The Elephant Keeper Page 9

  “And?”

  “Who is Jenny?”

  “Jenny?”

  “You called out for Jenny,” she said, “in your sleep.”

  “You must have misheard.”

  “I did not mishear, you called her name three times, four, very clearly.”

  I was reluctant to tell her who Jenny was, for fear that she would laugh. “There is no law against calling out a name.”

  “I know who she is, she is your sweet-heart. She is Jenny Bush.”

  Jenny Bush was a girl who lived in Gillerton. “She is not Jenny Bush, I promise you, Lizzy. When have you ever seen me with Jenny Bush?”

  A pair of swallows had built a nest of mud and straw in the roof of the hay-loft, at the junction between a beam and the rafter. One of these birds now swept twittering through the hatch and up to the nest. “I do not believe you, who is she?”

  “She is no one.”

  “Then why do you call out her name? And in such a tone.” She mimicked. “Jenny.”

  “It was not like that. I was in a dream.”

  “Were you kissing her? What were you doing with her? Tom! Tell me.”

  Her face surrounded by its long dark hair was in deep shadow and I could not see her expression clearly, the light behind was so dazzling. “Jenny Bush I promise you is not my sweet-heart.”

  “No, but you would like her to be. That is what it means. If you have not kissed her, you would like to kiss her.”

  I propped myself on an elbow and shaded my eyes. “Not at all—I like to kiss you much more than her.”

  “Do you indeed? Then why do you not call out my name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She gave her head a toss. “Nor I, why you should suppose you have any right to kiss me, especially after calling out Jenny Bush’s name. Why should I allow you to kiss me?”

  “But, Lizzy, it was not Jenny Bush’s name.”

  “So whose was it? Tom, I am not letting you out of here unless you tell me. I will keep you a prisoner. If you tell me, I will let you kiss me. Or I may let you kiss me.”

  I thought that I might as well tell her as not tell her, in order to get a kiss. In truth, it seemed harmless enough. “All right, I will tell you then who she is, so long as you promise not to laugh.”

  “Why, so there is someone! Who is she? Have you kissed her?”

  “Of course I have not! Lizzy, if you knew who she was—”

  “I am waiting to be told! Why, is she very old and ugly?”

  “No, she is very beautiful, but—but do you promise not to tell anyone else?”

  “Why should I promise? No, I will not promise—why is it so secret?”

  We went on like this for a time, while the swallows flew in and out, and in and out. At length Lizzy sat down, and said that she promised. I nodded toward the cart-house: “It is her name.”

  She stared at me. “What? The Elephant? The Elephant is called Jenny?”

  “It is my name for her, it is what I call her in my head, privately.”

  She began to laugh. Her hair fell forward, then with a sweep she dragged it back. “You must take me for an idiot.”

  “Why, not at all, Lizzy.”

  “To believe that—I cannot believe it. So what is his name?” (pointing at Timothy). “Does he have a name too, in your head?”

  “Timothy.”

  “Timothy! Timothy and Jenny!” She rocked to and fro, laughing.

  Already regretting that I had told her, I protested that it was not so very odd, that dogs and horses had names, why not Elephants?

  “Not human names like Timothy and Jenny. I am not at all sure whether to believe you. Can it really be true? O, I see it is. It is as bad as if it were Jenny Bush, or almost as bad. It is almost worse. So you are in love with an Elephant.”

  “I am not in love with her.”

  “So you say,” she said. “But if you had heard yourself, breathing her name…”

  I asked her about the kiss that I had been promised—since she had said that she would give me a kiss if I told her who Jenny was. But she said that she had not promised, she had only said that she might give me a kiss, and now that she knew that Jenny was one of the Elephants she was not sure whether to let me kiss her or not: for how would she know, as I kissed her, that in my head I was not kissing the Elephant? There was no reply to this, or none that I could find; though I might have answered that, by the same token, I would not know for certain what was passing through her head.

  “Well,” said Lizzy, and she leant forward and kissed me; and I kissed her back, and—O, the pleasures of that hour, and afterward, the gentle twittering of the swallows, and the chinks of light shining through the tiles as I picked the hay out of her hair.

  Chapter V

  I now come to describe the events which led to the departure of the Elephants from Harrington Hall. Although, most nights, I slept in the cart-house, I occasionally stayed with my mother at the cottage in Thornhill. Having seen my father’s ghost leading a horse and cart down the street, she had become terrified of the darkness. One such night, a night of heavy rain in June, 1769, a loud knocking roused me from my first sleep, and when I opened the window and looked out a man (his name does not matter) was standing below. He gasped that I must come quickly, that the Elephants had broken loose and found their way into the gardens at the Hall. There was no doubt from the urgency of his voice that he was in earnest.

  I can scarcely express the full extent of my horror at this intelligence. With their pretty flowers and tender vegetables, their neat paths and trimmed hedges, the gardens at Harrington Hall were among Mrs. Harrington’s greatest delights. At the end of a grassy walk she had had a kind of bower constructed, with a wooden seat, and here she and her two babes spent hours each day. The havock that the Elephants might wreak in this little patch of paradise, their trunks grabbing and stuffing their mouths with food, filled my mind with apprehension. As I pulled on my boots I asked the man how long the Elephants had been in the gardens; he said he did not know, but that the place was in an uproar. What I could not understand was how they had got out of the cart-house, which was locked and barred, out of the yard, which was also locked, and into the gardens, which were bounded on three sides by high brick walls and on the fourth by a low ditch.

  I ran to the Hall. The rain fell in sheets. Mr. Harrington was standing on the terrace above the gardens, with a gun in his hand and Joshua at his side; they were gazing into the gloom, from which came a medley of cries. Hurrying toward these sounds, I made out the hulking bodies of the Elephants, backed against a wall by an irregular semi-circle of twenty or more torches held by various servants, among them my brother, Jim; the head gardener, Mr. Judge; and my fellow groom, Dick Shadwick. These men, whose frightened faces gleamed in the glare of the sputtering torches, had armed themselves with spades and forks and staves. Twenty feet away, side by side, the Elephants were equally terrified, and with their ears spread wide, their heads reared and trunks half curled, they seemed on the point of making a fatal charge. The custom of curling its trunk before making a charge is one that every Elephant is said to observe, and with good reason, for if the trunk sustains a serious injury the Elephant is unable to feed or drink and will therefore die.

  Tapping Mr. Judge on the arm, I shouted that he and the others should withdraw for their own safety. He was in a towering rage. “Tell the master to bring his gun, we can hold the b—s here till he comes.”—“Mr. Judge—”—“D’you not hear me, where’s the master?” and to the men: “Watch ’em, stand fast! They are turning, they are moving, stand fast, stand fast!”—“Mr. Judge, I’m telling you, you must move back!”—“Go away, you young b—! Where be the master?”

  At length he saw reason, and a grumbling retreat took place, leaving me alone in the darkness. The Elephants faced me, but without the torches I could no longer see the expressions on their faces; nor did I know how much they could see of me. Who can say how well Elephants see in the dark? As well as huma
n beings, or not so well? Or can they recognize by smell, for certainly their sense of smell is acute? I spread my arms and slowly walked toward them, singing and calling, it is I, Tom, it is merely Tom, do not worry, do not be afraid, Jenny, Timothy, you are safe. You are safe now, they will not hurt you. I love you, I love you, you are safe. Their trunks curled in friendly greeting and I raised my hands in reply. Both trunks seemed to slide round me, as if to make sure that I really was Tom, their keeper. Then, unbidden, Timothy knelt in the mud, and I climbed on his wet body and with Jenny following, her trunk resting on his back, we rode out of the gardens, while Mr. Harrington and the servants clutched their torches and weapons and watched in silence from the terrace. Their silence did not last long, for once we were gone a confused babble of shouts broke out, which pursued us all the way to the cart-house. There I attempted to settle the Elephants, though for some hours they continued to stand and tremble, twining their trunks, and listening to the trickle of the rain.

  Before day-break, I left them to find out how much damage they had caused. The rain had eased but the air was dank, and in the gardens every leaf dripped. Even in the half dark, it was easy enough to trace the paths taken by the Elephants from the moment that they had entered the gardens through a door in the wall; and as the light grew, it revealed a scene of trampled plants and broken bushes, some of which lay on their sides with their roots poking upwards. The puddled footprints led me into the kitchen garden, where the quantity of destruction was, if anything, even greater; lines of potatoes had been unearthed, lettices trodden to a pulp, beans and artichokes torn up and tossed aside. Mrs. Harrington’s bower had escaped damage, but that was small consolation. Mr. Judge was on the terrace, his hands on his hips and his face grim and tired. I said that I was extremely sorry for what had happened, and expected a blast in return; instead he sighed, and said that it could have been worse, no one had been killed. “Was the cart-house locked?”—“And barred. And the door out of the yard.”—“In that case, how did the Elephants get out?” I said that I could not tell. “Well,” said Mr. Judge, with a sigh, “it were a good thing for them not to get out again, for their sakes.”

  Mr. Harrington also asked me, later that morning, how the Elephants had escaped, and I gave him the same answer, that I did not know, that I had left the Elephants inside the cart-house. He asked whether they might have let themselves out, and I replied that that was impossible.—“In other words,” said he, “someone let them out, on purpose? Who would want to do that?” I had strong suspicions, but not a shred of proof, and I said that I did not know. He regarded me, frowning. “Tom, they do enough damage in the woods without allowing them to destroy the gardens.”—“Yes, Sir.” From this time on, I watched the Elephants very carefully, and scarcely left them alone, day or night, except to visit the necessary-house.

  None of this might have mattered but for another unfortunate event, which happened very soon afterward, and here I admit that I was greatly to blame. About a year earlier, Joshua had begun to demand that he should be allowed to ride the Elephants. I had faithfully promised Mr. Harrington that I would never let him do so, as he well knew; however, he persisted, advancing every argument that he could muster. “I am a good rider, Tom,” he would say. “You are always telling me that I ride very well. I am eight years old, you know.” I would counter that riding an Elephant was altogether different from riding a pony; besides, it had been forbidden by his father. “O, but my father said that a long time ago, when I was little. He would allow me to ride now. I know he would.” To this I would reply, “In which case, Joshua, you will have to gain his consent,” and here the matter seemed to end. Yet, by the succeeding day, when he came for his riding lesson, he had always discovered a fresh line of attack. “I am sure my father would not mind me sitting on one of the Elephants, Tom. I would not be riding, I would be merely sitting. Where is the harm in that? My father said nothing about sitting, did he?” I laughed and told him that sitting and riding were nearly the same thing.—“Pooh, Tom, you are a bore. You are only a groom. Why should I take any notice of your opinion?”

  Many skirmishes of this kind took place, but Joshua never succeeded in gaining the advantage, since I had given my word to Mr. Harrington. One afternoon, however, he announced that he had obtained his mother’s consent.—“But not that of your father,” I replied.—“My father is away in Bristol, Tom, how can I obtain his consent? My mother has agreed. It would only be for a moment, what is the objection?” I replied that I would be happier if Mrs. Harrington were to tell me to my face; whereupon he stalked off and returned minutes later, saying that he had spoken to her and she did not mind. When I again said that I would prefer it if she were to say so to my face, he grew very impatient: “Tom, she cannot come, she does not want to come, she is busy, she is dressing.” At this I gave way, thinking that since his mother had given her consent, Mr. Harrington would not mind, and I made Jenny kneel down and Joshua scrambled on to her neck. “Tom, make her stand.” I did so. He sat, triumphant, his feet resting on the backs of her ears. “Where shall we go? Why are there no reins?”—“We are not going anywhere.”—“Why are you so dull, Tom? You are dull as a beetle,” and he began to kick his feet, urging the Elephant forward and telling her to giddy-up, as one would do a horse. Jenny took no notice but stood and watched me for her instructions, and I gently led her round the yard.

  Thereafter, I confess, I often let Joshua sit on Jenny’s neck, and sometimes left him alone while I attended to Timothy. This proved a great mistake on my part, for, about a week after the Elephants had broken into the gardens, he fell and put his left arm out of joint. I did not see it happen, but I heard a cry, and saw him lying on the ground. He struggled to his feet, holding the arm, which was dangling at an odd angle. Having put Jenny back in her stable, I helped him to the Hall, and as I did so he begged me not to tell his mother that he had been on the Elephant. I said, “But your mother knows that you have been riding the Elephants, does she not?”—“No,” he said, white-faced, “she does not. And you must not tell her, you must not, Tom, or I will kill myself.” I promised that I would not say a word unless I were asked directly.

  As we drew near the Hall, out came Mrs. Harrington and the nurse with the two little girls on strings, and Lizzy a step behind, and Joshua cried out that he had fallen off his pony, and had hurt his arm. While Lizzy gave me a sharp look, for she had seen Joshua riding the Elephant, Mrs. Harrington ran to Joshua’s side. “How did you fall?”—“I fell off March,” he replied (March, I should have said, being the name of his pony).—“You were not on one of the Elephants?”—“No, Mother.”—“Tom Page, was he on an Elephant?” My expression probably said enough, and Mrs. Harrington flashed out: “O! And when I had expressly forbidden it! How could you allow it?” At this Joshua, although in great pain, burst out, “It is not Tom’s fault, Mother, it is not Tom’s fault, I am to blame, not Tom!” Yet Mrs. Harrington continued to reproach me in a biting tone, saying she did not know how I could be trusted any longer and that something would have to be done about the Elephants. I was greatly alarmed, but later I gave Mr. Harrington an honest account of what had happened, and after listening in his usual careful way he said that I was not to blame, except for being too quick to believe Joshua. “It has been a good lesson for him, and he has been soundly punished,” he said, “but it must not happen again,” and he raised his eyes to mine. “You understand me, Tom?”—“Yes, Sir.”

  Some days after this, on a pleasant summer’s afternoon, the Elephants were grazing in a meadow not far from the Hall. Lizzy had joined me and we were lying in a patch of long grass, listening to the grasshoppers and watching the blue sky, when she began to talk about Mrs. Harrington. She said that Mrs. Harrington was now determined that the Elephants should be sold, because they were evil-minded, and a danger to the children, and would become more and more dangerous as they grew older. I replied that Mrs. Harrington was wasting her breath, that Mr. Harrington would never sell the Elephants for,
on the contrary, he intended to establish a breeding herd.

  “O, but Tom, that idea is long dead!” she answered. “Mr. Harrington is in two minds about the Elephants. They are a great expense, each one eats as much as twelve horses. Why should he keep them? They are no advantage to him, all they do is eat away his fortune.”

  “Did Mr. Harrington say that?”

  “Sometimes he says one thing, sometimes the other. And Mrs. Harrington is very persistent. It preys on her. She cannot sleep. She talks of nothing else.”

  “What preys on her?”

  “That the Elephants will escape again. That they will harm the children. Or that something else will happen.”

  I felt a great hatred well inside me. “Mrs. Harrington has been opposed to the Elephants from the beginning.”

  “She is a mother,” said Lizzy. “She thinks of her children, that is all. She is afraid. Everyone is a little afraid of what the Elephants may do, even I am sometimes a little afraid. Is that so strange? When Timothy has the Ooze he is frightening.”

  “He is chained.”

  “He is still frightening. There is the possibility he will escape. If I were Mr. Harrington—” She lifted herself up and, resting on one elbow, leant over me. “Sometimes I think—” and stopped.

  “What do you think?”

  She answered with a shew of reluctance. “That it may be better for you when they are gone.”

  The world within my head began to reel. I said nothing.

  “I mean only that you would not have to think about them all the time.”

  “I do not—but—they have to be cared for. No one else can do it.”

  “But you do not allow anyone else to try. Tom, your life is ruled by the Elephants. You are shackled by them, you are their slave, you have no time for anything else, or anyone else. It is like a fever. It is Elephant Fever.”

  “Mr. Harrington will not sell them.” I pushed her aside and sat up. “He cannot sell them. He cannot. They are harmless creatures.”