A Very - inglesalarcos - home · PDF file · 2014-12-04A Very The Lighthouse ... It was a dream. A real dream come true, one of those things which you never believe will happen. ...

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Text and illustrations © Alicia Pérez, 2004

A Family Portrait ................................... 2

The Dreamer ........................................... 5

The Lady of Glass .................................. 9

A Very Haunted House ........................ 12

The Lighthouse ....................................... 16

Exercises ................................................. 20

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A Family Portrait

It was a dream. A real dream come true, one of those things which you never believe will happen. My own studio, my own customers. I was, at last, a reputed painter.

True, by 1912, many people preferred photographs, the new invention which some considered "art". But good taste was good taste, and the stiff, lifeless expressions of the people you could see in photographs had no beauty. So those who could afford it came to Elliot Cornfield's brand new studio and sat for me.

The Clarks were wealthy enough; they were coming today for their first sitting.

I was restless, though. This was my first group portrait and my reputation was at stake. Would I be able to grasp all those lives, all those spirits? Would it be good for my career?

Mrs Arthur went to open the door. I heard voices in the corridor. The Clarks were there.

I stood up to shake Mr. Clark's hand, which was slippery and cold. It wasn't a real handshake. As we talked briefly, I studied his face. It was flat and plain, the eyes were so small that you could hardly see them. Mrs Clark was a sweet thing, instead. A tiny woman, but strong, with the strength of the people who have suffered.

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'And these are my family'- said Mr Clark. There were four children, from five to about sixteen. They were all dressed in black.

I invited them to sit comfortably and try different positions. They moved obediently, even the youngest child. I noticed that the eldest daughter didn't sit down, or change her position. She just stood behind the group with a sweet smile on her face. She was the only one who was not really wearing black clothes. Her dress was a dark shade of blue, with small flowers embroidered on a shoulder.

The Clarks didn't talk or move much. They were easy models. I gave them short breaks to rest, however. During those breaks I wondered why nobody looked at the eldest daughter. They all ignored her. Maybe she was dumb, or maybe they were ashamed of her for some reason. But those were family matters; my business was just to paint.

She looked very much like her mother. She had her wavy brown hair and sweet honey-coloured eyes, although she was taller, like her father. But she looked much prettier than her mother, even if hers was not one of those beauties that you cannot miss. You had to notice she was beautiful. This is easy for a painter. Funny how you get to like and even love the features of the person you are painting!

The most difficult part was that child's pretty face, and her youngest brother's too, he turned to her and smiled now and then. He was the only one to do that.

The Clarks sat for me for three weeks. And, as I added the last brushstrokes of Indian yellow to the canvas I understood that this was my masterpiece. It still is. I felt so proud that I did something unusual, something which I never do. I asked the Clarks to see the portrait for the first time even before it was dry.

'It's done!- I said, and asked Mr and Mrs Clark to look at it. They came and stood there, in front of the picture, for a couple of seconds which seemed hours.

And then it happened, the most outrageous thing. Mr. Clark turned to me, his face red with anger, and said something incredible:

'Young man'- he said in a voice so low that it was almost a whisper- 'if this is some kind of joke I don't think it is funny! Have you no respect? No taste and no decency?. He walked to the door, absolutely furious, and his family followed him. As he walked away I could hear him say one more thing- ' don't worry dear'- he said ' he will pay for this, no decent family in town will come to this place again, ever, never!'.

I stood there, unable to move, the paintbrush still in my hand and in such confusion that I had to sit down on a stool. What was wrong? What had I done?

Days went by. It was true that nobody came to the studio; I spent the days cleaning my brushes, sharpening my pencils and painting absurd flowers with a green calyx and a red stem. I waited in despair and boredom, I waited for more than a month.

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Then, one day, the weather changed. The wind blew open one of the windows and I knew the winter was coming. I shut the window and was very surprised to see Mrs Clark and her youngest son in front of me when I turned my face. There was a begging expression on her face.

'Have you still got it?'- she said

I wanted to ask what, why, I wanted to ask her a lot of things, but then she smiled sweetly, she had seen the big canvas on the wall.

' Please, Mr Cornfield, let me buy it'- there were tears in her eyes- 'It is so beautiful!, please forgive my husband, I have convinced him to forget about your little "artistic mischief", I actually find it moving that you have added her, that is how my family should look, in fact".

I was speechless. It took me several seconds to finally stammer. "What are you talking about, Mrs. Clark? What "mischief" are you talking about? What have I added?"

'What, indeed!'- She was confused- 'Isabelle's portrait, of course!'- she said. She walked to the canvas and gently caressed the face on the left, her eldest daughter's face.

'But, Mrs. Clark'- I whispered- ' I didn't add anything. She sat for me, just like the rest of your children!'

Her face turned bitter. 'Mr Cornfield, you know very well that is impossible.'

She stopped. She read the 'why' in my lips, but I did not have the voice to say it.

'Mr Cornfield, my dear Isabelle died five months ago. Why do you think we are all in mourning?

How to express my immense confusion, my fear?

How to admit that I had painted the portrait of a family and their ghost?

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The Dreamer

'Victor LaRue', - he said to his own face on the mirror- 'you are a handsome guy'.

He was handsome, his teeth were pearl-white and he was aging well, the white hair on his temples just made him even more attractive. He looked at the mirror for a number of minutes, and then he tried different hair-styles. He even greased his hair and combed it spiky, but discarded the style because it was too informal for the court.

'People don't take a lawyer seriously unless he looks serious', he said to himself aloud.

That was another advantage of living alone. You can do anything you want to , even talk to yourself aloud, if you like your own points of view.

'I tried, Jenny, I tried, Miriam, I tried, Laura, but it didn’t work', he said to himself, as his most recent ex-girlfriends' faces came to his mind. He discarded them one after the other, staring at the comb he was using on his hair. It was Laura's comb. She left so quickly, she was so angry, that she left behind a number of things, including the comb.

It was a good comb, why not keep it? The same could be said about information. Nobody asked her to steal any information from her firm.

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True, it was valuable information. It made him win the trial. But he never asked her to do anything like the stupid thing she did. Of course she got fired, any sensible boss would fire a treacherous employee.

One of the things LaRue really hated was women who made scenes. He was disappointed with Laura Chang when she made a bad scene as she left. She wanted to stay; she expected some kind of reward for what she had done. God! she even mentioned marriage!.

What led an apparently intelligent woman into such stupid behaviour?

'Am I really that attractive?' he asked himself.

One last look on the mirror. 'Yes, I am', he said.

Another thing LaRue hated was having bags under the eyes. He wasn't resting well those days. He used to sleep well; he had never had sleeping problems. But a dream, the same absurd, repeated dream, was starting to get on his nerves.

It was a part of San Francisco Chinatown he had never been to. He saw himself getting there by bus, a blue bus with a big advertisement for a shampoo on one of its sides. He stepped off the bus and walked down a street full of fruit shops and bought an apple, then he sat down on a bench and ate the apple looking at the passers-by. Then he had his shoes repaired at a tiny cobbler's round a corner and finally walked into a kind of second-hand shop where there seemed to be no salesperson.

He walked across the room towards a closed door and opened it, but he never saw what was behind that door, because he always woke up exactly then.

At first, he found it amusing to have a repeated dream. It wasn't funny any more. Night after night, the dream returned, and the bags under his eyes were becoming really visible by now.

He would not go to the psychiatrist. He would not. A doctor would psychoanalyze him, examine him, and steal all his money for months until that stupid dream died a natural death, like all dreams do. He didn't care about the silly dream. It would go away.

Suddenly a brilliant idea crossed his mind. Why not experience the actual place? The human brain worked like that.

'I will prove to my stupid self that the place is not exactly like that and the dream will go away', he decided.

He phoned his secretary and took a free day. He waited at the bus stop for a few minutes and when the bus came he smiled a relaxed smile. There wasn't a shampoo advertisement anywhere on the bus. There were no passengers in the bus either. That was strange, this hour of the day. He could not remember any passengers in the dream, or were there?

The bus left him at exactly the same place he had seen in his dream. As the bus turned a corner, he could now see the left side of it. There was a shampoo ad on it after all.

A coincidence.

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He walked down the street and saw several shops, mainly fruit shops. An old lady offered him a red apple and he took it. She didn't want any money, LaRue wasn't good at foreign languages, but she said something about him which sounded like 'handsome'.

He found a bench to sit down and ate his apple. Passers-by, mainly Asian, walked up and down the busy street.

Well, at least he didn't need to have any shoe repairs. He was wearing his most expensive new pair. He finished the apple and stood up, considering his adventure finished. As he did so, someone gave him a tap on his shoulder.

'You've dropped this', a friendly young man said, he showed LaRue the half-sole of one of his own shoes. He handed it to Victor. 'You should have them repaired at once, they are very expensive shoes, those you are wearing, there is a cobbler round….'

'Yes, I know', LaRue said,' round the corner on the left'.

He was getting really restless by then.

As he waited for the cobbler to finish, he sat quietly, looking at the floor, not wanting to look around in case some other coincidence happened, but it was pointless. He had to walk back to the bus stop. He decided to laugh at the whole situation and had another brilliant idea. Of course! he had to find the shop and open the door, after he saw what was behind it, the dream would have no mystery, it would disappear!

Even if the decision made him brave, his hand shook a little as he pushed open the door of the shop. There wasn't anybody, as he expected. He saw the door at the bottom of the shop. Strange, now a voice inside him shouted: 'don't open, Victor! don't open!'. But he held the door knob firmly and pushed the door open.

The room was empty. A bare light bulb was hanging from the ceiling. There was only one thing on one of the corners. It was an antique, one of those old mirrors people used to have in their bedrooms years ago.

He touched the wooden back of the mirror and looked around. There was nothing else. He smiled, self-assured. That was all, the dream was over. He moved to the door, but then decided he would take a look at himself on the mirror. He turned the old thing back and saw himself on the dusty surface. He looked as smart and handsome as usual. He combed back his wavy hair with this fingers and smoothed out his tie. Then he turned to go.

He hit the mirror.

That was impossible.

He turned back but hit the mirror again. In confusion, he tried and tried to get out, but it was pointless. It took him a few minutes to understand, in horror, that he was inside the mirror.

Forever.

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Someone shut the door of the room carefully.

It was Laura Chang. She stood next to an older woman, who shook her head disapprovingly. They both looked at the door and sighed.

Pity! - the older woman said - 'He was a handsome guy!, but then I suppose he deserved it. You were not going to allow him to ruin another woman’s life, not after ruining Laura Chang’s, the most powerful sorceress around!'

There was another long silence. Then the older woman spoke again.

'What did you use to bring him here?'

'Dreams', said Laura, 'I'm getting to be really good at that, you see'.

Both women sighed again, but Laura Chang’s face had the hint of a smile. A smile of satisfied revenge.

Then they turned off the lights and locked the shop.

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The Lady of Glass

The castle was huge. It had been built and rebuilt for hundreds of years. Some parts of it were but twenty years old, whereas others were five hundred. Where one of the ancient walls fell or ended, the villagers built another tower or a room, or a narrow street which made it possible to go from one place to another.

By the 17th century, for the people in the village, the castle was their world and their world was the castle.

The only place everybody knew about was the King's quarters. That part was clean and richly decorated. There were candles everywhere at the King's area. Some said the king was afraid of the dark.

Nobody liked the King very much, King Henry was ill-tempered and cruel, and it was no privilege to work for him.

So it was good to work in the kitchen. The king never entered the kitchen or said anything about the menu. Some said the king never ate.

Wendy was happy to work in the kitchen, even if the salary was not very good.

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When she had a little free time, she would go up and down the castle, finding dusty places where nobody had been for centuries and climbing onto the battlements where the wind blew so strong that she could close her eyes and imagine she was flying.

One day the wind blew too strong and she fell into an unknown courtyard. Fortunately it was not a bad fall, because the roofs were very low in that part of the castle and Wendy just rolled onto the ground.

When she opened her eyes she thought she had died and some kind of heavenly creature was leading her into Heaven.

The creature who was staring at her was a woman, though it took Wendy some time to be sure. She was extremely old, and so white that the skin had turned transparent at places, and you could see the blue veins and the blood running inside them. Her eyes were a faded blue, so light that they looked nearly colourless, and her hair was snow white and fell down her back, clean and silky, framing a face that suggested intelligence and humour. She wore no jewels, except for a small pendant shaped as an eagle which shone on her white robe.

Wendy held out her hand and touched the lady's clothes, she could not help it. She wanted to know if the creature was real.

She was.

The Lady spoke in a voice that surprised Wendy because it was not the voice of an old person, but that of a young woman. She held out her hand and helped Wendy to sit up with surprising

strength. Then she said, 'let me clean that scratch' and walked to a door using a stick which she obviously didn't need.

She returned in a few minutes and cleaned Wendy's forehead and hands, which had some scratches. She did not speak much at first, but she smiled all the time.

She lived alone in that part of the castle, it seemed, she did her own cleaning and cooking. Wendy was surprised that the Lady of Glass (the way she started to call her) didn't even have a servant or a companion. It was obvious that she was a real lady, and not a mere villager. It showed in her face and her speech and manners, but above all, it showed in the fact that she could read and even had books in her quarters, which was something the King himself didn't have. Some said the king couldn't really read.

Wendy and the Lady became friends. The Lady was Wendy's first real friend. The girl spent all her free time with her.

In exchange for her company, the Lady read her stories from her books or told her about things which had happened centuries before. She knew every detail.

The Lady even taught her to read a little bit. Wendy enjoyed each minute with her new friend.

One rainy day the cook told Wendy to get some eggs from the village, but Wendy stopped for a while at the Lady's quarters and returned late. The cook was terribly angry because her delay had ruined the menu and he sent her to clean unused rooms as a punishment.

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Wendy didn't like cleaning, but she had to do it. She dusted and washed, polished and swept until her hands were so rough that it hurt to touch them. Then she sat down on the floor for a few minutes and ate some bread and a sour apple.

She was looking at the pictures on the wall. Then she saw it. One of the women in the pictures was wearing a pendant shaped as an eagle. She climbed onto a chair to look at it closely. It was covered by a thick layer of dust and it was difficult to see the face. She took a cloth and dusted the painting.

The eyes of the woman on the painting suddenly stared into hers. She had the Lady's eyes! That was The Lady of Glass! She read the name under the portrait with difficulty. It said: 'Queen Anne. 1332.'

Wendy went to see her friend as soon as she finished cleaning. She found her in the courtyard, sitting on a chair which looked as old as the Lady herself.

The Lady looked really surprised when Wendy curtsied to her. 'Are you Queen Anne?' asked the girl.

The Lady sighed deeply and stood up. The way she held her stick now made it look very much like a sceptre.

'I am, girl', she said simply. 'How have you found out?'

Wendy explained her about the picture.

'Well', the Lady said', it is flattering that you have recognised me in a portrait painted three hundred years ago!'

Wendy was speechless.

'I know', the Lady explained, 'It is hard to believe. It is so hard that nobody believes it. Which is good, because they leave me alone. Everything can be tiring in life, even being a butcher or a servant, but nothing could be more tiring than being a queen for three hundred years'

'Are you….? Wendy started, but she didn't dare to finish the question.

'A ghost?' she laughed- ' No! Lord, if I were a ghost my bones wouldn't hurt every time it rains. She stopped and smiled mischievously, then she added, -'But I am starting to think I am immortal. After all, none of my descendants has survived me. One of my grandchildren lived up to one hundred, but he looked like a very old man, unlike me', she laughed.

'But if you are not dead, why aren't you still the queen?' asked Wendy.

The Lady winked her left eye humorously.

'My dear, how young you are! an undying queen, what an idea!, my legitimate heirs would have killed me sooner or later', she smiled sadly. Then she stood up and walked to her rooms.

'I'd rather be an unimportant living woman than a dead queen', she turned to Wendy again and motioned her into her quarters.

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'And now, young woman, let's go on with our reading lessons. We can't waste our time, you will not live forever'.

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A Very Haunted House

Eddingtown, 29th, October, 2001

Dear Terry,

How are things going on in Paris? We really miss you here, though everything is just as usual and we are doing fine. The twins caught cold last week, and I had to put Harold to bed because he had a temperature. He's fine now; he has shot up because of it.

The harvest is going to be excellent this year; the trees are so full of apples that I am afraid some of the branches may break.

I have finally bought a new washing machine; the old one was too noisy.

Dad is fine too, as busy as a bee. He is now repairing the barn roof.

The only one I am worried about is Lord Willsbury. He keeps burying himself in the garden. He says that he is tired of being a ghost and that his spirit should rest with his body.

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On the other hand, as you will remember, nobody knows exactly where his tomb is, because there is no gravestone, so he keeps making holes all over the place in search of it and he is beginning to ruin the rosebushes. The whole garden looks as if a family of gigantic moles had invaded us.

Also, I don't like the look of his face. Yes, I know ghostly faces are not supposed to look good, but his eyes are now not only sunk, but also sad. He has even stopped making booing sounds at midnight, and I hate that silence. I grew up hearing him at the corridor all night and his cries were like a lullaby to me, just as they had been to my mother and my great-grandmother, and to you!

I don't really know what to do. We are all used to living in a haunted house and having a ghost around, but I don't think I like the idea of having a depressed ghost.

Please, write soon and suggest something.

Mum

Eddingtown, 12th January, 2002

Dear Terry,

You will not believe what has happened! Do you remember your suggestion? It really sounded like a good idea to have some ghostly visitors. I too thought that it would cheer up poor Willsbury to meet other ghosts.

But it turned out to be a very complicated plan.

First I had to find the right guests. It's incredible! Most owners of haunted houses refuse to admit that they are there! I went to Elizabeth Smith's house and had tea with her. She burst into laughter when I suggested borrowing her ghost and denied having one. And all that time poor Betsy, the murdered servant, was adding sugar to her cup right behind her! She didn't even notice that the tea was too sweet and sticky as she drank it.

At the Turlington's I had another surprise, they were really eager to get rid of their ghost for a while. Theirs is an old seaman, about three hundred years old, whose name is Captain Quick. The Turlingtons refused to say his name aloud, as if they were afraid.

I was so lucky as to find an illustrious guest, too, Lady Theresa de Farnville, a cousin twice removed of Henry VIII's. You should see her, so lovely and elegant. Hers would be a perfect beauty if she were not in the habit of taking her head off her shoulders now and then (she was beheaded by her cousin).

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I decided to surprise and please Willsbury, so I took out all the Halloween decorations and turned off the electric lights, lighting candles instead.

It worked! Willsbury's face changed with joy when he saw Captain Quick and the others. And they were so well mannered! They never made a noise in the night (except exactly at midnight, of course) and it became usual to hear Willsbury and Quick telling each other funny jokes and laughing at us living people.

But then the problems started. Dad's brandy disappeared. And so did his Scotch and a bottle of sweet wine which I used for cooking. We soon found out that Captain Quick was a heavy drinker. He apologized, of course, when I complained to him, but when I suggested that he should give up drinking for his own sake he said that alcohol was certainly not going to ruin his health, being already dead. I didn't know what to say. He was quite right.

Lady Theresa, on the other hand, started behaving as if she deserved a crew of servants; she even started borrowing my clothes without permission! I managed to convince her that a XVIth century lady didn't look very nice in light blue jeans, but the truth (hard as it is to admit it) is that they looked better on her that they do on me.

But the truth is that we were all getting tired of our visitors and didn't know how to get rid of them without hurting Willsbury's feelings.

But you see, there is always a good solution for a bad problem.

The day before Christmas, at around two o'clock, we were all sound asleep. A terrible noise, very much like an earthquake, woke up everyone in the house. Dad didn't even stop to put on his slippers, and you know how much he dislikes walking barefoot. We went downstairs and found a terrible scene. One of the walls of the house had been knocked down by the tractor, Captain Quick was driving it. He was shamefully drunk and shouted things like: On deck, you rats! let's make best use of this wind!.

It was a good thing that he was already dead, for it had been a bad accident and a living person would have ended in hospital.

Once we made sure everyone was fine, (the dead remained dead and the living were alive) we realised Willsbury was nowhere to be found. After a while Dad managed to start the tractor's engine and move it and there we found Willsbury, looking inside the broken part of the wall with eyes full of tears. Guess what? There was a skeleton there, and it was Willsbury's skeleton, he recognised what was left of his clothes and a gold ring which the body was still wearing, so Willsbury had been walled up! All those centuries we didn't know anything about his death and he had been there, waiting for a drunken sailor to break his curse.

We understood at once that Willsbury was going to leave us, he looked at us with eyes full of hope and sadness and

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waved goodbye, then his soul somehow melted into the body and he disappeared.

We stood there motionless for a few minutes, not knowing what to say or do. One of the twins had emptied a bucket of cold water over Captain Quick's head and he was recovering his manners, he said he was terribly sorry about the whole thing and explained that he didn't feel welcome anymore as a guest, and he wished to return home. Lady Theresa thanked us for our invitation and followed him. Betsy curtsied to us and explained she had things to do at home, Mrs Smith always forgot to put sugar in her tea when she wasn't there.

So you see, dear Terry, you will find the house rather changed when you come back home. We all have to get used to the idea that we no longer live in a haunted house.

Well dear, that's all for the moment, write soon and pay us a visit as soon as possible, we miss you.

Love

Mum

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The Lighthouse

I am now an old man, but in 1963 I was only twenty-five. I can remember it very well because my mother phoned me on my birthday to tell me about the death of my brother Henry's wife. I was really upset. Martha had been a good woman and she had made my brother very happy. I could imagine how broken his heart would be.

I was then working in India, so I couldn't even attend the funeral, but when my mother phoned me again and explained that Henry had left everything and become a lighthouse keeper I got really concerned. Not that it wasn't an honest job, but it was very difficult to imagine a young, successful engineer living alone on a virtually desert island and depending on a ship for absolutely everything. There wasn't even a telephone in the lighthouse.

I thought it would be temporary. Henry was a young, spirited man who would tire of that loneliness and return to our lives.

I came back to England in 1969, after my mother's death. I was surprised and angry to see that Henry wasn't at the funeral. Mother had died alone in her house, having two sons, and Henry hadn't even bothered to tell me about Mother's disease. I resolved to talk to him, so I took a train to the coast and the two ships which I needed to reach the island.

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As I was travelling, my anger gradually vanished. The soothing sight of the sea and the cool air were both cheering and calming after those years in the hideous Indian monsoon.

By the time I reached the island I felt spirited and I was sincerely looking forward to giving my brother a big surprise.

And he was surprised.

It took him ages to open the door, I had to knock and knock until he heard me. It was getting dark outside and it was beginning to rain.

Henry finally opened the door and stood there looking at me for a few seconds, not knowing what to say. I hugged him and slapped his back the way men do without his responding to my sincere happiness.

- Well- I said at last- aren't you happy to see your little brother, old boy?

I put my suitcase on the floor, waiting for him to say something or ask me to come in, but he just looked nervously around and didn't seem to see or hear me.

Right then, the most beautiful female voice I had ever heard came from the corridor behind us.

- Henry, aren't you going to ask your brother to come in?

I looked back and gaped.

The creature I was seeing can hardly be described in words. She had the most breathtaking beauty I had ever seen, or will see. A young woman of around twenty with long wavy hair which was so black that it looked blue under that light.

She wore strange clothes, slightly old fashioned and loose, but you wouldn't pay attention to her clothes when you saw her amazing green eyes, not the common greyish green of other people, but emerald green, the colour of the sea in a summer day.

She smiled and waved her lovely hand in a friendly gesture.

- Hello, my name is Deirdre. You are Adam, I suppose.

I noticed she had an accent, it was a very strange accent, which didn't really sound foreign; it was rather an odd musicality that made every word sound like a flute. I was mesmerized. There was a long, tense silence before I could mutter "pleased to meet you". Then I managed to look away from her face and turned to Henry.

Well- I said stupidly- It's no wonder you didn't want to go back home.

- Deidre, dear, you'll be late- Henry said. The young woman nodded and went out.

- We'll talk some other day- she said friendly.

- Adam will have to go back home tomorrow- said Henry coldly.

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- He won't be able to, - said Deirdre - this storm is going to become a gale, no ships in the next three days. And she walked away under the rain.

- Shouldn't we escort her, or at least lend her an umbrella? - I said, I was an old-fashioned gentleman and I wanted to enjoy Deirdre's company as long as possible.

- Believe me- said Henry, with a soft smile - Deirdre doesn't mind getting wet.

We had dinner, we talked about Mother and about India, and while we were alone everything was like the good old times of our childhood. We even played chess, and he beat me, of course, Henry was a good player. However, I soon understood that he wasn't going to talk about Deirdre. He avoided any question about her and he got so tense when I mentioned her that I reached the conclusion that he felt terribly jealous of anyone. Not that I blamed him!

But I felt so curious that when the radio confirmed Deirdre's weather predictions I was glad to stay a little longer. Did the girl live in one of those half- shattered houses on the other side of the island? Was she a mere fisherman's daughter? Was she the reason why Henry had left everything and remained there? My mind was full of questions, and Henry wasn't going to answer any of them.

The following morning Deirdre came back, and she brought some oysters for lunch. She refused to explain where she had found the shell f ish in that gale .

We three had the oysters, and I opened a bottle of white wine. When I poured a little into Deirdre's glass Henry got mad with anger.

- Are you trying to kill her? - he shouted.

We stood motionless and surprised and then Deirdre burst into laughter. I joined her. The idea of killing a young woman by allowing her to taste a little wine was ridiculous, or so I thought then. But Deirdre had a sip of the wine and I really got scared, her beautiful face lost all its colour and she nearly fainted. I held her by the arm and then realised how cold she was, her touch was like marble.

She seemed to recover, and then she stood up and started to sing.

As the first notes reached out of her mouth, I could see Henry's terror on his face, then I could hear or see nothing else because my mind got lost in the million feelings that the odd song brought to my mind. The music became a swirl of sea trills, a gust of rising and falling voices one and a hundred at the same time, sounds that brought you death and life and madness and perfect joy.

Then I couldn't feel anything else because I somehow lost consciousness.

I don't know how long I stayed there on the floor, but I felt so cold when I recovered that I thought I was dead. I stood up and felt the back of my head, which hurt badly, my hand got blood on it. Deirdre and Henry weren't there. The door was open and

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swung wildly in the wind, I got out and shouted Henry's name, but he wasn't out there either. I then ran to the houses across the island, in the hope that they would be there. I reached the other side of the island when it was beginning to get dark and it was difficult to believe my own eyes when I saw the houses clearly. When seen closely, it was clear that nobody lived or had lived in them for twenty years at least.

This was a desert island.

I fell down on my knees and was sick.

Somehow I managed to return to the lighthouse. I washed my face and hurried to turn on the radio. Then I saw the note:

Dear Adam,

I can only say I am sorry. I am sorry I left Mother alone all these years, I am sorry I have behaved so strangely these days, I am sorry I haven't been able to say how much I love my little brother. I am also sorry I have had to knock you out, but it was for your own sake, the beginning of Deirdre's song may give you an idea of the things she can do to a man.

Don't worry about me, I think I am somehow half- immune to her magic, I'll be all right in her world, the place where she is taking me, I know she loves me and I love her too, so I trust her. Take care of yourself.

Henry.

The note fell from my hands. I banged my hand on the table in despair and the blow made something fall from the shelf over the radio. I picked it up. It was a very old edition of a fairy tale book. In spite of the poor light I could see that the front page had a picture on it. It was Deirdre's face.

I read the title aloud: "The Little Mermaid ".

22

EXERCISES

A Family Portrait

A. Answer these questions about the story.

1. Why was Cornfield in high spirits at the beginning of the story?

2. Why was Cornfield restless about the Clark’s portrait?

3. What made the eldest daughter look different from the rest of the group?

4. What did the girl look like?

5. What unusual thing did Cornfield do?

6. Why was Clark furious?

7. Why had the Clarks ignored Isabelle while they were sitting for the portrait?

8. Who else could see Isabelle? How do you know?

9. Why did Mrs. Clark come back?

10. Why was Cornfield frightened?

B. Find in the story words beginning with the letter given which correspond to these definitions:

1. a room or a working place where artists work

S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

2. rigid, motionless S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

3. catch hold of something G . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

4. a person who cannot speak D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

5. best artistic work done by someone

M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

6. speak in very low tones W . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

7. the part of a flower that joins it to the rest of the plant

S . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

8. in black, to show grief for somebody’s death

M . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

23

The Dreamer

A. Answer these questions about the story.

1. What did LaRue think about himself?

2. Why did he live alone?

3. How did he normally behave with women?

4. What was Victor’s problem those days?

5. How did his dream normally end?

6. Why did he decide to visit Chinatown?

7. When and why did Victor become restless when he reached Chinatown?

8. Who were the women in the shop?

9. How did Laura bring LaRue to the mirror?

10. Why did Laura take revenge on LaRue?

B. Match these words with their synonyms:

1. good looking

a. stupid

2. be made redundant

b. amusing

3. rob

c. steal

4. silly

d. get fired

5. pedestrians

e. handsome

6. funny

f. passers-by

24

The Lady of Glass

A. Answer these questions about the story.

1. What was the castle like?

2. What was the king like?

3. How did Wendy meet the lady?

4. What did the lady look like?

5. Was the lady friendly?

6. How did Wendy deduce that she was a high class lady?

7. How did Wendy find out who she was?

8. Who was she?

9. What was extraordinary about the “Lady of Glass”?

10. Why wasn’t she still the queen?

B. Unscramble these words to find them in the text. The first and last letters are in the correct place.

1. H L M O O U R U S Y

2. M C U H E I S I S V O L Y

3. F T T L A R E I N G

4. P R S T N A R A N E T

25

A Very Haunted House

A. Answer these questions:

1. How many people lived in the farm?

2. Were they afraid of the ghost?

3. What was Willsbury’s problem?

4. What did Terry suggest?

5. Who were the guests?

6. Why did the Turlingtons want to get rid of the ghost?

7. What was Quick’s bad point?

8. What was Lady Theresa’s bad point?

9. How did Quick “help” Willsbury?

10. How did Willsbury disappear?

B. Complete these sentences with words from the story and translate the sentences:

1. Lady Theresa was an i__________________ guest.

2. She had been b__________________ by her cousin, Henry VIII

3. The family lived in a h__________________ house.

4. Captain Quick a__________________ when the narrator complained to him.

5. At two o’clock, everybody in the house was s__________________ asleep.

6. Quick said he was terribly sorry about the w__________________ thing.

26

The Lighthouse

A. Answer these questions:

1. How old would Adam be today?

2. Why did Henry become a lighthouse keeper?

3. Why was Adam angry with his brother when he returned to England?

4. How did Henry react when he saw his brother?

5. What did Deirdre look like?

6. Why didn’t Henry want to talk about Deirdre?

7. What was Deirdre’s secret?

8. Why did Henry knock out Adam?

9. Where did Henry and Deirdre go?

10. How did Adam discover the secret?

B. Match these pairs of words from the story according to their meaning.

mesmerized

illness

mutter

permitting

gale

hypnotized

half-shuttered

whirlpool

allowing

in ruins

swirl

big storm

disease

Whisper

actual: verdadero

afford: (poder) permitirselo

aging: envejeciendo

allow: permitir

amazing: asombroso

amusing: divertido

antique: antigüedad

any more: ya no

apologize: disculparse

ashamed: avergonzado

attend: asistir

avoid: evitar

bags under the eyes: ojeras

bang: golpear

barefoot: descalzo

barn: granero

battlement: almena

beat: ganar

begging: suplicante

behaviour: comportamiento

beheaded: decapitada

bench: banco

bitter: amarga

blame: culpar

blow: golpe

booing: sonido de asustar

boredom: aburrimiento

borrow: coger prestado

bother: molestarse

bottom: al fondo

GLOSSARY

branch: rama

brand: flamante

brushstrokes: pinceladas

bucket: cubo

burst into laughter: echarse

a reír

calyx: cáliz

canvas: lienzo

cheer up: animar

cheering: alegre, alentador

closely: de cerca

cobbler’s: zapatería

coincidence: coincidencia

coldly: con frialdad

comb: peinar

come true: hecho realidad

complain: quejarse

court: tribunal

courtyard: patio

cousin twice removed: prima segunda

crew: cohorte

curse: maldición

curtsy: hacer una reverencia

customer: cliente.

delay: retraso

deny: negar

detail: detalle

disapprovingly:

desaprobadoramente

discard: descartar

disease: enfermedad

do fine: irle bien a alguien

dumb: mudo

dust: desempolvar

eager to get rid: deseando

librarse

embroidered: bordado

employeé: empleado

escort: acompañar

even: incluso

faded: desvaído

features: rasgos

find out: descubrir

firm: empresa

flat: plano

flattering: halagador

for his own sake:

por él mismo

forehead: frente

foreign: extranjero

frame: enmarcar

gale: galerna

gape: quedarse boquiabierto

get fired: ser despedido

get on (someone’s nerves):

atacarte los nervios

grasp: agarrar

gravestone: lápida

grease: ponerse gomina

greyish: grisáceo

guest: invitado

gust: ráfaga

guy: tipo

half-immune: medio

inmune

half-shattered: medio

derruidas

half-sole: media suela

hand: pasar, entregar

haunted: encantada

heavy drinker: bebedor

empedernido

hideous: horrible

however: sin embargo

hug: estrechar

huge: enorme

indeed (what indeed): ¿cómo

que qué?

instead: a cambio

knob: tirador

knock down : tirar abajo

knock out: dejar sin sentido

layer: capa

lighthouse: faro

lighthouse keeper: farero

look forward to: estar

deseando que llegue algo

loose: suelto

lullaby: nana

mainly: principalmente

manage: conseguir

marble: mármol

masterpiece: obra maestra

melt: disolverse en algo

mere: simple

mermaid: sirena

mesmerized: hechizado,

hipnotizado

mischief: travesura

mischievously:

traviesamente

mole: topo

monsoon: monzón

motion: hacer señas

motionless: inmóviles

mourning: luto

moving: conmovedor

murdered: asesinada

mutter: musitar

my stupid self: al estúpido

de mí mismo

nowhere: ningún sitio

odd: raro

on deck: a cubierta

outrageous: intolerable

owner: dueño

oyster: ostra

passers-by: viandantes

pendant: colgante

pity: ¡Qué pena!

pointless: sin sentido

polish: pulir

punishment: castigo

quarters: habitaciones

rather: bastante

remain: quedarse

reputed: con reputación

resolve: decidir

restless: intranquilo

robe: manto

rough: ásperas

sake (for his own sake): por su

propio bien

scared: asustado

sceptre: cetro

scratch: arañazo

sensible: sensato

shade: tono

shamefully:

vergonzosamente

shaped: en forma de

sharpen: afilar

shellfish: marisco

shoot up: dar un estirón

sigh: suspirar

sight: visión

sip: sorbo

sit: posar

slap: dar palmadas

slippers: zapatillas

slippery: resbaloso

somehow: de algún modo

soothing: relajante

sound asleep: profundamente dormido

sorceress: hechicera

sour: ácida

speech: forma de hablar

speechless: sin palabras

spend: pasar

spiky: de punta

spirited: animoso

stake (at stake): en peligro

stammer: tartamudear

stem: tallo

step off: bajarse (de)

stiff: rígido

stool: taburete

strength: fuerza

sunk: hundido

swallow: tragar

sweep (past swept): barrer

swing: zarandearse

swirl: remolino

take off: quitarse

tap: golpecito

taste: gusto

tear: lágrima

temples: sienes

thick: gruesa

tiny: menuda

tomb: tumba

treacherous: traicionero

trial: juicio

trill: trino

trust: confiar

turn a corner: dar la vuelta

a una esquina

unless: a menos que

until: hasta

upset: apenado

vanish: desvanecerse

virtually desert: practicamente desierta

void: vacío

wall up: emparedar

waste: perder

well mannered: bien educado whereas: mientras que

wink: guiñar