Page 51 of Searching for Mr Tilney

‘For the rest of the week, I’m certain, if not longer. Listen, I haven’t much time.’

‘Oh, I understand … I’ll say goodbye now.’

‘No, no, don’t go, just listen. Do you think you could get the five-thirty train from Bath to Newport, change there at Carmarthen, and then go on to Manorbier by yourself?’

The line was crackling so much I couldn’t hear him properly, and even when I thought I’d heard correctly I was sure I was mistaken.

‘What are you saying, Harry? I can’t hear you very well.’

‘Would you like to join me … well, Elsa and me at my uncle’s castle?’

‘I’d be in the way, surely. I don’t want to intrude.’

‘No, my uncle has invited you … he wants to meet you. This place is vast enough to have a dozen people here and you wouldn’t notice. Please say you’ll come.’

‘Oh, Harry, if you’re certain, I’d love nothing more.’

‘I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve booked your ticket on the five-thirty from the station at Bath. I couldn’t get anything earlier. You won’t get here until very late, but I’m longing to see you. I’ll send a car to pick you up at Manorbier.’

And then the line went dead. I waited to see if Harry would phone back, but as nothing happened I came to the conclusion that he’d probably tried but the faulty line meant he couldn’t get through.

Ellen emerged from the reception room, just to the side of the hall where the telephone was kept, beaming from ear to ear. She’d obviously caught the gist of our conversation.

‘Roger will drop you off at the station. What you must do first is telephone your mother. Oh, how romantic … the heroine dashing off to meet her lover in a castle in Manorbier.’

I had to smile, and inside my spirits were dancing, as Jane might say.

***

The weather was closing in with rolling grey clouds before we got to the station, and it was pouring with rain as the Applebys dropped me off and said their goodbyes, so I was half drowned by the time I reached the ticket office. But, there was such a kind attendant who went through the journey with me, making sure I had all my tickets so I knew where I was going. I didn’t have long to wait before the train arrived, and though it was rush hour I still managed to find my seat. I got a magazine out of my bag to read on the journey, but I was so excited to watch the scenery passing by as we set off, I didn’t give it a glance. Even though the rain and wind were blustering and wet, dashing against the glass of the steamed up windows, bending the trees into contorted shapes, the feeling of happiness warmed my insides, spreading with rosy pleasure inside at the thought of the adventure I was about to undertake.

I only had fifteen minutes at Newport to find the platform and get on the train, and though I hadn’t thought about it before, I’d started to feel hungry. There was nothing I could do, there wasn’t time to get off and find something in a station buffet so I sat and looked out at the rain while my tummy rumbled. I saw a schoolboy in the seat opposite rummage in his satchel, producing a greaseproof paper parcel from which he took a buttered scone studded with juicy raisins. I couldn’t watch.

The train set off again, and I tried not to think about how hungry I was going to be by the time I reached Carmarthen. Perhaps I’d be able to get something there, though I knew there was only ten minutes to spare before I got my next train. The ticket inspector was coming down the carriage, and I fumbled for my ticket.

‘Miss Caroline Heath?’ he asked, and when I nodded in shock, wondering if I was in trouble, he said I was to go along to the restaurant car where my dinner would be served. I couldn’t quite believe it until I was sitting down in the first class carriage reserved for diners, with a whole two hours stretching ahead. The table was laid with a snowy cloth, and a silver vase of freesias - I’d never felt so important, and I knew Harry must have arranged it all. After a piece of buttered sole, new potatoes and peas, followed by gooseberry fool, I felt ready for anything, and even when the next train was late for Manorbier nothing could dim the fun I was having.

It was getting dark, and with just another hour to go I was beginning to feel sleepy. I’d thought the weather might cheer up, but it persisted in being miserable, in complete contrast to myself. By the time we pulled into Manorbier the rain was coming down in sheets, but I thought it was the most beautiful rain I’d ever seen and like Welsh water was soft and quite delicious as I licked my lips.

The station was quiet, but there was a car waiting, and the driver asked if I was for Skrinkle Castle. I realised I hadn’t a clue if that was the name, as I’d never even thought to check the address in my haste to get to Wales. But, I felt fairly certain it must be right, there surely couldn’t be too many castles in the area expecting visitors, and when my suitcase was picked up and stowed away in the boot before I could answer, I could only trust that I was not about to be kidnapped. The driver was a dour little man who didn’t respond with more than yes or no answers, so I soon gave up trying to have a conversation, and looked out of the window into the inky night.

We headed off through narrow lanes where high hedges pressed on either side. It was so dark I couldn’t be sure of where we were, and even though I knew we must be near the coast, there wasn’t any sign of it. Soon we were passing through a silent village where the scattered cottages crouched together in darkness and there wasn’t a light to be seen. The car began to accelerate along a winding road that was bordered on one side by a rising wall, where I could see nothing beyond it but a vast expanse of darkness, though I could finally hear the sound of the sea and waves crashing on the shore below. I was beginning to feel just a little bit afraid. It was so dark, so quiet and so late. If I’d found we were the only people alive in the whole area I shouldn’t have been surprised.

‘Is the castle very far from here?’ I asked.

The road twisted in front, the same wall on one side and huge rocks on the other, the incline becoming so steep I was sure we’d slide backwards down the hill if the driver lost concentration.

My companion shifted in his seat and grunted, ‘No.’

And then we stopped abruptly by the side of the wall, and my silent friend got out.

‘He’s going to murder me, after all,’ I said to myself, as the driver got out and took my case out of the boot, coming back with a torch, which he brandished at me. He swore quietly, as it flickered on and off, blinding me in the process. The batteries must be fading, I decided, but I got out of the car and saw a set of steps descending between the rocks. He was clearly about to murder me, out there in the howling wind and rain, and toss my body into the sea, I thought.

He saw my hesitation, and murmured, ‘Skrinkle’s this way,’ in a very gruff, murderer-like way, but I followed him anyway, wondering with each step whether it was a good idea. Castles were always at the top of hills, I thought, as we walked down at least twenty narrow steps, but just as I’d begun to despair, the steps took a turn, and ascended very steeply. They were narrower than ever; very slippery with rain, and as the flashlight bounced off the stones hewn into the rock in a never-ending procession, I thought once more how I should devote more time to physical exercise. I wished I’d bought a better coat as it clung damply to the backs of my knees, the rain whipping my hair into my eyes, but it was the only one I had.

At last we stopped by a cast-iron gate, and though I couldn’t make out more than one narrow slit of light up above us, I could see a large, tower-like construction rising over our heads, complete with crenellations and a flag, just visible in the darkness, flapping in the angry wind. I began to feel a little better as the light came nearer, and as we followed the steps round I could see a gatehouse coming into view. I could feel wet grass tickling my ankles, and smell the scent of spring flowers, against the salty smell of the sea. The walls were covered with trailing rambling roses, yet to flower, and the torchlight trembled over nodding bluebells, and flickered up over boughs covered in white blossom, just visible over the wall. And then we found ourselves at the foot of some wide stone steps, worn in the middle by the centuries of hundreds of feet passing over them, and a wooden door in the gatehouse was open, alive with a blaze of light from a lantern, swinging overhead.

I’d arrived, and when I stepped through the door, Harry was running across the quadrangle to greet me, flashlight in hand, along with an enormous Newfoundland dog who almost bundled me to the ground in his excitement.