Remembering the reflection always made me feel happy. It made me feel as if I wasn’t alone – or hadn’t been, at least, as a child. She felt like family.
‘How about I make you a cup of tea and chicken and stuffing sandwich?’ I’d made a Sunday roast. It felt different living here. Back in London I’d happily have grabbed a toastie but this kitchen deserved to be filled with the soundtrack of cooking – the creak of the oven door, the boiling of water, the chopping of knives… all that was missing from the family vibe was Dad’s out-of-tune whistling.
Living here with a garden, with space and two floors reminded me of my earlier London childhood. They were cheerful times, filled with visits to museums and parks. On days out I’d walk in between my parents, one of my hands belonging to each, arms swinging timelessly to and fro like a clock’s pendulum. I remember Dad stealing Mum’s scarf once, on a cold day. She’d chased after him screaming. They both returned out of breath and looked more sparkly than they ever looked day to day. It was as if I’d glimpsed how, perhaps, they’d been as a young couple. Carefree. Spontaneous. The opposite of how they’d brought me up.
‘That sounds delicious, thank you.’ Jill stared at the framed tattoo designs on the wall and then sat at the table. With a bobble from her wrist she tied back her loose hair before reaching out her arms and taking Taz.
‘Oh.’ I’d expected her to sit back down on the floor near his bed.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Jill.
‘Nothing… it’s just… don’t take this the wrong way but isn’t it unhygienic to have him near where we eat?’
‘Lizzie, no love. Obviously you’d have to wipe down the table if he trod on it, but he’s been defleaed, right? And he’s not going outside yet. This little man is as clean as you and me. Once you’re a hundred per cent happy he’s not going to have accidents you could let him into the other rooms – as long as they are suitable without wires he might chew on or surfaces he might scratch and ruin. A plant sprayer filled with water lets a cat know pretty effectively if they are flexing their claws somewhere you’d rather they didn’t.’
Heat flooded my neck as I unwrapped a loaf of bread. ‘Mum and Dad… pets… they said there were too many health risks.’
When I was small, as an only child I’d longed for the company a cat or dog might provide but my parents talked about bites, about moulted fur and allergies. Finally, they compromised and allowed me a goldfish as long as I wore long rubber gloves when I cleaned it out, having read-up about the possible transmission of bacteria.
Ash had opened my eyes to the irrationality of my parents’ concerns by just being his laid-back self. He used public toilets, shook hands with homeless people and always trusted me to get back safely if I went out for a girls’ night.
‘Ben told me that your parents had passed. I’m sorry for your loss.’ Taz stretched upwards and rested his neck by Jill’s neck. ‘What did they tell you about Leafton?’
‘Nothing. I didn’t know about this place until they died, or that they left it to my aunt. I only found out about it by accident.’
‘Really? Why was that?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t know if Ben told you – my parents and I… we hadn’t talked for several years. But I’ve just found out Dad left me a letter and in it he talked about a secret he wished he’d told me connected to here. I came here to find out more about my parents and that letter confirms I did the right thing.’
Whilst she ate, Taz sat on my lap and I wrote in my notebook as Jill spoke about previous residents. Eventually the paws ended their pumping action and his curled-up body relaxed. Every now and again I stroked him and challenged myself to carry on eating biscuits without worrying about washing my fingers. That’s what life had been like during the first years of leaving home. I’d observe other students and challenge myself to follow behaviours my parents would have considered full of risk. It never ceased to surprise me how unpleasant consequences rarely followed. Like leaving my bedroom window slightly ajar at night – no one broke in. Like walking in the dark on my own, as long as it wasn’t too late. In the winter, right up to the Sixth Form, Mum or Dad would drive me in the car rather than let me go it alone after sunset, even if it wasn’t teatime yet.
At university I learned to assess my own risks in a way I hadn’t been allowed to before.
I became my own underwriter.
It felt powerful.
‘Some tenants used the place as a stopgap until the homes they’d actually bought in the area became available. One lovely retired couple were waiting for their bungalow to be built.’ Jill swallowed the last mouthful of her sandwich. ‘Whereas the longest staying residents, let’s see, it must have been around 2010, the Jones family, they lived here for about three years, with twin sons at primary school, cheeky little things. They always seemed to know when I was baking and would knock at the door for a cake.’ Jill stroked Taz. ‘I missed them when they left.’
‘Why did they go?’
‘It was all rather odd, they just up and left one night. A rumour did go around that he’d been sacked for laundering money. Just goes to show appearances can be deceptive. Another family did the same, years before, when Ben had just finished the reception year. They must have been some of your parents’ first tenants. The mum and dad spent a lot of time at work. They had two children and left Leafton without saying goodbye. It was such a shame because Ben got on really well with their kids.’
‘Did they have a Scottish surname by any chance?’
‘I can’t clearly remember.’
Two children. A family of four. That had always seemed perfect to me. It seemed balanced, symmetrical – as nature should be, according to da Vinci’s drawings. Three was an odd number, there would always be someone left out, if the child was closer to Dad or closer to Mum or if the parents put each other first… It never occurred to me, when I was little, that parents might consciously decide to have just one child. I found it hard to believe a friend who lapped up the attention of both her parents and prayed she’d never have a sibling.
‘An ambulance turned up late one afternoon,’ continued Jill. ‘The family disappeared the next morning. Professional packers emptied the house of their things over the following days.’
‘What were the rumours about that?’
‘None, it was just really strange – like in the movies, as if a secret organisation had been paid to go in and remove all traces of some crime.’ Jill drained her mug. ‘Unlike Carrie and Tyler who were a friendly pair of youngsters, but I always wondered how they could afford the rent. Free-spirited types they were, totally against modern living and earning a pay cheque. They grew their own vegetables and wore home-made clothes. A police car turned up one day. Turns out they’d been growing marihuana on a big scale and had set up grow rooms upstairs. I always assumed the blackout curtains were because they didn’t sleep well.’
Page by page my notebook filled.
‘I can’t really remember the others clearly, there were so many periods when the place just stood empty – apart from the last one, he left about eight months ago, Frederick Fitzgerald, a good-looking guy in his forties. You might have heard of him? He’s a well-known thriller author. He rents out different properties to write each book. His bestselling novel was behind that movie Talking Doors.’
‘The cottage must find me very boring – I’ve not brought any drama, I’m not famous,’ I said and smiled.
‘He chose Streamside Cottage because he’d done research and believed it was haunted.’
I sat upright. ‘Really?’
‘His new manuscript was a ghost story. It’s all nonsense, of course. I think I’d have noticed if ghosts lived three doors up.’ She smiled. ‘But I don’t mean to scare you.’
I smiled back, liking Jill more and more each day. I imagined, just for one second, what it would be like to have her as a neighbour, to move to Leafton, to become part of a small community.
‘Don’t worry, my job requires a prett
y thick skin – no pun intended. A not inconsiderable part of my week is spent creating images of skulls, snakes or zombies. And I’ve inked with ashes mixed in, to comfort bereaved clients.’ Jill grimaced as I explained. I’d also slept with my parents’ ashes in the flat. After the funeral I told Aunt Fiona I’d keep them for the moment. Everything had happened so quickly and I couldn’t decide what would be for the best… to bury them at a crematorium with no family connections or to think of somewhere more meaningful.
Aunt Fiona’s brusque tone told me she’d rather things be done properly – a burial, a memorial plaque, their names written into a remembrance book but her fight had all gone by the time I was ready to leave. I’d driven down a couple of weeks later to fetch the nondescript wooden box. For the first few weeks I kept it by my bed.
For a long time, late at night I’d talk to it and chat about the good times we’d had, like holidays abroad, the luminous tangerine flamenco dress Mum bought from Madrid and the time Dad got picked to go up on stage with a Spanish dancer and she announced to the audience that he had more hair on his legs than his head. The anecdotes we’d told over and over through the years, they’d glued us together.
I’d tell them how I’d progressed with my career and the satisfaction I got from one of my tattoos making a difference to a client who’d been bereaved or suffered a romantic let-down. What a good person Ash was and how they’d love his mum’s cooking. I asked about their lives too, imagining the beach walks and cream teas they must have enjoyed since moving to Devon.
I’d researched the different things people did with ashes. Some had them painted into artistic paper weights or made into jewellery. They could be used to stuff teddies or produce a late loved one’s portrait.
Of course I could have them put into tattoo ink – but that would have felt like an act of vengeance.
They were still at the flat, on top of a wardrobe.
I’d jokingly asked my parents one day, whether they would want to be cremated or buried – I teased them about approaching retirement age. Dad snapped that it wasn’t a laughing matter and that my humour was in bad taste. He made me apologise. Mum left the room. She always took great pride in her looks – my comment must have been an unwelcome reminder that they were getting older.
‘It’s hard to imagine feeling frightened here. I’ve never felt anything but welcome and safe.’
‘Well, Frederick upped and left suddenly one October evening – he’d talked about how the place was evil and stopped him from sleeping.’ She snorted.
Gently I ran the base of my foot to and fro across the tiled floor as if hoping to erase the insult.
‘Thanks, Jill, this is so useful. Finding out all these secrets, it gives me hope that Mum and Dad did have something to tell me about this place that might give our argument some sort of sense.’
‘I’m sorry to hear you didn’t get on in the end.’ Her voice sounded full. ‘I really feel for you.’
Jill had her own story to tell.
‘How about a fresh cup of tea?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Yes please.’ She held Taz until her drink was ready. Afraid of spilling the hot liquid on him she put him back in his bed. When she sat back down, she banged her chair against the table. Quickly she picked up the mug to avoid a spillage but hadn’t got a proper grip. It slipped and boiling liquid tipped down her chest and onto the chair’s seat, in between her legs.
She slammed the mug back onto the table.
‘Take your t-shirt off quickly. Come over to the sink, we need to get cold water on your skin.’
Tears in her eyes, Jill hesitated for a moment before tearing it off. I already had the cold tap running. She splashed water down herself and eventually she dried off with a clean tea towel. I fetched a t-shirt of mine to wear and couldn’t help gawping as I returned to the kitchen and for the first time got a proper look at her underwear. She was wearing a silky leopard print bra with a diamante stud in the cleavage. Her dress sense was normally so… plain – almost mumsy in comparison. Blushing she slipped my top over her head and sat down.
‘And now you’ve seen my leopard print,’ she mumbled and gave an awkward smile. I went to make her another drink when she caught my arm. ‘I just wanted to say, I wish I’d been more like you, over the years – dressing exactly how I wanted.’
‘What’s held you back?’ I asked.
‘People can be judgemental.’
‘True but that applies to everything, doesn’t it? Where you live, what your job is. Would you give up working at the garden centre if someone disapproved?’
‘No, but appearance matters, especially if you’re pregnant at fifteen…’ Her hand fell away. ‘I got called names – names no young girl should ever get called – because of the way I dressed. People sneered at me as if I had no morals. I was determined no one would ever have reason to use those words in front of my child so I toned me right down.’
‘How did you used to look?’
‘I dyed my hair dark red at fourteen. Mum and Dad went mad. Then I went through a Gothic stage, with lacy black clothes and eyeliner as thick as lipstick to match. When I got pregnant, I was made to feel as if somehow, my appearance was to blame. I know I should have been more careful but I was in love. Andy didn’t care what I wore. We got together because of a similar sense of humour and mutual love of rock music. I- I didn’t really understand what was happening until it was too late. His parents blamed me and said he was a decent young man and that I was a bad influence.’
‘How did your Mum and Dad react?’
She bit her lip.
I got out a bar of chocolate I hadn’t finished and offered her a chunk. Jill talked to Taz. Smudge’s glamorous pink diamante collar now made more sense. Our chat eventually turned back to the cottage.
‘Have you any idea who owned this place before my parents?’
‘I moved here to live with my aunt when I got pregnant. It’s about ten miles from where I grew up. She had lots of room and lived on her own. My mum and dad had two other children to look after.’ Jill spoke of how the first year or two, when Ben had been a baby, were a bit of a blur. ‘The tenants who left mysteriously in the ambulance are the first people I knew connected to that place and I only remember them because of Ben’s relationship with their children. My aunt would know but passed over five years ago.’
Jill suggested asking the neighbours, although she pointed out that several of the elderly ones had died in recent years and many of the new owners hadn’t been here long.
‘It might be more productive to have a chat with Neve, she’s a keen member of the local history society.’
‘Great idea, thanks.’
‘Frederick told her about the so-called haunting one night in The Tipsy Duck. I was there. Alan called him a nutter. Frederick ended up shouting and poor Neve was so embarrassed. Oh, and I forgot.’ She leant forwards. ‘Trish dated the author for a while.’
‘Really? What happened?’
‘No one seems to know. Trish seemed so happy at first but the longer she saw him the more miserable she became. I thought she was finally getting over it but at my party on Friday she was stuck in the old gloom. It happened to her once before, years ago.’
‘What, the depression?’
‘Yes, just after her divorce, around the time your parents would have bought this place, from what you say.’
‘When she mentioned her husband in the teashop last week, I got the impression that the break-up of her marriage had been a relief.’
‘You’d have thought so, but no, she was devastated. Her low mood lasted for months. I’d invite her around for coffee but she just wouldn’t come.’ Jill spoke of how Trish used to be so cheerful, involved in charity events and pub quizzes, always involved with the school and happy to help fellow mums out with childcare. ‘She looked after Ben more than once. Slowly, as years passed, she got back to being her old self. In fact she became friends with those tenants, Carrie and Tyler – they introduced her to Buddhism.�
�� Jill shrugged. ‘But something happened with Frederick to bring back the sadness. The cheerful, jolly Trish has disappeared to leave a different person altogether.’
14
Now
Many tattoo inks are made out of the soot ashes from burnt animal bones hence the recent emergence of vegan tattoo parlours
Thursday, four days on and Taz and I had achieved something of a routine. We played after breakfast and then he’d nap whilst I continued to fix up the cottage and do my online research into Leafton. His eyes had almost completely cleared and his appetite grew. He didn’t limp anymore. Taz would nap again in the afternoon which was when I’d go out. In the evening I’d let him sit on my lap, in the lounge, whilst I watched television. The day would end with me leaving him in the kitchen meowing.
I slept well; the cottage spoke reassuring words at night – a window might gently rattle or a pipe gurgle. Although my dreams were more vivid of late and the last few nights Mum and Dad had appeared in them, looking younger and less stressed. And last night me and my friend Jimmy Jammy had jumped, screaming, into a river. If the dream had been real there’d have been no danger. As a child Mum and Dad had made me religiously attend swimming lessons, even if it meant missing a party.
Ben dropped by yesterday afternoon. He’d come around to take me up on my offer of letting him photograph the back garden and stream and he ended up staying until ten.
Part of me had wanted him to stay longer.
Silences were comfortable but we also chatted a lot and talked again about how never stopping learning was so important with art. His enthusiasm made me realise how much I missed my work – not so much the buzz and warmth of the tattoo parlour, now, apart from Katya, and that surprised me, but the deep satisfaction and thrill I felt when a design came together and a customer’s face told me I’d met all their expectations. Ben wanted to start photographing people more, something he only really did at family celebrations or on holidays. Tentatively he asked if I’d sit on the grass by the stream and let him take a few shots.
Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage Page 9