She resembled a gypsy woman from another era, but a sophisticated gypsy woman. Not a peasant.
Was she seeing things again?
“Are you feeling all right, dear?” the woman enquired. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I could very well have seen one or two, thought Dorrie, but dared not give voice to such a notion.
“I . . . I feel . . . feel a little dizzy, that’s all.”
The strange lady was still holding her wrist and her touch felt oddly comforting. For some reason Dorrie did not want her to let go. Someone in this alien town, with its shrieking gulls and brooding sea, was concerned for her welfare.
“Who . . . who are you?” she asked a little hesitantly. “Do I know you?”
The woman shook her head. “I’m Edith LeVeck. Would you like to come to my house for a cup of tea? I can give you a tincture for the dizziness.”
It was a gentle, soothing voice. The voice of a woman accustomed to reassuring those in crisis. It was Mama come to life again – or somebody very much like her.
She pointed in the direction of the white convent. “I live just over there. It’s not far.”
“Y-You live in the convent?”
“Good heavens, no. My house is just behind it. Come.”
She set off at a steady pace without saying another word. Dorrie was amazed at the elderly woman’s agility and found it hard to keep up.
Finally, they reached a row of tall Georgian houses.
“Here we are,” Mrs LeVeck said, opening the gate of the third house down.
She ushered Dorrie across the threshold of her front door and into a gloomy hallway.
Dorrie’s heart fluttered. She didn’t like dark, enclosed spaces. They’d always frightened her. But now the old woman was bolting the door behind her, locking out the escape route that was the wide promenade, and there was really nothing she could do about it.
“I always lock the door,” Mrs LeVeck said, as if reading her thoughts. “You can’t be too careful these days. We’ll sit in the parlour. It’s warmer in there.”
She pushed open the door into a cluttered room where a fire was burning. A strong smell of turf-smoke hung on the air and under it Dorrie detected another smell: some kind of sweet incense. She was minded to cover her nose because it was hardly pleasant. But decided it might seem rude. This old lady was showing her a kindness and she needed to be obliging.
“Please take a seat,” Mrs LeVeck said, indicating one of the armchairs that flanked the fireplace. “You take milk and sugar?”
“Just milk, thank you. But don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mrs LeVeck.”
She smiled. “Call me Edith, please.” She removed her shawl and draped it over a chair. Stood with her hands clasped together, gazing down upon her. “It’s no trouble at all. You haven’t told me your name.”
“I’m Dorinda . . . Dorinda Walsh, but everyone calls me Dorrie.”
“Dorrie it is then.”
Dorrie saw her eye the expensive coat and felt a little ashamed.
“Your coat is beautiful,” Edith said, “but I don’t approve of defenceless animals being slaughtered to clothe the well off.”
“But it’s not mine. I . . . I was given a loan, you see. I . . . er, stained mine.”
Edith smiled. “That’s all right then. Make yourself at home, Dorrie, won’t you. I shan’t be long.”
She withdrew quietly, leaving the new guest to take in her surroundings.
Dorrie glanced about her, with mounting unease, because she could see that she was in a very curious room. It looked more like an ancient museum than a parlour.
All the furniture was made of latticed wood, stretched over with tobacco-coloured skins and garish embroidery. They were the kind of things more suited to a log cabin than an old lady’s sitting-room.
A large glass-fronted cabinet near her contained a variety of hideous-looking masks. They had inscriptions carved into them, but not in a language she knew. They frightened her a little and she quickly shifted her attention to the walls.
Each wall was adorned with a variety of crudely made objects, all brightly painted. She saw angels, demons, lizards, cherubs, butterflies, birds, several grinning skulls and more masks. There were crosses too, a great many of them, all gem-encrusted, forming heart-shapes in different places.
Over the fireplace hung a huge mirror with a frame composed of bits of broken delft and bones. And more frames, crowding a sideboard, were fashioned in a similar way, but bizarrely they contained no pictures.
Dorrie didn’t know what to think. She’d never seen so many peculiar things gathered together in one place. Perhaps Mrs LeVeck was an artist or a collector of some kind.
She turned in her chair to see what was behind her – and nearly fainted. For in the corner stood a skeleton with a ghastly grin, fully attired in an elegant Victorian-style gown and wide-brimmed hat. She’d never seen anything like it.
“My God, what is this place?”
She looked frantically about for an escape route, but there was no way out save the door through which she’d entered.
Maybe she should just make a run for it. If she were quiet enough Edith LeVeck wouldn’t hear her, she being occupied in the kitchen.
She got up.
But no sooner was she on her feet than footsteps in the hallway forced her to sit back down again.
The lady of the house pushed into the room with a tray.
“Here we are,” she said, placing it on a coffee table between them.
Dorrie saw that it was beautifully set with silverware and china. There was a plate of dainty little cakes and another plate of biscuits, which looked home-made.
“You’ve gone to so much trouble, Edith,” she said, as evenly as she could.
Edith smiled as she poured the tea. She handed her the cup and saucer. “No trouble, dear. It’s nice to have someone to talk to – apart from Catrina.”
“Catrina?”
“I hope she didn’t scare you too much.” She threw a glance in the direction of the corner where the skeleton lady stood.
Dorrie dared not look round again. “Well, she did give me a fright. Why’s she called Catrina? Is she a relative?”
“Good heavens, no! I bought the skeleton and dressed it up.”
“But why . . . why dress a skeleton?”
“We travelled a lot in Latin America, you see, when I was younger. My husband was a missionary.” She waved a hand. “All the artefacts here we collected on our travels. Catrina is known in the Mexican tradition as ‘La Calavera Catrina’ or ‘The Lady of the Dead’, and we saw her everywhere. She’s always dressed like that, as a comment on women who think that finery and dressing up the body is more important than their inner lives.”
Dorrie didn’t like the sound of that at all. She didn’t really want to hear about the dead from this strange old lady with the soothing voice. She took a sip of the tea, wincing at the slightly bitter aftertaste.
“It’s got valerian to help calm your dizziness. You can put a little sugar in to help the taste.”
“Yes . . . perhaps I will.”
“You see, in those cultures, they don’t mourn the dead like we do here. There is no pain associated with death. They celebrate it.”
“They do?”
Dorrie saw her gaze across at the skeleton again, her eyes wistful.
“Yes, Catrina is a reminder that death is democratic. Doesn’t matter what colour your skin is or whether you’re rich or poor, we all end up as skeletons. But our souls live on. That’s the important thing. The spirits of the dead are all around us, dear.”
Dorrie stirred anxiously in the chair. She thought about the man in the hat and the little girl in the bright green coat, and took another gulp of tea. If Mrs LeVeck was right – that the brew would calm her – then she surely needed it. Her hostess seemed very calm indeed; perhaps she drank this valerian infusion all the time.
“Can you . . . can you see them?” she aske
d uneasily. “The dead I mean.”
“If they’re troubled, yes.”
She spoke so matter-of-factly that Dorrie didn’t doubt for a minute she was speaking the truth.
Mrs LeVeck looked at her again, but this time in a sad, pitying kind of way.
“You’re troubled, my dear, aren’t you? I can feel it.”
“I . . . I’m . . . erm, yes. My car broke down, you see, and I have to stay here until tomorrow . . . until it’s fixed.”
“That’s good.”
Dorrie thought it an odd response. “Well, it isn’t really good for me, to be honest. I’m . . . I’m trapped here.”
“But you’ve always felt trapped, have you not?”
“What? I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
“It’s a sense I’m getting. Do you have a sister?”
Dorrie didn’t like the drift of Mrs LeVeck’s conversation. She felt distinctly uncomfortable, but intrigued at the same time.
“No, I never had a sister,” she said, putting the cup down. “Can you see into a person’s soul . . . like a . . . like a psychic?”
“I wouldn’t call myself a psychic. I have the gift of discernment. That’s strange: I’m getting the very strong feeling that there are two of you.”
“But I’m an only child.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Y-Yes.”
She got up and drew on her gloves, stomach churning. “I’m sorry, Edith, I really must be going now.” The urge to flee this weird old woman and her frightening room of strange ornaments was getting stronger and stronger.
“But your mama would like you to stay.”
“What? Y-You mean my mama?” Dorrie found herself slowly sitting down again. “You . . . you can see my . . . see my mama?”
Edith LeVeck nodded. “She’d like you to stay a little while longer. Now let’s have more tea, dear.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rita-Mae sat at the breakfast table, staring at the contents of Vivian-Bernadette’s letter.
I must follow in the footsteps of Catherine of Siena.
I must follow in the footsteps of Catherine of Siena.
I must follow in the footsteps of Catherine of Siena.
The first page contained thirty-two numbered lines, each repeating the curious reference to Catherine of Siena she’d read on the outside of the envelope. It reminded her of writing lines at school as a punishment, usually one hundred at a time: “I must always remember to do my homework.” She’d been given that chastisement often enough.
She sifted through the rest of the pages and counted eighteen in all. Each followed the same pattern: pages written on both sides in the same rounded hand. Halfway, however, she noticed something peculiar. The orderly contours of the writing, so precisely executed in the beginning, began to loosen and wander off course, so that by the last pages things were barely decipherable.
Contemplating this, she grew uneasy. It could only mean one thing: that the hand holding the pen had grown steadily weaker. That very possibly Vivian-Bernadette was very ill before she disappeared.
There must surely be more than eighteen pages of meaningless lines.
She looked inside the envelope again.
Sure enough, there was something else: a smaller, white envelope.
Should she open it?
Did she really want to know what had happened to the tenant before her? Had she not enough to contend with? But she was intrigued. Unusual circumstances had drawn her to the letter, therefore she felt strongly that she had some kind of obligation to the writer.
She sat there, curiosity tugging at her like a child at its mother’s apron strings. Sighed.
Turned it over.
Saw then that the writer had sealed it with Sellotape. That was an important detail because it meant she could safely ease the tape off and reseal it with a fresh strip – if indeed she judged the contents to be too confidential.
She set about the delicate task, her fingernails working it carefully, bit by bit.
Several minutes later it was done.
She withdrew several folded pages.
To her surprise, three snapshots fell onto the table; all the same size, all in black and white.
Her hands were shaking as she spread them out.
Each featured a woman in a cardigan and long skirt. Her waist-length hair was pulled back from her face by a head covering.
She looked like someone from a bygone era. Could easily have passed for a nun, had it not been for the abundance of hair.
Was this Vivian-Bernadette? If her identity was uncertain there was no doubting the setting: 8 Willow Close featured in all three. And all the shots showed the rear of the house.
It was obvious also that they’d been taken without the subject’s knowledge.
The first showed her standing on the back step, one hand shading her eyes.
In the second she was hanging washing on the line.
The third – the most intrusive of the three – had her seated at the box-room window combing her hair. The stuffed ferret clearly visible on the sill.
With trembling hands Rita-Mae set the pictures aside, and against her better judgement, opened the letter.
To whom it concerns,
I had to conceal this in the butterfly case. If you are reading this you were meant to find it and learn my truth. Part of me wants you to find it, whilst another part does not. I’m afraid that if I put it someplace else, he would find it and destroy it. That way you’d never know.
The word “he” jumped out at her. She looked up from the page, anxiety mounting. A tightening sensation gripping her forehead.
She was back on the Samaritan helpline:
The one before you, she thought she was on her own too. And look at what happened tae her.
She really didn’t want to read any more, but was powerless not to.
I had to stop answering the door. People thought I just wanted to be left alone and that was true but only because of him. I was just too afraid. He pesters me all the time. This man whom I cannot see. But he is watching me. Oh, yes, he is always watching me. He and his camera are watching me.
Camera. Two memorial photographs flashed into her head. She saw herself take them from the hand of Bram Hilditch. She felt sick.
From the minute I moved in here he’s been watching me. I thought it was my imagination at first, but then the photos came which proved I was right. Later the threats down the phone so I had to stop answering it.
She felt her throat go dry. The pain in her head was increasing. Her stomach was churning. She shut her eyes again, massaged her temples. In spite of herself she looked back at the page.
Every time I went out I was afraid, and every time I returned I felt even more afraid because I knew there was no escaping him—
She’d stopped reading at the sound of her garden gate being unlatched. To her consternation she saw her next-door neighbour, Maud Gilhooley, pink raincoat billowing, shopping bag flung over one arm, bobbing up the path.
Why was she calling?
In a panic she gathered everything up, shoved the lot into the table drawer and went to answer the door.
“Morning, Rita! Lovely, isn’t it? Settling in all right, are you?”
“Yes, Mrs Gilhooley, thank you very much.”
The last time they’d spoken was the day she moved in. Mrs Gilhooley had appeared on her doorstep with the gift of a cake.
“Oh, call me Maud. ‘Missus’ is far too formal when we’re neighbours.”
She resembled a busy little bird, head twitching, bright eyes probing her. Her pull-down hat matched the coat exactly; hair the colour of corn fizzed out from the brim and curled round her ears.
“Yes, indeed . . . Maud it is, of course.”
“You look a bit peaky, dear . . . sure you’re all right?” She gave her a sidelong glance.
“Quite sure . . . yes. Just a headache. Nothing a good sleep won’t cure.”
“Yes, I thoug
ht I heard you moving about in the early hours.”
Unnerved, Rita-Mae tried to gather herself, her headache intensifying. Mrs Gilhooley was angling for information. She needed to tread carefully.
“Really? Perhaps . . . perhaps I got up to visit the bathroom a couple of times. It’s . . . it’s the coffee. Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Coffee?” Maud squinted at her as she would the small print on a medicine bottle.
“Yes, it’s the caffeine. I shouldn’t drink it after six. I’m very sorry if I woke you.”
“No, dear. I’m such a light sleeper anyway. It comes with age I’m afraid. Edward was the same, God rest him, before the dementia took him. And that’s what I worry about too. The less you sleep the more chance you have of suffering it you know. Now, there was something I needed to ask you, but it’s gone completely out of my head.” She studied the doorstep, nodding. “Oh, it’ll come to me. That comes with age too I’m afraid . . . forgetfulness.”
“R-Right. Well, I’m always here,” Rita-Mae said, glancing back into the hallway by way of hinting she was busy. “I would invite you in but—”
“No, not at all, dear. Me and Polly were just on our way to the shops.” She held up her shopping bag as evidence. It was made of hessian with a brightly coloured budgerigar embroidered on the front.
“Oh . . . who’s Polly?”
“That’s her, my budgie. She’s the spit image of my own Polly. I keep her in a little cage in the parlour. I got her after Edward died . . . for company. Just wondered if you needed anything?”
“No . . . it’s very kind of you, but I’ll be going out later, so . . . ”
Maud turned to go. “Cheerio then!”
Rita sighed and shut the door. Stood for a while gripping the sides of her head and seeing the dreaded zigzags of light that presaged a migraine attack.
The doorbell sounded again. She thought of not answering, but guessed it was Maud.
“Sorry, Rita, it’s only me again. I just remembered what I forgot.” Her little face grew concerned. “Are you sure you’re all right, dear?”
“Yes, I was on my way to take a painkiller for my headache.”
The Spinster Wife Page 13