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By Root 1934 0

arbours, in the clearing at the centre of the shrubbery, even in the orchard. Then the lanterns were swung from branches, and half-concealed in clumps of tall grasses and decorative thistles in the herbaceous borders. Philip was sent with Phyllis to hang lanterns in the orchard. It was an unkempt, raggedy place with moss and lichens on the twisted branches of old fruit-trees, and brambles snaking in from the wild and in places smothering everything. Some of the trees had odd structures in them made from planks and bits of rope. These were good places for illuminations, Phyllis said. She attached lanterns to ropes and sent Philip climbing up to the platforms. “These are old tree houses,” said Phyllis. “From when we were little. Even Hedda can get into these. We’ve got a much better one—out in the forest. But it’s a secret,” she added, doubtfully. Philip was picking up hard windfall apples. Phyllis told him to watch for wasps. “You get all sorts of worms in them, popping their little black heads out at you. It’s a horrible idea, biting into something wriggly—”

They wandered into the orchard. Phyllis pointed.

“These two trees are the magic trees from the story. The golden apple and the silver pear. You can only see the gold and silver in certain lights, you have to believe. These two are the centre. Their branches touch the ground, and their heads are in the sky. And all this—stuff—the bryony and the wild roses—grows over them to make them lovely—”

They were old, neglected, beautiful trees. Philip looked at the shapes of the snarling of their branches and wished he had a pencil. Phyllis took his hand and pulled him forward.

“This is where Rosy lies. See this circle of white stones. Rosy is under these, under the apple and the pear.”

A kitten, a bird?

“We bring her flowers on her birthday. We pour out libations of apple juice for her. We don’t forget her. We will never forget her.”

Her voice was solemn, and creamy with warmth.

“She lived for a week, just one little week, that was all she lived. She had the most perfect little fingers and toes. Now she sleeps here.”

She bent her head reverently. Philip, without putting it into words, detected play-acting. He wondered unkindly if Phyllis even thought about what was really under the white stones, amongst the roots. He said vaguely and falsely

“That’s good.”

He threw several of the hard little apples into the bramble patch. Then he hung a lantern with a crescent moon and a black bird-shadow in the branches of the pear tree, over the white stones.

Phyllis took his hand. She pushed her little body against his side. He had the sense that her flesh had always been clean and pleasant, and that, by contrast, his own never had. This was a feeling, again not in words. He pulled away.

After the decoration of the garden, and the bread and cheese lunch, the business of dressing-up began. Violet dressed the children—including Philip—in the schoolroom whilst Humphry and Olive went to put on their robes, which were a gesture towards “their” play, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, not rigidly Elizabethan, not yet Athenian, but more flowing Arts and Crafts silks and linens, silver and gold, flowery and floating.

There was a large painted chest in the schoolroom, an imitation of a Renaissance marriage-chest, with woodland scenes of dark glades, pale ladies, hounds and a white stag painted on the sides. This was the dressing-up chest, and it was unusually well stocked with silken shifts, frilled shirts, embroidered shawls, fillets for veils and coronets for princes.

“It helps,” Violet said to Philip, “to have a dressmaker as an auntie, who can turn a toga into a ball dress and back, or magic silk flowers out of old stockings. I think we should dress Hedda as Peaseblossom. Here is a lovely pink and violet shift.”

Hedda had her arms deep in the silks, rummaging.

“I want to be a witch,” she said.

“I told you, dear,” said Violet. “Hallowe’en’s for witches. Midsummer is for fairies. With pretty wings, organdie, look.”

“I want to be a witch,” Hedda repeated. Her small face was an angry frown.