The Secrets of Tenley House

by Patricia Dixon

  The Secrets of Tenley House

  Patricia Dixon

  Copyright © 2019 Patricia Dixon

  The right of Patricia Dixon to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2019 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Print ISBN: 978-1-913419-22-6

  Contents

  Also by Patricia Dixon

  Prologue

  Part I

  1. Georgie

  2. Ivy

  3. Kenneth and Daphne

  4. Phyllis

  Part II

  5. Vanessa

  6. Sandy

  7. Georgie

  8. The Surprise

  9. Georgie and Kenneth

  10. Sandy

  11. Vanessa

  12. Georgie

  Part III

  13. Tenley House

  14. Bonfire Night

  15. Phyllis

  16. Vanessa

  17. The Demon

  18. Sandy

  19. Kenneth and Georgie

  20. Sandy

  21. Kenneth

  22. Georgie

  23. Sandy

  Part IV

  24. Vanessa and Sandy

  25. Vanessa

  26. Georgie and Vanessa

  27. Vanessa

  28. Georgie and Vanessa

  29. Georgie

  30. Tenley House

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  A note from the publisher

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  Over My Shoulder

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  They Don’t Know

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  Anna

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  Grace

  Praise for Patricia Dixon

  It is truly a gripping and shocking story from start to finish and just shows how easy it is to fall in with the wrong people.This book covers lots of issues which might shock some readers, so be warned there is some violence and domestic abuse. Patricia Dixon has written sympathetically and emotionally about some very difficult issues and I think she's done a great job of giving realism to a fictional story.

  Rose – Top 500 Amazon Reviewer

  Well done, Patricia – you not only hooked me, but you didn’t let me go until the very last word. I am spent!

  Helen Laycock – Amazon Reviewer

  Patricia Dixon has written with incredible insight in to the horror that is domestic abuse. She writes with authority but also sensitivity and realism. The setting of the scenes and the language used are so realistic and evocative of the time. Sometimes difficult and harrowing to read it covers a subject which blighted our society. An incredible book. I'm going to read it again and would recommend it to everyone. Bring on the next one.

  Jelibebe – Amazon Reviewer

  The pace and suspense ramps up as the story unfolds to a point you feel like you are holding your breath.

  This was in no way an easy read, but it isn't meant to be easy. Its dark undertones really make for a Gripping Compulsive page turner. A dark Psychological Thriller that will get under your skin!

  Dash Fan – Goodreads Review

  Over My Shoulder is a captivating novel and one that I would highly recommend to all fans of psychological and domestic noir thrillers.

  Neats – Goodreads Review

  For Pearl

  I wanted to write your name, for others to know it, and say the words out loud,

  And when the ink has dried it will be etched on paper forever,

  Just as the memory of you is engraved on our hearts, and will be for all time,

  We miss you every day.

  Love you always.

  Prologue

  Tenley House

  Present Day

  I am woken once again from my fitful slumbers and as always, rather than alert anyone to the fact that I have survived a few more hours, I listen. They say that hearing is the last sense to go and my ears, unlike the rest of my body, have not yet failed me. Once I have ascertained that I am alone, grateful for the absence of heavy breathing, a sure sign my dark angel is by my side, I am forced to accept the fact that death has not kindly released me. At this, I am immediately overwhelmed by disappointment which is accompanied by its familiar friend, resignation.

  While my reluctant eyelids lift, railing against instructions from my brain, I note that darkness is about to fall and my room is illuminated by the glow from the lamp. I tilt my head to the side and welcome a sense of relief. My pleasures are few these days and I take comfort from the strangest of things, like the sight of an empty armchair. I am glad to be alone and not in the company of my frequent and unwelcome guest, she who insists on keeping vigil, talking incessantly of the past, stroking my forehead with clumsy, clammy hands, constantly asking if there’s anything I need. I don’t. Not from her, not anymore.

  On this occasion I am disturbed by pain, the back of my hand throbs and stings so. The source of my metacarpal discomfort is that dreadful canula which they changed earlier, inserting a sliver of stainless steel through my skin, piercing liver-spotted flesh no thicker than tissue and scraping over bone, causing me to wince. I imagine my hands are covered with plum and wine-coloured bruises and should I be brave enough to look upon myself in a mirror, I would pronounce that I’ve been in wars. But at least my minor injuries serve another purpose. They prevent handholding. This and my frailty is a useful barrier because I cannot bear for her to touch or caress me. It causes my skin to crawl.

  Despite my frequent protestations, they insist on pumping a concoction of liquids into ever narrowing veins that are just about wide enough to allow passage of blood, let alone medicine. I am restless. My bedsores irritate but I do not call for assistance. Instead I try to shift beneath the counterpane but alleviating my discomfort, caused by my bony bottom and skeletal frame as they chafe against the linens, is too great an effort. No matter how many times they turn me from this side to the next hoping to avoid bedsores, the routine causes more agony than relief, forcing me to cry out and beg them to desist. And that is not the only indignity I am forced to endure. There’s the washing and feeding. I hate it. Every flannel bath, nappy change, and spoonful of mashed up food which they cajole me into eating is degrading. Ha, just like my body I suppose.

  Why, oh why do they bother? If I could move my arms sufficiently I’d tear out that damn canula and allow my life and the saline to dribble away, fluids soiling the floor and mattress. You will never know what a blessed relief my demise would be. I’ve even considered death by obstinacy. Surely they can’t force-feed me. They only do that in prisons, don’t they, or to suffragettes? No matter, because I expect the two who care for me on a rota system, my busy little hamsters who perform the same demeaning tasks day in day out would find some way of injecting or infusing nutrition.

  In any other circumstance, during those young and carefree years when my purpose in life was to live happily and pain free, for as long as possible, I’d be counting my blessings and grateful for their help. I would have convinced myself that it was a vocational act of compassion, attention given kin
dly to a patient in need. This is nothing of the sort and merely a chore to be sighed through, food scraped then spoon-fed. Their impatience is a default setting, heads turned in disgust as another grim task is ticked off the list. Perhaps I’m just being tetchy and a tad ungrateful because the hamsters are efficient and to others, appear dedicated to tending my every need, however, one might attribute their devotion more to the fees they charge for private nursing. It pays to keep me alive, even for one more daily rate.

  I wish they’d just leave me to die. Seventy-two years on this earth is quite enough and I would like to go now. I’ve asked them many times but they simply smile and shush me, announcing that I’m confused. But I’m not. I am all there, or here! I’m not loopy or gaga, even though I do wonder if it would be a blessed release to be so. As it is, I remain trapped within a forlorn body and have no other option than to languish at the mercy of my memories, clear and crisp as if they happened yesterday. The past refuses to fade away and only serves to haunt me. I am prisoner of both and this wretched house. And her.

  It is her selfishness which suspends me, refusing me leave, conniving and wilful as ever. Dear God, how did such subservience infest me? It is like a disease but not the kind that ultimately sets one free, this pathetic state has me trapped.

  I wish I didn’t have to die here, in this decrepit place of death and sadness where every room is thick with dust and wicked secrets, but needs must. It serves a purpose, and once I have made my peace, I will be free. I long to go, even if it means joining my ghostly companions. They appeared soon after we arrived, an unwelcoming committee. At first I did think I was losing my mind or the drugs pumped into me were poisoning my brain. But I’ve got used to my spirit visitors and although I’d prefer they stayed away, I am sure they mean me no harm. They are just waiting, that’s all. And they are angry.

  Of course I understand why, so I’ve tried to make amends, whispering apologies for my own weakness and perceived avarice, begging them to listen. Surely they can see my sorrow and just as they, there have been moments when I have known fear, so much fear. But it seems my penitence and suffering is not enough. They want more. To be precise, my impatient guests seek revenge but then again so do I.

  They haven’t arrived yet, tending to keep their distance during daylight hours so I attempt to stay awake. A few moments of respite from their constant haranguing is all I ask because when night falls and shadows fill the room, they gather in the corner over there, just by the armoire. One perches on the fauteuil chair, one paces the floor, one wrings her hands while the other who holds the baby, she just stands and stares.

  Black crows, that’s what they are, emerging from the grey mist that seeps from the cracks in the warped floorboards, chilling the air. That’s how I know they are here. It reminds me of stepping into the cold store down in the cellar where if you tarry too long, the ice freezes your marrow. And although I have resolved to keep my eyes closed for as long as I can, I still feel their presence.

  Their images are as real and defined as the last time I saw them in the flesh whereas now, they greet me from the periphery of another dimension, just out of reach. Dressed in the deepest black of mourning, it is the women who disconcert me most. I recognise them all from their stature and demeanour, just able to distinguish their features. Their respectful garb is macabre and causes me to shudder. It always did. Each woman is wrapped in death’s dark veil, watching me from behind a gossamer sheath yet I know them still, despite such theatrical concealment.

  The one who wrings her hands stands obediently at the side of the chair where is seated The Crone. She has reverted to type. Even Holy Communion hasn’t softened her and she irritates me still with the tap tap tapping of her dratted cane, sardonically marking whatever time I have left. And then I see him, pacing the floor, the only one for whom I feel deep sorrow and longing. I did love him, you know? We loved each other so much, in our own way. He hasn’t changed a bit, in manner or devilishly handsome looks. His eyes won’t meet that of the woman who confers with The Crone, and I know why. He cannot bear his deceit of her, agitated further by the threat of confrontation so he remains weak, even in death.

  But it is she, the one holding the baby, who I cannot bear to look upon for she has been wronged the most, and so cruelly. She stands to the rear of the group, still an outsider, looking in, and this belated observance makes me want to weep. Yet amidst my sadness and regret for this woman, I am grateful too for the care she gives the baby who belongs not to her. From the first time the visions appeared, I watched her soothe the crying infant, rocking it to and fro and it occurred to me that she might be claiming her pound of flesh. In truth this supposition does not vex, if anything it makes me hopeful, absolved even. The soul liveth on. If it makes her happy or recompensed, then so be it.

  The bedside clock chimes six and I know that the light of this spring day will soon fade and despite my insistence that the lamps are left on, my attempt to ward off the visitors is, I accept, feeble and futile. They will return again tonight more so because the end is near. I know this. The clearer they become the closer I am to death. I sense it. Perhaps they are draining my life source and if so they can take it, be my guests. But before I am allowed to depart I have to keep my whispered promise to them. I must make things right. They crave reparation in this mortal life before the judgement of the next so I shall set things in motion and then destiny can choose its own course. Even the smallest reprisal might be all that is needed to allow them rest, so we all can rest.

  I have thought it through, spent hours going over it all, right back to the beginning in order to make sense of events. Lord knows I have carried this burden for long enough but finally I can place my load, this guilt, onto the shoulders of another. Confession they say is good for the soul and over the years I have contemplated the weakness of mine. Finally, at the end, I find some comfort in the notion that I am being given one more chance and there is hope yet for my own élan vital.

  Footsteps in the corridor, swift and light, which tell me it’s the nurse. Good. She can finish her duties then once I am calm and prepared I shall have her summoned. Then I will make my peace in the company of the ghostly tormentors. When it is done, after the words I have waited to say are spoken, I will leave this world, one way or another. Be it peacefully or at the hands of a monster. Either way I will be free.

  Part I

  Georgie

  As the train trundled southwards, Georgie’s body rocked gently, the motion of the train slightly soothing, lulling her into a thoughtful state. Maybe it was time to take stock of her life so far, think seriously about how she had ended up like this – perishing to death in a second-class carriage. Whilst being well aware of her own failings which she placed to one side, after piecing snippets of Nibley family history and salacious gossip together, Georgie was sure that most of the blame lay with others.

  At birth, despite being the most perfect and golden-haired first grandchild, she had been unimaginatively named Winifred in honour of her departed and much-revered great-grandmother. However, according to family folklore, the moment she learned to express an opinion the tiny tot with an endearing lisp announced that she preferred Georgie, derived from her second name, Georgina.

  Georgie smiled at the conjured image of her younger self and those early years in the small south Oxfordshire town of Harlbury where after her birth in late 1945, she was glad to have remained the only child of Clifford Nibley. On being discharged from the army, her father had embarked on a summer dalliance with the first willing young lady to cross his path, or in this case, seated opposite during a hot and bumpy bus journey.

  During Boxing Day tea, Georgie sat beside her Aunty Mae, who told you all sorts of naughtiness after a couple of sherries, and on this occasion had been happy to explain how Georgie was conceived. According to her, it occurred during a fumble in the back of a hay cart when Mavis, weary of wartime rationing that included all manner of things, unleashed Clifford’s similarly pent-up emotions. Two m
onths later, randy Clifford was forced to do the honourable thing and marry Mavis, the shame-faced, deflowered and disgraced third daughter of the town butcher and sister of gossipy Mae.

  “If you ask me, our Mavis thought she’d struck gold when she met your dad and I wouldn’t put it past her to have planned it all. She was always a conniving minx and thought she was better than us, even when we were kids. You mark my words, all that snivelling when she found out she was up the tub was just an act. Our Mave can’t fool me.” Mae gave Georgie a knowing look, her raised, pencilled eyebrows rising at least an inch higher than normal.

  “I can’t believe Mummy would do such a thing… surely they were just madly in love and had a little accident.” At fourteen Georgie was already wise to the ways of the world, albeit second-hand via her giggly school friends, but at the time, still believed in true love.

  “In my book, accidents occur randomly and I’ll tell you this for nothing, our Mave couldn’t wait to get out of the shop and up that lane to meet your dad. At it like rabbits they were, every night of the week and you, my love, are certainly not an accident. Still, she got her comeuppance because them Nibley’s acted like they’d trod in a pile of smelly dung when they found out and let’s face it, your mam isn’t exactly brimming with happiness, is she?” Mae’s eyebrows raised once more, her eyes rolling in the direction of her sister who was seated alone in the corner, a plate of uneaten sandwiches on her knee while she sipped her drink and gazed off into space.