After the Funeral

by Gillian Poucher

  Julia had the strangest sensation of time slowing. She closed her eyes, revisiting her nightmare again: the woman at the upstairs window of a house in flames, a baby screaming. Her voice seemed to come from far away. ‘What happened to the baby?’

  ‘She survived. A little girl. The husband came back just in time and they were both rescued. She was sectioned, sent away for years. Today they might have been able to treat her better.’ She paused as she finished another row. ‘Let’s see… knit three, purl to the end. That’s it. Where was I?’

  ‘You said the mother was sectioned, placed in an institution?’

  ‘That’s right. She was suffering from that condition some women have after giving birth. It wasn’t so well-treated back then. What do they call it, post-natal depression? No, worse than that…’

  Julia’s head pounded. ‘Post-natal psychosis?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And the husband and baby? Where did they go?’ Julia’s voice was little more than a whisper. She was sure she knew the answer.

  ‘They changed their names, and moved north. I heard he re-married after the divorce. She finally came back to the area two years ago. I’m not sure I’d want to, would you? Still, home’s home, I suppose. And she’s made a good job of restoring the old farmhouse.’ She laid down the knitting and reached for a tape measure.

  The room was spinning round Julia. She clutched the table for support. Grey curls bent over her knitting, the woman didn’t notice.

  ‘The old farmhouse?’

  ‘Yes. Out by North Creake Abbey. Just a few miles up the road. Strange, I always think. It burned down centuries ago, before Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries. Makes me wonder if there’s something in a place that means history repeats itself. Too much of a coincidence otherwise, isn’t it?’ Her fingers were suddenly still on her needles as she looked up at Julia, obviously wanting an answer.

  ‘I don’t know, I…’ Julia had had enough of coincidences for one afternoon. Was it coincidence or – what was the word the priest had used? – ‘providence’ that had brought her to this gallery this afternoon to find out that Linda’s baby must surely be Grace? ‘Do you remember how long ago this was?’

  ‘Oh, must be over thirty years ago. Let me think. Yes, I was pregnant with my eldest son, and he’s thirty-two now. So it must be thirty-three years ago. Do you have children?’

  ‘No.’ Julia turned away from the desk. ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’ She nearly ran to the heavy glass door without looking back.

  The wind had risen, blowing fresh rain across the courtyard. In the car she checked her road atlas with trembling fingers, heart banging in her chest. She wasn’t sure what she would do when she reached Linda’s house. Client confidentiality meant she couldn’t tell Linda that she knew Grace. She would have to take advice from Louise. But perhaps Linda might volunteer something of her history herself, so she could make sure it tallied with Grace’s account. Not that she had any doubts left. The timing, location and details fitted exactly with what her client had told her.

  She drove a few miles along a winding lane before turning at a brown heritage signpost for North Creake Abbey. No other cars were parked in the field designated as a car park where she pulled in. The iron gate squeaked as she entered the site, passing a man walking his Labrador. He nodded an acknowledgement. She regretted not bringing her walking boots to Norfolk as the heels of her black ankle boots sank into the grass, sodden from weeks of rain. At least she’d brought her faithful black waterproof. She fastened the press stud of the hood as the rain began to fall more heavily, wishing she’d asked the man if he knew the house where Linda lived. She looked back towards the gate, but the man and dog had disappeared.

  The light was beginning to fade as she passed beneath a Norman archway and squelched through the area she guessed had been the nave. Only low walls had survived here, although elsewhere the height of the ruins hinted at how imposing the abbey must have been before the fire. At the top of the former nave she stepped through an opening to the left. There were no buildings visible from here, and she was about to turn away and walk back down the other side of the ruin when something white caught her eye on some sort of ledge in the wall.

  Close up, Julia realised the ledge was actually a piscina, the place where the priest would have washed the sacred vessels. She was surprised to see it contained the stub of a white candle together with an assortment of cards. Some of the cards had names and dates on, ‘To Mother. Always in my thoughts. Jenny. 27.12.01.’ She found herself dashing away tears as she read that. Jenny’s mother had died just a few days before Emily. Then another, ‘For Jake. Rest with the angels, precious one. 12.2.01–14.7.01.’ A kind of shrine, she supposed. It felt intrusive to study the cards, but a morbid curiosity compelled her to look through the rest.

  Time slowed for the second time in an hour. The words on one card, penned in a familiar bold sloping hand, leaped out at her. ‘To my baby. 34 today. God bless you. L.’ Linda, thought Julia. Linda and Grace.

  She shivered suddenly. There was something eerie about the deserted abbey on a darkening wet February afternoon. The makeshift shrine, the card she was sure Linda had penned for Grace, added to her unease. And there was something else too: the uncanny sense that something had led her here. Julia shook herself, showering the cards with raindrops. She was being fanciful. She needed to collect herself, to leave the abbey behind and to find the house where Linda lived.

  Making her way back down the opposite side of the ruin, Julia noticed what she hadn’t been able to see before: the wall here on the south side was in good condition. Beyond it lay a house. Her heart nearly stopped beating. She leaned against the wall for support, overcome by a dizzying sense of déjà vu.

  It was the grey farmhouse from the picture at Linda’s exhibition, standing in the shadow of a ruined abbey. And it was identical to the house in her nightmare, she realised suddenly. Julia could see the window where the woman had stood engulfed in flames. She hadn’t made the connection before. This had to be Linda’s house. She had reached her destination.

  –  CHAPTER 20  –

  Julia had no idea how long she stood there in the abbey grounds, gazing over the garden wall at the house below. Lights were on downstairs. There was another at the upstairs window where the woman had stood in her nightmare, flames leaping around her. As she looked, she saw a figure approach the window. For a heart-stopping moment she wondered if she was going to see her nightmare re-enacted. But then the light dimmed, and she realised the figure had been someone drawing the curtains as dusk descended. A quotation floated up from the recesses of her memory as she stared at the house, heedless of the rain which continued to fall steadily, pondering what had brought her here. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth…’

  The phrase brought to mind the priest she had seen in the art gallery. He would be someone who understood more of this than she did. It went beyond the rational, beyond coincidence. What was his word again? Providence. That was it. Providence. Or maybe fate. Whatever it was, she felt she had been led here.

  The back door of the house was opening. In the light which spilled out into the garden, Julia recognised the tall, erect figure of the elderly priest. It was as if she had spirited him up. She remained by the wall, strangely unsurprised to see him. He trod purposefully across the neglected lawn and flower beds, shielded from the rain under a large black umbrella. He stopped under a gnarled apple tree and looked up at her.

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect you so soon. But maybe it’s for the best. I don’t know how much longer…’ His voice broke, and he passed his hand briefly over his eyes. ‘Bring your car round the lane to the house.’ He turned away abruptly.

  Julia was past asking questions. She went back to the car park in a daze and drove down a narrow lane which forked off to the left, guessing correctly it would bring her to the house. She pulled in behind two other cars on the verge. Walking slow
ly down the rutted drive, she tried to avoid the puddles in the gloom of the wet February evening. She had nearly reached the front door when a woman opened it, pausing to zip a navy fleece over a blue nurses’ uniform.

  ‘I’ll be back later, Father!’ she called. She glanced at Julia waiting to let her pass in front of the doorstep. ‘Your visitor’s here.’ She picked up a bag and clipboard from the floor beside her, then stepped out. ‘Don’t wake her,’ she said. ‘Watch Father too. He needs to rest.’

  ‘I don’t…’ Julia began. But with a wave of her hand over her shoulder the nurse sped off up the drive, late for her next appointment.

  Julia stepped into the hall. Water dripped from her waterproof onto the flagged floor. She suddenly realised how cold and wet she was from standing so long by the abbey wall. Evidently the priest, treading noiselessly down the carpeted stairs, thought so as well. ‘Let me take your coat,’ he said. ‘I’ll make a cup of tea. The nurse boiled the kettle.’

  Obediently Julia handed him her waterproof. He hung it on a coat stand in a corner and disappeared through one of three doorways leading off the hall. She caught a glimpse of herself in the large oval mirror which hung on the wall opposite the front door and raked her hands through her damp hair. She looked a mess, with her usually sleek bob wavy from the rain, the shadows under her eyes more pronounced than ever in her pale face.

  She followed the priest into a long low-ceilinged kitchen. Copper pans hung above an Aga next to an oak dresser which housed an assortment of brightly coloured plates and bowls. The wine rack alongside was nearly full. A plump grey and white cat lay asleep on a multi-coloured knitted blanket on a wooden rocking chair in front of the Aga. Julia yawned. The warm comfortable kitchen made her realise how tired she was. She settled into a dining chair at the long oak table.

  The priest lifted the kettle from the stove. His large hand was trembling as he poured water into a striped yellow and red teapot.

  ‘Would you like me…?’ she asked.

  ‘No, no.’ He cut her off. ‘Do you take milk? Sugar?’

  ‘Just a little milk, thank you.’

  He poured milk from a bottle in the fridge into two mugs which matched the teapot and set the items on an orange tray. His familiarity with the kitchen surprised her. She wondered if Linda were very ill. He seemed to know his way around.

  The priest seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Linda had surgery to remove a brain tumour a week last Monday,’ he said abruptly, stirring the tea in the pot.

  ‘A brain tumour? That’s terrible.’ Julia bit her lip, wincing as she remembered how quickly they had all, she, James, Clare, Pete, Edith, assumed Linda was drunk when she disrupted Ada’s lunch. ‘So that’s why she behaved so strangely at my aunt’s eightieth,’ she mused.

  ‘Your aunt?’ The priest stopped stirring the tea, his hand hovering shakily above the teapot.

  ‘Yes. Linda turned up unexpectedly at the party. Two days before her surgery, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah. That’s where she went then.’ The priest resumed stirring the tea.

  Julia decided there could be no harm telling him what had happened. ‘She said something to my aunt which upset her. In fact she had a stroke. She died yesterday morning.’

  The priest didn’t respond, but crossed himself.

  ‘Ada looked like she’d seen a ghost. She said something strange too.’ Julia shivered, remembering the old woman’s struggle to gasp out what had proved to be her final words.

  ‘Oh?’ The priest bent his white head over the teapot as he lifted it. His hand was trembling more than ever, but after his earlier refusal of help Julia didn’t offer to pour instead.

  ‘Yes. She said, “I never told her he was alive.” Then she collapsed.’

  The priest set down the teapot with a crash. Tea dribbled from the spout across the table.

  ‘I’m sorry, I should have poured. Let me get a cloth.’ Julia went across to the sink and picked up a dish cloth.

  The priest didn’t object, sitting down opposite her as she wiped up the tea. She finished pouring and handed him a mug. He laced his long white tapering fingers around it without raising it from the table, looking down into the steaming liquid. The silence stretched between them.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear Linda’s so ill,’ she said eventually. ‘Will she – is it…?’

  ‘That’s in God’s hands,’ he said quietly. ‘She will have a course of radiotherapy, if she is strong enough. She should have stayed in hospital, but wanted to leave as soon as possible. Not surprising, given her history.’ He chewed on his thumb nail.

  Julia drew in her breath, sure that his reference to Linda’s aversion to hospitals tied in with the years the artist had spent in psychiatric care as recounted by the woman at the gallery.

  Before she could ask him anything more, the priest said abruptly, ‘She’s sleeping now and shouldn’t be disturbed today.’ He looked up from his tea, and his startling blue eyes bored into Julia’s. ‘She’s not to be upset.’

  ‘Of course not. I didn’t come here to upset her.’ Julia’s tone was sharper than she intended. But as she spoke she wondered if her words were wholly true. She’d intended to find out more about the fire, make absolutely certain that the baby was Grace. Raking up the memories would inevitably cause Linda distress. But might the reunion of the mother and daughter – a daughter carrying Linda’s grandchild – help the sick woman and give her some peace of mind? Or would the shock be too much for her? And what effect would meeting her mother have on Grace? It was possible she might lose her again very soon given the serious nature of Linda’s illness. She closed her eyes as the questions tumbled through her mind.

  The priest took a few sips of tea and set his mug down. He rested his lined chin on his steepled hands. ‘She wanted to see you,’ he said eventually. ‘There is something she needs to tell you.’

  The family secret. Julia looked down at her tea. Her heart beat faster. Her voice seemed to come from a distance. ‘She said she knew something about my – our – family.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Julia drank. The tea was still too hot and scalded her throat. ‘Do you know what it is?’

  A shadow passed over his face. ‘I do.’ He rose suddenly and went over to the window, his back to her. His broad shoulders were tense inside his black jacket.

  Julia took more sips of the burning liquid. Priests, she knew, were bound by confidentiality, as were counsellors. Greg had once described her, sneeringly, as ‘a kind of secular priest,’ dismissive as he was of both religion and therapy. She hadn’t liked the expression, but understood what he meant. With the decline of institutionalised religion, people were turning to counsellors instead of clergy as a source of support.

  Why did I stay with him so long? The question had run through her mind repeatedly during the last fortnight. His indifference towards her losing her cottage because he hadn’t paid the mortgage, his lies about his affair with Lisa, and worst of all, his callousness towards her about his partner’s pregnancy, had exploded into her outburst at the shopping centre. Five days later, Julia still shrank inside as she recalled striking him, visualised again Lisa’s shock and fear.

  She’d known almost immediately that it had been the exposure of grief at her childlessness which had propelled her to attack him. Now, in the quiet kitchen where the only sound was the rain tapping on the window, she tried to imagine how the sick woman upstairs must feel about her tragic experience of motherhood. A misunderstood mental illness had led to her separation from her daughter. She saw in her mind’s eye Grace’s haunted face as she said in that first meeting, ‘I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead.’ Was the fire somehow related to the family secret Linda wanted to tell her?

  Thinking about the strange events which had brought her to this house, Julia made a decision: she would take advice from this elderly priest who seemed to know Linda so well. First though she wanted to know more about him. His presence here puzzled her.

  ‘I’ve been trying
to place your accent,’ she said. ‘Are you from Canada?’

  She saw his back stiffen as he took another gulp of tea, still looking out over the dark sodden garden. ‘Yes. I’m Canadian.’

  ‘So you’ve come to Walsingham on some kind of retreat?’ she hazarded.

  He hesitated. ‘Walsingham has always interested me,’ he said slowly. ‘The shrine, the devotion to Mary.’ He paused, then turned to look at her, his eyes scanning her face in that unsettling way. ‘I also had family reasons for coming over.’

  ‘Oh?’ Julia’s prompt usually elicited a further response from her clients, but was met with silence by the priest. He turned back to the sink, downing the rest of his tea before rinsing out his mug under the cold tap. Anxious that he might ask her to leave before she had asked him about the tragedy in Linda’s past, Julia plunged on.

  ‘I know that as a priest you can’t disclose to me what Linda has told you,’ she began, setting her mug down on the table, ‘and I don’t know how it connects with what Linda wants to tell me about our family. But I think I’ve found out something which might help her. And I would appreciate your advice, as a priest, about whether I should tell her, especially as she is so ill. It’s something which I think might set her mind at rest.’

  Julia took a deep breath, pushed a strand of damp hair behind her right ear. ‘I probably shouldn’t be speaking to you about it. I’m a counsellor myself. Like you, I’m bound by confidentiality. I will need to speak with my supervisor before saying anything to Linda. But I won’t if you think it might do more harm than good.’

  The priest turned round slowly, his face expressionless. Professionally so, thought Julia, knowing how she sought to maintain a neutral expression with her clients.

  He nodded to her to continue.