Letters were exchanged like gunfire between Mummy and Aunt Polly over the following weeks. After a successful visit with Elsie, it was agreed that Mr. Gardner would visit me in Scarborough. I would then spend two weeks of my school holidays in Cottingley with Elsie, where we would try to take more photographs of the fairies with new cameras sent by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, or “ACD,” as we called him for short.
As the day of Mr. Gardner’s visit drew nearer, I wished more than ever that Aunt Polly hadn’t taken our photographs to the Theosophist Society meeting. I wished they had stayed in the drawer, forgotten about. Most of all, I wished I hadn’t lost my temper that sultry afternoon in the scullery of 31 Main Street. I wished I’d kept my secret locked away, safe in my heart.
But I hadn’t, and now I would have to face the consequences. Whatever they might be.
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE
Scarborough, Yorkshire. 1920.
Mr. Gardner arrived on a muggy Saturday afternoon, the heat sticking to me like my bad mood. I hadn’t slept well the night before. Neither had Mummy. She was anxious about what this man “all the way from London” would think of our humble home and northern ways. I was worried about the questions he might ask, and what he might already know. I didn’t think it fair that I had to wait around the house to talk to him. I didn’t want to talk about the fairies—especially not to a stranger—and I certainly didn’t want to talk about the photographs. I’d made a solemn promise to Elsie, and that meant I would have to tell Mr. Gardner a lie. It made my stomach tangle up in tight knots so that I couldn’t eat my breakfast.
I sulked all morning until Daddy insisted on taking me for a walk along the seafront, where he hoped the breeze would blow my temper away.
We sat on the harbor wall, waiting for the herring boats to come in. I dangled my legs over the edge, letting my bare calves rub against the cool stone.
Daddy threw stale bread for the gulls. “Come on, then. Spit it out.”
I sighed and leaned my head into his shoulder, cherishing the fact that I could, that my daddy had come home when so many others hadn’t.
“Why does Mr. Gardner want to talk to me, Daddy?” I kicked the heels of my shoes against the wall, enjoying the feeling as they bounced off again.
“Well, it isn’t every day you see photographs of fairies, is it? I suppose he wants to ask you about them to understand them better.”
The summer sun had reddened Daddy’s cheeks, like it used to in Cape Town. He looked more like the man I remembered. For a long time after being demobbed, he’d looked like a ghost, as if part of him was still at war.
“We never meant for the photographs to be seen by anyone else though,” I said. “They were only meant for us.”
I felt his grip tighten around my shoulder as tears pricked my eyes. If only I could tell him. He would know how to make it all better.
“I know, pet. But other people have seen them now. Best to talk to this Mr. Gardner. Answer his questions. Tell him what you can.” He ruffled my hair with the palm of his hand. “That doesn’t sound too bad, does it?”
I closed my eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. “No. I suppose not.”
Mummy twitched at the lace curtain in the front room until the motorcar pulled up outside.
“Frances! He’s here, love!”
I stiffened as I heard the car door opening and closing. I was in my bedroom, reading through the letters Johanna had sent from Cape Town. I wished Johanna or Elsie were with me. I wished I could go cycling along the leafy back lanes with my friend Mary. I’d rather do anything than talk to this Mr. Gardner. Elsie usually did the talking. Without her, I was sure I would trip myself up and say things I shouldn’t say.
Mummy called up to me again, and I made my way downstairs on heavy feet, my heart thumping in my chest, the knots still tangled in my tummy.
Mr. Gardner stood in the hallway, sun streaming through the stained-glass panels in the door behind him. He wore an expensive-looking brown wool suit with a brown bow tie and smart brown trilby hat. His brown eyes were intense, but he had a pleasant smile that stretched his slim mustache above his top lip.
Mummy did the introductions, her voice all up-and-downy again.
Mr. Gardner held out his hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Frances.” He spoke softly, with a crisp London accent.
I shook his hand and thanked him for coming, as I had been told to, and while Mummy fussed over him, taking his hat and coat, I stood quietly at the bottom of the stairs, wishing I could sink into the floorboards.
Mummy showed him through to the front room, which had never been tidier or more vigorously polished. “Thank you for coming all this way, Mr. Gardner,” she said. “It isn’t often we get visitors from London, is it, Frances?”
I said, no, it wasn’t, and sat at the opposite end of the table from Mr. Gardner—whom I kept wanting to call Mr. Brown—while Mummy excused herself to make the tea.
The carriage clock ticked away the seconds on the mantelpiece as Mr. Gardner settled himself into the chair, pulling at the fabric of his trousers in brisk movements before crossing one leg over the other and remarking on how pleasant it was to breathe the fresh sea air. “You wouldn’t believe the fogs we get in London. Have you ever been?”
“No,” I said. “But I’ve read about the pea-soupers in Mr. Dickens’s novels.”
He smiled. “Indeed. And his descriptions are astonishingly accurate.” He tugged at his trousers again, and I wondered if he was a little nervous too. “I’m very grateful for your time, Frances. I hope I’m not intruding on your weekend too much.”
His smile put me at ease. He wasn’t as stiff and intimidating as I’d imagined. “Not really. But I hope to get out bicycling if the weather holds.”
He rubbed his hands together like Aunt Polly did when she was cold or vexed. “Of course. And I won’t keep you long. As you know, we were intrigued by your photographs. Most intrigued.” I glanced at my feet and wished Mummy would hurry up with the tea. “Your cousin, Elsie, told me all about the fairies you saw together. I visited her recently and took a walk to the beck. It certainly is an enchanting place. Exactly the sort of place one might expect to find elementals.”
To my relief, Mummy reappeared with a clattering tea tray, and for a while the room was filled with the noise of best china cups and teaspoons and sugar tongs rather than the sound of my guilty conscience. I ate two slices of parkin while Mummy and Mr. Gardner spoke politely about the weather and the coal strike and other dull things.
After the customs of tea had been dispensed with, Mr. Gardner suggested we talk in the garden, it being such a warm day. “I like to hear the gulls whenever I’m by the sea,” he said. “And the fresh air does wonders for the soul.”
Mummy said that was a nice idea but insisted I put my coat on since the wind was blowing from the east.
I sat beside Mr. Gardner on the bench Daddy had made last summer. My feet touched the ground now, where they hadn’t six months ago. I was pleased to be growing into a tall girl, like Elsie.