Free Christmas at Candleshoe by Michael Innes Page B

came from, whether she has died or merely gone off with a lover, how the boy comes to be left apparently in Miss Candleshoe’s care.
    The secret route to the manor house turns out to be a matter of traversing a couple of fields by cart tracks and crossing the stream by a small wooden bridge. At the bridge Jay has to get out and perform some complicated operation in the darkness – a piece of ritual, Grant supposes, connected with whatever fantasy he is indulging. Once get such a fantasy going, he reflects, and anything that comes along will feed it. Two men driving down a country road see an empty car. They stop to take a rummage in it in the hope of petty theft. But for Jay and his concealed troop this drops into place as part of some vast shadowy adventure. Perhaps Grant and his mother drop in too.
    The bridge is negotiated safely, and it appears that there is a clear run to join the main drive near the house. As Jay climbs back into the car an owl hoots again in the distance. And by way of experiment Grant quotes softly:
     
    ‘Owls or spectres, thick they flee;
    Nightmare upon horror broods;
    Hooded laughter, monkish glee,
    Gaps the vital air…’
     
    ‘ You know that?’ Jay is surprised; he has clearly supposed himself to be the only person in the world who has discovered Meredith’s poem.
     
    ‘Enter these enchanted woods,
    You who dare.’
     
    Grant concludes the quotation and brings the car to a halt. The house, now dark and dimly sprawling, uncertainly towering, is before them. A couple of lights are burning on the ground floor. Their suggestion is of tiny areas of tenuous security scooped out of the void. Grant doubts whether, for a child living in such a place, imagination can be the most comfortable of companions.
    ‘You got my message.’ Jay has opened the car-door beside him, but for a moment sits tight. ‘And yet you have entered, all the same. Do you think it was wise?’
    ‘That depends.’ Grant switches off his engine. ‘If Candleshoe is like Westermain, I think I can take it. Dare, you know, and nothing harms. Keep your courage up, and fair you fare. I think I can manage that.’
    ‘So do I. But then we are inclined to be boastful, aren’t we? Or at least so Mr Armigel says.’
    ‘We – you mean human beings?’
    Jay can be seen shaking his head in the darkness. ‘I mean people of our nationality – yours and mine.’
    Grant bursts into laughter. ‘Say, son, haven’t you guessed that I’m an American?’
    ‘Of course. And so am I.’
    This is neither a boast nor a confession, but simply a piece of natural history. Grant is taken aback by it – the more so when he sees that he ought to have guessed. What in Jay’s speech lies beneath its rustic and gentle components – the accents of his school companions, the accents of Miss Candleshoe and her chaplain – is Grant Feather’s own tongue.
    ‘Well, if this isn’t a surprise!’ Grant has taken to the boy, and now here is a bond. He is genuinely delighted.
    ‘Even in England Americans must meet quite often, I suppose.’ Jay remains objective and even cool. Grant feels on probation still.
    They get out of the car and the boy produces a pocket torch. As he switches it on Grant tries a question. ‘Do you remember much about America, Jay?’
    ‘Nothing at all.’ The beam picks out the first of the broken steps by which they must mount to the terrace.
    ‘But you’ve read about it?’
    ‘No.’ The boy is abrupt. ‘I know very little about it.’
    They climb in silence. When they reach the terrace Grant speaks. ‘Well – you’ve plenty of time. But there’s quite a heap to learn.’
    ‘I suppose there is.’ For the first time Jay’s voice is uncertain. It is as if he suspects himself of having been discourteous. ‘You see, I don’t really know much about anything.’ He hesitates. He has reached the front door. He flashes the torch backwards to light the way for Grant. Then – perhaps the better to locate himself