I stopped walking and stood in silence.
At the bottom of the ravine was a glittering stream, about two feet in depth and six feet wide. A waterfall plunged from a shelf of shale rock to the right, tumbling in three broad steps toward the stream, where the water bubbled and boiled. Dappled shade from the trees cast intriguing shadows onto the water, while the flickering sunlight painted the early spring foliage in shades of gold and emerald and soft buttery yellow.
“Oh, Elsie!” I whispered. “It’s lovely.”
It was more than lovely. It was magical. It was wild and alive, and yet peaceful and serene. I could never have imagined somewhere so pretty could exist among the drab gray of the village I’d seen last night.
Elsie rubbed her hands together and pulled her scarf closer around her neck. “It’s nicer in the summer, and nice enough at backend. Autumn,” she added, seeing the confusion on my face. “You can spend a whole day here then. I don’t fancy more than ten minutes on a day like this.”
But I didn’t feel the cold so much. Last night’s disappointment of dirty snow and lightless streets fell away as I watched the water tumble and swirl. I already knew I could happily spend hours here, day and night, summer or winter. And there was something else. A sense of being watched, a continual urge to look over my shoulder. I didn’t say anything to Elsie, afraid that she would tease me for being silly, but I felt it all the same.
Elsie picked up a stick, idly pushing a leaf around in the eddies that formed behind the larger rocks. I found a stick of my own and did the same, giving Elsie an idea. “Let’s have races. Come on. We might find baby frogs if we’re lucky.”
The morning slipped away beneath the strengthening sun as we became engrossed in our game, searching for the broadest leaves to make boats for the baby frogs we found hiding behind rocks and among the long grass. I winced at the cool touch of their skin, shrieking when they sprang from my hands. On Elsie’s count of three, we released our boats, running along the riverbank after them, eager to see which would reach the finish line first. Elsie won most of the races, and the baby frogs abandoned ship far too soon, but I didn’t mind. I loved it there at the beck and couldn’t resist taking off my shoes and stockings to dip my toes into the water.
Elsie laughed as I squealed at the icy cold. “You’ll catch your death, Frances Griffiths, not to mention a slipper on your backside if your mother catches you! And mind you don’t slip on those stones. The water’s running fast. It’ll knock your feet from under you easily enough.”
I walked at the edge of the water for as long as I could bear it before following a path of slippery stepping-stones to the far bank, where I jumped up onto a bough of a willow tree. It made a perfect seat. I swung my legs beneath me, letting my bare toes skim the surface of the water. From my perch, I noticed a cottage, hidden almost entirely by trees. It looked familiar somehow, and as I narrowed my eyes against the glint of the sun, peering through the shifting branches to get a better look, I saw a woman standing at an upstairs window. She was looking directly at me.
I jumped down from the branch and ducked behind the bank. “Elsie,” I hissed. “Who’s that?”
“Who’s what?”
“Through the trees. In the window at the cottage. Someone’s watching us.”
Elsie didn’t seem at all concerned. “That’ll be Mrs. Hogan. Your teacher. Remember, I told you about her last night.”
“Why is she watching us?”
“Probably wondering who you are. She often stands at the window. Folk say she’s looking for her little girl.”
I stayed low as I walked back across the stepping-stones toward Elsie. As I turned to look over my shoulder, I caught a movement of the lace curtain as Mrs. Hogan disappeared into the dark interior of the cottage. “How sad for her. Is she nice?”
Elsie shrugged. “Keeps herself to herself, mostly. She speaks with a funny accent too—Irish—so the pair of you will get along fine.”
“Was she your teacher?”
Elsie shook her head. “I went to the village school, but you’re a clever clogs so you’re going to Bingley Grammar, where Mrs. Hogan teaches.” My stomach lurched at the thought. Today was Saturday. Monday would be my first day in the new school. I felt sick with nerves. “Mummy says she’s also sad about Mr. Hogan being off at war,” Elsie explained as we wandered back upstream. “He joined up last year when conscription came in. It wasn’t long after the child went missing.”
I knew all about being sad when people went off to war. “Why didn’t Uncle Arthur go to war?”
“Too old. He tried to enlist anyway, but he failed the medical examination. He was assigned to stay at home and help at the mill and with other mechanical jobs for the farmers. He doesn’t like to talk about it. He feels guilty not to be doing his bit at the Front.”
As I followed Elsie back along the riverbank, I brushed my fingertips against the silky catkins on the willow trees and wished Daddy had failed the medical examination too. I stopped now and then to collect interesting-looking pebbles that clacked together satisfyingly in my pockets, and to pick the pretty wildflowers: stitchwort and ragwort, silverweed and harebell, lady’s purse and cinquefoil. Elsie told me their names. As we walked, I repeated them over and over so I wouldn’t forget them, storing them away like precious gems to admire again later, in private.
But it wasn’t just the pebbles and flowers that enchanted me at the beck that morning, or the rush of water against my toes, or even the little ducklings that squeaked at us from their nest among the rushes. Perhaps it was just the excitement of being somewhere new, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was waiting for me there. And although I’d seen her for only a brief moment, I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Hogan’s face at the window, or Elsie’s tale of the missing child.
Lost in my thoughts, I whispered to myself as I strolled along. “‘Out of that sand you melt your glass, While the veils of night are drawn, Whispering, till the shadows pass, / Nixie—Pixie—leprechaun.’”
Elsie poked playfully at me with her stick. “Do you believe in fairies then, Frances?”
I worried that Elsie would tease me if I said I did. “Do you?” I asked cautiously.
She smiled and walked on. “It’s more fun to believe, isn’t it? And one thing’s for certain. You’ll never see them if you don’t.”