The Tallow Image

by J. T. Brindle

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What were you singing just now?’ Had he imagined that as well?

  Cathy smiled. ‘Was I singing?’ The smile erupted in a small laugh. ‘I don’t usually sing in my sleep… do I?’ The smile faded away. She felt his fear. Suddenly it was her fear too.

  Crossing the room, Matt took her in his arms, sighing deeply as he pressed her to himself. He knew the tragic incident by the river had caused her so much anguish, caused them both so much anguish. Yet, it seemed they could find no comfort in each other. In the dark hours he would lie in the adjoining room in his own bed… their bed… thinking of her, so near, so far away, and the loneliness was almost unbearable. When would it end? Dear God above, when would the loneliness end? Dropping his head to hers, and growing intoxicated by her nearness, he asked in a whisper, ‘What’s happening to us, Cathy?’ He felt her stiffen in his arms.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean… why won’t you come back to me?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  ‘Now? Please, sweetheart. Come back to me now. I miss you so much… love you so much. Yet I can’t get close any more. We’re losing each other.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’ Frantic, she wrenched herself from his embrace, meeting his agonised gaze with strong steely eyes.

  ‘Yes, you do.’ He nodded his head slowly, his gaze unflinching. ‘Do you love me, Cathy?’

  ‘I’ve always loved you,’ she said. Her answer was immediate, the truth shining in her eyes. ‘You know I always will.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ He was relieved but hurt; confused by her response. ‘Is it because you don’t want a family yet, is that it?’

  ‘No,’ she lied. If things were normal, she would want a family. But things were not normal. Some deep, persistent instinct warned her against going to him; warned her against bearing his children. There was something very wrong between them, though she would not openly admit it. She loved Matt more than life itself, but then he had the power to raise such loathing in her. She didn’t understand. She was not sure what to do. That old lady… Maria Hinson – she knew. She understood. Cathy had felt that… seen it in her tragic eyes. When Maria was well enough, Cathy would tell her everything. Until then, she would not go back to Matt’s bed. She dare not! Nor would she let him get too close. Too close was dangerous.

  Throughout the meal, Cathy could feel Matt’s eyes on her. All evening long she evaded his unspoken questions, going quietly about her work, seeming calm and untroubled on the outside, while on the inside she was in turmoil. A part of her longed to share the burden with him, but another part – more secret – cautioned her against it. She wondered why it was, that when people were in great pain and trouble, they could not bring themselves to discuss that trouble with a loved one? Like Matt, she felt there was some ineffable presence between them – a devilish thing that both frightened and fascinated her. She wanted to expose it, to destroy it, and yet, at the same time, she was terrified of the consequences. Certainly she could not tell Matt of her fears. He would not understand. Besides, he created too much conflict in her; too many malevolent thoughts. But then, didn’t they say how love and hate were two sides of the same coin?

  Maybe that was it? It was true that there were times when she had the strongest desire to see him dead, to kill him with her own two hands. He would never know how close she had come to taking his life… the other day when he was in the paddock, she had stolen into the tack-room and taken the shotgun from its safe place, even pointed it at his back, before relenting. Again, when they were in the kitchen and he was turned away, she wanted to plunge the boning knife through his heart. Only last night, when she suspected him to be asleep, the awful temptation was there, like a small persistent voice, urging her on.

  Each time, when the compulsion to take his life was strong in her, Cathy had drawn on her own deep reserves of strength, and on the love she had for Matt. A love as persistent and alive as the voice that would deny it. Lately, though, she felt her strength ebbing away and her love for Matt being gradually swallowed up. Now, she could not help but cringe when he touched her. Matt knew that and it was breaking his heart, his spirit. It was breaking her also, beginning to erode everything that made life worth while.

  ‘Won’t you talk to me, sweetheart?’ Matt had seen how agitated she was, the way she fidgeted in the chair, pushing her food back and forth on the plate and keeping her sorry gaze downcast. It tore him apart to see her like this.

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ she said with a smile, before beginning to clear away the plates. She noticed that Matt had hardly eaten anything. ‘Have you finished?’ she asked with disinterest.

  When he merely nodded, she slid the plate away and went into the kitchen. He followed, coming up behind her and snaking his strong arms round her tiny waist. When, unexpectedly, she relaxed to him, his hopes soared. Putting his hands on her shoulders he drew her round, looking down on her uplifted face and sensing her great love for him. Without a word, he bent his head to hers, his lips playing against her mouth, delicious sensations flowing through him. Now, she was pressing into him, pulling him down, giving herself. Passion long denied fired his blood. He felt her pouring through him, exciting him, making him want her more and more. Moaning, he ran his mouth over her neck, her shoulders, his tongue teasing the soft velvet skin, his need of her growing like a fist inside him. He felt her peeling away his clothes, her need every bit as urgent as his. In that moment when he would have eased her to the floor, he saw how she smiled up at him, through darkly taunting eyes, eyes that were avaricious and menacing, black as night, smiling at him, devouring him.

  Horrified, he snatched away, staring into those alien eyes, all manner of terror surging through him. And still she smiled, softly laughing. He could hear his own voice, just a whisper, a prayer… ‘Dear God!’ And then another voice, Cathy’s voice. No… not Cathy’s voice! ‘Love me.’ The voice was gossamer, without substance, a mournful sound. Above it he could hear the awful screams, his screams, silent, trapped inside his head. The screams stabbed his brain, splitting it asunder. Now the silence – eerie, more terrifying.

  Through the blackness he heard a voice, Cathy’s voice, familiar and gentle, echoing the fear inside him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. That was all… ‘I’m sorry.’ Anguish in her voice, sadness greying her face. ‘I’m sorry.’ One last painful look and then she was gone. He did not follow. He was afraid, for her safety, for his own sanity.

  Lying in her bed, Cathy heard him climb the stairs, slow, cumbersome footsteps more reminiscent of an old man than of Matt. The chasm between them had widened until there seemed no way across. Sad and exhausted, she drifted into sleep. The chasm was there in her shadowy world – she on one side with outstretched arms, he on the other, calling her name, moving further and further away. The dream was fitful now… snarling dogs, the stream turned red with blood. She was running, running in the dark, cold and wet, her nightgown clinging to her in the rain. ‘Ralph!’ She called his name, but the wind carried her voice far away. In the distance she could see him – tall, dark, his lovingly familiar figure striding on, and on, into the ocean. Now the hands, so many hands, hidden in the waves, sucking him down, down… down. He was drowning! Even as she watched. She could not save him. Crumpling into the sand, her sobs were terrible to hear. The sobs carried over, waking her. ‘Matt.’ She whispered his name, silent now, listening.

  She could hear his footsteps in the next room, soft muffled footsteps, slow and deliberate, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. He was tormented. She was more tormented. Stricken by all she had seen and heard… by the sound of those footsteps and the knowledge that he was suffering like no man should suffer. Cathy slid from the bed, tiptoeing to the door, meaning to go to him, wanting to go to him. But then the resentment was creeping in, tempering her compassion, and the voice… that sweet voice deep inside her – ‘Now, Cathy, kill
him now.’

  For a fleeting moment the temptation was great, almost too great. She did not want to kill him. Not Matt. But there would be no peace until she did. The old lady’s words infiltrated her mind. ‘Fight it,’ she had said. ‘Trust in God.’ Summoning every ounce of strength in her, Cathy struck home the bolt on the door and returned to her bed, not to sleep or to dream, but to remain vigilant all the night long. Soon she would do what must be done. There was evil in her. A badness that was killing her, killing Matt, mercilessly destroying them day by day. Tomorrow she would mark the old lady’s words, and do what must be done.

  11

  Emily almost ran down the passage. These days she hardly noticed her limp. When she saw Bill’s burly outline through the door glass, she felt the flush of pleasure colour her face. ‘Calm yourself, Emily,’ she chided in the mirror as she tucked in a stray hair, ‘unless you want to frighten him away.’ The very thought of frightening Bill away made her shiver. He was her strength, and – dare she say it – she had grown to love him dearly.

  When she opened the door, she was more at ease, although the bright smile on her face showed her excitement. ‘Oh, Bill, how lovely to see you.’ Ushering him into the kitchen, she followed behind. She felt so natural with him now, so contented when he was around.

  ‘You’ve been out in that garden again, haven’t you?’ He noticed the earth on her fingers and the small trowel was still protruding from her apron pocket. She was flushed and slightly breathless, and from the stoop of her shoulders, he knew she was tired.

  ‘It helps to keep my mind off things,’ she confessed. ‘But you’re right. The soil is so hard and I’m not made for bending.’

  ‘Sit yourself down, and I’ll make us a brew.’ He felt at home here, in Emily’s delightful company.

  Seating herself at the table, she asked, ‘Did you come especially to see me, or were you delivering round here?’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I came to see you.’ He scooped the tea into the pot and poured the boiling water over it. Emily always had a kettle on the boil in case he should turn up unexpectedly, as lately he often did.

  Placing the tray on the table, he laid out the cups and saucers, and sat on the chair opposite Emily’s. ‘It’s the highlight of my day, coming to see you,’ he revealed, ‘but if you’d rather I didn’t, you’ve only to say?’ All the while he was speaking to her, his eyes were shining.

  ‘Oh, Bill! How can you even think such a thing? You know how much I look forward to seeing you.’

  Satisfied, he put out his hand, inwardly thrilled when she took hold of it. ‘I’m an old fool, Emily,’ he began, ‘but… don’t be surprised if I fall head over heels in love with you.’

  She was speechless, blushing to the roots of her hair and shyly looking down at the patterned tablecloth. ‘Really?’ she stuttered. ‘Oh, Bill!’

  Realising that he had embarrassed her, he was quick to change the subject. ‘How is Maria?’

  ‘I phoned earlier and they said she was the same.’ Emily was deeply disappointed that he should have changed the subject so abruptly. Still, she consoled herself with his wonderful confession that he might feel the same way towards her as she felt towards him. ‘I wasn’t going to see Maria until later, but it won’t take me long to get ready if you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘I’ve done my work for the day, so whenever you want to go is fine by me.’ He smiled back at her, then began slowly sipping his tea, his mind fleeting back to Cathy.

  Emily had not missed the troubled look on his face. ‘What is it, Bill?’ she asked. ‘What’s bothering you?’

  ‘You’ve got enough to worry about with Maria.’ Emily had become very dear to him, and there were things he wanted to talk over with her. But he felt it unfair to impose at a time like this.

  Emily would not be put off. ‘Please. It’s always best to talk your troubles over with someone.’ Shame infused her thoughts. She too was guilty of having secrets. There were certain papers she had discovered in Maria’s room, which had greatly troubled her. But, as they concerned Bill’s family, she was still not sure what to do about it. For the moment she had decided to say nothing, until she had an opportunity to discuss it all with Maria.

  An expression of relief flooded Bill’s face. ‘You’re right, Emily,’ he conceded. ‘I’ve been longing to talk it over with you. There’s no one else, you see… no one else I can turn to. Matt’s eaten up with worry, and while I’m assuring him that everything will be all right, I can’t sleep, I can’t think clearly. To tell you the truth, I don’t know how to cope with it.’ Placing his cup on the table, he lowered his head and ran his hands through his hair, groaning like a man in pain. ‘It’s Cathy.’ Raising his head he looked at her with stricken eyes. ‘I’m out of my depth, Emily. Even the doctors can’t say what’s wrong with her.’

  ‘If she’s ill, it could be the shock of seeing those dogs attacking Maria, I’m sure it affected us all.’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, and yes, I’m sure it all played a part in her illness. But she’s different, Emily. Sometimes I look at her and she’s nothing like my Cathy. Oh, I don’t mean physically. But…’ He was so driven by his fears that he stood up and began pacing the room. ‘One minute she’s the same old Cathy, thoughtful and concerned about me and Matt. Then the next minute she’s morose and distant, like a stranger.’ His voice fell almost to a whisper. ‘There’s something awful happening to her, Emily. Something devilish… destroying her, destroying Matt.’ He was tempted to reveal how Cathy attacked Matt in the car on the way home from the airport. And that was before the awful incident with the dogs.

  ‘I’m convinced it’s the shock of what happened down the embankment,’ Emily assured him. ‘Be patient with her, Bill. She’ll come through it.’

  Sighing deeply, he smiled on her. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ He rebuked himself for having told her. ‘I shouldn’t be loading my troubles on to you. But thank you for listening and you’re right, it has helped.’ Though he felt better for having confided in someone else, he still couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that Cathy would not ‘come through it’ so easily. God only knew, he’d prayed enough. But instead of regaining her health, Cathy seemed to be sinking into a world of her own. Forcing himself to speak with a lighter heart, he told her, ‘Get yourself ready, then, and we’ll go and see Maria.’ He thanked the Good Lord for having brought him to Emily. She was an oasis in his troubles.

  Upstairs in Maria’s room, Emily stood looking down on the bedside drawer for what seemed an age. Her thoughts were in turmoil. ‘Should I tell him?’ she asked herself aloud. Going to the drawer, she opened it and peered inside. The wedding picture of Cathy and Matt stared back at her from the newspaper cutting. ‘Why would Maria cut out a picture of their wedding, when at that time they were complete strangers to us?’ She fought with her conscience. ‘I ought to take it down and show him… and the notebook too.’ But she recalled how frantic Bill was about Cathy’s state of health. ‘No. He has enough on his mind. Maria will tell me. When she’s well enough, all of this will be explained, I’m sure.’

  Quickly now, she went to the bathroom where she washed and cleaned her teeth. Going into her own room, she brushed her pretty hair and changed into a blue two-piece, with a white blouse beneath. A few minutes later she came down the stairs, smiling and happy just to be in his company.

  ‘You look lovely,’ he said. And for the first time in her life she actually dared to think she was.

  It was morning. Cathy propped the hastily written note on top of the kettle. She knew he would find it there. The first thing Matt always did on coming into the kitchen of a morning was to put the kettle on. Once he had had his early cup of strong black coffee, he was ready to face the day head on. The note was short and simple, telling Matt, ‘I’m driving into Bedford. Expect me when you see me. Cathy.’ She was tempted to assure him of her love, or at least to draw a kiss on the bottom of the note in the way she used to. But she was too mixed up ins
ide, too unsure and afraid. Recently, she had begun to imagine someone looking over her shoulder. Watching everything she did. Silently assessing it.

  Eager to leave before Matt came down, Cathy looked up at the clock. It was six a.m. Too early yet for her errand, but she must go now. Now or never, without telling anyone her purpose. In another hour she would not be able to sneak quietly away, because Matt would be here, and the yard would be full of busy, curious people.

  Taking the pretty pink jacket from the chair-back, she glanced round the kitchen. This lovely kitchen had been her pride and joy, a wedding present from her father. She and Matt chose the units a week before their wedding. The kitchen was fitted while they were away on honeymoon, and, since their return, they had spent many contented hours here, lingering over breakfast, with Matt spelling out his plans for the yard, how he intended to build on it. ‘Expand and prosper.’ Enthralled, delighted in his company, happy just to be near him, to be a part of his life, Cathy knew she could never love anyone else in the same way she loved Matt. That love had not gone away. It was still alive in her. Only now, it was a painful thing, curled up inside her. Imprisoned.

  ‘Oh, Matt… Matt.’ She shook her head from side to side, her quiet grey eyes roving the room and being drawn to the wide window with its pretty frilled curtains. This was a lovely, sunny room, spacious, yet cosy. The floor to ceiling oak units were in a rich mellow shade, several of them were glass-fronted, displaying her collection of jugs and teapots. There was a round table with four ladder-back chairs, a Welsh dresser – again festooned with jugs of all shapes and colours – and every labour-saving device available. Matt had even installed a dishwasher, but as yet it was unused. Cathy was an old-fashioned girl at heart, ‘Still tied to the dishcloth and tea towel,’ Matt had joked. And it was true. Cathy was content to stay that way. Besides, with only the two of them it seemed quicker to wash up in the traditional way.

  Sighing, Cathy wondered whether things would ever be the same between her and Matt. Oh, how she prayed they would be. Yet, at this moment in time, she could not envisage it. Every day they grew further apart, every look, every word, was another nail in the coffin of the joy they had known together. ‘Trust in God’ the old lady had said. More than ever, Cathy was convinced she had come to the right decision. Heartened, she collected her bag, draped the pink jacket over her shoulders, took the car keys from the pocket and quietly left the house.