Transylvania

Dougie shot up in bed, nearly knocking Tom out as he stared at his regretful expression. His heart started to race as the words sunk in – was this some horrible joke Tom was playing?

“No – no, don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, sensing his own voice wavering.

“I’m deadly serious, Dougie. Edward found the letter in the rose garden and gave it to your father…”

“What? How -”

“I can’t explain, I was sent to bring you straight down,” Tom explained simply, a look on his face that was hard to read, and one that Dougie didn’t like. “I’m sorry… come on, quickly. Your parents want to speak to you.”

Dougie’s mind was going a mile a minute as he buttoned up his shirt and followed Tom out of the room, into the slightly colder hallway. Images and scenes flashed up in his mind – the funfair, the market, the barn – expressions, sounds, smiles… was all that now to be gone forever?

His feet quickly grew cold on the wooden stairs as they hurried down to the first floor. A thin film of sweat was now beading on Dougie’s forehead as he thought about his parents – what would they do? His father was often ruthlessly harsh when deciding his punishments and never before had Dougie done anything like this to betray his trust. But surely his mother would be easier on him? She may not understand the circumstances, but she must be compassionate to what he felt inside, if he got the chance to explain himself…

Dougie hardly realised they were at the lounge already, and Tom was opening the door for him. He took one step into the large, wooden room and felt his muscles freeze at the sight of his father’s silhouette against the fire, tall and foreboding. His mother sat quite still in an armchair, only moving her head round slightly to look at her son as he took a deep breath.

“Sit down. Tom, shut the door and please leave us.”

He felt a chill travel up his spine at the sound of his father’s voice. Both of them did as they were told, and Dougie slowly made his way towards where his parents stood, without the comfort of Tom.

“Your mother and I haven’t seen you all day, Dougie,” his father continued, his back to his son. “Take a seat with us, please. I can’t imagine why you spend so much time cooped up in that bedroom.”

Dougie swallowed but tried not to let his nerves show - glancing at his mother, who was looking straight ahead at the mantelpiece. He took the chair next to her, deliberately not facing his father, and clasped his hands together on his lap. As soon as he blinked he had a flash of what could be the future – forbidden to leave the house, his name in disgrace – a thin figure wearing a ripped shirt and an uncharacteristic expression of despair, only a memory…

“One can only imagine what you do up there by yourself,” A sharp voice said, interrupting his fearful thoughts. “And when Tom’s working you’ll be alone for hours. Is Harry paying more visits without my knowledge?”

Dougie knew his father didn’t drag him down there to question him about the time he spent in his bedroom. He had been spending no more time away from his parents than he had over the last six months, and his father knew it. He was using Harry as a prop, trying to provoke Dougie into spilling who had really been in his room – for Harry Judd never arrived at the Poynter house without conversing with the Earl sometime during his visit. Dougie’s parents were associates of Harry’s and so the two had become good friends over time - Harry actually acting as if he looked down on his young friend sometimes, coming from a wealthy background himself, but Dougie knew this wasn’t the case. Harry mixed with all members of society, rich or poor, and this was a rare quality to be found in anyone in the Poynter family’s social circle.

Dougie was just about to open his mouth to answer when his father whipped round and stared down at him, his composed air somewhat chilling as he loomed over his son. “Well?”

“I – I –”

“I didn’t think so,” he interrupted, his deep voice seeming to reach every dark nook of the room. “Tell me – have you made any new acquaintances recently?”

“No, father,” he replied instantaneously. This was not a lie – well, it was if half a year could be called recent, which it couldn’t in Dougie’s mind.

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” he answered a little too certainly, and his father spotted it. With a sudden frown of madness he whipped a piece of parchment out of his pocket and thrust it at his son. Dougie fumbled with the folded piece of notepaper and his heart leapt to his throat as he recognised it immediately.

“How dare you be so impertinent as to lie to me!” His father cried as Dougie unfolded the letter with shaky hands. He looked over his own calligraphic print and could feel his cheeks fill with blood – the thought that his parents had read this and recognised it as his handwriting... he could not bear it. At least it was not directly addressed, but just a keepsake note that had exchanged hands what seemed to Dougie like hours ago, but in reality it was only about thirty minutes.

“We heard a disturbance in the grounds earlier on,” his father continued, his voice ringing through Dougie’s ears as his eyes still stared, transfixed upon his own words. “I asked Tom to search the front lawns for intruders whilst Edward and Christopher combed the rose gardens, the lake edge and the stables… and what should Edward find? This letter, laid upon the ground near the tall hedgerow.

“I know this is your handwriting and I know from your visage that you don’t like the fact that this - this love letter, is it? – has gotten into the wrong hands. Whoever you wrote it to must have dropped it as they sneaked out of the grounds – doing so because they did not desire to cross my path!”

The volume of his father’s voice made both Dougie and his mother shrink in their seats. Dougie folded the letter and slipped it into his pocket, looking defiantly up at the towering figure above him as he sat on the low chair.

“Now tell me, Dougie,” his father ordered in a hushed tone, bending down to look his son in the eye. “If you did not want us to meet them, surely that means they should not be here and should not be making contact with you, should it not?”

“Oh, come on, darling,” a quiet voice piped up, Dougie’s mother raising her head to speak for the first time since he had been in the room. “Teenagers will be secretive and shy. We should be glad that Dougie has found a young lady – she is probably just too scared to meet us…”

“She should be proud to be connected with the finest young bachelor of Essex, not running around with him in secret! What reason would she have to keep quiet? Is it because she is scum, a nobody, an unworthy wife for the inheritor of this estate?”

“Stop it!” Dougie spat, suddenly finding courage out of disgust at his father’s words – those that had played in his mind over and over for nights on end. His heart was threatening to splinter his ribs like matchsticks and he could feel his legs quake beneath him. “How dare you -”

“How dare I? You, my dear boy, are the one that has been keeping things from us! Tell me – who is it?”

“Never,” Dougie replied shakily, getting to his feet and not bothering to deny it any more. “I’ll never tell you,”

“Come now, Dougie, we only want to know who she is…” his mother chipped in again. He looked at her – he was grateful for her softness, but the use of the word ‘she’ was irritating him.

“If the match wasn’t that bad, you would tell us,” his father whispered, leaning in close to Dougie and ignoring his wife. “If you won’t, then I will find out by other means. And when I do, she’ll wish she’d never met you.”

“When hell freezes over,” Dougie snarled, his hands shaking with anger and fear. “That’s when I’ll tell …”

And before his father could grasp his arm in rage Dougie was out of the door, feet pounding on the stairs as he made his way back to his room. Tears blinded his vision as he ran through the dark hallways, threatening to spill over before he got to his room. He hoped Tom wasn’t waiting for him, as somehow he felt he could do without his sympathy and pity tonight. What his father had said burned deep into his lungs, making it hard to breathe. Scum, a nobody, unworthy…

The day was clear and the streets were full. There was a slight chill in the air to suggest that it was early April but apart from that, the town could be mistaken for bathing in an August afternoon.

Dougie sat upon the podium next to his mother, slumped in his seat and drumming his fingers on his knee. His eyes wandered over the people marching to the drums down below him, contemplating their smiles. So easily pleased they were, he thought – give them a bit of sunshine and a parade and they’re swarming in the streets like flies. Young children were kicking up the dust in the gutters, ignoring their parents’ restraints; the poor and the plain dancing merrily to the music; teenage girls looking dreamily up at the blonde that was perfect in everybody’s eyes.

He sighed, frustrated. He didn’t want to be perfect anymore, the county’s most gazed upon teenager. His hands clenched around the hard wood of his chair, as if he wished to break it off in his palm and feel the oak crumble beneath his fingers. The sun was teasing sweat from the pores on his forehead, and he raised his hand to shield his eyes from it. He wanted to get off his pedestal.

He took one look at Tom with pleading eyes, but the boy just smiled sympathetically, being one of only two others who knew of his feelings. The servant below him turned back to watching the celebrations with a relaxed expression, knowing that Dougie would not call on him for assistance whilst he was up here. He was relaxed down there, sitting slightly below the family he served – Dougie watched the singular dimple on Tom’s cheek fade and reappear again as his friend smiled, clearly enjoying the warm weather and the festive atmosphere a lot more than he was.

He looked up into the forgiving blue, wishing there were clouds so that it would rain. But even if refreshing globules started to pelt from the sky, he would be given cover and probably taken home if the parade was called off. Oh, how he wanted to just jump off this platform and into the gutter, splattering his shoes with mud as he ran through the rain in his mind, not caring if the townsfolk or his parents thought him a disgrace. He loved the freedom of rain – there was something about being able to get soaked to the bone that liberated him completely. He smiled to himself as he remembered the feeling of his shirt turning transparent, his trousers clinging to his legs as the droplets ran over his body, running away from his house and over the fields with Tom in feeble yet merry pursuit –

He pulled himself out of his memories as he spotted something out of place. Squinting up in the sunlight, he could just make out a figure sitting on the other side of the street, perched seemingly at ease on a low roof and, like Dougie was doing previously, staring at the sky. He looked closer, trying to recognise the rebellious figure that was not taking part in the celebrations, but found no cue in his appearance that triggered his memory.

The roof dweller lowered his gaze, peering down at the dancers and the drummers. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked behind him and back again, and Dougie only realised he was staring when a pair of eyes locked with his own.

He froze, but then his muscles seemed to relax. Normally he was uncomfortable with people watching him, despite having grown up with it, but there was something instantly likeable about the tranquil form that faced him now. The pair were too far apart for Dougie to be able to clearly make out the colour of his eyes or the shape of his features against the sun, but he watched the glistening rays glint off the brunette waves that framed a lightly sun kissed face with curiosity.

The plaid-clad boy scratched the back of his neck and grinned, ducking his head in a respectful manner. The corner of Dougie’s lips twitched upwards automatically, and he looked back down at the street. When he dared to glance up again, the boy was smiling even more broadly, leaning back on his palms so that he was no longer in his own shadow. He pulled his lips together and then suddenly, his eyes darted to the left of Dougie and back again – and when Dougie looked round, he saw his father squinting up in the same direction that he was. His smile faltered but his father quickly lost interest in the boy on the roof, and turned away. Dougie looked back up from his family, squinting in the sunlight – only to find that the roof silhouetted by the sun was bare. His brows pulled together in a frown, but nobody else seemed to notice the disappearance of the boy who preferred to watch the celebrations rather than take part with everybody else. He glanced at his father once again, and sighed as he idly closed his eyes.

Dougie slammed his bedroom door behind him and strode over to the window, despite it being pitch black outside. His chest heaved as he stood at the glass, pressing his forehead to it and wishing that the thing he wanted most in the world was here, unknown to everyone else like an hour ago. This was the time that being rebellious had stretched it's limits, and now, half of him wished that the qualities he loved about the thing he craved could be accepted by his family.

Dougie was crying because he knew that his father’s words were true for everybody except him.