Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

  As the day progressed, Dan regained a cheerful disposition and his earlier melancholy evaporated. He was busy cleaning the fireplace as I rummaged through a box in the kitchen, searching for elusive teabags. I paused and looked around appreciatively at the beams, the flagstone floor and the view of the courtyard through the small-paned windows. I could already see next spring’s hanging baskets on the outhouse walls. I smiled, instinctively knowing that all that had gone before was simply leading to this day.

  ‘Hey, Mads, take a look at this,’ Dan called from the sitting room.

  I turned and walked to the doorway. A thick haze filled the room and I marvelled at how much dust he’d created. I was about to suggest he let in some fresh air when I noticed all the windows were open wide. I frowned. How strange… The room was full of fog and yet there was a strong breeze blowing outside.

  It must have been a trick of the light because, as Dan turned, his blond hair appeared darker and longer and he seemed less tall and lean; an altogether rougher version. I blinked and shook my head, as if brushing away the image. As quickly as he had appeared altered, there he was, once again, the Dan I knew.

  ‘What have you found?’ I walked across the room and saw a small opening in the stonework to one side of the inglenook. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘One of the stones was loose. It came away quite easily when I investigated. I think there’s something behind it.’

  ‘Clear away a bit more,’ I said, enthusiastically. ‘It might be a bread oven.’

  Placing his long fingers into the gap, he teased away at the stones around the opening. For a moment nothing happened but then one suddenly shifted, coming away in his hand. There was a definite edge to the hole. I peered inside at a hidden void.

  ‘Wow, how exciting!’

  Without hesitation, I inserted my hand and felt around, unsure what I expected to find, but apart from a thick layer of dust and rubble, the alcove was empty. Disappointment flooded through me.

  ‘I’ll make a feature of it,’ I said. ‘I’ll visit a reclamation yard and find a door that fits.’

  ‘This cottage will give up more of its secrets as time goes by.’

  As Dan spoke the words I became aware of an expectant stillness in the air.

  ‘Why did you say that?’ I asked sharply.

  ‘Well, these old places always have secrets, don’t they? And this one’s had four hundred years to collect them.’

  Suddenly I felt hot and short of breath. Feeling dizzy, I reached out for Dan, as if trying to hold on to something solid; something I could trust.

  He caught hold of my arm. ‘Hey, steady, Mads!’

  Beads of perspiration pricked my forehead and I struggled to hold back rising nausea.

  ‘You OK?’ Dan asked with concern.

  ‘I just need some fresh air,’ I gasped.

  ‘Tell you what – let’s abandon the tea thing and go to the pub instead.’ This was his answer to most things.

  ‘Yeah, I could do with a drink.’

  He smiled at me.

  ‘And dinner’s on me,’ I said weakly, hurrying towards the door.

  ‘Now, there’s an offer I can’t possibly refuse, but won’t that be a tad messy?’

  *

  We had visited the pub on several occasions during our time filming in the area and Brian, the landlord, remembered us. He was a jovial, larger-than-life character in his mid-fifties. We’d seldom seen his wife, Vera, as she was kept busy behind the scenes cooking delicious homemade meals for the hordes of people who frequented the pub.

  ‘So you bought The Olde Smithy then?’ Brian said, placing a glass of whisky and soda on the bar in front of me. He poured a pint of Badgers for Dan.

  ‘I collected the keys earlier today. We haven’t stopped working since.’ I picked up the glass and took a sip.

  ‘It’s a lovely cottage. Shame it’s stood empty so long. The garden was a treat when Mrs McKendrick owned it. There was nothing she didn’t know about plants, and as for her old man’s vegetables, he swept the board clean most years at the village show. The local horticultural society is a sorrier place without them.’

  ‘I’ve seen the remains of their endeavours,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘The vegetable beds are completely overgrown but I’m looking forward to clearing them and growing my own, come the spring.’ I smiled, thinking of all the future projects. ‘It will be a steep learning curve, though.’

  ‘Mads is a city girl,’ Dan explained, rather unnecessarily I thought.

  ‘Ah, you’ll have fun learning.’ Brian winked at me. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, moving down the bar to serve a young couple who had just walked in.

  We picked up a bar menu and carried our drinks to one of the alcoves. I gazed around. The pub was a clever conversion of an old coach house with private seating areas created out of the original stalls where horses would once have been housed. An array of old farm equipment, horse brasses, tying hooks and hay racks adorned the walls and the Blacksmith’s Arms oozed a warm, welcoming ambience, helped admirably by a roaring log fire.

  ‘I guess you’ll be in here a lot,’ Dan commented.

  ‘I guess so. I’m considering asking Brian if he needs any help.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t really got that far, Dan. Maybe spend a few months updating the cottage and then, in the New Year, think about earning some money. Perhaps I’ll start writing again.’

  ‘Well, let’s face it, the number of times you’ve kissed that old Blarney Stone means you’re never short of a story or two!’ Dan teased.

  I smiled. My first assignment with Hawkstone Media was a period drama set in the countryside around Cork, and Dan and I had worked together on it. From the first, I recognised a shared sense of humour and it was fun spending time with him, introducing him to my country of birth. On a rare day off we visited Blarney Castle and I explained that I’d first kissed the Stone at the tender age of eight.

  I amused him with tales of visitors being held by the ankles and lowered head first over the battlements in order to kiss it. This was true, but many years before I first encountered the Stone. On the day Dan and I visited, Health and Safety had long since come into play and, though the Stone was still set in the wall below the battlements, to kiss it we only had to lean backwards from the parapet walkway while holding on to an iron railing. Simple… providing you didn’t suffer from vertigo or lumbago.

  ‘Maybe I’ll offer my services as a film reviewer for a magazine or paper,’ I explained, ‘but I really want to get the cottage straight first. It needs painting throughout and one of the window frames requires urgent attention. I’m sure I’ll find some other hidden nasties.’ I smiled at Dan.

  ‘The inglenook would look great with a feature bread oven,’ Dan enthused.

  For some reason I was annoyed by his interest and my smile faded.

  ‘I wonder why it was walled up?’ he continued, unaware of my irritation.

  ‘No idea.’

  Why was I being so uncharacteristically defensive?

  ‘Will you concentrate on that first?’ he asked, quite reasonably.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ I answered unhelpfully.

  Why did I feel he was prying?

  ‘So, you’ll get a door for it?’ he persevered with a questioning look on his face.

  ‘Probably,’ I answered dismissively.

  Not wanting to continue the conversation further, I opened a menu and started reading aloud what was on offer that evening. It was a difficult choice as it all sounded appetising. Once we’d decided, Dan went to the bar to order.

  Looking around the pub, my eyes alighted on a heavily framed oil painting displayed above the fireplace. The paintwork was dark – probably not helped by the smoke from numerous fires lit beneath it over the years – but from where I sat on the far side of the pub I could just make out the figure of a man shoeing a horse in front of a timber-framed building. With a sudden rush of emotion, I felt my cheek
s flush and my heart begin to race.

  Rising quickly, I crossed over to the fireplace and peered more closely at the painting. In the foreground the artist had painted an oak tree and I realised it was the view across the village green from the doorway of the pub. The building was definitely The Olde Smithy but an older, undeveloped version. I glanced at the artist’s signature but couldn’t make it out. If this pub was originally a coach house it would make sense for the blacksmith’s premises to be close by. Perhaps the newly exposed void wasn’t a bread oven after all. Maybe it was the furnace where the blacksmith heated the horseshoes.

  As I observed the man in the painting, I noted the length of his hair, his build and the set of his body. I stood staring at the strangely familiar scene and, even though I could feel the heat from the fire through my denim jeans, I shivered. After a while I returned to the table but kept my observations to myself, not feeling inclined to share them with Dan.

  We had a pleasant meal and during the course of the evening the pub grew steadily busier. The front-of-house staff seemed to consist of only two waitresses, one a girl called Janet. Brian worked the bar. I decided to give myself a week or two to settle in and then ask if there were any vacancies.

  We left the pub at around ten-thirty. Earlier, as we’d left the cottage, I’d switched on the porch light, which now blinked at us in welcome from the far side of the village green. Lights from the neighbouring cottages also cast their beams across the grass, guiding our way. As we walked beneath the boughs of the mighty oak, I looked up through the branches. High clouds scudded across the night sky, briefly revealing a scattering of twinkling stars and a watery moon.

  ‘Feels like rain,’ I commented.

  ‘Better cosy up then.’

  I opened the front door and stepped over the threshold into the hallway. There was a distinct chill in the air.

  ‘Brr… Even more reason to cosy up!’ I teased.

  ‘Come here, you!’ Dan pulled me close and kissed me. ‘Welcome to your new life.’

  Dan was a thoughtful lover and our subsequent lovemaking was gentle, comforting and familiar. Before long, exhausted from the day’s exertions, we fell asleep. As I drifted off I remember thinking how easy it was with Dan, albeit uneventful, which was why I was so surprised to be woken in the small hours from a deep slumber by hot, insistent kisses all over my body.

  At first I thought I must be dreaming, but as I looked across at the curtainless windows and saw the inky night sky and the rain lashing against the glass, I remembered where I was. Dan’s hands greedily explored my body as if for the very first time and when his mouth found mine, the passion in his kiss took my breath away. The urgency in his caresses was like nothing I had experienced with him before and I marvelled at the way I responded. Our bodies moved in harmony and I delighted at his every touch, melting under his deep kisses.

  ‘Damn you, woman,’ he said, nuzzling my neck. ‘I am bewitched.’

  I thrilled at the emotion in his voice, but surfaced long enough to register that Dan had never previously referred to me as ‘woman’. Momentarily he pulled back and I sensed him looking at me.

  The moon, emerging from behind a cloud, cast an eerie green light through the window and alighted on my lover’s face. His appearance appeared altered – the Dan I had seen earlier that evening – somehow more feral. Suddenly he groaned and pulled me to him. I gasped as, together, we rode wave after wave of pure sensation; an insatiable rip tide of feeling. Afterwards, we held each other close and it wasn’t long before I heard his deep, even, rhythmic breathing. My last conscious thought before sleep claimed me was that this heightened passion between us had made Dan’s body feel different, somehow more muscular, and that it, too, must have been the reason for his altered scent.

  The next morning I rose before he awoke and made my way quietly downstairs. I was unsure how to handle this new dimension to our relationship and decided to let Dan take the lead. Filling the kettle at the sink, I glanced out of the window at the still, wet day. Leaves lay scattered across the courtyard, wrenched from the trees by the terrific winds during the night. I noticed a young, black cat sitting by the outhouse door assessing me. Moving to the back door, I quietly opened the top half and called softly. The cat watched warily for a moment before turning and fleeing into the garden.

  Probably lives next door.

  I returned upstairs with mugs of tea. As I pushed open the bedroom door, Dan sat up in bed and raked long fingers through his wayward hair.

  ‘Morning, Mads.’

  With unaccustomed shyness, I handed him a mug.

  ‘Looks like one hell of a storm last night.’

  In more ways than one.

  I glanced at the window overlooking the courtyard. Rain had seeped through a gap in the casement and formed a pool on the sill. It now steadily dripped onto the bare floorboards.

  ‘Don’t you remember?’ I asked in an even voice.

  With my back to him, I rummaged through my holdall. Pulling out a T-shirt, I mopped the sill before dropping the garment onto the puddle on the floor. A sudden movement out of the corner of my eye made me look into the garden and I saw the black cat hunting amongst the long, wet grass at the far end by the pond.

  ‘You know me, Mads, I sleep through anything. It takes more than hurricane-force wind and torrential rain to wake me!’

  It was true. Nothing ever disturbed Dan once his head touched the pillow. I considered this now. Had he been in the throes of a dream? That would certainly explain his uncharacteristic behaviour last night, or had his subconscious taken over, like that of a sleepwalker?

  ‘Don’t you remember anything about last night?’ I asked.

  ‘I remember getting back from the pub and the heating hadn’t kicked in.’ Arching an eyebrow, he smiled suggestively at me. ‘But we didn’t have trouble finding a way to warm up, did we?’

  I wondered to which round of sex he was referring.

  ‘God, I was bushed though,’ he continued. ‘Couldn’t keep awake for long.’

  I frowned. Our enthusiastic lovemaking had gone on for hours. He must have been asleep… and yet he had spoken to me. It didn’t make sense.

  ‘You know I’ve always liked this bed of yours,’ Dan said, patting the space beside him. ‘It’s so comfortable. I could spend a lot of time in it with you.’

  I sat down where he indicated and sipped my tea, confused by this turn of events. Our passion last night was so uncharacteristic. Surely, he would want to acknowledge it and discuss where our relationship was heading? But it seemed that Dan had no such thoughts.

  ‘And after that?’ I asked. ‘We can’t just stay in bed. There’s more to life than sex you know, Daniel.’

  He gave me a questioning look. ‘You’re in a funny mood this morning. You’ve never worried about life after sex before.’

  ‘Well maybe I should have,’ I replied in an irritated voice.

  ‘But that’s why we get on so well,’ he said in his usual, calm, unflustered manner. ‘No pressure, just loads of fun.’

  We were silent for a while and there was a distance between us not present before. Neither of us wanted to make the next move. It occurred to me that Dan’s easy-going nature and informal manner masked a reluctance to acknowledge the passing of time and his responsibility to me as a person. I, on the other hand, had always believed I was happy with a relationship where the boundaries were vague and non-committal, yet, perhaps this had in no small way contributed to my increasing restlessness and desire for change. So, later that morning, after I’d rustled up a semblance of breakfast from the few provisions I’d brought with me from London, we loaded the remaining empty packing cases into the van. Closing the rear doors, Dan turned to me and kissed me lightly on the mouth.

  ‘Be seeing you, kiddo!’ he said casually. ‘Don’t forget you can phone me any time, day or night.’ And with that he climbed into the van. Starting the engine, he lowered the window and blew me a kiss.

  I watched the veh
icle until it disappeared around the corner and heard him toot ‘goodbye’. Then all was silent. In fact, so silent, it was as if the world held its breath and waited to see what I would do next.

  I stood there for a while longer looking at the empty road, feeling numb. The previous night’s passion had awakened unexamined feelings in me, and yet, here was Dan, driving off, seemingly without a care in the world, nor acknowledging any subtle shift in our relationship. Sighing deeply, I turned and walked back to the cottage. As I did so, I heard increasing birdsong, the distant barking of a dog and, from inside the pub, Brian instructing Janet to lay the tables for lunch.

  2

  The weather during that first week in The Olde Smithy was changeable: high winds and lashing rain one minute; sudden stillness and stubborn drizzle the next. I tackled the kitchen and cleaned the old units as best I could. What I originally thought was a slate floor transformed into terracotta tiles. The walls and ceiling, filthy with grime, scrubbed up a treat with a good deal of elbow grease and sugar soap. Taking a breather, I stood back and surveyed my work, deciding it would be fun to search for replacement, free-standing furniture from the numerous reclamation yards and auction houses around.

  On the Saturday I caught the bus into Bridport where an obviously popular street market was in full swing. To my joy, I discovered a stall selling soft furnishings. I spent half an hour rummaging through the pretty fabric and finally purchased two pairs of matching dusky blue curtains, embroidered with lighter blue entwining foliage. I knew that after some nifty alterations these would be ideal for the sitting and dining room windows. Then I visited the hardware stall and bought two large cans of white emulsion, a selection of paintbrushes and a roller. On my way back to the bus stop, heavily laden with my purchases, I stopped at a newsagent and picked up a local paper.