Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

‘Everything OK?’ I asked.

  Looking sheepish, he raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Left my tool bag in the van.’

  Fishing out a set of keys from his jacket hanging in the hall, he opened the front door and sprinted across the green through the rain. As I waited for the kettle to boil his mobile rang. I glanced out of the front window but couldn’t see Nick anywhere, so I walked through to the dining room and picked up his phone.

  ‘Hello. Nick’s phone.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello,’ I repeated.

  ‘Where’s Nick?’

  The voice was female and had a strong, local accent.

  I looked through the window again but still couldn’t see him. ‘In his van, I think.’

  ‘Tell him the travel agent’s just phoned, will you? The flight’s two hours early and we have to be at the airport by six.’

  Irrationally, my heart pounded as I assured her I would pass the message on.

  There was a long pause before she spoke again. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  I hadn’t.

  ‘Maddie. Nick’s doing a job for me.’

  Another long hesitation. ‘Bye then.’

  I replaced the phone on the table and walked back to the kitchen, desperate to know the identity of the caller. Distractedly, I noticed it had at last stopped raining. Was it his sister? It was feasible he was visiting his brother in Australia with family – I hoped – or was the caller his girlfriend? A guy like Nick couldn’t be single. Despair and jealousy engulfed me at the same time, and I cursed myself for being a slave to such unguarded emotions.

  A blast of cold air announced Nick re-entering the cottage, tool bag in hand, closely followed by a flurry of leaves. He looked windswept and I had an overwhelming urge to gather him up in my arms.

  ‘Sometimes I think I could lose my head!’ he exclaimed, taking the stairs two at a time.

  I finished making the tea and slowly walked upstairs, trying to make sense of my emotions. As I opened the bedroom door I saw him on the far side of the room. Having unscrewed the ill-fitting casement, Nick stood bent over, the window frame between his legs, slowly and rhythmically shaving off the offending edge with a plane. I stared. The scene was strangely familiar. I noticed the length of his hair, his build, the set of his body, and shivered with a strong sense of déjà vu.

  He was absorbed in his work and so I set the mugs of tea on the bedside cabinet. My conversation with the mystery female caller had taken the wind out of my sails and, feeling deflated and resigned, I sat on the bed and watched him as he worked. He glanced up. Seeing me observing him, he smiled.

  My stomach flipped.

  ‘Maddie,’ he said, looking down at the window again and concentrating on his rhythm, ‘do you have kids?’

  ‘No, why do you ask?’

  ‘I thought I heard a child crying.’

  I froze.

  ‘Maybe it was next door,’ he suggested.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ I said slowly. ‘Mrs Tomkins is over seventy.’

  He gave a small laugh and then glanced at me with a puzzled expression. ‘I could have sworn…’ The sentence petered out.

  ‘Must have been the wind,’ I said.

  Straightening up, he tried the casement in the opening. ‘That should do the trick, for a while.’

  I watched him pack out the hinges. While he screwed them in place, I mentioned the phone call.

  ‘Your mobile went off earlier. Hope you don’t mind, I answered it.’

  ‘Who was it?’ he asked, without pausing in his work.

  ‘She didn’t give her name.’ She’d asked for mine, though. ‘Apparently your flight’s been brought forward two hours.’

  ‘Great! That means getting up at some ungodly hour.’

  I was desperate to ask who she was, but how could I?

  ‘There, how’s that?’ He stood back and surveyed his work.

  I got off the bed and tried the catch. The window opened smoothly and, when closed, it sat snugly alongside the other opening casement.

  ‘Thanks. Now I won’t freeze all night.’

  He smiled and I held out a mug of tea to him. As he reached for it, he inadvertently trapped my fingers beneath his. The bolt of electricity between us was astounding.

  ‘Wow!’ I jumped back and tea slopped over the edge of the mug onto the floorboards.

  I started laughing nervously. Had he felt it too – or was it just me, the gibbering wreck? I tried hard to stop the hysterical laughter and, shyly, glanced at him. Momentarily, I stopped breathing. I’d seen the look in his eyes before… here in this very bedroom. He wasn’t laughing, just looking at me in that way.

  Awkwardly I said, ‘Harness that if you will!’

  I handed him the mug again. This time, he took it without touching me and we drank our tea in silence. Nick quickly finished his and swiftly put away his tools.

  ‘If you’ve got a brush I’ll sweep up,’ he offered.

  ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll do it later.’

  The afternoon had long since turned to evening and it was now dark outside.

  ‘Guess I’d better be going,’ Nick said, checking his watch.

  ‘How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s a favour.’ He looked at me with an inscrutable expression.

  Suddenly I felt very sober. Nick would now be out of the country for at least a month and then who knows when I would see him again. Turning towards the door, I walked out onto the landing and heard him pick up his tool bag and then switch off the light before following me downstairs.

  It was cramped in the hallway for two people to stand side by side and I was acutely aware of his presence. I took his jacket from the hook by the door and handed it to him. He appeared to be on the point of saying something but then obviously thought better of it.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Maddie,’ he said eventually.

  ‘And you too, Nick.’

  He smiled and indicated to the wallpaper scrapings still caught in my hair. ‘By the way, I like the look.’

  Reluctantly, I opened the front door and let him go out into the cold, wintry night.

  6

  I didn’t see or speak to Nick again before he left for Australia. I was due to work the evening shift on the day of his departure but asked if I could cover lunchtime as well, as I was desperate for any distraction. I couldn’t forget that shock of electricity between us and the look in his eyes. Pleased to have the extra help, Brian was more than happy to oblige. My imagination was working overtime and I had visions of Nick flying off to the wide open beaches of Australia with a devastatingly beautiful girlfriend, enjoying sun, sea and… I knew I was beating myself up, but I couldn’t do anything to stop the thoughts. And to make matters worse the day dawned bright and clear, as if to mock my melancholy humour.

  I was laying tables when Brian called me over to the bar.

  ‘See that family sitting over there by the fire?’ I nodded. ‘The old lady’s Mrs McKendrick. She used to own your cottage.’

  I looked across to the people sitting at the table and noticed a petite, smartly dressed, grey-haired lady with delicate features. She must have been very pretty in her youth. She was flanked by a younger woman, who looked remarkably like her and whom I assumed was her daughter, and a man of similar age to the woman. Opposite sat three cheeky-looking boys, the eldest about twelve. They looked a decent family.

  ‘Does she live around here now?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Lives with them.’

  I studied Mrs McKendrick. The estate agent had informed me the previous owners lived in the cottage for over thirty years. Had she ever experienced any unusual happenings?

  ‘Bet she misses her independence,’ commented Brian.

  As if she knew we were discussing her, Mrs McKendrick suddenly put down the menu she was studying and looked over in our direction. Brian immediately started polishing a glass and I busied myself repositioning the beer mats on the counter. The man sitting next to
her said something to her and then called over, saying they were ready to place an order.

  ‘Maddie will be with you in a minute,’ Brian replied with a smile.

  ‘Do you think she heard what we were saying?’ I whispered.

  ‘Doubt it. Not at this distance. Anyway, at her age her hearing’s probably shot.’

  I picked up a pen and notepad from under the bar and dutifully walked over to the group. As I grew closer I realised that Mrs McKendrick’s prettiness masked her true age and she was older than she had appeared from a distance. She also seemed frail and I noticed a walking stick hooked over the back of her chair. As I took the family’s order she watched me like a hawk, her pale blue eyes never once leaving my face, and when I turned to go she placed her hand on my arm.

  ‘You live in the cottage don’t you, dear?’

  Assuming Brian must have said something, I replied that if she meant The Olde Smithy then, yes, I did, and I’d been there just over two months.

  ‘Mum and Dad used to live there,’ said the younger woman.

  I smiled and turned to the elderly lady. ‘Where do you live now?’

  ‘With my daughter in Winchester.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said.

  ‘The stairs got too much for her,’ explained the daughter, ‘and the boys love having their grandma around.’

  I glanced at the three young lads, still at an age when they had time for the older generation.

  ‘Grandma’s wick-ed!’ said the eldest boy, pronouncing the latter word as two definite syllables.

  And not to be outdone, the youngest, aged about five, enthusiastically agreed.

  ‘Grandma tells wick-ed stories.’

  ‘How lucky you are,’ I said, glancing at Mrs McKendrick and wondering what she thought of being described as ‘wick-ed’.

  Excusing myself, I took their order through to the kitchen and then returned to the bar and served a couple of walkers who had hiked over from Shipton Gorge. They said they were keen tennis players and that the owners of the B&B where they were staying had told them that Walditch had a real tennis court. They’d come to investigate. While I poured their drinks I gave them directions to the court and said I’d read that Henry VII had played at the site during his visits to the area.

  Sensing someone’s eyes on me, I glanced across at the family and saw Mrs McKendrick still watching me. I felt uncomfortable under her scrutinising gaze but she was probably just curious to see who now inhabited her cottage. After all, it had been her home for almost as long as I’d been alive. Presently, Vera shouted from the kitchen that the McKendricks’ order was ready. I took their food over and, immediately, the boys started squabbling over which plate had the more chips.

  ‘Just catch my attention if you want anything,’ I said.

  ‘Thank you, Mary,’ replied Mrs McKendrick.

  ‘Maddie,’ I corrected with a smile.

  She looked at me, her pale blue eyes seemingly addressing my soul. ‘Yes, dear, whatever you say.’

  I frowned and the man pulled an apologetic face. I moved away from the group, telling myself she must be a little senile and that was probably the reason why she had gone to live with her daughter and son-in-law. Nevertheless, I felt curiously unsettled.

  The pub grew progressively busy and I served drinks to several customers and took more food orders before returning to the group by the fire. As I cleared away their empty plates, the boys studied the list of desserts with great concentration.

  ‘Are you happy at the cottage, dear?’ Mrs McKendrick asked.

  I felt the question was loaded but didn’t want to go into it, especially in front of her grandsons.

  ‘Oh yes,’ I said lightly. ‘It immediately felt like home. But you lived there for so long you must have felt that too?’

  ‘Oh no, Mary, it was always your home. We just looked after it for you.’

  I was really confused and glanced at her daughter.

  ‘Don’t worry about Mum, she’s a bit, um, unclear these days,’ she said, choosing her words carefully.

  The old lady clicked her tongue but said nothing. She gazed up at the painting hanging above the fire. ‘You know that’s your cottage, don’t you?’

  I answered that I’d guessed it was.

  ‘It’s always been a smithy,’ she continued. ‘This is it in the seventeenth century.’

  ‘Not the actual smithy, Joyce,’ interjected the man. ‘An artist’s impression of what it might have looked like at that time.’

  I was instantly incensed by his patronising tone, but wondered why it was such a personal affront.

  Mrs McKendrick tutted again. Ignoring her son-in-law’s comment, she pointed to the man in the painting. ‘And that’s the blacksmith.’

  Her intense gaze seared right through me. Contrary to what her daughter believed, I realised there was very little about Mrs McKendrick that was ‘unclear’.

  Following his father’s lead, the oldest boy said, ‘Grandma, of course he’s a blacksmith. He’s shoeing a horse!’

  His brothers giggled.

  ‘James, don’t be rude,’ scolded Mrs McKendrick’s daughter.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ said their father. ‘Make up your minds what you want for pudding. Maddie hasn’t got all day to wait on you.’

  I jotted down their requests and noted that the adults only wanted coffee. Then, having passed their order for desserts through to the kitchen, I returned to the bar to prepare the coffees. With my mind working overtime, I didn’t hear Brian when he spoke to me.

  ‘Penny for them.’ Eventually he prodded me. ‘Maddie?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Brian. I was miles away.’

  On a flight to Brisbane – amongst other things…

  ‘Yes. I can see that! Hope they’re nice thoughts.’

  Smiling grimly, I said nothing.

  The McKendrick party left around two-thirty. As they prepared to leave, the man approached the bar to pay.

  ‘Thanks for being so understanding,’ he said in a low voice, jerking his head in his mother-in-law’s direction. ‘Joyce is a bit gaga these days. She can’t walk very far but was determined to come back to Walditch before she becomes totally housebound. We thought it would be fun to have a family trip out.’

  I glanced over at the group and saw the daughter helping Mrs McKendrick to her feet.

  ‘I hope she enjoyed her visit,’ I said.

  He assured me she had. With a wink, he pressed a tip into my hand. I thanked him and watched as he returned to his family. The eldest grandson held out the walking stick to his grandmother and, linking arms, together they walked slowly towards the exit. As she reached the door Mrs McKendrick stopped and turned to look back at the painting. Then, slowly, her far-seeing, pale blue eyes alighted on me.

  ‘Don’t stop looking, Mary,’ she called out across the room.

  Her daughter mouthed ‘sorry’ at me and the younger boys giggled. As I watched the family depart, I felt inexplicably sad. What did she mean? Suddenly I felt very cold, despite the warmth of the pub.

  ‘What was all that about, Mary?’ teased Brian.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said in a voice far stronger than I felt.

  *

  I phoned Dan later that afternoon.

  ‘The Chambers’ residence,’ Lucy announced, in a ridiculously sophisticated voice.

  I tried not to choke. Who did she think she was? She was at Dan’s flat in Islington, for God’s sake, not some country pile! I was incensed before I even opened my mouth to speak.

  ‘Hi, Lucy,’ I said, as calmly as I could.

  ‘Who’s speaking?’ she asked in that stupidly false voice.

  ‘Maddie.’

  ‘Oh hiya, Maddie.’ The sophistication slipped a notch. ‘How’s life in the sticks?’

  My blood boiled but I refused to rise to the bait. ‘Great! How’s life in the big bad city?’

  ‘Fabulous. I couldn’t have made a better move.’

  Having already run out of thin
gs to say, I decided to cut to the chase. ‘Is Dan there? I’d like to speak to him before I leave for Dublin.’

  ‘’Fraid not, darling. He’s away filming until Christmas Eve. We’re spending the festivities with his sis. She’s such a hon.’

  I seethed. ‘Perhaps you’d let him know I rang to wish him happy times.’

  ‘Will do.’

  Before I could say another word, the line went dead. No love lost there then.

  7

  The following Tuesday, having arranged for Janet to feed Storm while I was away, I drove to Exeter Airport and boarded a flight for Dublin with a suitcase filled with Christmas presents and a few clothes. I was happy and excited at the prospect of spending time with my family and I spent the next week luxuriating in being back in the fold. Being typically Irish, my family knew how to party and it was great craic. On a couple of evenings I caught up with old friends for drinks in and around Temple Bar and by the time I returned to Dorset on the last day of December, I felt both exhausted and rejuvenated.

  I had a day to myself before going back to work at the pub and spent it trying to ingratiate myself with Storm, who was most put out I’d gone away and abandoned him. He was asleep on his favourite chair when I first arrived home and although he looked up when I came in, he’d since studiously ignored any attempt on my part to make a fuss of him. I unpacked my Christmas presents and set the fabulous peacock-blue glass mosaic fruit bowl that Martha and her husband had given me on the coffee table. Then I sorted out my clothes and loaded the washing machine with dirty garments.

  As I stood in the kitchen I noticed the answerphone flashing. I half-expected it would be a message from Dan, but it wasn’t. It was Janet informing me that Storm had been a breeze to look after and very friendly. Glancing into the sitting room, I raised an eyebrow; the cat had now turned his back on me. I sorted through the post that Janet had stacked on the dining table, certain that Dan’s Christmas card would be amongst the pile of envelopes. But there wasn’t one from him. Irritated that he’d forgotten me, I noticed with dismay that my feelings were also tinged with sadness.

  The day passed quickly. That evening, I decided there was no time like the present to start making a list of contacts I intended to approach for freelance writing jobs. My generous parents had given me a laptop for Christmas and I now placed this on the dining table. Then, making myself a cup of coffee, I set to work.