would make for the Lily Ponds, where they could join forces with Darius. Whilst Pragmaticus navigated, the Cook rowed – being the strongest – and Gingernut kept up a running commentary. The latter leaned across Wilfred, who was gazing dreamily into space, seemingly oblivious of the torrential rain and towering waves which threatened to swamp them.

“I say, Wilfie, when this is all over what do you say to you and me setting up house and having lots of babies?” Pragmaticus glared at him. Wilfred was a sensitive soul, prone to bouts of depression, and the squirrel’s constant ragging only caused him to be more withdrawn.

“We’re being blown off course” admitted Pragmaticus finally, as strong currents pushed the boat further out to sea at the point where they had planned to come ashore. “Looks like we’ll be landing closer to Troll Territory than the Lily Ponds”

“Sorry, folks” sighed Groanalot “I tried me best. And me back’s killing me”

“We know you did” said Pragmaticus. “Now, there may well be shore patrols. We will need to keep our wits about us. It’s quite possible to outwit a troll, you know. They’re not very bright” Nobody said anything. The light-hearted banter died out, and it was a very nervous and tense company who eventually disembarked and crept ashore onto the tiny shingled beach first sighted by Wilfred.

*****

Boris turned his attention to Philip, since Laurence was slumped against a tree with exhaustion, his eyes closed. “Do you wish to be armed? Your sisters have already shed goblin blood. Perhaps, though, you are in need of refreshment” he added, examining them closer.

“You mean they’re both here - Gillian and Josie?” asked Philip excitedly. Philip and Laurence were conducted across one of a series of rickety wooden walkways that traversed the Lily Ponds. One of the badger sentries stopped Boris.

“Halt. Who goes there?”

“Shut up, you idiot. You know damn well who I am”

“The password” insisted one of them. Boris sighed heavily then bellowed.

“DIDGERIE BADGER DOO…”

“Wrong!” shouted one of them triumphantly “That’s the Tunnel password. You have given an incorrect password. I’m afraid we can’t let you across”

“You wouldn’t think these flea-brains reported to me, would you?” muttered Boris to Philip and Laurence. “I’m responsible for training them, I supervise their work on a daily basis, I cross this bridge ten times a day and they still pretend not to recognise me”

“But you could be an impostor” protested one of the guards as Boris pushed past them impatiently, Philip and Laurence following close behind “We have our orders” They had not proceeded much beyond the shore of the lake before they encountered a skirmish between goblins and gnomes. A red-cheeked gnome with a bull-like neck and arms like meat-cleavers, was wielding a spiked mace to good effect, whilst a red squirrel danced up and down, egging him on.

“Go on, Cook. Bash his brains in. Yes! Two down, one more to go!”

“Watch your back, Gingernut” warned an ancient gnome of wizened appearance, as a goblin crept up behind the squirrel with a wicked-looking knife. Before he could plunge it into the squirrel an arrow lodged itself in the goblin’s back - where it remained, quivering. The goblin staggered for a moment then fell forwards to the ground.

“Cheers, Praggers” called the squirrel to the elderly gnome.

“It wasn’t me” said Pragmaticus, looking around. “Good shot, though. It must have been Wilfred”

“Actually, it was me” called a clear high voice from somewhere in the trees.

“Josie!!??” mouthed Philip and Laurence at once, gaping in amazement at the sight of their younger sister, who was perched in the fork of an ash tree with a quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. Then everyone spoke at once.

“What’s going on? Where’ve you been? Where’s Gillian? Where are we? Where’s Dar-”

“Quiet, please” The elderly gnome with the schoolmasterly tone held up a hand for silence. “Greetings, sire” He bowed politely in Laurence’s direction. “Let me try to clarify matters somewhat. Gingernut, keep an eye out for goblins. Once we learned of an organised resistance led by the prince, we deemed ourselves honour-bound to quit the castle at once and offer our services forthwith. After all” he added “I’m sure your lordship would concede we are all fighting for the same cause – the liberation of Albion from the yoke of tyranny” Laurence looked slightly uncomfortable, but no-one seemed to notice. “We arrived in the dead of night by boat and made our way here to the Lily Ponds. Darius’s camp is nearby, and your other sister is working closely with Tenacious on battle strategy. Between them they have come up with the ingenious horse-shoe manoeuvre, with which we hope to entrap and encircle a number of trolls who are menacing the southern shore…”

Whilst Pragmaticus brought them up to date, Laurence debated whether to assert his authority. Acting independently and without his permission, his servants had taken it upon themselves to abandon the Pink Citadel and join up with Darius’s forces. This was flagrant disobedience, not to mention the fact they owed their allegiance to him, not to Darius. Any self-respecting lord and master would have read them the riot act. Ermentrude would think it was his doing and that he was in collusion with the rebels. Laurence hesitated. But if he played his cards right he could still convince her it was all part of the plan, which was working wasn’t it? They all believed he was on their side, and Darius was close by. He could lead Ermentrude straight to her quarry if only he had the ruby ring. But he didn’t. He couldn’t even communicate with her. She would think he had played her false, and take her revenge. Laurence had witnessed her awesome power for himself: she could conjure up tempests at will, turn people to stone, cause objects to fly, become invisible and change her shape, and goodness knows what else. None of them stood a chance. They would only succeed in infuriating her, and they would all pay the price for being on the losing side.

Fired up by the sight of his younger sister calmly loosing arrows at the enemy, Philip was insisting that he also be armed. He turned to Boris impatiently. “I say, could I have a sword? I’m not feeling in the least bit tired, and we’re just wasting time talking here. Who’s in charge of the weapons store?”

“I’m in charge” replied Boris briskly “and my orders are to take you to the prince. He will first have to ascertain your fighting capability before you are armed, for weapons are in short supply”

“Bloody cheek” muttered Philip indignantly to Laurence as they trooped off in single file behind the badger “If Josie can fight, so can we. She’s only a girl for crying out loud….” Not only was she a girl but she was also the youngest, and he simply couldn’t understand how she had learned to use a bow and arrow to such devastating effect. The answer soon became apparent when they arrived at the base camp where Darius was busy training his troops in the noble art of archery. They were organised into groups of two, and taking turns at target practice – aiming at a colossal tree too thick-trunked to mind.

“Carry on, carry on” urged the oak “I assure you I can’t feel a thing. See if you can hit the centre of that knothole …” Darius steadied the arm of a gnome, whose back looked faintly familiar.

“Perfect. I think you’ve got the hang of it. Alright, go ahead.” An arrow whizzed through the air and landed in the dead centre of the knot-hole.

“Oooh, I did feel a slight twinge then” said the oak “But it’s good to see you back Mr. Grumblegood, and on top form”

“Mr. Grumblegood!” cried all three children, rushing towards the gnome as he turned. Josie threw her arms around him.

“Now, now” said Mr. Grumblegood, embarrassed and pleased at the same time, as they all crowded around him.

“How did you escape?” asked Philip “We thought you were being held in one of the dungeons at the Queen’s palace”

“We never made it to the palace” replied Mr. Grumblegood “Gervase did a runner in the dead of night, so the other goblins panicked and marched us into a cavern near Lake Mortmere. Waldemar spearheaded the attack which led to the release of Hector, myself, and numerous other captives”

“Who’s Waldemar?” asked Philip.

“A fierce warrior whose fighting prowess is legendary. I believe you two have had the pleasure of his acquaintance” Darius grinned. “I have travelled bareback on a wolf myself, and it is not an experience I would wish to repeat unless I were in a desperate hurry”

“You can say that again” said Philip, warmly shaking the hand Darius extended. “That was Waldemar? He never spoke a word to us”

“Conversation is not his strong point. He does, however, improve upon acquaintance” Darius was about to shake hands with Laurence, then thought better of it. “So, how are things at Brocklebank? It seems you escaped the clutches of old Soames”

“Oh, much the same as usual” responded Laurence noncommittally. “Watkins is a pain in the backside. He should have been expelled ages ago. I did as you instructed” he added “I brought Philip through the portal” Darius raised his eyebrows, and regarded him coolly.

“Ah. It’s just that I haven’t seen you for some time. Comfortably ensconced in my old quarters at the Pink Citadel?” Philip looked at Laurence, and then at Darius, trying to pick up on the subtle interplay between these two. “And I imagine you got on famously with my old mentor, Pragmaticus?” enquired Darius, an arm slung around the latter’s shoulder.

“You mean the steward?” stammered Laurence “I didn’t see that much of the servants, except at mealtimes. His manners were alright, I suppose”

“Yes, his manners are impeccable” agreed Darius “considering he is Albion’s greatest philosopher. He taught me most of what I know”

“Your proficiency in armed combat was not learned from me” pointed out Pragmaticus modestly “My talents lie in another direction”

“Are you any good with a sword?” Darius addressed Philip directly.

“A bit rusty” admitted Philip “I haven’t done any fencing since the Fifth Year, but it shouldn’t take me long to pick it up again” Darius tossed him a sword.

“Here, try this out for size. En garde!” Laurence watched as his brother and the prince duelled. Darius was obviously the more skilled, having had experience and training, but Philip acquitted himself creditably. Laurence eyed Darius uneasily. He seemed to have grown in stature since re-entering Albion. At Brocklebank he had appeared to be the same age as Laurence, a mere boy, but now he looked almost fully grown – he could be anywhere between sixteen and eighteen. Not only was he several inches taller than Laurence he exuded quiet confidence and a sureness of purpose. The mantle of leadership sat easily on his shoulders and no-one questioned his authority. Laurence couldn’t help noticing that none of his own servants had ever shown him the respect they accorded Darius.

After they had all partaken of some refreshment it was decided that Philip should practise his swordsmanship alongside Boris, as time was running out, whilst Laurence and Josie were taken to meet their sister. Gillian was seated in the chariot, poring over a preliminary sketch of battle manoeuvres submitted for her approval by Tenacious.

“Yes” she was saying “I really think this might work. If you have the hawks and falcons ranged on one side, then we attack from the crest of this hill, where we’ll be screened from the enemy right up until the very last minute…”

“What are you doing with my chariot?” demanded Laurence belligerently “And that’s my ring you’re wearing. The Queen gave it to me. Give it back!”

“Oh dear” said Mr. Grumblegood, winking at Josie “I see trouble ahead” Gillian looked up.

“Oh, it’s you. I wasn’t the one who crashed it and then ran off” retorted Gillian. “Besides, we need it for the war effort. It’s been requisitioned. Leave off, will you!” Laurence was tugging at the ruby ring on her finger.

“It’s MINE!” yelled Laurence “Give it back, right now!”

“No, I won’t. Finders keepers, losers weepers. RISE. FASTER” The chariot rose about fifteen feet into the air, out of Laurence’s reach. Laurence was so incensed Mr. Grumblegood and Josie had difficulty in restraining him.

“Laurence, it doesn’t matter” began Josie “She knows the chariot belongs to you, but it’s more important that we win the battle. Boris says we all have to share our resources-”

“It does matter! She stole my ring. The Queen said I wasn’t to take it off. She’ll be absolutely furious, you don’t know her, and we’ll all be turned to stone or worse…” Laurence broke away and ran off into the woods.

“But, Laurence, haven’t you heard?” Josie called after him “The Faery Queen is on our side, and her magic is far more powerful than Ermentrude’s. The trees, even the wolves are on our side…” But Laurence wasn’t listening; he was running as fast as his legs would carry him, desperately seeking a portal, a way out of Albion. Laurence ran until he could run no further. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath.

“What’s the matter?” enquired a young sapling. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost”

“I have to get away from here” gasped Laurence “The Queen. She’s after me…can you help?”

“I’m off to join my comrades in battle. You’re welcome to come with me if you want” He extended one of his lower limbs in invitation.

“No, I meant are there any portals around here?” The sapling immediately became solemn, and looked around to see whether anyone was listening. Being a youngster, it was his first arboreal awakening, and the intoxication of freedom had gone to his head.

“There’s this big sycamore tree, should be back any minute” The sapling lowered his voice “He reckons he lives in another world half the time…in a big park somewhere. Awful place, awful people. At least that’s what he says, but it could be because it’s his little secret and he doesn’t want anyone else to go there. But you could try him, if you’re desperate that is-”

“-When will he be back?” interrupted Laurence wildly.

“I say, you are desperate, aren’t you. He went for a stroll to check out the local talent. It’s the Festival of the Trees, you know, and most folks are out looking for a dance partner….Oh, here he comes. You’re in luck” Without even bothering to ask permission, Laurence swung himself into the sycamore tree. Nothing happened. Perhaps he was back inside the big horse chestnut in the grounds of Brocklebank. As he groped around in the mossy darkness of the hollow tree-trunk, his foot brushed against a furry ball of something which sank its sharp teeth into Laurence’s leg.

“Ouch!”

“What do you expect?” hissed a squirrel furiously “This is my home!”

“But I thought it was a portal…”

“All portals are closed. How could the trees enjoy their one night of freedom if they had to contend with silly human creatures like you coming and going?” Sorely disappointed, Laurence clambered back onto a branch. Casting a fearful look around him, he slipped to the ground and crept off back in the direction in which he’d come.

Chapter 15 – The Battle of the Trees

The arboreal awakening had now been in progress for several hours, and dawn was fast approaching. Two tiny hedgehogs rootled around in the earth, seeking grubs and other tasty titbits. They had been driven above ground by an argument between their parents. Like their mother, they had initially been overjoyed to see their father returned to the family burrow safe and sound, but if the truth be told Hector didn’t give any of them much peace. An inveterate risk-taker, he insisted on exposing his reluctant offspring to all the perils of the forest on the pretext that it would “toughen them up”. He was of the firm opinion that hedgehogs were never too young to venture above ground and learn how to defend themselves against attackers. Their mother violently disagreed.

“But they’re only babies, Hector. It’s far too dangerous. There are stoats, foxes, owls – you name it – all the predators of the forest just lying in wait for such an opportunity…”

“All the more reason they need to learn to look after themselves in the event of an attack. Why, they can just about curl themselves into prickly balls, and that’s taken days of coaxing and wheedling. And I caught one of them nibbling a deadly death-cap. At their age they should be able to distinguish between edible and poisonous fungi. The fact is, my dear, you mollycoddle them…” During their father’s prolonged absence their mother had taken them to live with the gnome Mrs. Grumblegood, where they had settled into a comfortable routine. In the evenings they toasted their paws in front of a roaring fire, and were fed all their favourite foods before being tucked up for the night to dream untroubled dreams of rolling across sunlit meadows and chasing each other through scented hedgerows. They were never forced out of their warm cosy beds to scrabble around on the frosty ground for scraps and morsels of food with which to stock the larder. But since their father’s return they had had to readjust themselves to living like hedgehogs and not gnomes. Hector had lost no time in moving them all back into the family burrow, where life resumed much the same as normal.

“The early bird catches the worm” Hector had declared the first morning of his return, nudging them firmly with his be-whiskered snout.

“We’re not birds, we’re hedgehogs” the twins couldn’t help pointing out, but to no avail. They had nearly come to grief earlier that morning, which was what had sparked off the row between their parents. They had been foraging about in the leaf-mould and damp vegetation, neither of them taking it very seriously.

“Yuk, what’s that?” said one of the twins, prodding at a pine-cone.

“Maybe it’s our new baby sister” giggled his brother “Mum did say she was expecting” Before the other twin could riposte with something equally witty, he felt himself being flipped over onto his back so that his soft underbelly was exposed, and pinned to the ground by a huge curved talon. He hadn’t time to curl himself into a ball before he found himself transfixed by a pair of unblinking amber eyes – like twin searchlights. Their father had come bounding out of nowhere and rushed at the owl, yelling at the top of his voice. He landed a swipe on the owl’s beak, using the full weight of his body.

“Take that, you brute. Pick on someone your own size” A fierce scuffle had ensued with Hector being badly mauled in the process, but his timely intervention had saved the day. After taking a few retaliatory pecks and sampling the delights of Hector’s flesh, which was as tough as old boots, the owl had eventually lost interest and flown off with an angry squawk. Pouncing on infant hedgehogs was good sport, but tackling an incensed and fully-grown one like Hector was a different proposition altogether.

“Now that’s exactly what I’m talking about!” their mother had shrilled accusingly, as Hector limped into the sitting room, followed by his two badly shaken offspring. “You could all have been killed!”

“But we weren’t” replied their father “and it only goes to prove my point. They need to be taught survival skills, because I won’t always be around to save them. Nature is red in tooth and claw, and it’s about time they learned the facts” As the row between their parents had taken on familiar tones, the twins crept up the tunnel leading to the surface from their burrow and thrust inquisitive snouts into the chilly air. On a crisp morning such as this the forest presented an intoxicating feast for the senses. The air was sharp and tangy. The twins inhaled greedily, breathing in the nutty aroma of half-nibbled toadstools and acorn husks that littered the forest floor, and the mouth-watering scent of crunchy beetles and succulent worms. The sprawling tree-roots were spangled with glistening cobwebs and scarlet ladybirds - one of their favourite delicacies. As they snuffled in the earth contentedly, they could hear the excited barking of badgers, intermingled with the chattering of starlings and jackdaws and the far-off screech of an owl – too distant to pose a threat.

“Listen” said one of the twins “Do you hear that?” The moon still hung heavy in the sky and in the distance they could hear an eerie howling.

“Sounds like wolves” whispered his brother “I think it’s getting closer…” All of a sudden, a huge wolf bounded into the clearing and stood there panting, its long tongue hanging out. The two hedgehogs froze, hoping that if they stayed absolutely still they wouldn’t be noticed. The wolf was, of course, aware of their presence but seemed to have its mind on other things. Its ears were cocked, evidently interpreting the direction of the howls. The twins began to edge backwards towards the safety of their burrow.

“Stay where you are” commanded the wolf in a deep voice. “It is goblins I hunt, not hedgehogs; I picked up their putrid scent a few miles back”

“Goblins are nasty creatures” agreed the hedgehogs timidly “But we haven’t seen any recently, have we?” They looked at each other for corroboration. “Honestly, Mr. Wolf. We wouldn’t lie to you”

“I imagine you slept through the entire battle” observed the wolf. The twins gazed at him innocently. They knew of no battle, though packs of wolves often fought each other over food or territory, and doubtless this was what he was referring to. Their mother appeared at that moment, pushing them both behind her rear haunches.

“Go home now” she told them, before turning to the wolf. “Can I help you?” The wolf suddenly sprang into a hazel coppice and emerged a few seconds later with two writhing figures clamped between its jaws, their arms flailing.

“Let us go!” screamed one of the goblins “The Queen is our friend, and you’ll be sorry-” The wolf dispatched the goblin swiftly and cleanly, before turning his attention to the other one. The twins stared in horrified fascination at his silver white muzzle flecked with blood. They had never seen green blood before. Their mother tried to shield them from the sight as they heard the sickening crunch of bones snapping, and another lifeless figure dropped to the ground.

“Sorry about the stench and the mess” said the wolf “but we’ve been instructed to take no prisoners”

“What’s going on here?” Hector materialised, bristling with indignation. He faced the wolf fearlessly  “Are you threatening my family? What do you want?” he demanded. The twins couldn’t be sure, but they thought the wolf was laughing.

“Hector, I presume? To answer your question, the battle is almost won” He paused to mark his territory by cocking a leg against a tree. “But I have a few private scores to settle, so I won’t take up any more of your time”

“Wait a minute” interrupted Hector eagerly “I’m coming with you. I’ve also got some scores to settle”

“Hector, no!” protested their mother in vain “Haven’t you seen enough fighting? What if you’re captured again, what if...”

“I’m going” said Hector firmly, over-ruling her objections “I’ve been too long in captivity, and I want to be able to hold my head up high” He turned to the twins “I want both of you to be good while I’m gone, and do what your mother tells you” The twins nodded; they didn’t mind doing what their mother told them, for unlike Hector, she rarely told them to do anything unpleasant.

“In that case you’d better climb up onto my back” said the wolf, shrugging. “You’d never keep up with me on the ground. I tend to cover about thirty miles an hour when I’m in my stride, more like forty when I’m really pissed off” He knelt down on his front paws so Hector could lodge himself in his fur.

“Looks like we’ll be staying with the Grumblegoods again” sighed their mother. The two twins exchanged delighted looks, anticipating lots of tasty treats.

Elsewhere in the forest, Philip and Darius had been fighting fiercely for the past hour, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with goblin diehards who refused to accept they were losing the battle. Josie covered their backs, loosing bolts and arrows with unerring accuracy from her concealed tree-top perch. Nobody had seen Laurence for several hours. At some distance on the shores of a lake, Gillian menaced trolls from the air, whirling a ball and chain around her head like an enraged warrior queen. In accordance with the battle strategy devised by Tenacious, falcons and buzzards zoomed in from another quarter, trapping the trolls whose retreat was cut off by the water. Darius broke away from his small band of followers in order to pursue a fleeing figure. He had just sighted the Goblin Chief, and had no intention of allowing him to escape in order to plot more mischief and mayhem.

“Protect me, you cowards!” screamed Gerhardt at his bodyguards, who were eying Darius’s furious approach with misgivings. They huddled closer to their leader, their swords pointing outwards. Darius slashed through their defences, ignoring Gerhardt’s taunts: “You’ll never take me alive, you craven impostor! You’ll die before this night is over” Whilst Darius was engaged in fending off the sword-thrusts of his bodyguards, Gerhardt plunged a dagger into his thigh, drawing blood. Darius was caught off balance, but only for an instant, before he resumed his onslaught. The goblins were gradually forced up the Fairy Knoll, giving ground as the prince continued to harry them. Although the goblins had gained the higher ground they did not press their advantage home, but continued to retreat under Darius’ relentless advance. Eventually he began to show signs of fatigue, and staggered backwards.

“Now!” yelled Gerhardt gleefully, as one of his henchmen sliced at Darius’s shoulder. He must have sliced through a tendon, and Darius’s left arm now hung limply at his side. Philip looked on in dismay. He was prevented from going to the prince’s aid, as he was now being besieged by other goblins who had taken heart at the sight of their leader who was obviously alive and well. Josie discharged several arrows which fell far short of their target. Realising the futility of her endeavours (Darius’s attackers were now halfway up the Tor and she could not afford to waste any more arrows) she instead concentrated on the goblins surrounding Philip, and had the satisfaction of seeing two drop to the ground – fatally wounded.

Despite his injuries and the pain he was obviously in, Darius kept focused on the task before him. Fortunately his right sword-arm was intact and his years of military training and discipline had kicked in. In the heat of battle a true warrior keeps narrowly focused on his target, and blocks out everything else: physical pain and fatigue, the screams and cries of fallen comrades. It had been drummed into him from an early age that if you let your attention wander for an instant in the midst of battle, you were lost. You had to concentrate on one thing, and one thing only: seek and destroy the enemy. Nothing else mattered. Allowing yourself to be distracted for one second was fatal. There was no room for hesitation, guilt or remorse. There would be time to rest, to feel triumph or sorrow after the battle was won.

Everyone was now so intent on the huddle of figures nearing the summit of the enchanted Tor, that no-one at first noticed the wraith of bluish-purple mist above their heads - least of all Darius, who was now operating in primitive battle mode. A red veil occluded his vision and goblin corpses were piling up. Gerhardt and one of his bodyguards were the only two who remained alive. The onlookers at the foot of the knoll strained to see what was happening as the mysterious shimmering mist eddied about the combatants. Philip snatched at a spear that had been discarded by a goblin and spun around, but his persecutors had all fled for cover into the shadow of the woods. He was wondering what had frightened them (wolves?) when he spotted a sinister cloaked figure emerging from the luminous haze, which had thus far concealed her presence.

“Ermentrude!” went up the gasp “Run, run, it’s the Queen” Most creatures in the vicinity needed no further prompting and scattered in all directions. To give credit where credit was due, Boris’s small elite fighting corps of badgers stood their ground, exhibiting the iron discipline for which they were famed. Josie didn’t stir; nor did Philip. Gillian was too far away on the shores of the Lily Ponds to see what was happening. Gerhardt bowed to the Queen, with the air of one who has just presented a coveted prize on a plate.

“He is all yours, my Queen” and rapidly retreated downhill with his one remaining bodyguard in tow. Ermentrude was under no illusions that both goblins would probably be lying dead at her feet had she not intervened. They had put up a truly abysmal performance, and she would deal with them later.

“And who is going to come to your aid now?” she sneered, advancing towards Darius, who was still breathing hard from his exertions. “The wolves? I have already enslaved the grey wolves, and I intend to enslave all the others – the traitors who imagined themselves to be free. Free! Ha!” She laughed contemptuously. Darius stood alone. Or so he thought. As Ermentrude raised her wand, the stand of royal oaks crowning the summit closed tight ranks around Darius, forming a solid bulwark - a ring of oak that could not be breached - with the prince at its heart.

“What is this?” raged the Queen, striving in vain to break through the oak shield, but her powers - formidable though they were - were pitted against the oldest, most potent magic known to Albion. She drew herself to her full height and threw forked blue lightning from the tip of her wand. The blue fire ignited one of the lower branches. As fierce flames engulfed the ring of oaks, Ermentrude laughed. “So be it. A fitting end for an apostate. Watch the traitor burn!” Darius was now trapped in a circle of blue fire, which illuminated the night sky like a beacon.

“We can’t let him burn alive” cried Josie frantically, attempting to free herself from Ash’s constricting embrace “We have to do something”

“He is safe from harm” insisted Ash “Darius was ever our champion and the trees look after their own. The mighty power of the forest has been awakened, and those who challenge its power do so at their peril” Mystified by his words, Josie peered through the branches. There was a deep rumbling noise emanating from the earth, which began to heave and roll like the undulating swell of an ocean. Unobserved by witnesses, the ground opened up beneath Darius’ feet and swallowed him. Ermentrude seemed unaware that her victim had escaped incineration, for she continued to weave a path of lightning around the oak enclosure. Then she turned to face her petrified audience, who were crouched in attitudes of horror and disbelief.

“When these trees have burnt to a cinder you shall behold the blackened and charred remains of your precious prince. Let this serve as a warning. For whosoever defies me shall suffer a similar fate” Satisfied that she had made her point and that all spectators were sufficiently cowed, Ermentrude seated herself in her sleigh and rose into the air. As the royal conveyance departed, no-one uttered a word of protest; most were in shock. It was hard to believe that Darius was gone. With shoulders drooping and heads bowed with grief and despair, they turned away. A few hardy souls trudged up the hill to view the desecration of all their hopes and dreams. Nobody had any clear idea as to what was to be done, except that they should gather the prince’s ashes and bury them somewhere inviolate.

“His body is not here!” came the cry from Boris, who had been the first to crest the knoll. The scorched tree roots lay on the ground in a tangled mess of twisted black snakes, but there was no trace of a body in the centre, no bones to speak of.

“Wait a minute” said Pragmaticus, who despite his advanced years was one of the first on the scene “It doesn’t make sense. Even if the flesh burned away you would expect to find a skeleton” They contemplated the charred tree stumps, which were still smoking. Nobody could have survived the conflagration they had all just been witness to.

“It must be some horrid enchantment of Ermentrude’s” whispered Groanalot, wiping the tears from his fat cheeks. “She didn’t even leave us any ashes we could inter”

“What’s happening?” whispered Gillian to Philip, as she landed the winged chariot by his side “I heard that Darius….is it true?” Philip nodded slowly.

“I can’t bear to look. We’d better get Josie” But the latter was already running up the Tor. A golden orb of light materialised a few yards in front of her. “Josie!” yelled Philip “Come back!” Creatures who had timidly poked their heads out from the shadow of the woods now shrank back into the dark foliage, concluding that Ermentrude had come back to destroy them all. As Josie continued to run full tilt up the hill, seemingly oblivious of the danger, the bystanders were powerless to do anything but watch. Just as Josie got within a few yards of the light, she was suddenly stopped in her tracks. The effect was as if she had run into an invisible wall of glass. She looked momentarily stunned and gazed at the golden globe, clearly puzzled but showing no signs of fear.

“What’s the matter with her? Why doesn’t she run for it?” Philip shouted at her again to come back but Josie seemed mesmerised. The ball of light elongated. Like toffee being stretched, thought Gillian, or like glass being spun. The light had now lengthened into a perpendicular column, towering over Josie, who gazed upwards in awe. What Josie was seeing was something totally different to what the others were viewing from a distance. The pillar of golden light had resolved itself into a female form. Josie put up a hand to shield herself from the dazzling apparition.

“Who are you?” she asked. The Faery Queen revealed herself for an instant in all her splendour before assuming the shape of an enormous white wolf.

“I am known to you as Miranda, leader of the white wolves” replied the wolf.  “One of my many guises. I am unable to manifest myself to you in my true form, for the sight would be so dazzling as to blind you. No, do not come any closer…” Josie had taken a step towards her but came up against the invisible force field again, which knocked her to the ground. “I am sorry but I did try to warn you. The Aegis is impenetrable”

“Before you turned into a wolf, I thought that I saw….I saw a beautiful lady. Are you a lady, or are you a wolf?”

“Your eyes did not deceive you. I am Esmeralda, Lady of the Forest and Queen of the Faeries. Tell the others not to be afraid. Tell them also that Darius is safe and well, out of harm's way” Josie felt so overwhelmed that for a moment she couldn’t speak. Then she found her voice.

“But we saw Ermentrude set fire to the oak trees”

“They willingly sacrificed themselves for the good of the land. The magical power released caused the earth to respond. But there is no cause for alarm. The trees will regenerate before this night is over”

“But where is Darius?” asked Josie “I’m afraid I don’t understand”

“These are mysteries which surpass your understanding. The hill upon which we stand is enchanted”

“I’ve heard the others say it’s a Fairy Hill” said Josie, struggling to comprehend. “You mean Darius is inside the hill - with the fairies?”

“Yes. You may tell the others that the prince lives, and will return”

“Will he return soon?” asked Josie desperately “What about the goblins? And Ermentrude? You see, the battle isn’t over yet….”

“The battle will be over by daybreak” replied Esmeralda “Until then, all forest creatures – excepting the wolves and birds of the air – should seek immediate shelter underground for their own safety, and not stir until the sun has risen. For the most terrible battle of all – The Battle of the Trees – is about to commence. Once the battle has been won the goblins will plague you no more. Now go and tell the others what I have just told you”

*****

“Do you think it’s safe to go outside now?” enquired Philip. They were all crammed into the Grumblegoods’ living area, an underground chamber whose supporting framework was provided by the roots of a massive tree. Apart from the children, the invited guests included Pragmaticus and Groanalot, Wilfred and Gingernut (who was busily engaged in a war of words with Tenacious), Boris, Hector and his family of hedgehogs, and the Bragwells, who had squeezed in at the last minute. As their hosts dispensed tea and cake, the guests conversed animatedly amongst themselves - going over the extraordinary events of the past few hours.

“Esmeralda said she would send one of the wolves to let us know when it was safe” replied Josie, who was the only one who had seen the Faery Queen. All the others had seen was a golden sphere of light, and then a white wolf conversing with Josie for some time. Many were sceptical of her claim to have seen and spoken with Esmeralda, and Laurence - who had finally put in an appearance - had accused her of making it up to get attention. Josie had denied this hotly, until Pragmaticus had settled the matter:

“According to arcane lore, the Faery Queen often appears to mortals as an oversized white wolf, and was this wolf not as tall as a shire horse? The golden pillar of light would seem to point to the presence of very strong magic” As Pragmaticus was widely respected for his erudition, Josie’s story was given fresh credence. Most of the other forest-dwellers were now safely ensconced underground in their respective burrows, warrens, setts, dens and lairs. As the ground above them began to shake and vibrate, they all huddled together, exchanging stricken looks. Judging from the fearsome reverberations and deafening booms, some titanic upheaval was taking place. It sounded as though an army of giants was tramping through the forest. The thunderous crashes and quakes continued through most of the night. And then there was complete silence, a silence which seemed all the more unnatural after the unholy racket which had preceded it.

“Not wishing to alarm anyone” Tenacious now remarked, cocking an ear “but I hear something scrabbling at the entrance” He looked at his host “If you like I will investigate”

“Alright” agreed Mr. Grumblegood finally “But be careful. It could be an ambush” The grey squirrel scampered off, only to return a few moments later.

“That was Waldemar. He brings good tidings. The goblins are gone, and guess what? The most stupendous thing occurred during the night-”

“What? What?” Everyone crowded around Tenacious.

“Back off, will you” said the squirrel crossly, addressing Bertie Bragwell who was towering over him “or I shan’t tell you anything. Alright then” he relented  “An army of trees 40000 strong marched on the Queen’s palace-”

“-But nobody could scale those crags” objected Boris “The precipice is so sheer that the only way in and out is by air”

“Who’s telling this story, you or me? The point is, such was the force brought to bear by the trees, the entire mountain collapsed in on itself. Ermentrude has escaped into another realm…”

“But she is not dead?” interrupted Boris, with a worried look.

“I’m afraid not. She is immortal. Some of the grey wolves escaped alive, and they are now free from their bondage. Everyone is to assemble at the foot of the Fairy Knoll tonight when Miranda will speak ”

“Well, I think this calls for a celebration” declared Bertie, puffing out his chest. “We should all heartily congratulate ourselves for teaching those goblins a thing or two, a lesson they’ll never forget. It just goes to show what can be achieved when we all pull together”

“Anyone would think he’d won the battle all by himself” grinned Gingernut “And that the wolves and the trees had no part in it”

“However, we must be magnanimous in victory” resumed Bertie, who was now in full flow “It would not do to punish the trolls, who don’t know any better. They were enslaved by the goblins, who exploited their brutish nature for their own wicked ends.

So what I propose - and I hope you all concur – is that we celebrate with a mammoth feast before we adjourn to the Fairy Hill to hear Miranda’s speech. Everyone is to contribute something within their means. Do I hear any dissent? No, then what I further propose….” He went on in this vein for several minutes until Pragmaticus quietly interrupted.

“Bertie’s idea of everyone making a small contribution is a good one, so as not to overburden our good hosts” (he nodded towards the Grumblegoods) “or the Cook, who shouldn’t be expected to do all the food preparation”

“If it weren’t for me achin’ back” muttered Groanalot “I’d be quite ‘appy to do all the cooking, but I must admit some ‘elp would be appreciated. Feeding this lot ain’t going to be easy. I knows what humans like  - Cornish pasties, jam roly-poly and suchlike” he cast a look at Laurence “but as for the rest of yer, what’s it to be - fish for the beavers and otters? Nuts for the badgers and squirrels, oo knows? It were enough to try the patience of a saint”

“Bertie’s idea of a celebration is also a good one” continued Pragmaticus diplomatically “but I think we should hold off until Darius is able to rejoin us. A victory celebration which does not include the prince would be premature – does everyone agree?” Everyone saw the sense in this, and there were nods all around. As folks began to disperse, Bertie was heard to mutter that there was no knowing when the prince would return, IF he returned, and that might not be for another hundred years….

As dusk gradually shrouded the forest, Mr. Grumblegood sat smoking a briar pipe, his back to the big copper beech in which the Grumblegoods had their permanent home. During the period they had lived underground, their tree-house had gone undetected by the goblins because it was so well-disguised. He and Mrs. Grumblegood had been delighted to find everything much as they had left it, and had spent most of the day moving their furniture back in, and taking down the camouflage branches. Overhead the nightingales poured forth their melodies, celebrating the life of the forest and all the creatures that dwelled within it. The blackbirds and thrushes joined in the full-throated chorus, as he sighed contentedly. Being cocooned underground in a snug burrow was all very well if you happened to be a mole or a rabbit, but he enjoyed being outdoors - basking in the warmth of a pool of sunlight and listening to the peaceful drone of wasps, the patient drumming of the Great Spotted Woodpecker, or the soft plash of water voles frolicking in the bulrushes which grew by the lush river-bank. But most of all he enjoyed smoking his pipe in the lengthening shadows of twilight, when the moon filtered through the lattice of interlaced boughs, and soft breezes ruffled the whispering leaves.

“Where did Darius come from?” asked Josie. Mr. Grumblegood was telling the children what he knew about Darius’ parentage.

“It is said that he is half-human. I had a long discussion with my cousin Pragmaticus who was the prince’s tutor, and this is what I learned. There was a period in your history called mediaeval - is that the right word?”

“Yes, the Middle Ages” said Philip “Sort of between the tenth and fourteenth centuries”

“Come to think of it, I believe Pragmaticus did mention the thirteenth century. Darius was once truly a prince, and his parents were King and Queen of a principality in Cornwall. They lived in a castle perched at the top of a cliff on a wild and lonely promontory known as Stormy Point. It was a violent and bloodthirsty era, and all princes were trained in the art of warfare. Castles were often under siege from external enemies, and they had to be prepared. It was whilst he was out with his falcons one afternoon that he stumbled into an enchanted fairy dell, where he caught a glimpse of the Faery Queen. Normally, when this happens the unfortunate mortal is struck dumb so that he cannot tell others what he has seen...” He was interrupted as Mrs. Grumblegood appeared in the doorway of their tree with a picnic hamper.

“I’ve just thrown a few things together as there’s no telling how long we’ll be out for. And don’t forget to wear your cloaks because it can get chilly up on the Tor at night. What tales are you telling them now, Mr. Grumblegood? Not putting ideas in their heads, I hope”

“He was telling us about Darius. And how humans can enter Fairyland” added Josie hopefully.

“Well, it doesn’t happen often and when it does it’s usually by accident – either by stepping into a pixie-ring or discovering a magical door in a hollow hill” supplied Mrs. Grumblegood vaguely “I’m afraid my knowledge is rather limited. Of course nobody in their right minds would want to enter Fairyland, because there is no possibility of return. Ever”

“Except in very rare circumstances” amended Mr. Grumblegood “Which brings me back to Darius. He was an only child and much loved by the King and Queen. The Faery Queen took pity on the boy. Thinking it cruel to wrench him from his parents and his familiar surroundings, the entire castle and its environs were placed under enchantment. The King and Queen, their servants – all were transported to Albion where they have been ever since. Pragmaticus says that Darius has no recollection of this. As far as he is concerned, Albion has always been his home, and of course he will never grow old”

“But people must have noticed that the castle was missing” objected Josie. “One minute it was there and the next it wasn’t”

“Of course people noticed, but what could they do about it? The peasants marvelled that an entire castle with all its inhabitants could simply vanish without trace. They put it down to the incantations of an old witch who lived in the forest, and all avoided her like the plague lest they, too, should vanish from sight and never be heard of again”

“There was a case in our world where all the men from a small Cornish fishing village disappeared” offered Philip “The mystery has never been solved. Do you think the village could have been placed under enchantment?”

“Quite possibly” said Mr. Grumblegood, drawing on his pipe “And they all fetched up in Fairyland, poor souls”

The enchanted Tor was bathed in moonlight, and the denizens of the forest had gathered together in their hundreds and thousands, as far as the eye could see. The rustlings and murmurs grew louder as folk fidgeted impatiently or gnawed at provisions they had brought with them. The four-legged creatures were warm enough in their fur coats, but many of the gnomes had brought blankets and woollen cloaks. The children were munching on savoury pies being passed around by Mrs. Grumblegood. At a little distance, and also munching contentedly, crouched two small hedgehogs. The twins were enjoying a rare treat  – a caterpillar wrapped in a leaf – which had been provided by their parents in an effort to wean them off gnome food. Mr. Grumblegood was deep in discussion with his cousin Pragmaticus, as they reminisced about the old days. Gingernut was engaged in an animated debate with Tenacious, arguing that the only reason the Grey Squirrel Express scooped all the major news items was due to the advantageous location of its headquarters.

“That is absolute nonsense and you know it” retorted Tenacious “News is independent of location. The reason we continue to have access to news-breaking stories as they occur is because of our superior mode of delivery. Our coded messages cannot be intercepted by the enemy. I might also point out that folks are reluctant to confide in a journal which merely parrots the official version of events given out by the Goblin Administration”

“I deeply resent that slur on the integrity of the Chronicle” cut in Gingernut heatedly “If all we did was toe the official line, could you please explain why our sub-editor was arrested in the middle of the night, and our chief editor had to go into hiding? That alone speaks volumes of our commitment to the truth and to the principle of free speech. I don’t suppose it has occurred to you that our editorial policy was based on a deliberate strategy, to lull the authorities into thinking that we supported their actions, so that we would be the first to know of their plans and could alert our readers accordingly. Too subtle for you, eh?”

“Would you two stop bickering and shut up” said Pragmaticus, prodding Gingernut “Tenacious is just goading you because he knows you’ll rise to the bait”

“Making a mountain out of a molehill, if you ask me” muttered someone. “That’s squirrels for you”

“Ssssh” said someone else “I hear wolves. Listen” The grey wolves had their freedom at last and couldn’t hide their elation, howling in concert with their liberators, the white wolves. There were two full moons, which hung heavy as ripe pumpkins in opposite quarters of the sky. At that moment one of the moons streaked across the sky like a comet (most peculiar behaviour for a moon, most were thinking) and came to rest just beneath the crest of the hill. The swollen moon continued to bob up and down for a moment, until it finally settled and remained stationary. Then it slowly increased in diameter until it appeared to block out the sky. The forest-dwellers watched in wonder as two figures emerged from its fiery core, walking side by side, one clearly a wolf and the other human in form.

“It’s Miranda and...Darius! It’s Darius!” went up the cry. Darius looked somewhat dazed as he walked down the hill towards them. He was swiftly enveloped by the crowd, which swept him up in its embrace.

“Later” was all he would say in answer to their questions, as he swung himself onto a low-hanging branch. Tipsy hovered nearby, her gossamer wings fluttering in the breeze.

An expectant and reverent hush settled over the waiting crowd. Then Miranda began to speak. The first part of her speech dealt with the goblins. Those who had participated in cold-blooded murder and executions had been sent into oblivion: such crimes could not go unpunished. For other transgressions – corrupting and enslaving the trolls, perverting the course of justice, outright theft and expropriation of property, felling and destruction of trees, attempts to stifle free speech and restrict free assembly, intimidation and harassment of forest-dwellers - the goblins had been expelled from Albion and forbidden to ever return (this news was met with a resounding cheer) The wolves had undertaken to oversee the enforced exodus, and would be responsible for patrolling the borders to guard against future incursions. All listened in silence, judging the punishments meted out to be fair and in everyone’s interest. When the leader of the wolves had finished speaking, there were several questions.

“What happened to Ermentrude? How is she to be punished?”

“She lives on in another dimension, another time. She no longer has dominion over Albion, which has passed from her control”

“You mean she will not return?” persisted a nature sprite, seeking reassurance.

“Annihilation of an immortal is not possible. What has been foreordained cannot be changed. But if she were to return at some distant point in the future, her power would be severely curtailed”

“What about the trolls?” asked someone else “Will they also be expelled?”

“We cannot entirely eliminate the presence of danger, otherwise life would be insipid and without challenge” continued Miranda. “Without risk there is no adventure, without sorrow there is no joy, and without conflict there can be no true or lasting peace. Dangers lurk in the oceans, and unseen perils abound in the forest. The trolls have as much right to be here as yourselves, and will continue to pose a threat to those of you who venture into their territory. Wolves will continue to prowl, though in the main keeping to the mountain passes, and to the frozen wastes and fastnesses of the Northern Territory. The eagles and owls, buzzards and falcons, will continue to hunt and pounce on their prey, since they act in accordance with their nature” The great horned owl Diogenes gave a satisfied nod, and turned to Freddie for corroboration.

“What did I tell you? No-one’s going to stop us from doing what comes naturally. And as for you lot” His gaze bored into some of the smaller mammals “If you lack the wit to stay out of my way when I’ve a hankering for a mole pup or a fox cub, that’s your lookout. It’s up to your parents to teach you how to look after yourselves” Miranda then turned to Gillian and asked her to approach.

“Do not be afraid” Gillian complied nervously, not knowing what to expect. Before their astonished eyes the wolf transmogrified into a beautiful lady with golden hair and emerald eyes. She gently removed the ruby ring from Gillian’s finger.

“You no longer have need of this” Then she addressed Laurence.

“Beware of accepting lavish gifts from strangers, for it is thus they place you in their power. Beware, also, of proffered accommodation which may prove to be a prison, and its fine furnishings chains with which to bind your soul” Laurence bowed his head, in tacit acknowledgment of the truth of her words. For a split second he caught a glimpse of her true form and the sight dazzled him. “As humans, you cannot remain here for much longer and must return to your own world. But as a token of our gratitude, and for services rendered to Albion I present you with the following gifts”

Josie was given a soft blue velvet cloak, which would keep her snug and warm even in a raging blizzard. “To you I present the Mantle of Protection. No harm will come to you while you wear this”

Laurence was given a silver compass, which would enable him to distinguish truth from falsehood: in the latter case the needle would spin wildly instead of returning a true reading. “To you I present the Gift of Conscience. Use the compass to plot a course between right and wrong, between truth and deception”

Gillian was presented with a tiny gold shield fastened to a leather belt, a much smaller replica of the silver Aegis worn by the Faery Queen herself. “To you I present the Shield of Vigilance. Wear this shield always to ward off evil”

Philip was given a small silver key that could be activated in the presence of a portal. “To you I present the Key of Knowledge. Use this key to unlock the entrance to Albion. Now go and join in the celebrations. Feast and be merry, for the time for you to depart draws nigh”

The arboreal awakening was over, and the trees were once again rooted to their customary spots. Ash had elected to accompany Dame Elm back to the Nymph’s Grotto, claiming he wanted “a change of scene”, though everyone knew it was because he couldn’t bear to be parted from her for a whole year.

“Hey, Praggers, have you seen this?” Gingernut nudged Pragmaticus meaningfully, as Wilfred sidled up to a female weasel he had been eyeing for some time. “I thought you said he was shy”

“…lots of babies” Wilfred was saying “How about it?” The female weasel looked startled, and moved off a pace.

“Well, but we’ve only just met....” Wilfred went down on one knee.

“If I have offended you, forgive me. But I see no impediment. You cannot deny that you are in your prime, the scent you give off is most attractive” He sniffed the air “and I’m anxious to get started as soon as you say the word…”

“Good gracious, this is all rather unexpected” responded the object of his attentions “I hardly know what to say”

“It is quite possible to be shy whilst being over-familiar at the same time” commented Pragmaticus, moving off to afford the pair some privacy. “In fact, most forward behaviour is merely a form of social ineptitude. Poor Wilfred has no idea how to approach the weasel in question, which stems from his lack of confidence. I am sure that if he perseveres, she will come to appreciate his sterling qualities”

“He’s quite handy with a duster” agreed Gingernut, as they joined the group clustered around the Grumblegoods, which included Darius and the four children. As if on cue, everyone started to press Darius about his spell in Fairyland.

“I don’t remember a thing. One minute I was inside the oak ring and it became intensely hot, and the next thing I remember is being surrounded by golden light and walking down the hill with Miranda. My wounds are completely healed”

“You mean you don’t remember anything at all about being inside the Fairy Hill?” Darius shook his head.

“Not a thing”

“Will you be returning to the Pink Citadel, Darius?” enquired Gingernut casually.

“No I shall not return there” replied Darius “The castle holds too many bad memories for me. My home is here in the forest with all of you - it is where I feel most happy and free”

“In that case” said Wilfred, coming up to them. “I hope you won’t object, sire, if I tender my resignation” He had been thinking a lot about his future just recently, and had concluded that he no longer wished to remain in the draughty castle that had been his home for as long as he could remember. He wanted to dig himself a burrow in the rich moist earth, and settle down with a like-minded female weasel. “There must be more to life than dusting. I have given the matter some thought and I do not consider it a natural life for a weasel to lead”

“Had I known you were so miserable you would have been released from your duties long ago” replied Darius, with a smile “If happiness is within your reach, then grasp it” Gingernut coughed.

“Since everyone’s being so frank, I confess that I too have ambitions which can best be achieved if I relocate our headquarters: a Riverside address has more cachet with our readers” Darius looked blank for a moment until Pragmaticus explained.

“He’s referring to The Red Squirrel Chronicle, sire”

“Oh yes, of course” said Darius “I imagine a squirrel would be much happier in a forest” Gingernut grinned, flashing an impudent smile in the direction of Tenacious.

“All I can say is, you’d better keep to your side of the river” muttered the grey squirrel “I’m not having you muscling in on our patch”

“With your considerable talents I don’t know why you two don’t collaborate” remarked Pragmaticus “instead of continually sniping at each other” He exchanged glances with Groanalot before addressing Darius “We also, that is Cook and myself, have discussed this matter and would dearly like to remain with you, Darius. If you’ll have us”

“Food for the stomach and food for the mind!” exclaimed Darius with unconcealed delight “Put like that, how can I resist? I intend to build a tree-house, and would appreciate some help”

“Tell us about the mermaids!” shouted some badger cubs “We want to hear about the giant squid!”

“Oh, not that again” sighed Darius resignedly “I don’t know how many times you’ve heard the story…”

“But we never get tired of hearing it. And we want to hear it again”

“I love them dearly” said Darius later, in an aside to his former tutor “but I look forward to the intellectual stimulation your companionship will afford, old friend”, to which Pragmaticus replied “I always thought you had the makings of a true warrior, but the irony is that you have turned out to be a consummate story-teller”

“I’ve no desire to spend my life fighting” responded Darius, then aloud to the others “What about this victory celebration that everyone has been talking about? We are all rested and I see no reason to postpone it any longer. Let’s give the humans a send-off they won’t forget in a hurry!” No further urging was needed, as preparations had been secretly underway for hours. Mounds of food appeared as if by magic, and the feasting, dancing, and joke-telling went on into the wee hours. Just before dawn was breaking, The Faery Queen revealed herself for one last time, beckoning to the children so that she could speak to them privately.

“Never be afraid. Remember that good always triumphs over evil. Evil only attracts weak and corrupt spirits, whereas the strong and the pure in heart are attracted by what is good. And that is why its power is so much greater, and why it will always win in the end” They thanked her once again for the marvellous gifts she had bestowed on them. Esmeralda smiled. “I have given you nothing that you do not already possess. In time you will come to know this” The Faery Queen then indicated a sturdy oak tree, instructing Philip how to insert the key into a knot-hole in order to activate the portal.

They tumbled in a heap at the foot of the tree, just as Rebecca snapped the final frame in her roll of film. She dropped the camera, gaping at Gillian as if to say Where did you come from?

“Don’t ask” said Philip, in answer to his wife’s dumbfounded expression “My sister is very partial to trees - I had an idea we’d find her here”

“Got to make the most of it, while it’s still standing” said Gillian brightly. She cast one long last lingering look at the magnificent trees at the heart of the primordial forest - the mighty yew, the formidable ash, the stately beech, the sacred alder and the triumphal oak. Farewell, old friends, staunch and steadfast defenders of the realm. May your sacrifice not have been in vain.

“What about a spot of lunch?” suggested Laurence, striding ahead “We don’t want to keep Trevor and the others waiting” Twenty minutes later they were all comfortably ensconced in a panelled alcove beneath the oak-beamed rafters of The White Hart, where Trevor had managed to reserve a table for them. Gillian’s entry caused a sensation. After the family had got over their initial amazement and shock, Laurence ordered some drinks at the bar.

“Who’s going to inform the police?” asked Brian, gazing at his mother as if he’d never really seen her before “They’ll probably do you for wasting police time”

“Mum, why didn’t you send word or anything?” asked Diane. “It’s been two whole days, and we were worried sick. We thought you were dead!”

“I must have lost all track of time” responded Gillian “The eco warriors I was staying with don’t listen to television or read newspapers, you see, so I had no idea there was a massive manhunt. I’m so terribly sorry, darlings. Please forgive me”

“If this is your idea of a joke, Jill” said Trevor with a noticeable tremor in his voice “I consider it to be in the worst possible taste” Josie choked on her food, and Diane started to giggle.

“Would you like to place your orders now?” asked one of the barmaids, unloading a tray of drinks “I’d recommend the House Special: Beef and Guinness pie with fresh local vegetables”

“Sounds good. Count me in” said Philip. Once the orders had been taken and everyone had a drink, the mood lightened somewhat. Brian’s mobile phone went off. He spent nearly fifteen minutes laboriously typing in a message before pressing the SEND button, much to everyone’s amusement.

“What’s the point?” enquired Josie “I mean, surely a simple phone call would be less time-consuming, and less costly”

“It’s convenient – you can send someone a text message whilst they’re at the cinema and it wouldn’t disturb anyone. You can even surf the Net” said Brian enthusiastically “I can get a pizza delivered to my doorstep”

“In London you can’t be more than a ten minutes walk from a pizza outlet anyway” countered Josie “Our mother used to get meat delivered from the butchers, bread from the bakery, milk and cheese from the dairy, vegetables and fruit from the greengrocers – virtually whatever she wanted – and there was no charge. That’s what I call real service”

“Oh, not that again” groaned Brian “The good old days. I suppose your generation think life was better in the fifties and sixties than in 2001”

“If we’re referring to quality of life, then I think it was” replied his mother “We could roam around freely without our parents having to worry about paedophiles. The roads were less congested, people were more considerate and courteous… educational standards were certainly a lot higher”

“I don’t how you can say that, Mum!” cried Diane indignantly “More people than ever go to university, so how can standards be slipping? Surely things have got better, not worse”

“The fact that more people go to university simply proves the point your mother is making” said Philip “A recent experiment was conducted where 18-year-olds were given a simple maths test devised for 11 year-olds in the fifties. Most of them failed miserably. We weren’t allowed to use calculators or computers, we had to use our brains”

“You mean we don’t have any? Thanks, Uncle Philip. Thanks a lot”

“Your uncle is saying you’re not encouraged to use your brains, not that you don’t have any” said Gillian.

“In those days, you got a much better service from the National Health” said Rebecca. “If you were ill the local GP would come out to your house; you didn’t have to wait for hours in a crowded, noisy surgery. And if you wanted to speak to your bank manager you didn’t get a recorded voice at the end of the line”

“That’s before all the call centres were relocated to Bangalore or Delhi” chipped in Trevor, who had perked up considerably “Good morning mem sahib. Jolly nice weather we’re having over here. Please key in your 30 digit security code, followed by your memorable data and the second, fifth and nineteenth digit of your password. Should the line still be busy after four hours please call again later quoting your unique customer reference”

“And if you travelled by train, the journey was safe and pleasant, not an ordeal” added Laurence “You certainly didn’t encounter gangs of thugs, tearing through the compartments and robbing passengers of their valuables, like the smart phone you’ve got there”

“Someone who lived in the fifties wouldn’t have a phone like this. They probably wouldn’t even have washing machines or cars. Everyone’s much better off now. And anyway, most of the people then were fascists” declared Brian. A short silence followed, then Philip said

“I’ll let that pass because you’re young and probably don’t know any better. But I’d be most interested in hearing your definition of a fascist”

“I don’t know, someone who believes in the British Empire, like Winston Churchill. Or who thinks England was better in the fifties, because there weren’t all these immigrants” He glanced at Laurence, whose eyebrows shot up.

“In your view, Winston Churchill was a fascist?”

“Well, everyone knows that”

“Do they? I’m speechless. Nothing could better illustrate the woeful state of present-day education than listening to you talk, young man-”

“-Don’t call me Young Man, that’s what I mean, you’re old-fashioned and patronising, you’re just an old fascist”

“Brian, stop that” said Gillian “I am thoroughly ashamed of you. I cannot think of anyone who did more to combat fascism than Churchill”

“You apologise to your uncle right now” said Trevor to Brian.

“Oh, don’t bother” said Laurence, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ve been called an old fogy because I don’t like having my ears assaulted by loud music, a reactionary because I happen to be patriotic, and I don’t suppose one more name will hurt me” He addressed Brian directly “Just to put the record straight, though, there seems to be some confusion in your mind between the terms old-fashioned and fascist. Whatever you might have been told or led to believe, the two are completely distinct and bear no relation to one another”

“Because of the war you’re prejudiced against all Germans” Brian looked at his parents defiantly “You might as well know that text message was from my German girlfriend. I’m moving in with her next week”

“But that’s wonderful, Brian” said Gillian “Why on earth should I mind?”

“I’d be very careful about the cooking arrangements, if I were you” admonished Laurence “Far be it from me to suggest the Germans are cannibals just because they eat sour kraut” Everyone laughed except Brian.

“You can’t sit there and deny that you’re a racist” went on Brian, glaring at Laurence “when you come out with comments like that”

“It would be more accurate to describe your uncle as a misanthropist” interposed Philip with a smile “He dislikes most people on principle; it’s not based on race or ethnic group, on class or creed. Tell us what your neighbours are like, Laurence”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t spoken to one in ten years” replied Laurence, deadpan. “The only good neighbour is a dead neighbour”

“You see?” said Philip. “Laurence doesn’t discriminate against people at all. He couldn’t tell you what nationality, gender or colour his neighbours are”

“Your lot think foreigners are to blame for everything” said Brian to Laurence.

“Of course I’m not stupid enough to blame foreigners for all our woes. Any more than I’d take out my frustration on a waiter for poor service when management policy makes it inevitable; that is to confuse the symptoms with the underlying causes. You also appear to confuse racism with xenophobia. It’s quite possible to be racist without being xenophobic or to be xenophobic without being racist”

“I can’t see the difference” shrugged Brian. His sister looked confused.

“That’s evident. Logical distinctions are clearly beyond you” said Laurence. “And if you would like to encounter some real racism, try Zimbabwe where whites are butchered on a daily basis merely for being white. And unless you want to make a complete fool of yourself, you’d be well-advised to get yourself a proper education or keep quiet”

“This is crap. I’m out of here” declared Brian, getting up abruptly.

“Oh sit down and don’t be so silly” said his mother “Your uncle is making a valid point. Why can’t your argue your case reasonably like an adult instead of stomping off like a four-year-old?”

“Because he doesn’t have a case” said Laurence calmly. “The accepted definition of a fascist is someone who cannot tolerate an opposing viewpoint. The classic symptoms are hysteria and personal abuse, generally followed by violence”

“He just insulted me, Mum. He called me a fascist”

“Oh, don’t be so childish. You insulted him, so he insults you. What do you expect? It’s called free speech. Thanks to people like Winston Churchill and all the other old-fashioned fogies out there, we can say what we think without being executed by real fascists. Why don’t you have another drink and sit down”

“And anyway, back in the fifties women had to stay in the kitchen cooking” pointed out Diane, in defence of her brother “That was their lot. Surely you’ve got to admit things have got better for women”

“You’re right, women didn’t have the choices they have nowadays” their mother agreed “but on the other hand I do remember being very happy and secure at school because we didn’t have to grow up so fast. The comics we read were about children having exciting adventures, not about sex and unwanted pregnancies. You might be better off materially, but you’re missing out on something infinitely more precious”

“What? What are we missing out on?”

“Your childhood” said Rebecca.

“I did have a childhood” insisted Diane “it was just different from yours. Kids these days don’t want to play with boring toys like spinning tops and skipping ropes. We used to pretend to be pop singers, and liked dressing up in the latest fashions” Diane looked at her mother reproachfully “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, but those are teenage preoccupations, not those of a child” objected her mother gently “One minute you’re at infant school, the next you want to wear makeup and get yourself a boyfriend. You were six years old going on fifteen. What happened to the missing years, when you should have been a carefree child?” Diane frowned.

“Our generation didn’t play with toys much” said Rebecca “We didn’t have television or computers so we invented our own games. Everybody read a great deal more, and we were all outdoors more. Hardly anyone was obese because we got plenty of exercise. We climbed trees, went fishing, tobogganing, cycling…”

“We made our own kites with string, paper and paste” recalled Philip.

“Oh, here we go” groaned Brian “I’ve heard all about how you made your own wooden sleds and tree-houses. Proper little geniuses. I bet your parents use to whinge on about the good old days”

“Quite the contrary” said Josie “I remember our father saying we’d never had it so good”

“I’m quite sure if you were given a carpentry set you’d be equally capable of constructing a rudimentary guitar or a sled, as I did” said Philip “But Jo’s right: our parents definitely didn’t think we had it worse than they did. Most parents love their children and would like to be able to honestly say that life is easier and better for their children than it was for them. But the unfortunate truth is that for your generation, the reverse is true. And we are all truly sorry about it, and wish it were otherwise. Consumerism does not equate to quality of life. I may be middle-aged and partially disabled, but I don’t envy young people today. Not many people of my generation would trade their childhood for yours”

“That’s it then. The end of civilisation as we know it” said Brian, turning to his sister “Might as well order our coffins now”

“Seriously though, Brian” said his mother “Just because something’s new or modern doesn’t mean it’s better. Frequently it’s worse. Drug addiction, for instance. It was unheard of when we were growing up. And as for the scale of violent crime we now accept as normal - drive-by shootings and robberies at gunpoint - that sort of thing just didn’t occur in this country. I don’t wish to keep harping on, but even the quality of television was better thirty years ago”

“For which we have the Director-General of the BBC to thank” said Laurence. “Interesting how they’ve tagged that military label onto his job title”

“And don’t forget the Drug Czar” added Philip “That imperial-sounding rank again. I believe he’s been tasked with legalising recreational drugs. Get them hooked at an early age - exactly what this country is crying out for”

“Only a question of time before they appoint a Sex Emperor” remarked Laurence dryly “whose task will be to ensure that condom machines are installed at all infant and primary schools”

“I hear the government is planning to raise the retirement age to 80, in the hope that people will die off before they can claim their pensions” remarked Philip. “It’s hard to believe that once upon a time people looked forward to their old age, when they could enjoy the fruits of their labour”

“You’ve got to admit some things have got better” said Brian, looking defiantly at his uncle. “Kids got beaten at school in the old days, and that’s child abuse” Laurence permitted himself a smile but refrained from comment.

“They were disciplined for bad behaviour” corrected his mother “Which is not the same thing as child abuse. But nobody said everything was better then, dear, what we said was that, in general, standards of service were better - public health, public transport, standards of education…”

“Not to mention the standards of workmanship” contributed Trevor “Honest tradesmen actually existed in those days. Incredible as it may seem, if you called out a plumber, a roofer, or a builder you got someone who knew his trade and charged you a fair price. Not like the con-merchants you get these days who are so full of shit they come equipped with their own portaloos”

“Did someone mention workmen?” asked Philip “I thought they were an extinct species. Like bobbies on the beat”

“Policemen are now known as revenue collectors” said Josie “They all wear yellow fluorescent coats and insist on breathalysing every motorist they see”

“I thought those chaps in the yellow fluorescent coats worked for the Council” said Philip “You see groups of them loitering by the sides of busy roads, pretending to work”

“You’re confusing the revenue-collectors with Highway Cleanliness Officers” said Trevor “Road sweepers, we used to call them. Or am I getting mixed up with Household Waste Engineers – dustbin men to you and me? Admittedly it’s difficult to tell them apart these days because they all wear yellow fluorescent coats and look as if they’re doing something useful”

“Those chaps in the fluorescent coats certainly get around” said Laurence “I spotted some on the Underground the other day, pretending to keep the public order. When I reported a theft one of them told me they weren’t actually paid to arrest people, only to check that the CCTV cameras were functioning”

“They’re actors employed by the government” said Philip “It’s all a public relations exercise for the benefit of tourists who otherwise might feel nervous about visiting a country that no longer has a police force. I hear the Prime Minister is uneasy about the security arrangements at Downing Street. Those holograms of policemen projected by the MOD might fool the tourists, but there’s always the danger that an Al Qaeda terrorist might slip through”

“Very funny” said Brian “Why do you always have to poke fun at the government?”

“Respect has to be earned, Brian” said Philip “It cannot be imposed by legislation or by force. And public figures wouldn’t be held up to ridicule if their actions were seen to be honourable and decent instead of despicable and self-serving. Saying something is good doesn’t make it good. It’s deeds that count with ordinary people, not words”

“You mustn’t believe everything the government tells you” added his mother. “Politicians would have you believe that things are getting better, and that they’ve successfully tackled all the big social issues so that you’ll vote for them and keep them in power. It also gives them an excuse to do absolutely nothing and allow things to go from bad to worse, don’t you see?”

“What’s the point of being born then, if everything gets worse and not better?” said Brian bitterly.

“The pressures you have to contend with are far worse than anything we had. And I know it’s not very pleasant to hear” said Gillian “but facts should be faced, not denied simply because they are unpleasant. If you were both still children I wouldn’t be having this conversation with you. But you’re young adults now and must learn to think for yourselves”

“This conversation is depressing me” said Diane “We can’t win whatever we say” She looked at her parents. “Do you mind if I go home now? I’ve got a headache” Gillian looked worried.

“Maybe you’ve got a brain tumour” said Brian to his sister  “After all, we’re the generation who use cellular phones and are exposed to all this radiation from radio masts. Not to mention the pollution and all the toxic chemicals in the water supply. I probably won’t be able to have kids because of a low sperm count” Diane giggled.

“Come on, Brian. Let’s get out of here. See you later, Mum”

“Perhaps we did overdo it a bit” said Gillian, after Brian and Diane had departed. “I suppose the danger is that if you overstate your case, they’ll switch off. Maybe we shouldn’t talk so frankly in front of them – what do you think? Are we doing more damage than good?”

“As you pointed out, Jill, they’re not kids any more” said Philip “You can’t keep shielding them from harsh realities. And as for ourselves, we need to guard against the intransigence and irascibility that comes with advancing age. That is the challenge we face as parents”

“Still, they seem happy enough” said Rebecca “I suppose you don’t miss what you’ve never had”

“I’m not convinced that they are happy” sighed Gillian “They seem quite stressed and don’t seem to get much enjoyment out of life. They’ll come back from the pub or a party and I’ll ask whether they’d had a good time, only to be told ‘It wasn’t worth the hassle, Mum’ or ‘It was boring’”

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it” said Philip “I’ve come to the conclusion that Life’s main goal is not happiness but to raise the human consciousness to a higher level – to keep the synapses firing on all fronts. Speaking of which, how about that game we all used to play at Marjorie’s Tea Parlour Who Laughs Last Wins? Someone chooses a random topic, and you score ten points for every person in the game who laughs. Whoever laughs is out. The next speaker has just three seconds in which to broach a new topic which must not be related to the last one, otherwise he or she is automatically disqualified and the last person to speak picks up five points. Josie, you start”

“I heard that Laurence has opened up an exclusive restaurant in London called Stodgy Food, which is packed out every night of the week with stockbrokers and city gents. They serve things like steak and kidney pudding, and it’s staffed by snotty prefects instead of waiters who hand our detention slips for bad behaviour” Rebecca laughed.

“Sorry, Becky you’re out” said Philip “Josie scores 10 points. Laurence, you’re next. Three seconds”

“A mountain rescue team have just had their funding withdrawn on the grounds that they were not rescuing enough people belonging to ethnic minorities or disabled groups. If a climber were to fall and break his neck, would he therefore qualify as disabled and be deemed worthy of rescue?”

“No doubt he’d be required to register his new status and fill in numerous forms before the helicopter would deign to put in an appearance” commented Trevor, who still hadn’t got the hang of the game.

“Sorry, Trevor, but that was related to what Laurence just said which means you’re disqualified and Laurence notches up 5 points” said Philip. “Jill, I believe it’s your go”

“The Deputy PM is apparently anxious to tax properties with a view” said Gillian. “Fine views are “elitist” and ideologically unsound, you see. We must all live in the drab Soviet-style municipal blocks favoured by party apparatchniks – I mean, what sort of politics is that?”

“The politics of envy and malice” supplied Philip “The little green men have finally landed, it seems. Oh shit, that was related to….” Everyone roared with laughter. “Looks like I’m out and you scored 5 points, Jill”

“Hey, that sounds like a really neat game” remarked an American tourist, leaning over towards their table “Can anyone join in?”

“Be my guest” shrugged Philip.

“Afraid not” said Laurence, tight-lipped “It’s a private family affair”

“Anyone else getting a sense of déjà vu here?” enquired Philip, with an amused glance at his brother.

“But no wonder young people get confused” said Gillian, still focussed on her children “With politicians setting those sort of examples how are they supposed to distinguish right from wrong?”

“It helps if you have a magic compass” said Laurence mysteriously “A built-in bullshit detector”

“That reminds me” said Gillian “there was something terribly important I wanted them to know, something we learnt when we were young, but I’ve forgotten now what it was”

“Evil attracts the weak and the corrupt, whereas good attracts the brave and the free. And that’s why the power of good is so much greater and it will always triumph in the end” volunteered Josie gravely.

“Yes. I don’t know who told us that, perhaps it was our Headmistress. Nevertheless it’s true. Dessert, anyone?” enquired Gillian, holding up a menu “And you are NOT paying for all of this, Philip. Because of the all trouble I’ve caused, lunch is on me”

“Just coffee for me, thanks” said Rebecca “Have to watch the expanding waist-line….”

“What waist?” said Josie, grinning “Waste not, want not, as dear old Archie used to say. I’m going to indulge whilst I still can. Before the Fat Czarina issues a decree banning the consumption of chocolate in public”

“Permit me” said Laurence, taking out his wallet “It’s the least I can do for baiting your offspring. I meant to apologise but they skipped off before I had a chance”

“We’ll split it down the middle, old chap” said Philip “No, Trevor, keep out of this” as Trevor was about to object.

“Still acting as though you’re the oldest” said Laurence to Philip, with a grin. “The fruits of primogeniture. Now you get to pick up the tab”

“I am still the oldest. Some things don’t change. By the way, did my ears deceive me? Did I actually hear an apology issue from those tightly-buttoned lips?”

“Actually” Laurence cleared his throat “I believe I owe some of you an apology for, er, for past transgressions” Everyone looked up at this.

“What could you have done that was so terrible, Laurence?” enquired Gillian innocently.

“I came very close to betraying you. What can I say in my defence except that I was offered my heart’s desire - what eleven-year-old would have been able to resist a winged chariot? The one you stole from me” he added, looking at Gillian.

“I didn’t steal it, Laurence, I borrowed it. For a good cause”

“A childhood game we all used to play” explained Philip to Trevor and Rebecca, who were looking puzzled. “The imaginary world we invented was called the Forest of Albion. There was a wicked queen called Ermentrude, some friendly gnomes called the Grumblegoods, and some not-so-friendly goblins…”

“Are you absolutely sure it was make-believe, and not real?” Josie asked them.

“Well, of course it was a game, Josie” said Gillian gently “What else? Laurence, if only we had your magical compass we could put it to the test”

“Or we could simply find another portal” said Josie “before the memory fades”

“The gifts the Faery Queen bestows are emblematic, tokens of faculties we all possess” said Philip. “To enter the Forest of Albion all one requires is the magical key”

“And do you have one?” enquired his wife.

“Oh yes” Philip tapped his forehead “We all do. Imagination is the key”

THE END

Contents

Chapter 1 – Mortimers Club (2001)

Chapter 2 – Ermentrude’s Castle

Chapter 3 - Brocklebank School (1959)

Chapter 4  – Laurel Grove (2001)

Chapter 5 – Beechwood (1959)

Chapter 6 – The Sinister Woods

Chapter 7 – Troll Mountain

Chapter 8 – The Pink Citadel

Chapter 9 – Blind Badgers’ Buff

Chapter 10 – The Winged Chariot

Chapter 11 - Philip’s Progress (2001)

Chapter 12 - Metropolitan Blues (2001)

Chapter 13  – Lost in Wales (2001)

Chapter 14 – A Call To Arms (1959)

Chapter 15 – The Battle of the Trees