‘Dis would’ve been taken after he’d come oota da asylum. Da udder man is Thomas Hart, his Da.’ Mavis looked up at Deidre. ‘He wis yer great-grandfadder. Dey’re standing in front o’ Hart Croft.’
Deidre nodded. ‘I’m going to have a look at the croft while I’m here.’
Mavis regarded her silently for a moment, her faded watery eyes sharp and appraising. ‘I suppose dat’s only natural, ye’ve come aw dis way. But it wid put ma mind at rest if ye didnae go t’dat place by yerself. Stuart’ll take ye,’ she said, returning her attention to the photo. ‘He knows where it is.’
‘It’s okay, I can go by myself. I’ve got a map.’
‘Stuart’ll take ye,’ Mavis repeated adamantly.
‘Aye, I’ll take ye oot der da next bit o’fair wedder,’ Stuart said. ‘It’s a bit o’a’walk.’
Deidre smiled politely, acquiescent. Annoyed, wondering what she’d walked into, wondering if it wasn’t too late to look for other accommodation in another place. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘I remember Mr Hart,’ Dot reflected. ‘I remember he used to come an’ visit wi Gran n’Granda. D’you remember dat, Mavis? He wis a great fiddle player. I remember dancin’.’
Mavis nodded, still absorbed by the photo, squinting into it. ‘Aye. He wis a nice man Mr Hart.’
Deidre studied the other man in the photo, his eyes two dark smudges in shadow. He looked hard and stern. Humourless. Neither of the two men looked as though they’d ever cracked a smile in their lives.
‘We were da ones t’find George Hart’s body,’ Dot announced, reaching out, spreading the loose papers across the table top, scanning them before selecting one for a closer look.
‘Really?’ Deidre asked.
‘Aye, oot by da burn,’ Mavis added, casting a look across the loose papers spread out before her.
‘Mavis tripped o’er him.’
‘I didnae see him,’ Mavis retorted defensively, ‘he wis white wi frost.’
‘Frost?’ Deidre queried.
‘Aye, he’d been oot der a while. He wis frozen stiff,’ Dot remarked.
White with frost and frozen stiff.
‘What happened to him?’
‘Don’t know. He wis jist lyin’ der, his eyes eaten oot,’ Mavis said, quietly.
‘His eyes eaten out?’ Deidre parroted again, incredulous.
‘Aye, da birds pecked his eyes oot. He must’ve been lyin’ oot der fur a few days,’ Dot chirped in, she might’ve been talking about a pair of shoes left out in the rain.
White with frost, frozen stiff and his eyes eaten out.
‘My God,’ Deidre said, appalled. ‘How old were you both? Did you know him very well?’
The twins shook their heads. ‘Naw,’ they replied in unison. ‘We were only wee lassies,’ Dot added.
‘George Hart wisnay somebody ye had a conversation wi,’ Mavis said.
‘He scared me,’ admitted Dot, rifling through the drawings. ‘He used t’wander up an’doon da headlands fer days on end, climbing aboot da place. Diggin’ great big holes. Och, wid ye look at dat,’ Dot exclaimed, plucking up a sketch from the table. ‘Look at dis Mavis, it’s Muddow’s Table wid da Peg still attached.’
Mavis took the sketch from her twin, perusing it, frowning. Two illustrations of the same scene side by side filled the page, both drawn from the same aspect looking down towards an inlet. A tongue of land jutted out like an appendix creating a small cove within a larger bay, the waters calm, protected by a low expansive headland beyond. The shape of the headland differed in the two drawings. The first showed a point stretching out like a crooked finger where the relentless pounding of the heaving ocean had formed a natural archway, the sea swelling through the arch forcing its way up through a fissure in the rock to explode through the floor of the headland. In the neighbouring sketch, the bridging archway was absent, the point standing alone, separated.
‘D’ye remember dat time he stole Mr McKenzie’s boat tryin’ t’land on da Peg t’get up inta da cave,’ Dot continued.
‘Aye, I don’t tink I’ve been back der since dat day,’ her twin replied.
‘A cave?’ Deidre enquired.
Mavis pointed to a dark smudge half way down the illustrated stack. ‘He stole a boat an tried t’get intae dat cave. Nearly got himself kilt in da process. Aw da folk from toon came oot t’watch him.’
‘Why was he trying to get into the cave?’ Deidre asked sliding into Stuart’s vacated seat, titillated by the enigmatic legend they were building of her great uncle.
‘He wis always doin’ daft tings like dat.’
‘He wis lookin’ fur da owner of da cross,’ Dot offered, picking up a sheet in front of her, turning it over to study the sketch on the back, a view from high up looking down across a valley. ‘Dey aw were.’
Mavis nodded in agreement. ‘It wis dat cross. Cursed ting sent em aw mad. Cursed dem. It takes possession of der mind.’ She tapped her temple with a shaky finger and rearranged herself in the chair. ‘Sends dem oot der inta da wilds oer Ayres Kame lookin fer someting.’
‘Treasure,’ Stuart added.
‘It’s no treasure,’ Mavis replied sharply, ‘it’s someting else. Someting dat’s strong enough t’ take hold o’dem. Take control o’der minds. Der souls.’
‘Aye, treasure will dae dat t’any man’s soul,’ Stuart clarified.
Mavis glanced across at Deidre. ‘Ye widnae be lying t’me aboot da cross, would ye lassie? Oor granda said he saw it aroon George Hart’s neck once afore George died an never saw it again after dat. Naebody knows whit George did wi it an naebody found it when he died. Naebody knows where it is.’
‘There was no cross in the bag,’ Deidre confirmed, regarding the old woman across the table from her. But she had an idea of where it might be.
Saturday, Early Morning – Stayne House
Deidre sat up, pulled the blankets up around her shoulders and stared out the window, wide-eyed and awake after nearly ten hours of sleep. Greyness filled the view, dark clouds drizzling over the slate coloured bay. A glance at the bedside clock surprised her by showing it was only 4.20, a small faded red dot indicating AM. It was still almost the middle of the night and yet there was daylight outside. A lot. Assuming the clock was wrong, Deidre padded across the room to her backpack to retrieve her mobile phone. That also showed 4.20 AM. She’d read somewhere that darkness barely touched these isles at the height of summer.
‘Neither does the warmth,’ she muttered, shivering. She dropped the phone onto the desktop before jumping back into bed and pulling the covers over her, cocooned in its warmth as she stared out the window again, rain beginning to splatter against the windowpane.
A warm tingling burn of excitement fizzed in her stomach, different to anything she’d ever felt before. Different to being in love; there was an excited, urgent desperation building in her, the mild curiosity that had taken root in Sydney now consumed her thoughts since yesterday’s lesson in Erdin folklore.
She could still hear the old voices in her head as Mavis and Dot told their stories about the valley and its curse, about George and Donald Dunbar, Mavis confessing their own family had been touched by the cross, way back in time, when the McLennan’s had lived in Erdin Valley over two hundred years ago.
They believe it, Deidre thought, they believed in curses and crosses that sent men mad. Prudently, she hadn’t informed them about the word scrawled into the flap of the briefcase, took measures in fact to ensure the flap stayed closed.
Her eyes slid to the chair tucked under the desk where George’s briefcase sat, wondering why her father had never said anything about this, about the croft, about George. Never once pulling the old briefcase out from the back of his wardrobe to show her, offer her some family history, to tell her a story of madness and curses. But then, she’d never bothered to ask. She knew what she had to know; that her father was an only child and both his parents, her grandparents, had died many years ago in Glasgow. There had never been a mention o
f this small island or Hart Croft and its inhabitants. Not a hint.
Deidre lifted her eyes to the window, thinking of the two men in the photograph, gaunt and impoverished, eking out an existence on this desolate island. It was no wonder one of them went mad.
Cursed.
It looked so bleak outside.
She shivered and wrapped the blankets closer around her.
A clock chimed five times somewhere in the house, deep, sonorous and distant. The need to pee forced her out from underneath the blankets and she dressed quickly, padded across the landing to the bathroom. Her teeth chattered as she sat on the cold plastic seat, incongruous to the rest of the house that was so old and heavy with stone and wood.
The smell of freshly baked bread filled the landing, the scent luring her down the stairs, through the hallway and towards the kitchen at the back of the house. Dull muted light pressed in through the kitchen windows, the thick stone walls fostering deep shadows in the room. Four halogen spotlights shone down onto a large square island in the centre of the kitchen where a stocky, dark haired woman stood in a mist of flour. She wore a long black cardigan, the sleeves rolled up and an oversized white t-shirt with ‘Super V’ printed in Superman lettering on the front. The woman continued to work intently at a large ball of dough, unaware of Deidre’s presence.
‘Good morning,’ Deidre said, stepping into the light, startling the woman, causing her to jump. ‘Sorry,’ Deidre apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’
‘Och, dat’s awright,’ the woman giggled, ‘ye gave me a wee fright. You must be Deedree.’
‘Um, yes,’ Deidre replied, a part of her flattered that people around here seemed to know who she was without introduction.
‘I’m Vee, Stuart’s daughter,’ the woman said, grabbing a tea towel lying on the counter and wiping her hands before stretching one out in introduction. ‘Sit doon an’ I’ll make ye a cup o’tea,’ she said, picking up the ball of dough and placing it into a bowl, throwing the tea towel over it.
‘No it’s ok, I can do that,’ Deidre said, stepping forward. ‘You’re busy; I don’t want to interrupt you. Mavis showed me where things are yesterday,’ she added.
Mavis had taken her through each common room available to guests explaining the house rules. Do make yourself at home, help yourself to tea and coffee, don’t come through the front door with muddy shoes, use the cloak room at the back of the house. Breakfast is usually a buffet and available between seven and nine am, lunch packs can be ordered the day before. Dinner is what Vee is cooking that day, although the kitchen is available for guest use but by prior arrangement only.
‘Och, sit doon. I’ve just boiled da kettle,’ Vee said, shooing Deidre to the long communal table.
Deidre slid into a seat nearest the counter. She’d eaten at this table last night with the twins and Stuart. Vee’s husband Malcolm had also been present along with Olivia and John, the two other guests currently residing at Stayne House. Twitchers, they’d described themselves, serious bird watchers.
‘How’s your son?’ Deidre asked.
‘Gregory? Och, he’ll be fine. Better an arm dan a leg,’ Vee said optimistically. She switched the kettle on, re-boiling the water, and pulled two mugs from a shelf. ‘He’ll no be playing soccer for a while. Sugar?’
‘Two please. No milk.’
‘So yer here by yerself?’ Vee asked leaning her bulk against the counter, arms folded, waiting for the kettle to boil.
‘Yes.’
‘Yer no meetin’ up wi anybody?’
Deidre shook her head. ‘No.’
‘An yer stayin’ here at Stayne Hoose fur a munt?’
‘Yes.’
There was a subtle narrowing of the woman’s eyes as she regarded Deidre for a moment. ‘Wit fur? Ye should be doon sooth somewhere enjoyin’ yerself, lassie?’
‘By myself? I’m not very extroverted.’
‘Och get away, der’s always a lad oot der who’s gonna come up an buy ye a drink. In fact, it’s fiddle night da night at da hall. You’re comin’.’ The kettle boiled and Vee turned pouring boiling water into the mugs.
‘Thanks, but I’ll probably give that a miss tonight. I’m still a bit jet lagged.’
Vee chuckled quietly to herself. ‘Naw, dat’ll be no excuse,’ she said, bringing the mugs across and setting them on the table, placing one in front of Deidre. She returned to the pantry door, retrieving a shallow basket laden with jams and marmalades and brought it to the table along with a couple of bread plates and cutlery. She sat down, pulled the steaming mug of tea closer and smiled across at Deidre.
‘So whit’s da Deedree Hart story?’ she asked. ‘Wit er ye doin’ aw da way oer here? Yer no married? Nae bairns?’
Deidre sat shaking her head in response to Vee’s questions.
‘Nae boyfriend?’
Another shake of the head.
‘So I hear ye’ve got a bag dat used t’belong t’George Hart?’
Deidre nodded.
‘An’ ye’ve come t’look at da croft?’
Another nod.
‘An’ ye came aw da way up here from Australia t’look at an auld run doon building?’ Vee confirmed, gripping the mug’s handle and swirling the contents.
‘Yes, that’s what I came here to do.’
‘An ye know aw aboot da curse?’
‘Well I didn’t before I came here, but I do now.’
‘An ye still want t’go t’da valley?
‘Yes.’
‘Whit fur?’
‘To have a look.’
‘Well, ye sound as bonkers as George Hart t’me,’ Vee said, lifting the mug and taking an experimental sip before placing it back on the table. ‘Ye wouldnae get me near dat place.’
‘Why not?’ Deidre asked.
Vee glanced at her, looked away with a half-formed shrug. There was something sheepish, embarrassed even, in her bearing suddenly. ‘You’re from a big city, you’ll no understand da mentality of a wee, insulated community like dis. Folk can get a wee bit superstitious on deez islands,’ she said, ‘story telling is in da blood. We grow up wid tales of Trows an’ Finns an’ Selkies an’ ghosts a plenty. Dey get ingrained into yer reality. But da valleys behind Ayres Kame,’ she trailed off, shaking her head with a sour expression. ‘Der’s jist someting aboot dat place. Even if ye didnae know da stories, ye’d still feel it.’
‘Feel what exactly?’
Vee’s round, fleshy face pinched together as she thought about this, her gaze watching wisps of steam rise from her tea and dissipate into the air. ‘Someting sad,’ she finally said, as though this was a revelation to herself.
‘So you’ve been there before? You’ve been to Erdin Valley?’
A small chiming alarm went off and Vee pushed herself up and away from the table, stepping over to a modern cooker set into the hollow of an old fireplace. ‘Oh Aye, everybody takes a trip t’Erdin at some point, even if it’s just da one time, jist t’say dat de’ve been der.’ She bent over, opening up an industrial sized oven pulling out a tray of golden rolls. ‘It’s been years since I’ve been der. I wis a lot younger an’ stupider. Thinner. A crowd of us went up t’da stone one Halloween. We’d managed t’get hold of some beer an’ wine an’ we tramped oer Ayres Kame, up an’ doon dem hills t’dat big rock stuck up der on da cliff.’
‘Brud Stone,’ Deidre clarified.
‘Aye,’ Vee replied, tipping the rolls onto a cooling rack.
‘What happened?’
‘Nutink. We drank aw da beer an’ wine an staggered oer da Kame again.’ She dropped some rolls onto a plate and brought it to the table.
‘So nobody got the curse, then?’ Deidre asked, swallowing, the look, the smell of the freshly baked bread flooding her mouth with saliva.
‘Naw,’ Vee chuckled, ‘ye don’t get it jist like dat. Naebody’s had da curse since George Hart. He was da last soul t’live in da valley. Der used t’be half a dozen crofters and der families lived der at one time or anudde
r but dey aw moved oot and naybody ever moved back.’
‘Because of the curse?’ Deidre regarded the block of butter Vee placed on the table, gold and glistening, beside the steaming rolls.
‘Aye, because o’dat an’ da fact dat da only way oer da hills o’Ayres Kame is on yer feet. Ye canny drive der. Some o’da mare hardier tourists walk up t’da blowhole but dat’s aboot it deez days.’
Deidre reached out, took a roll and cut it open. It was still hot, the thick yellow butter she slathered on melting into its soft white centre. ‘Mavis was pretty frantic about some cross she thinks I’m hiding from her.’
‘Are ye?’ Vee questioned with a cocked eyebrow.
‘No,’ Deidre replied, biting into the roll, savouring it.
‘Da auld yins are always goin on aboot dat cross, but t’my knowledge, nae living soul has ever seen it. Dey say it’s dat cross dat curses dem.’
For a brief fleeting moment, Deidre considered confiding in Vee, telling her about the word etched into the flap of the briefcase. It sat on the tip of her tongue like a high diver ready to spring off but she took another bite of the roll instead, ruminating over the repercussions of divulging this information. Vee, although a different generation from the twins and her father, was, none the less, still a product of this isle.
‘Your Dad, Stuart, said he would take me to have a look at the croft,’ Deidre said, before stuffing the remainder of the roll into her mouth, melted butter drizzling down her chin. She’d never tasted butter like this before.
Vee glanced out the window; the rain, although not heavy, was consistent, worming in thick rivulets down the glass. ‘I don’t tink it’ll be da day. You should be resting up da day anyhow. Malcolm said you were pretty knocked oot at da dinner table last night, nodding off. Couldnae keep yer eyes open.’
Deidre felt a mild pinch of embarrassment. She’d drifted off twice at the table last night, exhaustion overwhelming her. ‘Yeah, I was tired. I think the jet lag caught up with me.’
The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love Page 7