***chapter 42***

***Daz***

Sometimes, when the moon was high and the whole of Follyfoot bathed in her silent grey light, the young girl would stir restlessly from her sleep and steal away to the attic window.

Her first winter here, unused to being outdoors in mud, snow and sleet, and frozen by the bitter winds that every Yorkshire lad and lass will tell you whistle hauntingly down from the moors and cut like ice, she had become ill. (Nesh, grinned Ron, winking, as he and Steve helped her indoors from the stables, and she smiled to let him know that, unlike in the early days, she realised he was teasing. (Although she had no idea what the slang word meant until she checked in the Yorkshire dialect pocket dictionary she kept under her pillow in secret.) Despite her burning throat, banging head and aching limbs, and against the doctor's advice, Dora would have been working with her beloved horses again the very next day except her uncle warned they might pick up an infection. Whether this was true or a ruse to ensure she rested, Dora didn't know, but she did know she would never forgive herself if she hurt a single horse and so, ruse or not, the plan worked.

One afternoon during her reluctant convalescence, and beginning to feel a little better, she wandered into the well-stocked manor house library. Literary classics and poetry; encyclopedias; Parliamentary and law books; stirring tales of brave military men and historic battles won; advice on etiquette, tales of débutantes, constantly updated editions of Who's Who, hundreds of different books, most left from the days when her parents, Lord and Lady Maddocks, had resided here at Follyfoot Farm, all jostled for space on heaving shelves.

But the leather-bound tome that captured her heart she found among a higgledy-piggledy jumble of books inside a sturdy solid oak antique bookcase. His father's book collection had been all that "Poor old Dotty Geoff", as Arthur and Prudence mockingly called him behind his back, wanted from his will, bypassing the properties and fortune that was his inheritance as eldest son. It contained many an old and rare edition, but somehow she knew it was kept for love and not to be sold.

Clasping the tome to her bosom as though afraid to ever let it go, trying not to listen to the whinnies and clip-clop of hooves, for it tore at the young girl's heart not be with the animals she loved so, she hurried through the falling snow like a small white ghost and settled before the cosy glow of the roaring farmhouse fire. And from the book's very first words, quoting the great man, she knew at once William Drumgold understood:-

Every building that is loved has a soul

And she had loved Follyfoot Farm ever since, when she was very small, Jimmy told her stories of the time he'd worked here, being hired as head groom and later employed as chauffeur. Some faded away from her mind as she grew up, but when she saw Follyfoot for the very first time one very special sleeping memory woke anew.

That hot Saturday the Maddocks family set off from London, with the sun's reflection shimmering on a calm Thames and birds singing merrily, on what promised to be a glorious June day. The promise was broken. By mid-day black clouds obscured the sky and a silver curtain of rain obscured the land.

A roll of thunder growled menacingly above as Alec Bingham slowed down the Rolls to negotiate Whistledown Lane's notoriously steep hill. Soon after Jimmy's death, Jack Stanford's fiancée Lydia had discovered she was pregnant and, as her grandmother had lately bequeathed to her a house in Edinburgh, the couple decided to move to Scotland. Jack's replacement was a morose, taciturn man, but an excellent driver nonetheless and, even with rain drumming furiously down on the car roof, his passengers knew they were in very safe hands.

Curious to see what was to be her home for some years while her father took up the post of ambassador to Brazil, Dora rolled down the rain-smeared window. A wild flash of forked lightning chose that very moment to streak through the moody sky and freeze-frame the Farm in a picture she would remember forever. At the bottom of the hill, near a grey stone farmhouse and long row of stables, a figure clad in oilskins and sou'wester was opening a gate for a similarly-attired figure to lead a horse through. Behind them, in the distance, stood the magnificent manor house owned by her parents, but Dora paid scant attention to the famous and much-photographed Drumgold building. What held her gaze was the drenched, barren tree being battered by the storm, momentarily bowed by wind and rain, only to defiantly shake itself free and raise its torn branches to the Heavens like triumphant fists.

"The lightning tree!" she whispered, enchanted, suddenly recalling Jimmy telling her how the stunted tree was regularly watered for "dreams to come true" and awed, as so many have been, by the dramatic thunderstorms that frequently strike this little heart of Yorkshire.

The magic was over almost as soon as it had begun.

"Dora!" squealed Prudence, shuddering as rain swept inside, and Arthur slammed down the window, drowning out the storm's fierce roar.

Her exasperated parents exchanged thankful glances that their daughter was not to accompany them to Brazil. Dora, with her constant daydreaming, was such an embarrassment in elite social circles.

But The Honourable Dora Maddocks, albeit educated in the most exclusive Swiss finishing school that was, and still is, favoured by Royalty from all over the world, cared not a jot for elite social circles. Kicking off her winter shoes and wrapping herself in an old furniture throw, she curled up on the arm-chair cosily as a cat, her windswept hair dripping with melted snowflakes, a crooked line of dust marking nose and cheek. Had they been there, Lord and Lady Maddocks would have been mortified. But fortunately Arthur and Prudence were thousands of miles away, dining with another fabulously wealthy couple, all four, under the guise of polite conversation, sniping at each other over who owned the greater riches, and the daughter born with a silver spoon in her mouth and gypsy in her heart was free as a bird.

The fire crackled loudly and, sleepily content with warmth while outside in the darkening afternoon snowflakes furiously swirled, the future heiress looked up from studying pencil sketches of Follyfoot, and reading of how round windows were a hallmark of Drumgold's architecture, to rest her chin on the book and watch the dancing and darting flames.

She had always found the ancient stone farmhouse, despite its cold clay floor and draughts and creaking doors, cosier than the manor house. For all its luxury, the manor house seemed icy and distant. Perhaps it was because, when she was very young, Jimmy would take her with him about his work and she had come to love the honest company of the serving staff, preferring them to her parents' shallow associates. She stared pensively into the fire, the smell of burning coal, the taste of soot and red glow of firelight sweeping back memories of Jimmy's homely little cottage in the grounds of the Maddocks' huge Kensington mansion. Jimmy and she had sat by the hearth on many a winter's evening, drinking cocoa and toasting bread that they spread with plum or raspberry jam made by Ada the cook, and Dora would sob heart-brokenly when it was time to go home to bed. Jimmy had been like a grandfather to her. It was Jimmy who took her to see horses and read her stories and taught her to tie shoe-laces. Who helped her make Chinese paper lanterns and put her paintings up on his wall and showed her how to grow strawberries. Who had given her the nickname Daz.

When the December snow fell, and she had run out into a brand new white, powdery world, wearing designer coat, hat, gloves and boots, all made specially for her by an exclusive Paris fashion house and, crème de la crème of her many Christmas presents from her parents, a diamond bracelet. Prudence and Arthur, believing that expensive gifts equated love, congratulated themselves when they saw their little daughter's delighted face upon opening the jewellery box. (Although, in truth, Dora, being barely five years old and too young to understand the concept of money, had been fascinated by the colours and would have been just as happy with a multi-coloured bracelet made of plastic.) Her favourite Christmas toy was the cuddly toy horse, a gift from Jimmy, and which she was hugging to her as she slipped on an icy patch and fell in a heap.

Jimmy picked her up, dusting clumps of snow from her coat.

"Razzle Dazzle Dora, whiter than white!" He grinned as the winter sun picked prisms of light from the diamonds. "You can see her in the daytime and you can see her in the night."

Dora, who'd been about to cry, giggled. They loved making up silly poems together. Their favourite was the one that they always tried to recite as fast as they could without pausing for breath: The cat was very fat because he ate the bat and the rat and the gnat and the hat and the mat and the mouse ate the louse and the sprouts and the scouse and the very fat cat that ate the bat and the rat and the gnat and the hat and the mat so THAT WAS THAT!"

She became Razzle Dazzle after that, then Dazzle, and then Daz. The other House staff picked up on the name, but Jimmy, being such a good friend of her parents, was the only one who could call her Daz without being reprimanded by Lord or Lady Maddocks, who, nickname or not, declared it to be "suitable only for a common servant". With Jimmy, however, Prudence and Arthur softened and were generous and caring. Dora was reflecting on how different things might have been, if only all their acquaintances had been like Jimmy, when voices sounded nearby and she quickly dabbed away nostalgic tears as the farmhouse filled, or seemed to fill, with people. The visitors brought in the icy air and the blue smoke of their breath, stomping snow from their boots, blowing on their hands, faces red and eyes bright with the kiss of winter.

Of course, seeing her there, they began to mock.

Ron called her "m'lady, wot lounges about all day" and bowed extravagantly as he set a chipped mug of steaming tea down beside her. Slugger tutted, swiped him gently across the ear, and chided, "Yer uncouth lout, fetch a bleedin' china cup and a bleedin' china saucer and a bleedin' buttered scooone for 'er Gracious Ladyship", then pulled a comical "snooty" face and doffed his woollen hat.

Steve sat down on the arm of the chair to read over her shoulder, and ask in that usual half resentful voice, which always unsettled her, did she plan to buy another stately home with her vast riches then? And added, with a flash of his dark eyes, a peck of her cheek and a disarming smile as he squeezed her shoulder before jumping up again, "I'm only joking, girl."

Uncle Geoffrey said nothing, merely poked the fire, shaking his head and smiling as though he agreed with every word they said, as he tapped and re-filled his pipe.

She took their humour in her stride. At least, now she did now. At first, Steve, Ron and Slugger, being so very different from the people she had mixed with since she was seven years old and sent off to boarding school after Jimmy's death, she would fly into a rage whenever they made comments about her privileged background. Until she realised, the more angry her reaction the more fun it was, and what she saw as accusations of snobbery was the affectionate teasing of friends.

But Ron and Slugger always made her laugh. Steve always left her confused. With Steve, she felt a topsy-turvy myriad of emotions, the like of which she had never felt with anyone else before. And she wondered if…

…If…

…because, you see, the young girl had never known …

…and yet somehow she knew...

One frosty night, as she tossed and turned, the silver light of the moon and the rattling of a nearby door conspired to break her slumbers. She sat up, wondering what had woken her. A door banged in answer. She realised at once the cause.

The day had been bitterly cold but sunny, and while out riding, from the high point at the other side of the river, Dora had noticed a sudden flash of sunlight on the manor house roof. She hadn't been too surprised. A charity which dealt in recycled goods had recently approached Uncle Geoffrey for donations and two men had been invited today to sift through the contents of the vast attic, a silent, cobwebby, shadowy room, largely undisturbed for decades. No doubt they'd opened the window to let out the dust of centuries, but not secured the catch when they'd closed it again.

She pulled on dressing gown and slippers, and, guided by the pool of moonlight that crept inside, hurried down the long hallway and climbed the spiral staircase at the very end. Now Drumgold buildings are noted for their eccentric features and Follyfoot was no exception. Directly below the skylight had been built a set of stone steps and ornate handrail, with a small seat at its very top.

Perhaps Drumgold had built it especially for dreamers.

For she was about to fasten the lock when she stopped and instead pushed the glass further open. The air was ice cold, but Dora barely noticed. Follyfoot had never looked more beautiful, nor beat more closely to her heartbeat than it did at that moment.

A quiet full moon hung in the midnight sky, where thousands of stars shone brighter than they'd ever shone before. From Whistledown Hill to the frozen lake, from the distant fields to the quaint old farmhouse, not a sound was heard, not a blade of grass quivered, not a breath of wind stirred. Frost glinted and glistened everywhere, on grass and trees, on roofs and windows, on walls and fences. But, most of all, the lightning tree stood proud, its sturdy trunk coated with silvery white, its moonlit shadow cast against the stable block, its torn limbs sparkling with jewels of ice. The words came back to her mind.

Every building that is loved has a soul

And Follyfoot was so loved. So much a part of everyone who had ever lived or worked here.

If only here at Follyfoot someone would realise he'd stolen her heart. The iciness caught her then and she shivered as she closed the window and shut out the dark.