‘Yes. I think her overwhelming memory is feeling like an absolute idiot.’
Frederick perched on the edge of his chair. ‘I was cruel to fool her about the haunting. I boasted about it to my agent, laughed about how a grown adult could believe in ghosts, and despite all the money I’ve earned her – and could in the future – she dropped me; said she couldn’t work alongside an author with so little integrity. That was the wake-up call I needed. I went to see my doctor the following day.’ He stood up and went to the window. ‘I often think about how selfish and brutal I was. I didn’t even stop when she told me about the tragedy she was involved in, at the cottage, twenty odd years ago. You must think I’m a right bastard.’
‘What tragedy?’
He spun around. ‘Bugger. Trish trusted me. I shouldn’t… I mean…’ Frederick sat down again and rolled up his shirt sleeves. A black tattoo of the AA symbol stood out on his wrist. I’d inked a few of those over the years. He caught me looking at it. ‘I also got a couple of tattoos done when I was a drinker. Bloody stupid I was. One was kanji for eternal happiness… at least that’s what I thought. A few days later someone told me it actually said foot fungus…’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Look, what’s this all about?’
‘Your blurb.’ I explained about the fall-out with my parents and their deaths. He concentrated hard. Perhaps my story would end up in one of his novels.
‘Dad left me an unfinished letter talking about a secret. Your blurb… especially the last line…’ I opened my copy and read it out loud.
Why would he take an expectant mother to live in a place that would be best hidden from a child?
I put the book down. ‘I know it’s a long shot, but the wording really resonated. My parents never told me about the property in Leafton. Effectively they kept it hidden. I haven’t been able to find much about your book’s plot as the novel’s not been released until today, but I know from Trish it’s a gaslighting story. Is that all there is to it? The expectant mother feels the place should be hidden because a boy was drowned there once, and her husband’s convinced her that the vengeful ghosts of him and his mother haunt the building?’
‘So you know about the history of your cottage?’
‘Yes, I got details from a local historian, Neve. I think you met her.’
‘The witch and her son who got ducked, they are Charlotte and Martin.’
Their names sounded so ordinary.
‘In answer to your question, yes, I’m afraid it really is that simple.’
I leant back in my chair, disappointment prickling.
Frederick sipped his hot chocolate. ‘But can I give you a piece of advice? Secrets, hidden information, scandal, intrigue – that’s what my writing is all about. Voraciously I read the tabloids, I watch historical and crime documentaries and there is one thing that has always stood out.’
I raised an eyebrow.
‘People lie, change their stories, disappear, but buildings are reliable, loyal things. They’ll withhold evidence and information in walls, secret rooms, under patio slabs… secrets are always there waiting to be discovered and however hard they try buildings can’t deter a determined investigator.’
Was Streamside Cottage holding onto evidence about what Mum and Dad did?
‘Like that sculptor accused of murdering his actress lover – it was in the papers last week. There was no evidence that they’d had an affair despite her sister’s insistence. Almost fifty years later, when he was dead, new owners of his house renovated the basement. They found a false wall behind which were a bundle of love letters.’
‘This is going to sound stupid,’ I said, ‘but I’ve always felt close to the cottage as if it’s… it’s a friend who’s got some kind of story to tell, just for me. But I don’t even know what I’m looking for.’
‘Did you do a good clear-out of the cottage when you moved in?’
‘Not really. I searched a bit before cleaning and found an old photo at the back of a cupboard. But then I just tidied before moving in some of my things.’
‘It’s like the old cliché of people being like an onion – buildings are the same. What you’ve done is just put on another layer. You need to take it off and then strip the cottage back as far as you can. Perhaps remove old wallpaper and lift up floorboards even if they aren’t squeaking.’
I stood up. ‘Thanks for your time. Good luck with your book and recovery.’
Frederick got to his feet. ‘I’ve mentioned Trish in the acknowledgements… could you pass her a copy? I’d like to write in it how sorry I am, will you give me a minute?’ We went through to the shop. He wrote into one of the hardbacks and then walked me to the door. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help and that you didn’t find anything useful in my or the Strachans’ story.’
‘Strachans?’ I said and my shoulders stiffened. That was the name Dad mentioned in his letter.
‘That’s the surname of Charlotte and Martin mentioned in the blurb – the ghosts… the witch and her son. They were Scottish.’
29
14 years ago
At the turn of the century tattooed ladies were a popular attraction in freak shows
I stood outside the gates and chewed the side of my index finger. It was my first day at high school. Mum and Dad stood with me, having both taken the day off work. Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder. Other students walked to school on their own or were in groups and laughing. My parents said I couldn’t get myself here on my own as it would soon be getting dark in the mornings and afternoons.
Perhaps they were right. Mum was always talking about stranger danger. So we’d driven here in Dad’s new Mercedes, Mum talking non-stop. She said not to worry if I found myself on my own in the playground at break times – the first week at any new place was always challenging. She suggested I went to the library instead or joined a club. The thing was, half the time I didn’t worry about the things Mum mentioned. It hadn’t crossed my mind that I might not make any friends at all, although it would have been easier if I’d been allowed to go to the local state school like my junior school friends. Berkley High was private. In the summer I’d have to wear a straw hat.
It was a very important day for my parents – their child’s first day at high school. I knew this because Miriam next door told me so. But it’s made Mum’s eyes look red and for some reason she’s been quiet the last few days, like that time every summer when she spent days in bed. And she got very cross and slammed a door last night when I forgot where I’d put my new pencil case. Today she’s avoided looking at other children and parents, and Dad has kept squeezing her arm.
The same unspoken feeling that told me Brussels sprouts would make me sick, told me not to ask Mum about this. Instead I’d eaten all my breakfast, even though first day nerves had already filled my tummy and I didn’t complain about the boring talk show playing in the car as it was her favourite. I just wanted Mum to be happy.
‘You look lovely, darling,’ said Dad and winked.
Did I? My skirt was a good two inches longer than everyone else’s but Mum said that made me look professional and smart. A group of girls looking at their phones and chatting walked past and giggled. I mustn’t think they are laughing at me. Perhaps after a few weeks my parents would let me travel to school on my own as it was only three underground stops away. Last year we’d gone on holiday to Kyoto. After touring temples, each night I’d scribble furiously in my sketch book. Children as young as seven travelled alone on the subway. At first my parents were horrified but the longer we stayed in Japan they appreciated the low rate of crime, the lack of graffiti and litter…
‘In you go,’ said Mum and kissed me on the cheek.
My stomach lurched as Dad did the same. Suddenly I didn’t want to do things on my own. My parents were like protective armour against anything that could go wrong or hurt, Dad being the breastplate and Mum the sword.
Without them I was bound to fail.
As I headed into the playground, I focuse
d on my after-school first day treat – they were taking me out for cookies and milkshake. I was so lucky.
‘Any problems just text us, love,’ said Mum quietly.
Relief flushed through my limbs. Of course, I could contact them if I was worried and I knew they’d text me at lunch. Messaging them back would give me something to do if Mum was right and I ended up standing alone. I loved my parents so much.
30
Now
Daisies are often seen in Christian art and symbolise purity and innocence
Stuck in the rush hour with Ben on the way back, I told him what Frederick had said, leaving out anything to do with Trish. He pulled up outside his house and turned off the engine and I glanced at his arms resting on the steering wheel for a second, aware of a longing to brush my hand over them. If I tried to replicate the pattern of his freckles with ink, the client might not be happy with so many gaps but Mother Nature’s artwork was more forgiving and the spaces enhanced each brown spot’s individuality.
‘Thanks again for taking me,’ I said.
He nodded without looking at me. ‘No problem, Lizzie.’
I opened the car door and swung one leg outside. ‘Oh, the joys of domestic life – the washing machine isn’t draining properly and I need to work out why. Thank goodness for the internet.’
‘I guess…’ Ben paused. ‘I could take a look if you want. It happened to me and Mum recently. Turned out the drainage pipe was blocked.’
My heart lifted. ‘Well, if you’re sure, Ben? It might save me some time.’
How had things become so formal between us? I didn’t understand. It made me realise how special the friendship we’d been building had been. We made our way up the street and entered the hallway. I pushed open the kitchen door, looking forward to the joyful reunion with Taz. Never in my life has someone been so consistently pleased to see me but he wasn’t in his bed or on the chairs. I went over to the French patio doors but he wasn’t hiding behind the curtains. A draught lifted my hair.
‘Oh no! Look at that gap,’ I held on to the open door to steady myself. ‘It must have happened when I hung out my clothes, I was running late. What if a bigger cat or fox attacks him or he wanders off and gets lost? He’s so tiny.’ My hand flew to my mouth. I felt as if I was going to be sick.
Ben looked outside, and then caught my eye. The frown lines on his forehead that had been there most of the way home softened. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘he’s a clever little sod, Taz will be okay. He’s probably sleeping in the sun or doing his best to stalk birds. Our cats have disappeared lots of times over the years. We’ll find him.’
I slid the doors open and shouted the kitten’s name, running down to the water’s edge. I almost slid on the bank as I stopped. Despite the shakiness in my legs I stepped over the fence and crouched down. Mud-flecked hands frantically moved clumps of algae.
‘Do you think he could have swum over to the forest?’ I asked when Ben caught up.
‘Lizzie, there’s no way he could have got under or over that wired fence. Try not to think the worst.’ Ben spoke some more in a reassuring tone, warmer than it had been all morning, before he hurried home to fetch Jill. The three of us looked under plant after plant, parting bulrushes and reeds. I peered through the weeping willow’s hanging branches. All that was there was the carved word Earl. A squawk caught my attention and I looked up, blinded by the sun. What if a bird of prey had carried him off?
Eventually I sat down on the grass, breathing in the smell from the soil, or rather its bacteria. We learnt that at school. What if Taz caught an infection? This was my fault, he’d trusted me to look after him and I’d let him down.
If Taz ever turned up I’d make it up to him in the future. I’d never leave the cottage for so long and when I did go out, I’d check every window and door. Ben and Jill sat down next to me as I plucked a buttercup. Mum used to hold it under my chin and even though it reflected yellow against my skin she said it showed I didn’t like butter, explaining how margarine was much healthier. She also used to tell me the ice cream van playing music meant it had run out. Years later this made us laugh. She said certain lies didn’t count if they were for someone’s own good.
‘Ben’s right, he’ll turn up,’ said Jill. ‘Cats are known for wandering off, it’s in their instincts, he’s just exploring. Taz will come back when the sun sets and his stomach demands to be fed.’
‘It’s such a responsibility, caring for a pet, I can’t imagine what it must be like to bring up a child.’ I’d thought this several times since living with Taz; thought about me and Mum and Dad.
‘It’s not easy,’ said Jill. ‘You have to work it out for yourself. Your heart tells you to wrap your offspring up in cotton wool, but your head reminds you that in the long run, that won’t do them any good. It’s an impossible balance to strike.’ She shot an apologetic glance at Ben. ‘And even when they are grown up, you can’t help thinking you still know what’s best.’
I stared at her and bit my lip. I’d always thought Mum and Dad’s parenting style was unique but maybe it was just a magnified version of everyone else’s.
I tried to imagine bringing a baby home from hospital and having to look out for it twenty-four seven from then onwards – see it suffer with colic, watch your child struggle at school, be unable to put things right when your teenager had its heart broken…
I threw away the buttercup and picked a daisy instead. I used to make chains out of them when I was little, with Mum, not knowing that years later I’d be creating permanent versions on skin.
‘Have you got any fish?’ asked Ben.
‘A cod fillet.’
‘Steam it with the patio doors open. That’s always done the trick for our cats. In fact, let me do it. He’ll come back, Lizzie, don’t you worry, and if he takes his time I’ll stay here and wait with you, however late it gets tonight.’
The tightness across my forehead eased a little and Ben gave me a thumbs up before getting up, more like his old self.
‘I’ll quickly make up a leaflet with Taz’s description and your address,’ said Jill. ‘It won’t take me long to push them through neighbours’ doors.’
‘Okay, I’ll look around the front, just on the off-chance.’
We got up and Jill headed inside. She stopped dead in her tracks and beckoned for me to go over.
‘Did you hear that?’ She put a finger to her lips.
A small meow that came from ground level. One of the doors of the Welsh dresser was just a couple of inches open. Ben crouched down, I could hardly breathe. There was Taz curled up in a saucepan. Eyes tingling, I reached in and lifted him out. Ben squeezed my shoulder as I stroked Taz’s.
‘You had us so worried,’ I said, voice thick, and I buried my face in his fur, in my head thanking the cottage for looking after him. A lump formed in my throat and I looked at Ben and Jill. ‘I’d never let him out if he was my cat, it’s just too risky.’
‘That’s a knee-jerk reaction,’ said Jill. ‘Taz loves looking out of the window and is clearly a cat that wants to get its paws dirty. You couldn’t turn his home into a prison.’
Her words almost took my breath away. That’s how I’d felt about my home sometimes, growing up.
I insisted on buying the three of us fish and chips for tea. Ben left to collect the takeaway.
‘Now that he’s gone,’ said Jill in a low voice, as Taz and I played with his feather, ‘I’ve got a favour to ask. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.’
‘Shoot.’
‘It’s just, I’d like a tattoo done. Of course, I’ll pay.’
I stopped playing with Taz. ‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Talking the other day with you – about my pregnancy and how I used to be different…’
‘But have you thought through a design in detail?’
‘I’ve spent ages searching online and printed one out.’
‘Why not think about it a while longer?’ I said. ‘There’s
no rush, Jill.’
‘To be honest I’ve been thinking about it ever since Ben was born.’
What did she mean?
‘Well if you’re certain…’ Caroline’s tattoo had gone fine, in fact more than that, she’d loved the final look. And I’d felt such a high afterwards, a high that had been absent from my work for so long.
Truth was, I felt excited at the prospect of inking a design again, the desire to get out my tattoo machine pumping through my veins.
I took a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’m free all weekend. How about tomorrow? Are you working this Saturday?’
‘Only until one. I could pop around after that.’ She beamed. ‘I want it on my inside wrist.’
‘And what—’
The door went and Jill broke eye contact. Ben brought in the haddock and chips. Taz had his cod. They finally left about ten. As Ben walked away, he glanced over his shoulder and gave a small smile as I waved. I could have jumped up and down. I locked the front door, brought Taz into the lounge and turned off the lights. We sat on the sofa lit only by street lamps.
The purring eventually disappeared to be replaced by the cottage’s familiar night time noises. My mind drifted to Charlotte and Martin Strachan and how talk about a haunting could have affected sensible Mum. Then there was Trish’s tragedy, whatever that was, linked to this cottage that Frederick had accidentally mentioned. I also wanted to read Unspeakable Truths.
But as I sat in the dark, all I could think of was the past and how it had just been illuminated – as if what had happened with Taz had lit a lamp. I ruffled his head and placed him on a cushion next to me. I bent my knees up and hugged them tight.
When Taz disappeared, I swore I’d never let him out of my sight again. This wasn’t because I thought him especially incapable or weak. It was because a powerful protective instinct had kicked in. I gulped. This could have been how it was for Mum and Dad because they were always telling me how clever I was, celebrating each good grade and every time I excelled at music or sport. Yet when I wanted to go inter-railing it was my safety that my parents feared for. At parties it was potential bad batches of drugs that got them worried.
Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage Page 18