Secrets of the Mist

by Kate Ryder

  A sheepdog suddenly appeared. Barking noisily, it ran at the wheels of the car as I followed the track, turning right between the farm buildings and then around a sharp left-hand bend. All at once, and for no obvious reason, my breathing became laboured and my vision blurred. A shooting pain whipped across my forehead. Gripping the steering wheel, I carried on, navigating the car around several large potholes as best I could.

  After a while, I breathed more easily and the headache subsided. The lane took me through another series of farm buildings and eventually I arrived at a T-junction. Instinctively I wanted to turn right, but in my dream the turning had been a lane. This was a main road. If I turned left I would come to the A35 again. If I took the right turning, where would that lead? I studied the map. The road led to the village of Swyre and onwards to Abbotsbury, via the coast road. I turned towards the village, though I knew it was wrong. According to the map I was heading away from Hammiton Farm, but something made me want to head south. I had only reached the hamlet of Chilcombe, a matter of half a mile, when the headache returned and I had to stop. I was strangely fearful.

  Although it had started raining steadily, I got out of the car, pulled up the hood of my jacket and breathed in deeply, slowly turning around to survey the scenery. Interestingly, I noticed that when I faced south, east or north, the fear dissipated; however, when I looked in a westerly direction I felt decidedly nauseous. Why?

  On the far side of the road, a series of fields stretched away to the distance and on a hill to the west I saw the tower of St Martin’s Church. I knew I was close, but not close enough. I must have missed the turning. I jumped back as a passing car sped by, sending up a sheet of water from a deep puddle in the road. Open-mouthed, the occupants gawped at me, and I realised I must look decidedly strange standing out in the torrential rain. I climbed back in the car and backtracked, turning left down the rutted lane and driving past the range of farm buildings.

  After a mile or so, I came to a bend. As I negotiated it, a rabbit shot across my path and I swerved, stalling the car in the process and ending up in the hedge. I swore under my breath. I was about to put the car into reverse when I noticed the hedge seemed less thick at this point and I could just make out an overgrown track leading off to the left. It was obvious that no one had ventured down it for a very long time and the foliage had grown rampant. No wonder I’d missed it…

  Parking the car tightly into the hedge, I stepped out into the rain once again and forced my way through the bushes. On several occasions, I had to disentangle myself from the unforgiving brambles that grabbed at my legs and tore at my waxed jacket. The track was deeply rutted and the rain had turned the mud into a lethal, slippery surface. The going was tough and I scrambled along the path as best I could. My legs turned increasingly leaden, as if I was physically held back, and I had to force one foot in front of the other to make any progress at all.

  After five hundred yards, or so, the track petered out. In front of me was an open field, empty of stock and lying fallow. For no reason at all, I started to panic and thought I was going to pass out. The fear was ever-growing. I bent over. With hands on knees, I steadied myself and took several deep breaths. I was oblivious to the rain. A few minutes later, I straightened up and took in my surroundings. Every fibre in my body told me this was where Hammiton Hall had once stood, but here was nothing there now, apart from a curious mound to my right. It was seemingly out of place in the landscape.

  I walked to the small hillock and started to pull at the turf, which came away in sodden clumps. With mounting feverishness I tore at the earth, the mud forcing its way under my fingernails. Then, picking up a loose rock, I hacked at the ground and made several deep depressions, which immediately filled with water. After a further fifteen minutes, I broke through to rubble and a square of stonework revealed itself. Scrambling to my feet, I walked a few yards in the opposite direction and stopped. The ground felt stony underfoot, unlike the soft grass and mud in the centre of the track.

  Although wet through, I was oblivious to my immediate environment and, once again, I fell to my knees. Cold rainwater soaked through my already saturated jeans. Frantically, I pulled at the grass and, after some time, discovered another square of stonework long buried beneath the earth. Instinctively, I knew these were the remains of the entrance to Hammiton Hall, though the building itself was long gone. In my mind’s eye, I saw the great iron gates and the huge stone pillars of my dream.

  I got to my feet and walked through the entrance and up what would have been the drive to where the Hall had once stood. With ever-increasing and inexplicable terror, my body began to shake and, suddenly, I was violently sick. I stood in the rain feeling wretched and very alone. Delving deep in my pockets, I found a tissue and wiped my mouth. My face wasn’t just wet from the rain; I was crying. Something terrible had happened here and, without a shadow of doubt, I knew it was something concerning me. I forced myself to look around the site, despite being consumed by irrational panic, but there was nothing more to discover. The foundations of the house were nowhere to be seen.

  I made my way back to the car and sat for five minutes, waiting for the shaking to abate, before driving down the lane towards Hammiton Farm. As I passed the farmhouse, a man stood and stared from the front porch and called sharply to the sheepdog as it, once again, ran at my tyres.

  I arrived back in Walditch and parked alongside the village green, shaken by my experience. I was cold and wet through, but I couldn’t face being on my own and needed some form of distraction, so I went to the pub. Brian did a double take as I walked in.

  ‘Maddie, you look terrible! Come here. I’ll get you a drink.’

  With my hands still shaking violently and the wet jeans clinging to my legs, I clambered onto a bar stool. Brian set a glass of whisky on the bar in front of me.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ he asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  I looked at him wide-eyed and burst into tears. Swiftly, he came around the bar and wrapped me in a huge bear hug, despite my wet clothes.

  ‘Hey, come on, sweetheart, it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘I think it is,’ I sobbed.

  ‘No, Maddie. Nothing’s that bad. Drink up.’

  I shook so much I had to hold the glass with both hands. I took a large mouthful and the whisky burned the back of my throat.

  ‘You know, I don’t give any old person my finest single malt,’ he said kindly.

  I managed a smile, of sorts.

  ‘You just got cold and wet, didn’t you?’ he said, as if talking to a young child.

  The shaking began to subside. ‘I guess so.’

  Brian would never understand the things that were happening to me. He was a regular bloke without an ounce of ‘other worldliness’.

  ‘Good, well now you’re here…’ He grinned. ‘Vera and I have decided on an emerald theme for the seventeenth, so wear anything green. I know you’ll look smashing, what with that auburn hair of yours. Oh, and I’ve risked my reputation once again. You’ll be on waiting duties.’

  Thank God for Brian bringing me back to the moment.

  ‘I’m getting quite a dab hand at this waitressing thing now,’ I said in a weak voice. ‘I’ll dig something out of the dressing-up box for the evening.’

  He scrunched his nose at me. ‘That’s the spirit.’

  I finished my drink and walked back to the cottage. Closing the door on the world, momentarily I leant back against it. Then, with a deep sigh, I changed into dry clothes and opened the laptop to record the latest twist in the sad tale that was unfolding.

  24

  The evening of the seventeenth was crisp and clear. It had stopped raining earlier that afternoon and I ran across the village green, careful not to slip on the wet grass. As I burst through the pub door, Vera – startled by my noisy arrival – acknowledged me briefly before returning to her conversation with Janet. As I hung my jacket on the coat hooks by the door, I noticed someone had lit a
fire in the hearth and I glanced up at the painting displayed above it, as I always did.

  ‘Hey, Maddie, I like the skirt,’ Janet called over.

  I swung round and saw her observing me over the top of her clipboard. In response to Brian’s request for the team to wear something green, I’d chosen black leggings and a short pleated skirt in emerald-green tartan, which hadn’t seen the light of day since my London media days. With some satisfaction I noticed it still fitted, even though I wasn’t now as active as I used to be, when the latest ‘rising star’ had me running around at their every whim. I’d fixed my hair in a single plait with a green ribbon braided through it, and on my black T-shirt I’d pinned an old Christmas cracker gift – an emerald-green enamelled brooch in the shape of a four-leaf clover.

  ‘Thanks, Janet, and you look great.’

  She wore black trousers, a striking green and white blouse and a wide, black patent belt, which accentuated her slim waist.

  ‘The band’s already here,’ she said excitedly.

  I glanced through the archway. On the other side of the restaurant the six-piece Irish folk group were setting up their equipment. She fancied the lead singer and was ecstatic when Brian informed us he’d hired them for the evening.

  ‘How many have booked tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Thirty-six, but we’re expecting more.’

  I had yet to see the reservations’ list and was nervous there might be a table in the name of Corbin, as there had been on Valentine’s Night. She handed me the clipboard and I scanned the names, experiencing both relief and disappointment on seeing the surname not listed. However, I did notice Janet had marked herself down for all the tables nearest the band. Charmingly, she blushed when I pointed this out.

  The restaurant was transformed with emerald streamers adorning the beams and each table sported a smart green cloth with a small vase of perky daffodils placed in the centre. The musicians had entered into the spirit of the day, and green tassels embellished their instruments. Each band member also sported something green and the young, energetic, lead singer wore footwear of a particularly lurid shade. I watched Janet as she chatted to him, enthusiastically comparing the colour of her blouse to his boots. Trying not to think about my own obsession with a certain person, I hoped that something would come of Janet’s infatuation. The group had played at the pub before – a mix of traditional Irish folk and rock – and were very popular. Brian expected a good turnout.

  Soon, customers arrived. Although I was busy behind the bar, each time the door opened I held my breath in anticipation. But Nick did not appear. It was ridiculous to be so on edge and I kept reminding myself that I didn’t want him to turn up anyway. Sometime around eight, Brian asked me to work the tables for the remainder of the evening. I was pleased to do so; the entrance doors weren’t visible from the restaurant and the lively atmosphere would more easily distract me. About an hour later, Charles Bosworth appeared in the archway to the restaurant with Sarah. My heart did a double flip, expecting to see Nick, but it was Becky and Mark who followed them in. Charles approached with a playful glint in his eyes and planted a kiss on my cheek.

  ‘Good evening, lovely lady,’ he said, in that chocolate-rich voice. ‘I didn’t know you could be found here. I may have to change my watering hole.’

  I smiled at the compliment. ‘Hello, Charles. Have you booked?’ I hadn’t seen his name on the list.

  ‘No, last-minute decision. Thought we’d come and surprise you.’

  I looked past him to Sarah. Her mouth twitched into some form of a smile but her eyes coolly surveyed me.

  ‘A table for four?’ I asked.

  ‘Please. Not too close to the band but preferably one with a good view.’

  I checked the restaurant bookings. There was a free table over by the window halfway down the room. As requested, it was not too close to the band but still had a good view. A charmed life indeed!

  ‘Hope you don’t mind the company I’ve brought,’ he said quietly, placing a hand at my waist. ‘I tried to persuade Nick to come too, but he said he wasn’t feeling well.’ He winked at me. ‘Thought that was only ever a female complaint.’

  So Nick had bowed out. Some friendship we had...

  As they settled at the table, I distributed menus and handed Charles the wine list. Sarah, sitting next to him, appeared animated and excited. True to form, Becky glared at me.

  ‘I’ll give you a few minutes to decide what you’d like,’ I said.

  I cleared away plates from a nearby table. As I walked through the swing doors to the kitchen with crockery piled high, Janet came up behind me.

  ‘That Becky Milner’s got a face on her tonight,’ she said. ‘Probably had an argument with Mark. God knows why he puts up with her.’

  Janet and I got on well. Coming from a family of four boys, she treated me like the older sister she’d never had and often confided in me. She’d lived in Walditch all her life and had been at school with both Sarah and Becky.

  ‘Yes, seems to have a bit of an attitude.’

  ‘She’s always been that way,’ Janet continued. ‘Mark must be really spineless to stay. You have to watch your back with her.’

  ‘Have Sarah and Becky always been friends?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, best mates. Always doing things together.’

  That would explain why she was so quick to rush to Sarah’s defence over Nick.

  I set the dirty dishes on the work surface next to the sink. Vera, plating up, handed Janet a couple of main meals to take through to the restaurant.

  ‘How long have Becky and Mark been an item?’

  Janet thought for a moment. ‘About five years. She was well pissed when Sarah first took up with Nick Corbin. Really jealous. We all knew Becky had the hots for him. You should have seen her trying to get off with him at Sarah’s eighteenth. She was all over him like a rash! But it was her best mate who hooked him. Ended up not only jealous of Sarah but Nick as well.’

  ‘No wonder she’s got attitude,’ I commented, holding open the swing door for Janet.

  She looked at me as she walked through. ‘Always had, even at primary school. Used to really bully me.’

  I walked back to the Bosworth table to take their orders and noticed that Sarah sat very close to Charles. She gazed up at him with big, round, innocent eyes; giggling and flirting. It was obvious she was on a night off from Nick. Charles, being his usual charismatic self, displayed no particular favour towards her. He was as equally charming to Becky and me… even Mark.

  The evening went well and the band played on. At around eleven-thirty, the Bosworth party prepared to leave. On his way out to the bar, Charles approached and put his arm around my shoulders.

  ‘Thank you, Madeleine O’Brien, for a good evening made even more enjoyable by your presence.’ His voice was exaggeratedly courteous. ‘It could only have been eclipsed had you been seated at my table.’

  That was the last place I would want to be, considering the company.

  ‘I will phone you soon to arrange a dinner date.’ He said it as though it would never occur to him my acceptance of his proposal was anything other than a foregone conclusion. His confidence made me smile. In anyone else it would have been perceived as arrogance, but in Charles… Well, it was very easy to like him.

  ‘I look forward to it,’ I responded.

  He kissed me on the cheek, before walking through to the bar to join Sarah and Mark who had just passed by. I was about to attend another of my tables when Becky sidled up to me with venom in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve got him,’ she hissed. ‘He’s not that easily won over.’

  I sighed. Why did she think she could treat me like this? Who the hell did she think she was?

  ‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit! Sarah’s so sweet she doesn’t see it, but I know your game.’

  I regarded her coldly. How right Janet was. Becky Milner did have a face on her; an u
gly and unattractive one.

  ‘Unlike you, Becky, I’ve grown up. I don’t play games.’

  For a moment, I thought she was going to hit me. She wasn’t much taller than me but more heavily built. Pulling herself up to her full height, she barged into me and I staggered back. Before I knew it, she had me pinned against the wall. I could smell the drink on her breath.

  ‘What makes you think he’d look at you anyway?’ She spat out the words. ‘Leave Nick alone! He’s not yours.’

  Like a spoilt child unable to get her own way, she caught hold of my wrist and viciously twisted, digging her nails into the skin. I winced and tried to escape her hold, but she was surprisingly strong. She dug her nails in further. As luck would have it, at that moment Brian walked through from the bar. He stalled, assessing the situation, and looked enquiringly at me.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I think one of our customers has had one too many,’ I replied, keeping my voice steady. My arm hurt like mad.

  Becky still had me pinned against the wall and her elbow now dug into my ribs. She glared at me.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve won,’ she growled menacingly, her face very close to mine. ‘And you ain’t gonna either.’

  Brian walked over and faced her. ‘Becky Milner,’ he said loudly and slowly, ‘whatever problem you have with my member of staff I will not have you behaving like this in my establishment, do you understand?’

  Over Brian’s shoulder, I noticed Mark appear in the archway and look around the restaurant. As his eyes took in the incident, he groaned.

  Walking up to us, he grabbed Becky’s arm. ‘Come on, Bex. Leave it.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she screamed, flinching away from him.