Even though the Bradys had never told anyone about her past, her inability to communicate with people singled her out as being strange. There were many nights back at the farm in the first couple of years there when she’d wake from a nightmare that her uncle was cutting her and raping her again. Mrs Brady used to come into her room and hold her until the nightmares went.
Just as they’d understood her fears back then, they sensed her present anxiety about her future too. Mr Brady knew how much she loved the forest, and he came up with a solution for her. He had built a shack in the forest when he was single, and he said she could have it if she wished. He took her out to see it on New Year’s Day of ’45. It had snowed and they had to fight through undergrowth and brambles to reach it, but the moment she saw the shack, looking like something out of a fairy tale with its heavy coating of snow, she knew she could be happy there.
There was no real security – the shack had been built on common land, and someone in authority could order her out and pull it down if they felt like it – but that didn’t worry Grace. She was tough, she had learned simple carpentry on the farm, and she relished the mending, cleaning and making of it into a little home.
Grace had stopped believing in God at the age of nine, which was when Uncle Max had come to stay and had begun to come to her room at night, terrorizing her into not telling anyone. Her constant prayers for help in the early days had gone unnoticed. But perhaps there was a God after all. Just a few days after seeing the shack, she was notified by a solicitor that on 25 November her father, uncle and stepmother had all been killed in a V-2 rocket blast while they were shopping in Woolworths in London’s New Cross. The explosion had killed 123 people, and countless more were injured. Grace felt sorrow for the 120, and for their loved ones, but for the other three she could only feel delight at their deaths. Finally she had been given a kind of restitution.
The solicitor, presumably appointed by a government body as he was entirely unknown to Grace, had tracked her down to inform her of the deaths and to tell her that, as the only surviving member of the family, she would inherit everything. It amounted to the house in Lewisham where she’d grown up, and a sum of approximately three thousand pounds.
She instructed the solicitor to sell the house; she never wanted to see it again. She put all the money into a post office savings account in Burley.
When spring arrived, birdsong woke her at first light. The days were long and hard, clearing ground to plant vegetables and soft fruits, building a pen for chickens, and chopping wood for her fire, but at twilight, sitting sleepily on her porch, she would watch rabbits, foxes and deer going about their business. She felt joyous.
Grace got her first dog, a collie cross she called Billy, soon after she moved in, and she spent hours training him to keep her safe and to be her perfect companion. He had died five years ago and she buried him close to the shack. Now she had Toby, a very similar looking black-and-white collie, who had a gentler and more biddable nature.
She hoped that one day soon Maisy would feel the kind of peace she had now.
Maisy went home and ate her lunch with Janice. Apparently Grandmother wasn’t feeling too well and Janice had given her some lunch on a tray in her bedroom.
‘Not too sick to eat, though.’ Janice laughed. ‘I’m going to put my feet up and read this afternoon. What about you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Maisy said. She had an idea but she didn’t want to tell Janice. ‘Maybe I’ll just go for a bike ride and see if there’re any new lambs in the fields.’
She dried up the dishes for Janice, then as soon as the older woman had gone through to her room, Maisy got out the telephone book.
To her delight there was only one D. Grainger listed in Ringwood, at Cherry Trees, Southampton Road.
While she had no real idea what she hoped to gain by checking out where he lived, especially on a holiday weekend when he would most likely be there, she wanted to see what his house was like.
It was only about five miles or so to Ringwood and a pleasant ride on a sunny spring day. Within twenty minutes she was at the start of Southampton Road and as she could see some cherry trees in full blossom further along, she guessed that was Grainger’s house.
She had borrowed a brown waterproof jacket belonging to Janice because it had a hood. Rain wasn’t expected, but it was all she could think of as a spur-of-the-moment disguise. Hardly adequate, but she had thought if Grainger should catch sight of her and recognize her, she could pretend great surprise and say she was just exploring.
The houses were a mixture of styles and ages. Some were very old cottages – mostly a bit run-down, perhaps owned by older people – and there were quite a few semi-detached houses built in the thirties. Then there were a few post-war buildings, and she saw one brand-new bungalow looking entirely out of place.
Cherry Trees was one of the older properties – not a cottage as she’d expected, but a sturdy-looking, rather plain villa with bay windows. The front garden was attractive, with four cherry trees, two close to the gate and two further back flanking the sides of the house. There were innumerable bushes around a very well-kept lawn, masses of daffodils and primroses were in full flower, and there were tulips yet to come. It was a beautiful garden already and she guessed that in another month’s time when the flowering bushes blossomed it would look stunning. She wondered if it was his work; she couldn’t imagine someone so smart gardening.
On the right side of the house there was a garage, and she could see his maroon Jaguar sitting there through the open door of the garage. She wondered if this meant he had just come in, or whether he was going out.
She couldn’t linger, of course, but the style of the house and its neat garden didn’t sit quite right with her idea of the swanky RAF man turned solicitor who charmed old ladies. She had imagined something older, a bit posh.
It was the kind of house a very sedate middle-aged couple would live in; the snowy white nets at the windows would traditionally hide the wife while she monitored her neighbours. But then maybe his wife was like that.
Maisy rode right along to the end of the road to where there were some shops, and she went into a newsagent’s to buy a Mars bar. As she bit into it a clear picture of Duncan came into her mind, and tears filled her eyes.
Mars bars were his favourite. He had always raved about them, claiming they were so big that they made you feel a bit sick if you ate one all at once. That had always sounded illogical to Maisy, but as she sat on the wall outside the shop and finished it she thought that he was right: she didn’t think she’d want to eat anything for the rest of the day.
As she sat there she saw Grainger drive by in his Jaguar. She didn’t think he’d seen her since his head was turned towards his wife in the passenger seat.
Maisy got back on her bike and rode slowly down the road again. To her surprise they had left the garage doors open. This could of course mean they would return very quickly, but she felt it was an open invitation to use the opportunity to take a quick peep.
She went up to the front door and rang the bell first, just in case anyone was watching. No one answered, as she half expected, so she walked in a hesitant manner into the garage, calling out his name.
Like the garden, the garage was kept very neat, a hose, lawnmower and garden tools all hanging on hooks on the wall to one side. Old paint tins were stored above. On the other side, screws, nails and other assorted ironmongery were in jars on shelves and beneath these hung hammers and other hand tools. Even the concrete garage floor had been painted dark red, and recently swept. At the back of the garage was a door through to the garden. She tried it but it was locked.
Aware she couldn’t linger in here without raising the neighbours’ suspicions, she began to walk away, but a crate on the floor, holding all manner of odd things, as if being collected to give to a jumble sale, caught her eye and she couldn’t resist a look.
Amongst the things she spotted a black bicycle pump.
Without e
ven touching it she just knew it was Duncan’s. Mr Pike had given them both pumps and told them not to lose them, and because Duncan claimed his sister lost everything not screwed down, he had stuck a tiny gold star on his.
There it was, in the box. The old star was worn away in part now, but it was his pump.
Maisy went straight to her bike then without touching the pump. Jumped on and rode off at speed. Maybe the buckle didn’t prove anything, but with the pump in his possession too, Grainger had to have taken Duncan. Her brother had always made certain his pump was clipped on to his bike. The only way they would be separated was if the bike was involved in an accident or put in the back of a car and it fell off.
She rode like fury back to see Grace, her mind like a whirlpool of facts, ideas and images.
‘What on earth!’ Grace exclaimed as Maisy came haring across her garden. ‘I thought we were going to meet tomorrow?’
Maisy was so excited and breathless from the fast ride she had difficulty in speaking, but eventually she managed to explain properly.
‘Well, it looks as if he is really our man,’ Grace agreed when she’d finished. ‘But what to do?’
‘We go to the police together, now?’
Grace looked at the girl’s eager, trusting face and wished it was that simple. ‘The chances are they won’t believe us,’ she said with a despairing shrug. ‘They might go round there and ask him about the pump, but he could say he drove Duncan and his bike home one afternoon and the pump must have fallen off the bike. There’s no one but Duncan who can say that isn’t true.’
‘But we can’t do nothing,’ Maisy said.
‘We need to watch his house, and follow him,’ Grace said. ‘Not you, but me, because he doesn’t know me. It’s too late now, but I’ll go there in the morning and watch and wait.’
‘I want to come,’ Maisy said.
‘No one notices a middle-aged woman; it’s well known we’re invisible,’ Grace said. ‘But a glimpse of your pretty hair and face and he’ll be off like a race horse. If I see anything at all that’s suspicious I’ll either come for you, telephone you or get the police.’
Grace knew Maisy was disappointed to be sent home, but she also knew she was right to do this watching and waiting alone. The chances were Grainger would be home all day with his wife tomorrow, so the likelihood of catching him at anything suspicious enough to call the police was negligible. But hanging around the neighbourhood asking a few questions might bring something new to the surface.
She was up early the next morning, and decided that for today she would be the Grace that she might have been if her life hadn’t been blighted.
No moleskin trousers, heavily darned, shapeless jumper and sturdy boots for her today. She put on stockings – not nylon ones, she’d never had a pair of those, but brown lisle, and a petticoat. Then for the navy blue wool dress with a lace collar, a navy coat, and a pair of brown lace-up shoes. She brushed out her hair, then twisted it up on top of her head in a topknot, fixing it firmly.
Finally, the hat. The coat, dress and shoes were the clothes she’d been given when she left the asylum, surprisingly good quality, no doubt donated by some kind-hearted, wealthy woman. But she hated the old lady brown straw cloche hat they’d given her then, and had bought one of her own choice a couple of weeks later when she and Mrs Brady went into Lyndhurst. It was emerald green felt with a narrow brim, pinned up on one side with a cluster of dark blue flowers. It made her feel feminine yet also powerful.
She put it on in front of the small, cracked mirror by her bed. With a touch of lipstick and some powder on her nose, she knew no one would recognize her as the ‘Woman in the Wood’. She looked like any other respectable, middle-aged housewife going about her business.
Pausing to look at herself just a little longer, she smiled. Looking as she did now, she knew she’d be able to speak to anyone when she needed to. And she intended to find out something today. Maisy was depending on her.
She locked the door of the shack, called Toby to her side and set off for Enoch’s cottage. It was a good arrangement they had: he allowed her to keep her van on his land in return for doing a few little jobs for him as needed.
Enoch was the strong, silent type, a typical countryman. About seventy, she thought, and she suspected he couldn’t read much more than his own name. She certainly couldn’t claim they were friends – they’d never said more than a few words of greeting to each other. If he wanted anything doing, usually some clothing to be mended, or for her to hold one of his animals while he gave it some medicine, he pointed and maybe used three or four words. But it was a relationship that suited them both.
She’d learned to drive and do basic mechanical repairs while with the Bradys, first just the tractor and then their truck when they took livestock to market. She hadn’t ever thought of owning a car or van of her own; she liked to walk or ride a bike, and prided herself on being as strong as a horse. But age crept up on her. When she found herself struggling to carry bags of chicken feed, oil for her lamp and other heavy items, she bought the somewhat battered old Morris van. She didn’t cut a track from Enoch’s cottage to her home, but left it overgrown so as not to encourage walkers that way. If she had anything heavy to carry from the van, she borrowed his wheelbarrow.
The other advantage of owning a van was that if she was ever evicted from the shack, she would at least be able to transport all her belongings, maybe even sleep in it till she found somewhere else. She started it up every few days, even if she wasn’t going anywhere, just to be sure the battery didn’t get flat.
‘So it’s off to Ringwood,’ she said to Toby as they made their way through the forest. He gave her that look which told her that he didn’t mind where they went, as long as he was with her.
Grace knew Southampton Road because she’d bought some hens the previous year from someone who lived there. She parked up her van and walked along the street, looking at each of the houses. They were very ordinary, with nothing flashy or unusual that might show that the owner wanted their house to stand out. But there was also nothing so mucky or run-down that the neighbours would wince as they passed that house. It made it even more inexplicable that a murderer with a taste for young boys lived amongst them.
But then, as Grace knew only too well, perverted men who had hideous plans for children didn’t advertise themselves. Outwardly they appeared normal: in her uncle’s case, he was considered shy, quietly spoken, meticulous in his dress and to have an artistic flair. Not someone who would score lines on a young girl with a razor blade to ensure she did as she was told.
After walking about eight hundred yards along the road she realized there was nothing about Cherry Trees that would help her tell whether the Graingers were in or out, as the net curtains did a first-class job of concealment. The garage door was closed too, so she walked back to the van and got in.
Expecting that she would have to wait for a long time, she balanced an old book on the steering wheel as if she was reading, and settled down to watch Grainger’s house.
She saw his next-door neighbours come out, neatly dressed as if they were going to an early church service. Further along the road, she spotted a young mother coming out with a pram, accompanied by a boy of five or six with a scooter. The boy sped off in front of his mother.
The time passed very slowly, but then, as Grace reminded herself, she wasn’t used to sitting around. It was eight thirty when she arrived, and by twelve thirty she was not only hungry but her bottom ached because the seat wasn’t comfortable. She’d only seen about eight people pass the van, and it occurred to her that someone in one of the houses might find it suspicious that she was sitting there for so long. After all, if she saw someone sitting for that long in the forest, she’d be concerned.
But then, just as she thought she ought to at least drive round the block, Grainger came out of his house.
He was wearing dark grey slacks and a grey-green tweed jacket, and he was carrying an oilcloth shopping bag
– big enough to hold medicine, water or even provisions, Grace thought. He opened his garage door and got into his car, then reversed out along the drive and drove off towards Southampton.
Grace waited just long enough before she drove off to make sure he wouldn’t realize he was being followed.
He turned off the main road to Southampton on to a road Grace didn’t know. She saw a signpost pointing to Wellow and remembered she’d read somewhere that was the village where Florence Nightingale’s old family home was located.
This was no longer forest or moorland, but arable land with few houses. She was driving on very narrow, winding lanes and she had to stay well back from Grainger or risk his becoming aware he was being followed. But hanging back on such lanes meant he could turn off anywhere and she could drive on past him. So each time she came to a drive, a lane branching off or any other place he could go, she had to stop and look.
By pure chance, she glanced up a hill and saw his Jaguar on a lane crossing it. She had missed where he had turned off and she had to reverse to find it. Her heart was thumping now, sure she was on the point of discovering, if not Duncan, some evidence about him.
She almost missed the place again; it was just a farm track and clearly rarely used as a thick bush half concealed it.
To drive up the track was a recipe for disaster. Not only was there the possibility of getting stuck in mud, but she might run into Grainger. Once he’d seen her van somewhere so remote, he was going to remember it, and her – especially her hat. So the only thing to do was change, and walk with Toby, hoping he hadn’t gone miles.
She had an old pair of boots in the back of the van, another old coat and a knitted hat, so she parked her van up in a gateway to a field and changed. The irony of coming out dressed up, and then having to put her more normal attire back on didn’t escape her.
The Woman in the Wood Page 17