Misselthwaite

Chapter Six - 'Across the Moor'

I do not realise that I have fallen asleep until I am roused by Medlock.

"We've arrived at Thwaite Station. Come now; we've got a long drive ahead of us."

The station is small and quaint - nothing like the ones we'd passed closer to London. Though I can't make out much in the still-dark hours of the morning, I observe that we are to be the only souls on the platform.

Smoke curls about my boots as I wait for Medlock to gather her things. She bats away my attempt to help, preferring to exit the sleeping train at her own accord.

We pass through the ticket office, unlocked despite the hour. A man sleeps in a chair, his arms folded, letting out the smallest of snores. I can tell by the uniform he wears that he must be the station master. Above him, a brass clock tells me that it's little past three in the morning.

Medlock has stopped her progression. She waits before the man, expectant. My uncle's housekeeper clears he throat, loudly, and kicks the toe of her boot against his chair.

Instantly, the station master stirs, sputtering.

"Ach!" he says, voice thick as he clears his throat. "I see tha's got back!"

"Aye," says Medlock quite smugly, her accent immediately shifting to reveal the Yorkshirewoman beneath. "Wouldna' mind a nap mi'sen."

I am not certain as to what exactly she says, but the man chuckles in response and pulls himself up from the chair. He looks to me, rubbing his fingers through a waxed moustache. "An' this is 'er, then? Th' bairn set for Misselthwaite?"

"How do you do," I say lamely. I had not been expecting formalities at this hour. "Mary Lennox."

The station master tips his hat. To Medlock he says, "Ach! She's quite tha lady then, in' she?"

The housekeeper merely lets out a tch sound, as if the two share some kind of inside joke that I am not privy to. If Medlock had thought to offend me with her common speech, I feel she is to be sorely disappointed. To be quite honest I find it all quite fascinating; she'll soon find that I am not the pettish and spoiled young lady she believes me to be.

"Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee. 'As been since two."

Outside the station, the village of Thwaite sleeps as if it were locked in time. Narrow cobblestone streets ribbon out from the station, a small square at the centre where they meet. Terrace housing and cottages make up the handful of buildings; some with dark storefronts and signs proclaiming the wares within. Though I cannot make out much more, I get the feeling that the village is smaller than most.

A smart-looking footman meets us by a glossy black brougham, a coachman sitting at the ready upon the box. I think of London, and how again it is strange to me that Englishmen have fellow Englishmen for servants. I am all too used to the Indian faces that attended my mother and father in India and the way in which they were spoken down upon. I cannot imagine an Englishman treating his countrymen the same way; common or otherwise. I suppose I am in for a rude awakening once we reach Misselthwaite - surely there must be a great number of servants for a house so large.

Once our trunks have been loaded, we set off.

"You should sleep," says Medlock, arranging herself in one of the carriage's cushioned corners. She balances a carpet bag on her lap, her black gloves clinging to the handle as if it were going to fly away. All traces of the Yorkshirewoman I met at the station moments ago have disappeared; the polished housekeeper once again before me, brusque as always. "It'll be two hours 'til we arrive at Misselthwaite."

"I'm no longer tired." It is a lie - I feel as if I could sleep for days.

If Medlock senses the falsehood, she doesn't say. She turns instead to the window and the blackness beyond. Despite the weak light of the carriage lamps, there is not much to see as we ramble through the rural village bar glimpses of white-washed cottages and alleyways made menacing in the dark.