Spider Light(101)

Maud had not exactly been frightened, but she was no longer used to being with mamma like this–it was a long time since they had taken their afternoon walks together. She started to feel cold and shivery inside, and wondered if mamma would be angry if she let go of her hand and ran back home.

When they came to Latchkill’s gates, mamma had stopped, and said, ‘That’s where we’re going.’ Maud looked up in astonishment, because it was still spider light time–there had been a huge scuttly spider on the marble washstand in her bedroom yesterday morning–and mamma had always said you must never be caught near to Latchkill at that time. Spider light was when the bad things happened.

But the spider light did not seem to matter today because mamma was tugging on an iron rope. A bell jangled and a man ran out of the little house at the side of the gates, and said, ‘Good morning madam, and little miss, and what can I do for you?’

Mamma said in her haughtiest voice, ‘I wish to come inside, if you please’ and the man looked at her for a moment, and then nodded. The gates opened, and they stepped through.

Latchkill was as frightening as Maud had always known it would be. It had high-up windows with jutting-out bits of stone so they looked like eyes under too thick eyebrows staring down at the people on the ground. It was a dirty-grey colour, and it had a crooked look as if the people who had built it had not measured it properly, so it had ended up twisted. If it had been a person, it would have been a hunchback, or a man limping.

Mamma seemed to know the way they must go. Holding Maud’s hand very tightly, she led the way around the side of the house. ‘This is the door we’ll use to go inside, Maud.’

‘Are we going to see somebody?’

‘Yes. Yes, we are. We’re going to see somebody we should have seen a long time ago.’

Mamma’s eyes were glittery, and although her face was pale, there were two spots of red on her cheeks as if she had painted them on.

As well as being dark, the inside of Latchkill smelt horrid as if somebody had boiled cabbage for too long, or as if the people who lived here did not wash often enough. Maud hated it, but mamma was striding along a passage, still holding firmly to Maud’s hand. If they met anyone, they must say they had been sent for because a relative was ill. Did Maud understand that?

‘Yes,’ said Maud in a very small voice.

They did not meet anyone. They went into a passageway where it was quite difficult to see the way because there were no windows, and mamma said, ‘Yes, I think this is it.’ She pointed to a notice fixed to the wall. It was in big black letters, and Maud read it carefully.

Reaper Wing.

There was no reason why she should start to feel even more frightened by these words, but she did. In a small scared voice, she said, ‘What’s Reaper Wing?’

For a moment she thought mamma was not going to answer, but then she said, ‘Reaper Wing is the place where your father lives.’





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO




The place where your father lives.

The eight-year-old Maud had not understood. Her father was at home, and on most days he went to Twygrist Mill to work. He was not here in Latchkill: he was at Toft House where they all lived.

Then mamma said, in a different voice–a voice that brought all the shivery fear back, ‘This is the place, Maud. They thought I didn’t know where he lives–George thought I didn’t know–but I do know because I listened to people talking. I’ve known for a very long time. We have to go through the black iron doors and we have to do so today because it’s your birthday. That’s the right day to do this.’

Maud saw they were standing in front of huge black doors–like the doors people put in books about giants. She wanted to shout to mamma not to open the doors because there might be something terrible beyond them–something that they must not see. But she had been too frightened to speak, and mamma had drawn back the bolt.

Maud, curled into the shrubbery of Latchkill’s grounds, waiting to slip out, could see the ghost of her eight-year-old self clearly. She could see mamma’s hands–thin, white hands because mamma had not gone out into the sun for all those years–drawing back the bolt.

The grown-up Maud half understood that there was something wrong with the people in the shadowy room: the people who had been there that morning, and who had still been there tonight when she opened the black door. She thought that some deformity, some tragic freak of nature had made them like that. But the eight-year-old Maud had not understood at all. She had thought the people were giants, ogres, who gobbled up human children or carried them off to their castles. She had stared at them in horror, and thought that if one of them were to snatch her up, he would go striding across the countryside in his seven-league boots, carrying her with him, and nobody would catch him, no matter how hard they ran.

She had started to step back into the safe darkness of the passage, thinking mamma would surely come with her now they had seen what was in here. But mamma did not move. She said, ‘Which of you is the one who attacked me one night nearly nine years ago?’ She appeared to be waiting for an answer, which Maud thought silly of mamma, because giants did not answer ordinary people’s questions.

Mamma said, ‘It’s taken me all these years to understand what happened. I didn’t know about Reaper Wing and about you. But now I do know–I’ve met the matron here and she’s talked about you, so I understand.’ She made an odd, half-ashamed, half-proud gesture at Maud. ‘But I wanted you to see the result of that night,’ she said. ‘Your daughter.’