The Woman in the Woods

by Lisa Hall

  ‘Take care, won’t you, Allie?’ After I hand over my money at the till, Miranda follows me out on to the High Street. ‘Be careful near the woods.’

  Now, as I hurry into the house, I keep my eyes averted from the woods, the trees visible through the window on the upstairs landing as I head up there to the nursing chair to feed the baby, Mina following behind me with her new book. It’s no use though, as I pass by the glass, the air around me growing distinctly chillier as it always does up here, my eyes flicker towards the rustling green leaves, suddenly sure that I will see that flash of white moving quickly, silently, searching for something lost.

  I rock the baby gently in the nursing chair as he feeds, my mind turning over everything Miranda said in the bookshop. I think of the pearls, imagining them at the throat of Agnes Gowdie, four hundred years earlier, and shake my head. There is no way the pearls I found around the cottage could ever have belonged to her. Agnes Gowdie. A witch. A murderer. Still here? Movement from the hallway catches my eye, a flicker of something swift and fleeting, and my heart leaps into my throat, my arms tensing. The baby is still feeding but his suckle has slowed and his mouth gently falls open. Something isn’t right. I blink stupidly, waiting for my brain to catch up, before I realize what it is, what is wrong. Mina is no longer at my feet. She’s gone, just like Agnes’s child. A spluttering flame of fear ignites as the realization dawns, as I lay the baby in the cot, and walk into the hallway, the air around my ankles chilly and brisk as if a draught is blowing.

  ‘Mina!’ I call, peering into her bedroom. Empty. Shit. I was expecting her to be sitting on the floor, playing with her doll, but she’s not there. I shove open the bathroom door – also empty, the faint drainy smell that occasionally oozes from the bathtub making me swallow hard.

  ‘Mina!’ I shout as I barge my way into the spare bedroom, and then into my bedroom, hoping I would see her curled up on my bed with her thumb in her mouth, but she isn’t there. My chest heaving, panic leaves an acidic taste in my mouth as I race across the landing, looking out into the trees, down to the grass below, to the pond, desperate for a glimpse of her small, dark head but she isn’t there. I sprint downstairs, my legs like jelly, trying desperately to remember if I put the chain back across the door, knowing that I didn’t, I wouldn’t, it’s the middle of the day. Oh please, please, don’t let Mina have gone out the front door. I skid to a halt on the cold tiles in the hallway, Mina’s tiny feet visible as she sits snuggled on the sofa, her blanket under one arm, her thumb in her mouth. Oh, thank God. She is glued to the TV, a wash of primary colours tumbling across the screen and once again I feel a pang of guilt at being such a shit mother for letting her watch telly for hours every day.

  I scoop her up from the sofa, ignoring her protests as I hold her close, burying my face in her hair so she can’t see my tears. I thought I had lost her. I thought Agnes had taken her for her own. I shake off the thought, the image of Mina following a shadowy figure out of the house, towards the woods, so dark and vivid in my mind that I hold her even tighter, so tight that she begins to wriggle and squirm in my arms.

  I set her back down, kissing her hair, drawing in a deep breath to fight off the nausea. I’ll let her do playdough, I think, just for a little bit while the baby is sleeping. I open the understairs cupboard, reaching in for the playdough Rav’s brother bought her for Christmas, catching sight of someone sitting at the kitchen table as I do. There is someone here, there’s someone in the kitchen. Fuck. I pause, silent, waiting to see if whoever it is has noticed that I am downstairs, my fingers reaching for an old umbrella in the cupboard before I start to tiptoe towards the kitchen. My heart feels as if it is going to burst out of my throat as I slip soundlessly along the hallway, my useless weapon clutched in one fist. Sending one worried glance back over my shoulder to where Mina sits on the sofa, I slide my phone from my back pocket, typing in the triple nines ready to hit connect. As I step into the kitchen, I see who is sitting at the table and my phone flies from my hand, dropping to the tiled floor with an ominous crack, the umbrella following after it. My hand flies to my mouth.

  ‘Mum?’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Mum. Oh my God. What … why …?’ My words tangle in my throat at the sight of my mother, sitting at my kitchen table as if I only saw her last week, instead of months ago. She looks just as she did the last time I saw her – her hair still a shiny conker brown, her figure an impressive size eight. She has been complimented on her slim figure more times than I can count over the years and she behaves as though it is effortless. Only I know that she is slim because she doesn’t eat, preferring to smoke to stem her appetite. There is an unlit cigarette in her hand now, the telltale rim of pink lipstick on the filter telling me that she has already been tempted to smoke it. Tiny lines around her mouth are the only sign that she is in her early sixties, all other wrinkles botoxed away. Seeing her sitting there, chic and well dressed, I feel frumpy and fat, my stomach still wobbly and bloated from the pregnancy.

  ‘Mum,’ I say again, feeling hot tears sting at the back of my eyes. I blink rapidly, not moving from where I stand in the doorway. My instinct is to go to her, to throw my arms around her tiny frame and breathe in the familiar scent of her Shalimar perfume and the faint smoke on her skin. But my mother isn’t a hugger and never has been, so I stand where I am, still unable to believe she is actually, really here.

  ‘I did knock but there was no answer, so I let myself in through the back. You left it open,’ she tuts.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re really here.’

  ‘Alys, I am your mother. Haven’t I always been there when you needed me?’ Her hand goes to her mouth, the cigarette at her lips before she remembers and lowers it.

  ‘No one calls me Alys. It’s Allie.’ I feel that old familiar spark of irritation that she ignites in me, the one that reduces me to a teenager, before I make an effort to mentally blow it out, the sheer fact that she’s here dampening it. ‘How did you …? You got my voicemail?’ I hadn’t expected her to answer the phone when I called the other day – deep down I knew she wouldn’t – so the fact that she is here, in my kitchen, feels unreal.

  ‘Yes, I got your voicemail.’ She smiles, and finally I move to sit in the chair opposite her. ‘Of course, I would come if you need me. You’re my daughter, Allie, even if we don’t speak often.’

  ‘The baby is sleeping at the moment, the health visitor just came and discharged us. Do you want to come and see Mina? She’s in the living room …’ The words tumble out of me. I have so much to say to her and I don’t know how much time she’ll give me to say it.

  ‘You, Allie,’ she interrupts. ‘What about you? The baby will be fine, and I will see Mina in a moment. You would have said already if there was a problem with the children. It’s you that I am most worried about.’ I have missed her soft French accent, the gentle slur on some of her words, the dropped h’s and short vowels.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, a lump filling my throat. I swallow, but it stays lodged there. ‘Oh God, Mum, it’s been so long. I’ve got such a lot to tell you. I can’t believe you’re here.’

  ‘I am here. Of course I am. I think you are not. OK, that is.’ My mother makes no move to comfort me but pulls a clean tissue from her sleeve and places it on the table. ‘Also, I do not think this is to do with the baby. Is it that husband of yours? Are you leaving him? You can come to Paris, stay with me. We can be there by this evening.’

  ‘No, no it’s not Rav. I’m not leaving him, and I’m not coming to Paris.’ I blow my nose hard into the tissue. ‘I don’t even know where to begin. Things have been … strange, I suppose.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Silly things, really. There was someone in the trees, or so I thought. Watching the house. Watching me.’ My thoughts go to the pearls that I have hidden upstairs in the drawer next to my bed, the jumble of keys and feathers that sit on the top of the dresser, tangled with receipts and spare change, hairbands and make-up
bottles. ‘Noises coming from the chimney. Naomi said it was probably a bird, but how long can a bird live inside a chimney? I closed the bedroom window the other night but when I went upstairs it was open.’

  ‘You are tired, Allie. Exhausted even, from the baby. Does he sleep?’ My mother stands and moves to the open back door, the cigarette going to her mouth. She lights it, sending a stream of blue-grey smoke out into the garden.

  ‘He sleeps as much as your average newborn,’ I say, tightly. ‘You sound like Rav, he said exactly the same thing, that I must be imagining things.’

  Mum tuts at the mention of Rav’s name. ‘I never said you were imagining things.’ Were comes out as wear.

  ‘Miranda – this woman I met at a baby group – she called this house the witch house.’ I have to pause for a moment, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘There’s this whole legend about a Pluckley witch who used to live here. And although I know it’s ridiculous, there is something about it all that is unsettling. A feeling, you know. There was someone in the trees, I saw them, I saw the path they made through the grass. And I found some keys, tied together with feathers in the floorboards.’

  ‘Keys?’ My mother frowns. ‘For the house?’

  ‘No, not for the house. That’s what is odd – the keys don’t fit the house and along with the feathers they’re tied to a stone,’ I say. ‘I showed them to Rav, and he said it’s probably just an old homemade keyring but there’s … something about them. I keep thinking about them. It’s just unnerved me, that’s all. And then all Miranda’s talk of witches …’

  ‘Witches.’ My mother lets out a snort, before drawing on her cigarette, ash floating to the floor.

  ‘I met Miranda in the bookshop earlier today, while I was looking for more information on the house. According to her, this cottage was home to a witch four hundred years ago and weird things have happened here according to the few stories I could find on the internet. People disappear, die, go bonkers. I don’t know. It’s all just … If I’d known then what I know now, maybe I wouldn’t have agreed to put an offer in on the house.’

  ‘And Rav? Did he know?’ She puts out the cigarette, running the butt under the tap and throwing the damp end in the bin. A thin trickle of smoke follows her into the kitchen, and I wonder how I will explain it to Rav if he smells it later.

  ‘Yes,’ I say quietly and watch her mouth twist into a moue of distaste. She has never approved of Rav. ‘Rav knew about the history of the house but he didn’t tell me. He said he didn’t want to upset me. But I am upset, and not just because he knew. He knew the history behind this house, and now when I tell him about these things, he just waves them away, says they’re nothing. Why doesn’t he believe me when I tell him that something doesn’t feel right?’

  My mother opens her mouth to speak, and I know it will be something derogatory about Rav. I narrow my eyes and she pauses, as if thinking, proving me right.

  ‘Witches aren’t all bad, you know,’ she says eventually, as she sits back at the table. ‘Most of the time they were just healers, nothing sinister, but people did not understand them. I did not bring you up to believe in fairies and magic and fanciful things. But I am not agreeing with Rav, that you are imagining things.’

  ‘I’m not saying I believe in it,’ I snap, that spark of irritation reigniting. ‘I’m saying that since I brought the baby home, maybe even before but I didn’t notice it, things have been … off. When we first moved into this house, I was so excited to be here, so looking forward to building a home with Rav for our children, but lately I feel … I feel as though something, or someone is here, in the house. As if someone is waiting.’ I pause for a moment, before voicing my real fear. ‘I’m worried that the children aren’t safe. That I’m not safe.’

  My mother shrugs. ‘I had these same feelings when you were born. It is a difficult time for a woman – you lose your sense of identity. You are a wife, a mother, you are not just Allie anymore. Children, they are a big responsibility. You are tired, your body has been through so much. It can be overwhelming.’ Her face darkens, and I think back to my childhood, growing up tiptoeing around her. I don’t want to be like that with Mina and the baby.

  ‘Do you think I’m being overly dramatic? That it’s just hormones playing havoc with my emotions? That’s what Naomi thinks.’

  ‘Possibly, I don’t know.’ My mother shrugs. ‘I only know how I felt when you were born. Naomi doesn’t know about these things; she hasn’t had a baby, has she? Are you happy with Rav? Maybe it’s your mind trying to tell you that he is not the one.’

  Bloody hell. I should have known that she would start on Rav, that it would be Rav’s fault. ‘Mum, I am perfectly happy with Rav.’ And I am, most of the time. I don’t think about the way he never told me about the history of the house, the smell of perfume on his clothes, the text from Naomi on his phone. A faint cry comes from upstairs and I raise my eyes to the ceiling. ‘The baby is crying. Let me go and get him, and Mum, don’t go anywhere, will you?’

  When I walk back downstairs, my mother is sitting on the arm of the sofa, next to where Mina sits curled into the cushion, one hand stroking Mina’s dark curls.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ I ask her, jiggling the baby as he fusses in my arms, his little face scrunched and sweaty. ‘Was Mina crying?’ It’s been so long since Mina saw my mother, I’m not sure she wouldn’t confuse her with a stranger.

  ‘No, she is sleeping.’ My mother gives Mina’s hair one last stroke before she gets to her feet and brushes past me back to the kitchen. I step into the living room and see she is right. Mina is curled on the sofa, her head resting on a cushion, her mouth slightly open as her breath whistles in and out. It’s unusual for her to sleep this early in the day, but maybe the baby woke her last night with his cries. I decide to leave her for half an hour and follow my mother back into the kitchen, shivering as a quiet scratch comes from the chimney.

  ‘So, you have something else you want to talk about?’ My mother gazes at me, her blue eyes clear and bright and I get the sense of being under a microscope. She used to look at me the same way when I was young, and unease makes my shoulders tighten.

  ‘We could talk about what you’re doing here,’ I say, my words sharp. I lay the baby in the Moses basket, then turn to fill the kettle and throw teabags into mugs, avoiding meeting her eyes.

  ‘I don’t want tea. I am here to see you, you know that. You asked me to come. Leave that. Come and sit with me. Anyone would think you’re not pleased I am here.’

  I sit, as directed. ‘I am pleased, Mum, of course I am. I just wasn’t expecting you. You didn’t answer the phone when I called, and you never called back, or even sent a message. I didn’t even know whether you’d listened to the voicemail.’

  ‘Allie, you know I am not good at keeping in touch. Neither of us are, not anymore.’

  Her words sting with the ring of truth. ‘Where are you staying?’ I feel a flicker of panic, suddenly sure that she’ll say she’s staying here but I don’t see any sign of a bag.

  ‘Canterbury. I have work to do at the university.’

  Does that mean that if she hadn’t had work here, she wouldn’t have responded to my voicemail at all? I push the thought away, trying to believe that she wants to repair our relationship, that she has missed me as much as I have missed her. ‘Right. How long are you here for?’

  She shrugs, ‘I don’t know. A week or two. If you need me, I will stay longer.’

  I want to tell her that I don’t need her, that I’ve managed fine without her so far, but I don’t. After all, I did leave her a voicemail begging her to help me. A scratch comes from the chimney and my mother’s eyes go to the chimney breast.

  ‘There is something else bothering you,’ she says, looking back at me.

  ‘I’m not sleeping too well,’ I confess. ‘I had a dream … or a nightmare. Some sort of vision,’ I blurt out. ‘A dream, but it was so real it felt like it happened. It really happened.’

  ‘I see. Wha
t was this dream?’ My mother fumbles for another cigarette and moves to the back door again. I had forgotten how much she smoked.

  ‘I was on some stairs, at the top, by the landing. Looking into a bedroom … the children are there, sleeping in the beds and there is a funny smell in the air. Weird shadows on the walls.’

  ‘But what does this have to do with anything? Surely it is just a cauchemar? A nightmare?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Blood beads on the broken skin of my lower lip as I bite it. ‘I can’t see the children properly, but I know they are Mina and Leo …’ I break off, my breath tight in my chest. ‘All I know is that I am about to do something awful, terrible. And I have no way to stop it. But at the same time, it isn’t me. It’s not me that is about to do this awful thing.’

  ‘Oh, Alys.’ I let the name slide, as my mother’s mouth twists down into an expression I haven’t seen for years. Sadness. Or disappointment, maybe. ‘It’s a dream. OK, you have this strange feeling about the house, but you just had a baby. We all feel strange when we have a baby.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I blink, hot tears stinging behind my eyes. I don’t want to cry in front of her.

  ‘Perhaps the history of this house is playing on your mind, this is why you have the strange dreams,’ my mother says. ‘Maybe you need to speak to this girl in the bookshop again, to find out what she knows. If you can find out more about the house, then maybe it will set your mind at rest.’ She hands me a tissue from the table. ‘Better?’

  I nod, sniffing. ‘Better. Sorry. Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I should find out more – Miranda said there is a lady in the village who used to live here. Maybe I should go and see her.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘Would you …’ I pause, strangely reluctant to ask the question. ‘Would you come with me? If the lady will see me? I’d rather not go on my own.’