THE RED-HAIRED DOLL

We were traveling through Devon. We had stopped for a light dinner at the Royal Exchange, a warm, inviting and mercifully quiet pub on the old A30 at Lewdown. I sat in a high-backed chair in a corner by the fireplace, admiring the decor: brass trivets, a straight hunting-horn, a combination back-scratcher and shoe horn.

At the small bar, Connie, a plumpish, 50-ish bottle blonde, poured drinks, took food orders and chatted with a few regulars. One man in a brown sweater and tan corduroy slacks sat alone, just ten feet from me, contemplating something deep in the glass of amber-colored liquid before him. I saw him in profile, hunched slightly forward, his back to the pub doorway.

My own little girl (9, looks 7) bounded in for a moment to tell me of something wondrous she had discovered in the play-yard adjoining the pub. As she dashed out again, leaving me to my solitary seat, Connie smiled and observed, “She’s a real doll, that one!” I nodded appreciatively.

The man in brown started at Connie’s words. He took a deep breath and looked, not at the departing child, but at me. He didn’t appear annoyed at the interruption, but almost sad. He studied me for a moment, the thumbs, index and middle fingers of both his hands caressing his glass. Then he asked, “Do you believe in magic?”

Curious, and wishing to encourage whatever he was about to say, I replied, carefully: “Perhaps I do. Have you had some …experience, yourself?”

I sat forward in my chair, inviting his reply. He lifted the glass with his right hand, sipped as if it were a brandy, let the beverage warm his throat. Then he turned to face me in my corner. Putting his glass down, then resting his right arm on the bar top, he said, “Let me tell you a story:”

“I was passing through this country on a motor-trip, several years ago. I was 24, not a bad-looking chap if I do say. Having just completed my studies, I was treating myself to two weeks in Devon and Cornwall before commencing employment in London.

“I stopped for a night in a B and B in Bratton Clovelly, just a few miles from here. It wasn’t much of a village, even then: a church, a phone booth, a pub that was closed until further notice, a few farm houses. The B & B was a cottage just down the road, owned by an old couple who lived there alone. The place was cluttered with antiques, dishes, collectibles, bric-a-brac, pictures - the acquisitions of two long lives. In the parlor, there was a telly, a piano and a large Inglenook fireplace in front of which I took refuge before retiring for the night. It was there, while I sat before the fire, that I noticed a collection of dolls, maybe a dozen or so, seated on doll-sized chairs or standing on a window ledge. No two were alike in size or dress, but it was obvious, even to me, that they had been made by the same person, perhaps the lady of the house.

“One doll struck me, particularly, and I found my gaze repeatedly drawn to her. She had red hair. Her cheeks were white, as were those of her sisters, but it was the eyes that grabbed me. They were deep, long-lashed, life-like. Then I noticed the mouth - inviting, with an un-doll-like intensity. I looked away at the others, then back to Miss Red-hair.Somehow, she had a personality, a live-ness, which the others just didn’t have. She was dressed in a white frock with a green sash. She had a green ribbon in her hair.

“Now, mind you, I’d never paid attention to dolls, one way or the other. I’d devoted fair attention to the live birds, when the opportunity arose. Didn’t yet then have a reg’lar girl, tho’ I’d had my dates and had some, ah, ‘experience’, you might say.

“Well, sir, I must’ve stared at that doll as long as I’d ever eyed any real girl. Then I did something strange, as I got up to go to my room. I looked around to be sure that I was alone. Then I walked over to that doll, felt its hair and stroked its cheek. Then I put my forefinger to my lips and touched it to the doll’s lips.

“My, she was beautiful! I looked at that lovely face, memorizing it, then whispered, ‘G’night’, tore my gaze away and went to my room.

“I read briefly, turned out the bed lamp, then fell soundly asleep within a few minutes, as was my custom. What happened next…” His voice trailed off. He paused, took a sip and put his glass down again.

“I awoke some time in the night, My curtain was open. I’d forgotten to pull down the shade. Moonlight, filtered through the garden, lit the room enough for me to see I wasn’t alone.

“I started. I was sure I’d slipped the bolt on my door, yet there by the side of my bed she stood. It was she, all right, the red-haired doll, but she was alive, maybe eighteen or so, five foot three. She wore a white gown — more of a bed-frock, I’d guess. There was a ribbon in her hair, which I could see was shoulder- length, just like on the doll in the parlor.

“I sat up, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, and started to speak. She put a finger to her lips, whispered “shh”.

‘Who are you,’ I insisted, softly.

‘You can call me Dolly,’ she whispered, taking my hand in hers.

“I swallowed hard. ‘How?’ I managed, breathless.

“She put her finger to my own lips, as she sat on the bed beside me. She smelled of lilac.

‘You touched my hair, my cheek, my lips. You wanted me. I am here. It can’t happen again, but we have now, to last us a lifetime.’ Her accent was soft and gentle, that of a Devonshire lady.” He paused again, taking a deep breath.

“I held her for what seemed the longest time. Then, ever so softly, we kissed, and we spent forever in each other’s eyes. I don’t have to tell anyone in the world what else happened. But when I awoke, it was eight in the morning, and I was alone.

“At first I thought it was a dream. Most logical, y’know. But no, it wasn’t a dream. My book was on the dresser, not on the night stand where I had put it. My slippers were separated, and one was pushed rather far under the bed. I had to pee, so I knew I hadn’t been up during the night.

“Then I saw it, when I sat up: Under my pillow was the green hairband! It was too long for a doll, but just right for a real person’s head. I held it to my face. It smelled of lilac.

“I dressed at feverish pace, ran a brush through my mop and tore downstairs in my slippers. The door to the parlor was locked! The old couple was nowhere in sight. On the dining table next to my hot breakfast was a receipt for my bill, which I’d paid upon my arrival, and a note: ‘Had to take Henry to the doctor’s. If we’re not back when you leave, please close the door hard.

Thank you.

Josie Baker’

“I ran out into the garden, to the parlor window. Through the lace curtain, I could see the dolls. There she was, seated sideways as before, but with one difference: the ribbon was gone from her hair! I felt a cold chill through me, tho’ the morning sun was warm upon me.”

He took his glass, held it before him and gazed deeply into it for a long moment. Then he looked hard at me.

“What do you make of it, sir? Magic? A dream? Or what?”

I really didn’t know what to make of his story, or how to respond. Finally, I said, “Remarkable. Maybe some things just cannot be explained.” We sat in silence. Then our solitude was breached, when my daughter came bounding in, announcing, “Daddy, Mommy says we’re ready to go.”

I rose. Taking the man’s hand in mine, I said, “Thank you for telling me your story. I wish you well.” With that, we parted.

In the car, my wife asked, “What were you guys talking about?”

“Just old cars and things,” I replied, as we drove away.

EPILOGUE

Three years later, I spent a month in London on company business, without my family. Having an unexpected four days off after two weeks, I rented a car and drove to Devonshire for a long weekend. I resolved to find Bratton Clovelly, the village of which my young English gent had spoken. Although I had no reservations, I hoped to find suitable lodgings, as it was now the off-season.

Once there, it took no time to locate the center of the village, the site of the recently-reopened Fox and Horn Inn. I was enjoying my Shepherd’s Pie there when a fellow guest entered the low-ceilinged dining room. He appeared to be about thirty, clean-cut, wearing clothes that identified him as a city dweller rather than a local: buttoned-down Oxford blue shirt, a tweed vest and brown corduroy trousers. After he seated himself at the next table and placing his order, he glanced in my direction.

Our mutual recognition was instantaneous. “C’mon, what are the odds?” I thought. I asked him, “Pardon me, but have you ever been in a place called Lewdown?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “Unless I am mistaken, we met in a pub there, the Royal Exchange.”

“Yes, yes. You told me the most amazing story. I could never get it out of my head. How are you?” I asked.

“Well enough, sir, as I hope you and yours are. What brings you to Bratton Clovelly, of all places?”

“Everyone has to be somewhere,” I replied. Then, realizing that that might sound rude, I added: “I remembered your description of this place, and, having an unstructured weekend, decided to see for myself. I just arrived an hour ago. Here, please join me.” I gestured toward my table.

As he seated himself, across from me, he replied, “As you can imagine, this place meant a lot to me. I gravitate here whenever I have the odd time off.”

“Is that B and B still here?”

“No, the elderly couple had sold it, shortly after my adventure there. I understand that they both passed since then.”

I ventured: “Did you ever solve your mystery?”

Before responding, he took a long swallow of his Guinness, “Sadly, I did. In the process, I was reminded that there is no such thing as magic, just illusion — or, in my case, disillusion.”

I scowled.“Have you the time for the story, sir?”

“Yes, indeed, “ I replied. “ Please…”

This is what he told me:

“After we met, I spent a week in the area. I asked a lot of questions. I did some digging in public records, examined some old news files, spoke to some locals whose tongues were loosened by time and Guinness, then and on two subsequent visits. Eventually, I pieced together a picture: I learned that Mr. and Mrs. Baker, who had run the B&B, had a daughter, Rebecca, who had married a Scotsman. They in turn had a daughter, Dorothy, who, by all accounts, was a beautiful, sweet child who was born with some undiagnosed mental, ah, limitations. When the child was three, Rebecca and the Scotsman died in an auto accident, hit by a drunk driver on a narrow country road.

“The Bakers took Dorothy in and tried to care for her, as best they could. She needed much attention, so they kept her at home and home-schooled her. As her grew up, they saw that she was naive and suggestible, subject to the inappropriate influences of others, so they sequestered her in the B and B, isolated from the world.

“So Dorothy - or Dolly, as they called her - grew up in a small, loving but isolated and limited world. She played in the garden, alone. She read. She drew. She imagined. She fantasized.

“Whenever guests came to stay, the Bakers secreted Dolly in an attic bedroom on the third floor, safe from prying eyes and ears.

“It was Dolly who saw me in the drawing room, that first time I was there, looking at the doll Mrs. Baker had so lovingly made, a doll which was the very image of Dolly. It was Dolly who visited me in my room. By morning, she was hidden away again. I didn’t know, then. I wish I’d known, but I didn’t know.”

His sorrow was palpable.

I looked up at him, quizzically. I was reluctant to press, but sensed that his story was not done. In that, I was right.

He continued, “After the Bakers died, Dolly was placed in a private institution in Sussex, financed by the Bakers’ estates. She was apparently devastated by the loss of her grandparents, her home, her garden, her whole world, really. Within months there, despite the staff’s able and caring attention, she was reported to be fading, weakening in health and in spirit.

“I finally learned her whereabouts, two years ago. When I went there, I was denied access, as I was not a relative and Dolly wouldn’t have known my name, even if she had the capacity to consent to meet me. I left, but as I was walking toward my auto, I saw her seated in the garden, reading. She was as beautiful as I had remembered, but pale and alarmingly thin. I approached her, slowly, and said her name, softly: ‘Dolly?’

“She looked up from her book. After an instant of, of what? Uncertainty? Terror? I think she remembered and recognized me. I can’t be sure, because she said nothing. She smiled, but remained silent. I was afraid to upset her, so I really didn’t know what to say to her.

No matter. The moment passed, and an attendant appeared. Reluctant to cause any distress, I nodded, smiled, and withdrew.

“I never saw Dolly again. When I called, two weeks later, to inquire what I might do to earn a visit, I was told that she had passed away in her sleep. She lies in a grave near Bratton Clovelly, thoughtfully prepaid by the Bakers. Her tombstone reads: ‘Dorothy “Dolly” MacKenzie. She lived. We smiled.’

He paused. After another long swallow, he said, “So, sir, you see: there is no magic. Just happenstance.”

I bit my lip, suppressing my own reflection of his unimaginable sadness. Finally, I ventured a response:

“Sir, I thank you for telling me what happened. I believe I was drawn here in the unreasonable hope that I would meet you again. I am indeed sorry for your loss.

“But I must disagree with your conclusion about magic. Consider, if you will, a world of people - none of whom has ever known, and will never know, the wonder, the beauty, the joy that you experienced one night in a small Devonshire B and B. That event, sir, was truly magic, the kind that can only come to two people who are open to such wonder. For that magic, I envy you and applaud your precious good fortune, however painful it became.”

His eyes welled up.

Raising my glass, I said: To Dolly.”

“To Dolly,” he gratefully replied.”

Copyright © 2000 I Cellisti Publications