Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

  During the afternoon Storm had forgiven me slightly. He now played with the catnip mouse I’d given him as a Christmas toy, flinging it around and noisily racing up and down the stairs. I closed the curtains and started to search the internet for Dorset-based magazines and newspapers. A short while later, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a movement in the sitting room behind the stained-glass room divide. I glanced out of the window overlooking the village green to see if an outside light could have cast a shadow in the room, but the night was calm; the boughs of the ancient oak still. How odd…

  Returning to my research, I put it out of my mind, but a while later I heard Storm growl. Standing on the stairs, he stared intently through the archway into the sitting room with hackles raised. As I followed his gaze, once again a shadow moved across the internal window. There was an instant stillness in the room and a chill that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Holding my breath, I strained to hear the slightest sound. Rising from the chair, I walked to the archway and cautiously peered around the divide. The room was empty.

  ‘This is a new one,’ I said to the cat, more confidently than I felt.

  He blinked at me and started to play with the mouse again. I texted Mo straight away. I knew she probably wouldn’t respond until after the New Year, as she was busy partying in New York, but I felt the need to make contact.

  Hi Mo. What are you doing?

  Surprisingly, within five minutes she texted back:

  Following your advice – enjoying myself! What’s up, sis?

  I texted a brief outline of the latest twist to the unusual happenings in the cottage. I needed to talk to her face-to-face and asked when she could visit.

  About fifteen minutes later she texted:

  Sorry for delay. Diary hiding amongst Jeff’s mess. He says greetings, lil sis.

  Hmm… very familiar! I had yet to meet this Jeff.

  Can visit UK 15–18 Jan en route to Geneva. Happy New Year! Mo xx

  I wrote the dates on the calendar that my young nephew, Sean, gave me for Christmas – sweeping vistas of the West Coast of Ireland – ‘to remind ye of yer true home’ he cheekily explained, before ducking out of the way as I attempted to cuff him. Feeling lazy, I popped a ready-made meal into the Rayburn, lit the wood burner and settled down to watch TV. Storm, having tired of torturing the catnip toy, joined me in the sitting room and stretched out in front of the fire. Nothing else happened that night to disturb the peace.

  *

  I worked the evening shift on New Year’s Eve. It was just as well because the pub was packed. Brian had booked a local band and it promised to be a great night for all, even me, although I couldn’t help but wonder how a certain person was celebrating on the other side of the world. But, stoically, every time my thoughts turned in that direction I told myself to focus firmly on the present moment.

  ‘Nice to see you’re back with us,’ Brian commented with a grin. ‘I was getting worried about you.’

  He squeezed behind me, holding several bottles of mixers aloft, whilst attempting to fulfil orders for drinks at both ends of the bar.

  ‘Dublin’s done you a world of good.’

  I grudgingly acknowledged that I might not have been completely present during my recent shifts but decided not to offer an explanation. It was fun working behind the bar with Brian. He was always so jolly, even when Vera gave him a hard time because she was stressed and run off her feet in the kitchen. They had hired a new assistant chef who seemed a nice enough lad, but he’d been thrown in at the deep end over the Christmas period and was still finding his feet. During the evening, I caught him muttering to himself and stealing copious cigarette breaks and I couldn’t help wondering whether he would survive the baptism of fire and how long he would stay.

  At around ten, a group of rowdy revellers entered the pub. Amongst them, I recognised the couple I’d seen in Dorchester the day I bumped into Nick. While the girls made their way through the crowd to find tables with a good view of the band, the guys approached the bar and ordered drinks. They were friendly and in high spirits and flirted outrageously while I poured their drinks. The girl I recognised, and now remembered was called Becky, approached the men unsteadily.

  ‘Come on,’ she said loudly. ‘We’re dying of thirst over here.’ She eyed me curiously and I could tell she was trying to place me. ‘Not causing trouble, are they?’ she shouted above the noise of the pub.

  I laughed and said no and that if they were Brian would soon kick them into touch.

  She picked up the glass of gin and tonic I had just placed on the bar in front of her. Taking a sip, she looked at me slyly over the rim. I could see the cogs furiously turning. Suddenly her face cleared. ‘I know where I’ve seen you before. You were with Nick the other week, weren’t you?’

  ‘Err, yes,’ I said vaguely.

  ‘Have you heard from him?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘No.’ Instinctively, I felt she was being devious and wondered where this was heading. I moved away to serve another group at the other end of the bar, but when I’d fulfilled their orders the girl was still there. It was obvious she’d had a skinful and she must have thought I looked fair sport. I was trapped and couldn’t escape.

  ‘I had an email from Sarah the other day,’ she said, with feigned casualness. ‘Said the weather’s amazing and they’re having a fab time.’ She paused to let me absorb this information, not once taking those calculating eyes off my face. ‘Nick’s brother’s place is to die for, apparently. Right on the beach.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, politely.

  ‘Sarah says they’re both coming back with an all-over tan, dirty cow!’

  I swallowed hard, acutely aware the girl watched my every reaction.

  ‘She’s so lucky being taken to Oz,’ she continued. Waving vaguely in the direction of the man I’d seen her with in Dorchester, she sulkily added, ‘Mark wouldn’t dream of spending that sort of money on me.’

  I mumbled something about fortunate people and she took one last punch.

  ‘I think this is it, don’t you? I mean—’ she paused dramatically ‘—they’ve been together soooo long! I bet she comes back wearing a sparkler.’ Waggling her wedding finger in my face, she broke into raucous laughter before swaying her way back through the throng towards her friends.

  So there it was. The female I’d spoken to on his mobile wasn’t his sister.

  The rest of the evening passed in an unhappy daze. I smiled when people spoke to me and tolerated sloppy kisses from a couple of the regulars when we counted down the seconds to midnight, but the girl’s comments rang in my ears. And when midnight eventually arrived I had trouble fighting back foolish tears. It would already be New Year’s Day in Australia. No doubt, Nick had romantically got down on one knee at the stroke of midnight, their time, and proposed. I didn’t even feel any sense of smugness when, towards the end of the evening, Becky was dragged out of the pub by her boyfriend and I saw her throwing up outside. I went through the motions, bidding customers farewell and wishing them a ‘Happy New Year’, and then Janet and I methodically cleared the tables.

  A while later, Brian said, ‘Go on, you two. Go home to your beds. I’ll divvy out tips tomorrow. You’ve earned every penny tonight. Thanks a million.’ Kissing us on the cheek, he waved us off the premises and locked the door. I turned to Janet and hugged her.

  ‘I’m shattered,’ she said. ‘Not sure I can make it home.’

  I gave a small laugh and pushed her gently in the direction of her house, all of five doors along from the pub. ‘Happy New Year, Janet.’

  As I walked across the village green towards The Olde Smithy I knew I was the loneliest girl on the planet.

  *

  I woke the next morning around eleven. I’d forgotten to shut the bedroom door and came to with Storm rubbing his face against mine, insisting he needed food now. I rolled over and groaned as the events of the previous evening came flooding back to me
, but, surprisingly, instead of feeling desperate, I became angry. Why had I let the bitchy girl get to me so much? And as for Nick, well, damn him. I didn’t even know him! How had I allowed him to get so deeply under my skin? And then I thought of Dan. Damn him too. After I’d left a message with Lucy, I’d expected him to return my call while I was in Dublin, but he hadn’t. No doubt too tired keeping Lucy satisfied, I thought bitchily. And, so, I decided there and then that I had two options: either to wallow in self-pity or get on with my life.

  ‘Come on, Storm.’ I threw back the duvet and jumped out of bed. ‘Let’s have breakfast.’

  I didn’t have to report for work until the evening and wondered how to spend the afternoon. For some reason, I decided to walk over to Shipton Gorge. It was a grey, still day – as if the first day of the New Year nursed a hangover – and there was a chill in the air. Throwing on a waterproof jacket and scarf, I strode across the village green and turned right towards The Hyde Real Tennis Court. Storm thought it great sport and came with me part of the way.

  Turning left before the court, I took a footpath following the valley around the curve of the hill that encompasses the village. About fifty yards further along the path I passed a couple of horse riders coming in the opposite direction. Storm decided this was far enough for him and a steady rustling in the long grass proved too exciting to ignore. He left me to continue on my own.

  It was a picturesque walk and I carried on ever upwards. I hadn’t walked in the area before but I’d often overheard customers in the pub discussing the various trails and bridle paths in the neighbourhood. The track, however, seemed oddly familiar. When it forked, I instinctively knew that if I took the right path it would lead me through a farm and on towards Burton Bradstock and that I needed to take the left route for Shipton Gorge.

  As I walked, enjoying being out in the open air, I started to hum a pleasant, rhythmic melody with a distinctly old-fashioned lilt. Where had that come from? It wasn’t a tune I recognised. The song persisted and finished with a flourish.

  It wasn’t far to Shipton Gorge, possibly two miles, but the path traversed Walditch Knapp and was steep in places, and by the time I reached level ground I was hot and out of breath. I removed my scarf and tied it around my waist before continuing my journey. On reaching the crossroads in the middle of the village, without hesitation I continued straight ahead. Where was I going with such determination? It was as if my feet were no longer mine to control.

  Presently, I came to the fourteenth-century church of St Martin’s. I paused at the lych gate and looked up at the tower with its elaborate doorway and smiled at the gargoyles as if they were old friends. I had the strangest sense of having been here before, but I had never visited Shipton Gorge. As I walked through the gate the size of the church confused me, though I wasn’t sure why.

  ‘This is all wrong. It’s too large.’

  I glanced around self-consciously and breathed a sigh of relief. There was no one about. I walked around the outside of the church with a growing sense of disquiet; it was only when I came back to the West Tower that the feeling left me. I tried the door, which was open, and entered.

  The church had a wonderfully peaceful atmosphere and I immediately slipped into one of the pews and started to pray. It took me by surprise that I should automatically want to do so, as I hadn’t prayed for years; not since attending the local Catholic school for girls in Dublin. Glancing around at the open framework to the interior, I looked up at the ceiling and noticed the carved stone corbels supporting the main timbers in the aisle. I was amazed by the size of the church. As I walked up the aisle, past the stone pulpit with its handsomely carved panel, and approached the font, I knew it would have seven sides. But how did I know that?

  In bewilderment, I gazed at the open benches and wondered where the box pews and galleries had gone. Disorientation overwhelmed me. What was I thinking? Feeling foolish, and not without a certain amount of rising panic, I walked purposefully back up the aisle towards the entrance. On a table by the door lay several neatly stacked piles of literature about the church and the parish, and I picked up a pamphlet entitled, A Guide to St Martin’s. Then, dropping coins into the donations’ box, I walked outside into the cold afternoon air.

  For a while I meandered amongst the gravestones, idly reading the epitaphs; some were ancient. And then, rounding the corner at the far end of the church, I stopped abruptly. A faint curtain of mist hung in the air and, through it, I saw a man carefully placing flowers at the base of a gravestone. A wirehaired terrier sat at his feet. I kept a discreet distance, respecting his privacy, but something about him drew me and I couldn’t help but watch. Aged about forty, he wore his dark blond hair tied back in a ponytail, and it occurred to me he might be one of the actors in the local pantomime as his dress was so unusual: loose cotton breeches, long leather boots turned over at the top, a leather jerkin with large white scalloped collar and a short cloak slung casually over one shoulder. In his left hand he held a soft, felt, broad-brimmed hat.

  The terrier remained seated but moved position constantly, in that busy way terriers have, but not once did it take its eyes from its master’s face. There was something about the man’s stance that I recognised. Was he a regular at the pub? Suddenly, an overpowering wave of despair swept over me and I gasped. The man turned in my direction and I stood rooted to the spot, at once consumed by embarrassment as I saw the utter wretchedness and helplessness shrouding him. And then I noticed his face, wet with tears, and gasped again. He appeared not to see me. His eyes scanned the graveyard and a frown formed on his brow.

  My legs buckled from under me. Seeing me fall to the ground, the terrier stood up, stared intently in my direction and started yapping wildly, though I heard not a sound. I sat in the grass gasping for breath. That face! That dear, sweet face! A face so familiar, it was as if it were part of my very soul… and yet, try as I might, I could not put a name to the man.

  After a while I found I could breathe more easily. Unsteadily, I clambered to my feet. The mist had cleared and both the man and the dog had gone. I looked around but there was no one about. I walked to the gravestone where he’d been standing; it was very old and fingers of lichen spread across its stonework. I tried to read the inscription but it was difficult to decipher. Ravaged by time, the elements had all but destroyed the letters carved into the stone, but there was a date – 1844 or 1644. I frowned. Why would anyone be so affected by such an ancient grave? I could just make out the letters ‘e’, ‘m’ and ‘y’ but whole words were impossible to read. Looking down at the base of the gravestone, I was surprised not to see the flowers the man had placed so carefully. Neither were there any impressions in the grass where the man and dog had stood.

  At once, I realised my mistake. I had the wrong grave. I looked around for a newer headstone but couldn’t find one. As I stood a moment longer wondering about the man, a great sense of acceptance and tranquillity settled upon my soul. I was exhausted by the bewildering emotions I’d experienced that afternoon and, yet, I also felt a deep sense of… What? What did I feel? Belonging? Release? I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t explain it but for some reason I was at peace with the world. All the irritation and sadness I felt over Dan and the bizarrely intense feelings and irrational despair concerning Nick didn’t seem to matter a jot.

  A few spots of rain made me squint skywards. Dark clouds had gathered from the north and I shivered. It was time to head back to Walditch.

  ‘God bless you, whoever you are,’ I whispered into the wind.

  8

  The next couple of weeks flew by and I was pleased with all that I managed to accomplish. I contacted various magazine editors and was encouraged by the number who asked me to send in freelance material, and I spoke to Dan’s eco friend. He was keen for me to search out projects in and around Dorset and we negotiated a favourable deal. I also visited Bridport Street Market again and discovered a colourful stall selling country-style items and purchased curtains for both be
drooms, and – having finally finished stripping wallpaper from the downstairs rooms – I started painting the walls. I considered phoning Dan. However, still feeling piqued he hadn’t bothered to contact me at all over the Christmas period I decided to leave it to him to make contact… should he ever find the time.

  Mo arrived on the evening of the 15th January and I collected her from Exeter Airport along with several bags of camera equipment. Since embarking on her chosen career in photojournalism, there were very few countries she hadn’t visited and she was stopping off in Dorset en route to a photo shoot in Switzerland. It was so good to see her again and she hugged me warmly.

  ‘Wow, look at you.’ She tweaked my long curly hair. ‘Haven’t seen you looking so soft and—’ she searched for an appropriate description ‘—Irish, for how long? Years…’

  I laughed. ‘Well, hair does have a tendency to grow over the course of eight months.’

  ‘No! Is that the last time we saw each other?’

  ‘Yes.’ I took her suitcase and started walking towards the car park. ‘You visited me in London just before I went on location with that period drama on the Jurassic Coast. That was last May.’

  She strode confidently beside me and I noticed several people glance in our direction.

  ‘You looked very much the assistant director then,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t take any nonsense from anyone, let alone a mere star!’

  I laughed again. Was I still that person, or had Dorset softened me out of all recognition?

  Mo was just two years older than me. We had always been close, having similar attitudes and sharing the same sense of adventure. We also bore a striking resemblance to each other – though she was a couple of inches taller than me – and were often mistaken as twins. We had inherited our father’s hazel-green eyes and curly auburn hair, which Mo kept short, saying it was easier to cope with on assignment. Martha, ten years my senior, was out of a different mould entirely, what with her sophisticated attitude, sleek black hair and piercing blue ‘Paul Newman’ eyes.