‘I shan’t damage them, dear,’ Hester tells him. She examines the photo as closely as she can focus her eyes. The odd, androgynous form, swathed in diaphanous white and with copious hair flying out behind it. In most of the shots it is just a blur, features impossible to make out, form lost in the swirls of fabric. But in two or three, a human-like figure is clear to see, leaping with its thin limbs cast out wide. ‘And is this like the ones you saw, Bertie? The ones you described to me?’
‘Yes,’ Albert says, although he does not sound entirely sure. ‘Though, this one seems to be better formed, and rather taller …’
‘That is only to be expected,’ Robin says, swiftly. ‘I expect, from your descriptions, Albert, that what you saw were some slightly lesser beings than this – perhaps elementals allied to some wild flower or meadow herb. I have seen just such beings myself in the meadows here, and they are indeed smaller and of a less sophisticated form. This, I believe to be the guardian of the old willow tree.’
‘A dryad?’ asks Albert.
‘As it would have been called, in ancient times, yes. Like the tree it nourishes, this elemental being is a larger and more sophisticated entity. I did endeavour to engage it in a dialogue, but it was wary of me, and perhaps wisely so, though I did my utmost to emanate waves of love and welcome towards it.’
‘Perhaps that was rude,’ Hester says, before she can catch herself. Robin glances at her. ‘Well, I mean … if it has lived with this tree in the meadow for many long years, perhaps you, as the visitor, ought not to have bade it welcome to its own home,’ she explains. Robin smiles slightly.
‘Really, Hetty. Don’t be so obtuse. Robin means only to speak in general of his emotional vibrations. There is no social etiquette to be observed here,’ Albert says.
‘Well,’ Hester says, taken aback. ‘I’m sure I didn’t meant to imply—’
‘No, it’s quite all right, Mrs Canning. I understand what you meant. One must of course tread carefully with something as pure and reactive as these beings,’ Robin says, benignly.
‘Look – look at this one. The face is almost discernible. And lovely – quite, quite lovely …’ Albert holds a particular photo up to the theosophist, who takes it and studies it closely, his eyes lost in thought.
‘Lovely indeed,’ he murmurs.
‘Robin – we must publish these at once! The whole world must see them! I shall call the papers myself – is there a particular one you should like to have the pictures first? Can copies be made?’
‘Of course, of course. We shall do just as you say, Albert,’ Robin soothes the trembling vicar.
‘Well, gentlemen, I shall leave you to your … great work. Amy must have got the children dressed by now, and we have promised them a trip into Thatcham to buy sweets,’ Hester says brightly, but if she hopes to cause a stir with her departure, she is disappointed.
‘I’m not sure what to make of it,’ Hester confesses to her sister, as they walk slowly along The Broadway in Thatcham, parasols on their shoulders with the sun beating down on them, almost like a physical weight. Ellie and John lag behind them, squabbling over a bag of liquorice twists. The town is quiet and stifled. From the smithy, the clank of hammer on metal is slow and irregular, as if, however used to the heat he might be, even Jack Morton’s arm is too heavy that day. Those people of Thatcham that are about walk slowly, their faces screwed up against the onslaught. Fat flies buzz around their heads with aggravating tenacity.
‘Come on, children. Let’s go down to the river and see the ducks,’ Amelia calls over her shoulder, her voice brittle with impatience. ‘These photographs of his, you mean? I’m not surprised you don’t. I shall have to see them myself before I pass comment, of course, but …’ She shrugs.
‘But? You suspect them to be … not genuine?’
‘How can they be? I’m sorry, Hetty, but it’s just too much. Fairies. Really! And you say he was quite alone when he took the pictures, and when he developed them?’
‘Oh, yes. Albert doesn’t go with him into the meadows any more, and nobody is allowed into the cold store. His dark room, that is.’ Hester steps carefully over the butcher’s brindle-haired dog, fagged out flat on its side in the middle of the pavement. It twitches an eyelid as her skirt tickles it.
‘Well, there you are then! He’s had ample opportunity to doctor the images … I can’t see how he will hope to convince anyone if he has produced them in such secrecy,’ Amelia declares.