Apart from the “fairy hunters” who trampled over everything and made far too much noise to ever see fairies, the beck hadn’t changed, other than perhaps appearing a little smaller because of the inches I’d grown since the previous summer. Like a reliable old friend, it welcomed me back without question or hesitation. The yarrow and dog roses bloomed brighter than ever, and the waterfall slipped smoothly over the shale rock, the familiar sound sending a shiver along my spine. Through the dense foliage, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hogan’s cottage, and visions of a little girl tugged at my conscience. I had to tell her.
Elsie and I walked for a while, discussing what we were going to do about the fairies, and how boring we found it all. We linked fingers and renewed our solemn promise never to tell the truth. We understood that this was far bigger than the two of us now. Somehow, we knew it would be part of our lives forever. Like our shadows, the photographs of the fairies would always be there, following a few steps behind.
“We might as well have a bit of fun with this Mr. Hodson while he’s here,” Elsie said. “I bet he isn’t really a psychic, and anyway, I’ve had it with chuffin’ fairies.” She said she would do the talking when Mr. Hodson arrived. “Your cheeks always go bright red when you tell a lie.”
I was grateful for Elsie’s sense of humor. Grateful that she was there, beside me.
As we mooched about by the beck that afternoon, I watched our reflections in the water, fragments of both of us, moving in the ripples stirred by a gentle breeze. But I didn’t just see a tall teenager and a young woman. I saw the reflection of two younger girls, happily playing in the innocence of summer days when Mummy would stand on the back step and call us in for tea, just as she did now.
“Frances! Elsie! Elsie! Frances! Tea!”
I smiled. It was always Frances and Elsie, or Elsie and Frances. That was how it was, and I was glad to know that some things hadn’t changed from those summers during the war, even when so many other things had.
I was admiring Aunt Polly’s costume jewelry in the front bedroom when the hansom cab pulled up outside with a great crunching of brakes. Concealed behind the lace curtains, I watched as a round-faced man and a strangely angular woman stepped out of the car. The man fastened the buttons on his tweed jacket, which was too small for him, adjusted his hat, and pushed open the front gate. The squeak reminded me of that magical day when Daddy arrived home on leave. The house was so happy then. Such a contrast with the awkward tension that filled the rooms now.
Mummy was all of a fluster and got one of her headaches. She’d been polishing and sweeping all morning, silently cursing Aunt Polly under her breath and muttering about it being all very well for Aunt Polly and Uncle Arthur to take off to the Isle of Man whenever it suited them. I crept to the top of the stairs and peered through the banister as Mummy took off her apron and fussed with her hair in the mirror before opening the door.
The usual pleasantries were exchanged between Mr. and Mrs. Hodson and Mummy: “Pleased to meet you.” “How was the journey?” “Delighted to be here.” “Shame about the weather.” Mummy spoke in her posh voice, rounding out her vowels and finishing every word with a crisp t or d or whatever letter was required. It made me uncomfortable when she used her posh voice. It made me feel stiff and prickly at the backs of my knees.
The pleasantries dispensed with, Elsie and I were summoned to the front room, dressed in our Sunday best. “We can’t be having visitors from London looking down on us and thinking us common northerners,” Mummy had said. I was tempted to ask if it wouldn’t be better if I wore my “etheric material” instead, but somehow managed to bite my tongue.
I shook Mr. and Mrs. Hodson’s hands, and Elsie did the same. Mrs. Hodson sat quietly by the fireplace while her husband did the talking. He had squinty currant eyes that I didn’t trust, and sagging jowls like Mr. Briggs’s dog. He spoke through his nose in a way that people do when they pretend to belong to a better social class than they actually do.
His hand was clammy in mine as he gushed about how thrilled he was to meet us. “It’s quite marvelous to be in your presence at last. I’ve read a lot about you both. It is rare one gets to meet with such special girls.”
My toes curled inside my boots. I hated to think of people reading about me. I’d learned a lot about newspaper reporters in recent months and knew they didn’t always stick to the facts.
Mr. Hodson looked at me strangely as we drank tea and chatted politely—or rather, he looked around me, his eyes flicking from side to side as if he were following a fly. Elsie mimicked his mannerisms behind his back, and I had to bite my lip and put my hand to my mouth to stop myself laughing.
After an excruciating hour or so, the Hodsons returned to their hotel, and Elsie and I were dismissed.
I didn’t go to the beck that afternoon. There were too many strangers there with nets and cameras.
That night, I fell into a deep, travel-weary sleep, lulled by the familiar sound of the waterfall beyond the window. I dreamed of the beck fairies, a blur of lavender and rose-pink and buttercup-yellow light, flitting across the glittering stream, beckoning me to follow them toward the woodland cottage. There, the little girl with flame-red hair picked daisies in the garden, threading them together to make a garland for her hair. She picked a posy of wildflowers—harebell, bindweed, campion, and bladderwort—and gave them to me. I carried them to the cottage door where I left them on the doorstep beside a pair of stone boots. The girl then sat on a willow bough seat and wept, her tears spilling into the stream, merging with the reflections of the stars until they faded, one by one, and the sun rose in the east, and when I looked at the willow tree again, she had gone.
The next day dawned with rain and cloudy skies, but as I knew from the previous summer, fairy hunting didn’t stop for bad weather, and Mummy sent us outside between showers.
While the silly people with their butterfly nets crept about as subtly as elephants, some of them claiming to have spotted a fairy every now and again, Mr. Hodson took endless photographs of me by the beck or Elsie by the waterfall as he claimed to sense this, that, and the other. We couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to smile, despite his encouragement. His effusive manner was irritating, and neither Elsie nor I cared for the way he spoke to us, as if we were children. Mrs. Hodson kept herself to herself, sitting a short distance from our sullen group. The relentless click-clack of her knitting needles set my teeth on edge. At regular intervals, Mr. Hodson would inquire in a sickly voice if she was happy, to which she would smile sweetly and say, “Very happy, darling,” before resuming her knitting.
In our bedroom that night, Elsie mimicked the Hodsons until tears rolled down our cheeks with laughter.