Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

  For the next four days I concentrated on painting the kitchen and by the end of that first week it was bright and welcoming, even if the cabinets were not exactly my style. And all the while a pair of almond-shaped eyes watched me curiously from the safety of the outhouse, poised to flee into the garden at the first sign of any perceived threat.

  I’d noticed the cat drink from puddles formed between the uneven stones of the courtyard floor. It was an excellent hunter and obviously not going hungry; several forays into the garden resulted in a triumphant return with a mouse. The weather was atrocious that week and, coupled with the fact I was busy decorating, I didn’t venture out into the village at all, so was unable to make enquiries about the cat. However, I did ask the postman if he knew whose it was, but he simply shook his head.

  ‘I’ve only just taken over the Walditch round,’ he said. ‘Not sure where everyone lives yet, let alone their pets.’

  I explained I didn’t think it was a stray as it was in such good condition, but maybe it belonged to people new to the area and was disorientated and lost. Personally, I thought it looked as if it knew exactly what it was about. The postman promised he would report back if he heard anything.

  During a brief respite in the weather, I put aside scrubbing brushes and sneaked out to the potting shed to investigate further. The door to the outhouse was permanently ajar, hanging off one rusty hinge. Slowly and quietly, I neared the open door and peered in. The interior was extremely dark – the only window filthy from years of grime and cobwebs – and I blinked as my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. A rusting wheelbarrow stood propped against the far wall and a wooden workbench under the window housed a large selection of pots, seed trays and two watering cans that had seen better days. Stacked against the opposite wall were several old gardening tools and beside these was a pile of empty compost and manure bags. On close scrutiny I saw the tell-tale indentation, approximately young adult cat size.

  ‘Aha! So this is where you sleep.’

  I returned to the kitchen. Grabbing a bowl from the drainer, I filled it with sliced chicken from the fridge and returned to the outhouse, placing the dish by the side of the sacks. As I left the outhouse I glanced into the garden, but there was no movement amongst the long grass.

  I’m going to call you Storm. After all, the cat had appeared the morning after the howling gales during that first night in the cottage.

  *

  Dan phoned the following Friday to see how I was settling in. It was good to hear his voice. He was light and cheerful and chatted happily about his imminent departure for deepest, darkest Wales where he was to film a documentary about the poet Dylan Thomas. Not once did he make any reference to our night of passion. Stubbornly, I determined it was not going to be me to broach the subject but I was surprised at how wrong-footed I felt when he finally bade me farewell without a murmur.

  My sister, Mo, texted from Morocco where she was on a magazine shoot, something to do with the souks of Marrakech. She encouraged me to:

  Go for it girl! Email soon. Mo xx

  And my parents rang. They were as loving as always and showed interest in my plans for the cottage. I told them I was considering asking the landlord at the local pub if he required any staff. To my intense irritation, I was aware of the need to justify my decision by saying it would be a great way to meet people. They were warm and positive and, not for the first time, I felt fortunate I was a part of the life of such people.

  And then, just as we were saying our goodbyes, my father advised, ‘Enjoy the adventure, Madeleine, but don’t stay in the wilderness too long.’

  I said goodbye and replaced the receiver feeling incensed.

  Wilderness? It wasn’t some wasteland I’d come to. I wasn’t on some escapist trip trying to shirk the responsibilities of my life. I had come home!

  Letting out a groan, I stared at the phone in frustration.

  A vibration in the air made me catch my breath. Slowly and seductively, the subtlest of warm currents swirled around my body, as if wrapping me in a loving embrace. I luxuriated in the sensation and was immediately filled with an excited expectancy and the strongest emotion – that of pure joy.

  I noticed how quiet it had become and, yet, as I looked out of the window I saw the branches of the oak tree swaying wildly in the wind and a stray plastic bag tumbling across the green on a frantic journey from dustbin to hedgerow. Incessant rain hammered against the windowpane, but there was no sound at all. Slowly I breathed out, savouring the feeling. All at once, as quickly as it had happened, the world returned to normal and I heard the noise of a wet and wild afternoon.

  I wasn’t alarmed. I felt, somehow, blessed.

  ‘Thank you!’ I said, to whom I wasn’t sure.

  Maybe I was thanking the cottage for giving me such a sense of belonging.

  *

  Sunday, late morning. With a copy of the Bridport & Lyme Regis News in hand, I walked across the village green and entered the Blacksmith’s Arms. Brian was emptying the glass-washer and hanging clean glasses in neat rows above the bar.

  ‘Hello, young lady,’ he said, looking over in my direction. ‘And how are you surviving over the far side of the green?’

  I laughed. It was all of a hundred yards, if that.

  ‘One room decorated, only five more to go.’

  ‘If you need help I know several trustworthy tradesmen. Just ask.’ He closed the door of the glass-washer. ‘Now, what can I get you?’

  I sat at the bar and ordered a cider and ploughman’s lunch.

  ‘What I do need are some trusty wheels,’ I said, opening the newspaper. ‘Can you recommend any garages around here?’

  Brian placed a glass of cider on the counter in front of me.

  ‘Well, let’s see. There’s Masons in Bridport and Bartlett’s out on the Dorchester road, though they can be a bit on the pricey side. Depends what you’re looking for.’

  ‘Oh, nothing flash. A reliable run-around.’

  I glanced down the column of private adverts.

  ‘Janet’s cousin sells cars.’

  Brian called over to the waitress who had served Dan and me the previous week. She confirmed that her cousin, Bill, had recently started supplementing his job as a mechanic by trading in second-hand cars.

  ‘He’ll do you a good deal,’ she volunteered. ‘He’s on the industrial estate. It’s easy to find. I’ll give you his number.’

  I thanked her and said I would give him a call. I also asked if anyone had reported a missing young, black cat and explained it was living in my outhouse.

  ‘Mrs Tomkins next to you has Rex, the ginger tom,’ Janet said. ‘He’s quite old now and doesn’t go out much, but he’ll probably be in your garden once the weather’s better. I’ve not heard she’s got a new cat. And the Evans family next but one to her have dogs and rabbits.’

  ‘No, I’ve not heard of any new cats in the village, and I hear it all in here.’ Brian grinned broadly. ‘Sure beats watching the soaps any day.’

  I laughed. ‘Stranger than fiction.’

  ‘You can say that again! There’s not much goes on that doesn’t get reported within these four walls. Why don’t you put a poster on the village noticeboard?’

  A sudden shout from the kitchen sent Janet scurrying through the swing doors at the side of the bar. A few minutes later, she reappeared with my ploughman’s and set it on the bar in front of me.

  As I buttered a thick chunk of crusty bread I glanced around. The pub had become progressively busier since my arrival. At the far end of the bar, half a dozen loud businessmen ordered a mainly liquid lunch from Janet, or so it seemed to me. An elderly couple sat at one of the tables by the fire with a map spread out before them, quietly discussing an afternoon’s sightseeing. At another table, a young couple tried their best to deal with two noisy children determined to throw all their food on the floor. There were also several couples enjoying the seclusion of the private alcoves and I fancied these were clandestine meetings
, snatched during brief lunch hours, with Brian the discreet overseer of their secrets.

  The doors to the kitchen suddenly swung open and Brian’s wife appeared looking harassed. ‘Bri, love, can you come here a mo?’

  Raising an eyebrow and muttering under his breath, Brian followed her into the kitchen. Their low voices rose rapidly and I concentrated on reading the newspaper advertisements. Presently he reappeared, red in the face, but instantly regained his bonhomie. I cast him a quizzical look.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ he said. ‘It’s mayhem back there!’

  It transpired the assistant chef had done a runner a couple of days before and hadn’t been seen since. They were coping with Janet not only on waiting duties but also helping out in the kitchen as best she could. It was not proving easy and Vera was nearing the end of her tether.

  Seizing the opportunity, I said, ‘I’m considering part-time work. I had wondered about approaching you.’

  He looked at me in amazement. Suddenly, in one swift action, Brian was on the lounge side of the bar and wrapping me in a huge bear hug.

  ‘You excellent girl!’ he exclaimed. ‘How soon can you start?’

  And so it was agreed. I would start that week, helping out behind the bar on Friday and Saturday nights with further evenings and lunchtimes as Christmas drew nearer, if I wanted them.

  Feeling happy with the way things were shaping up, I finished my lunch and bade my soon-to-be colleagues goodbye. On the way back to the cottage I checked out the village noticeboard. There were the usual posters for coffee mornings, a new Pilates class starting up, mobile library and bus timetables, and a flyer announcing that there were still roles available for any would-be thespians for Bridport Amateur Dramatics’ Christmas pantomime: Puss in Boots. But there was nothing about a missing cat.

  *

  On Monday morning I phoned the local vet’s and the Cats Protection League and enquired if a black cat, aged approximately one year, had been reported missing. Nothing. The receptionist at the veterinary surgery suggested I brought it in to check for a microchip. She laughed when I said there was no chance as I couldn’t get within ten feet of it, but I agreed to do so if the cat ever decided to trust me. I then phoned a number from an advert in the paper and ordered a trailer load of logs. A broad Dorset accent assured me I could expect a delivery within the next couple of days. Finally, I phoned Janet’s cousin who described the various cars he had for sale and I arranged to visit him the following day.

  That night I went to bed early and decided to read for a while. It was still raining. Window dressings had yet to be sorted for the bedroom and, as a temporary measure, I’d pegged bath towels over the curtain rails. The towel at the window overlooking the courtyard billowed as gusts of wind and rain found the gap in the ill-fitting casement. Despite my improvisations, it was a comfortable room built within the eaves of the cottage and I was just thinking how cosy it looked in the glow of the bedside lamp when I heard a thud downstairs. Had a window or door worked itself loose in a draught? I strained, listening further, but all was silent.

  I got out of bed and threw on a dressing gown, switched on the landing light and went downstairs. I checked every door and window but all were secure. Where had the noise come from? Telling myself these old cottages were prone to strange creaking sounds and groans – and ignoring the voice in my head that asked, but a definite thud? – I made a mug of tea and was on my way up to bed when I happened to glance over at the inglenook fireplace. On the day I moved in Dan had swept the fireplace clean, leaving it neat and tidy, but on the hearth there now stood a stone.

  ‘How did you get there?’ I said out loud.

  Sure, the wind was strong, but it must have been one almighty gust to dislodge that.

  I placed the mug on the table and walked towards the hearth. The opening to the hidden alcove appeared larger and, on closer inspection, I discovered the stone had dislodged from its entrance. I stood looking at it, trying to work out where a gust of wind might have come from. Was the chimney faulty? The wood-burning stove obviously had a flue going up the chimney stack. Possibly, the bread oven/furnace had a separate flue.

  As I stood pondering, I had an overwhelming urge to put my hand inside the opening and, before I knew it, once again my fingers searched the floor of the alcove. Each time I was in the sitting room I was drawn to the bread oven but, as on that first morning, I discovered nothing – just dust and rubble. Unsettlingly, I noticed there wasn’t the slightest suggestion of a draught coming from either the inglenook or the bread oven. I withdrew my hand. A chimney sweep or builder definitely needed to investigate further, especially if this part of Dorset was prone to the sort of weather I’d experienced since first moving in.

  Replacing the stone in the opening, I picked up the mug of tea and turned to go. I had just reached the door leading into the hallway when I heard another thud. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the stone once again on the hearth. Despite my mind telling me there had to be a reasonable explanation, something to do with downdraughts and gusts, my skin began to crawl and goose bumps appeared on my arms.

  ‘Oh this is ridiculous,’ I said, more confidently than I felt. ‘You can jolly well stay on the floor!’

  Talking to an inanimate object... whatever next?

  I marched purposefully upstairs, switched off the landing light and closed the bedroom door firmly behind me. Then, placing the mug on the bedside cabinet, I jumped into bed and pulled the duvet covers tight up around my neck, all the while trying not to notice the tremor in my hands.

  *

  The next morning the rain had stopped. I caught the bus into Bridport and found Janet’s cousin on the industrial estate. Bill was chatty and the morning passed quickly. I liked all the cars he showed me but the VW Golf won me over, being the newest and having the least mileage. I was assured it was ‘one careful lady owner driver’ who’d brought it in for him to sell. Silently, I thanked my late Aunt Aileen, my mother’s sister, whose generosity towards me in her will a couple of years before made all this possible; not just the car, but the whole Dorset adventure. Once we’d wrangled over the price and finally agreed upon a sum that suited us both, Bill showed me to his office and proceeded to complete the paperwork.

  ‘What’s your address?’ he asked, filling in the relevant car details.

  I told him and watched as his pen stalled in mid-air.

  ‘The Olde Smithy, Walditch?’ he echoed.

  ‘Yes. Do you know it?’ I tried to ignore the odd expression on his face.

  ‘My sister’s friend rented it for a few months,’ he hesitantly said, looking at me with wide eyes. ‘With her son.’

  Disconcerted by his stare, and for want of anything better to say, I asked, ‘Were they happy there?’

  He cleared his throat and started to write again. ‘Only there a few months,’ he said in a rush. ‘How long have you lived there?’

  ‘Not long.’ He had stirred my curiosity. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ The look on his face changed to one of embarrassment.

  ‘What’s nothing?’ I asked, intrigued.

  He stopped writing and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Things happened.’

  I froze.

  ‘What things, Bill?’ I needed to know.

  He cleared his throat again and said, ‘Um… said she heard noises. Felt she wasn’t alone. Things like that.’ He couldn’t meet my gaze. ‘Look, it was probably just her overblown imagination. She’s always been a bit of a drama queen. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  All at once the office felt stiflingly hot.

  ‘Just going to get some air.’ I waved towards the door and rushed outside.

  The chill of the afternoon was a welcome shock to my senses. Of course there were noises; it was an old cottage. Everything could be accounted for with a logical explanation.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Bill called from behind his desk.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ll just complete the paperwork and be on my w
ay.’

  I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  Nothing more was said about the cottage and we concluded the deal but as I got into the car and prepared to drive off, Brian knocked on the window. I lowered it.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of what I said earlier. My sister’s friend is unhinged and can make a drama out of anything.’

  I smiled and said, lightly, ‘Cheerio! See you in the Blacksmith’s maybe?’

  ‘No doubt,’ he replied. ‘That Brian serves a good pint.’

  Without looking back, I drove away as fast as I could.

  3

  Over the next couple of weeks I slowly wooed Storm. At first the cat refused to respond to my attentions despite daily bribes of food but, little by little, curiosity won over his wariness. By early November he was happy to come to the back door and eat but refused to come into the cottage and continued to treat the outhouse as his home. He was a handsome cat and I couldn’t understand how anyone could have mislaid him or turned him out. I asked around the village but nobody knew where he’d come from.

  Then, early one morning, I looked out of the kitchen window and saw him watching me from the outhouse door. There was a change in his demeanour and as soon as he saw me he got up and came to the back door. Not wanting to frighten him away, I opened the door quietly… and that was that. In he came, as if it was the most natural thing in the world and how foolish was I to think otherwise. He purred around my legs while I spooned cat food into a bowl and then he head-butted my hand as I placed the dish on the floor.

  ‘Welcome, Storm!’

  And, so, Storm came to live with me. It was as if he had finally decided the cottage would be a far preferable place to spend the winter than the draughty old potting shed. I took him to the vet’s but he wasn’t microchipped. His future with me was assured.

  Slowly, life took on a rhythm once more. I enjoyed working at the Blacksmith’s Arms and was comfortable behind the bar, pouring drinks and chatting to the locals. Many of the regulars were true characters and, soon, dormant creativity began to stir. I was itching to start writing again. I also continued to work on the cottage. The previous owners had wallpapered throughout, as was probably the fashion during their time there. Painstakingly, I worked my way through the layers and made discoveries on a daily basis – like the imprint of another staircase in the dining room.