Cara felt a bit queasy, because the memory was there, somewhere, but she just could not dredge it up. When she tried, the image was unreal, like that of a picture book. “How have I managed to forget it?”
“Oh, because it turned out to be nothing, I suppose. Had it been a real body, it would have stuck in your mind better.”
“And you’re sure it wasn’t?”
“Yes. Whatever makes you ask that, dear?”
“I don’t know. It must have been a very good effigy to make me think it moved.”
“You were a child, with an imagination as big as the Pacific Ocean, Cara. Children think monsters live under their beds and can swear blind they hear them. They have no trouble conjuring up a Guy Fawkes that moves.”
“But …” The images in Cara’s head were becoming clearer, but she did not know if she could trust them.
“What?”
Cara shook her head. “Oh, nothing. I’m probably dredging up more fantasies now because I can’t really remember.” She put glasses into the sink under the counter.
“Well if you ever want to talk about it…” She could feel Peg’s shrewd eyes watching her as she washed the glasses. “You know where I live. I do like a mystery, even one that’s been solved.”
“Thanks, Peg.”
She should ask Herbie more about it, or her mother. Why she needed to know she did not understand. After all, it was something that had happened years ago. She had made a stupid mistake as a child that inconvenienced everyone and then amused them. She could just hear the villagers muttering ‘stupid kid’, after they had come out of their warm homes.
It should not matter, in the big scheme of things, but for Cara, who had spent most of her childhood having fingers pointed at her because of her traveller heritage, it felt like another mark of shame. “You’re an idiot,” she told herself, laughing at her own hyperbole as she washed the glasses.
Yet she had always disliked Bonfire Night, preferring to stay in and read a book whilst the family went to the organised displays. It made her place as organiser this year ironic. For Cara, getting involved was a way of feeling like one of the villagers and not the outsider she had always considered herself to be.
By the end of the lunchtime session, and after Cara had cleaned up, dusk was beginning to fall. She put on a thick coat and made her way towards the Village Hall. It was a foggy evening again and she hoped that the heavy pall over the village would lift in time for Bonfire Night, otherwise the fireworks they had bought would be a waste of time.
As she walked along the main street of Midchester, and turned a corner towards the village hall, which was next door to the Church, she could only see a few feet ahead. Keeping in close to the buildings, so she could avoid walking into the road, she passed by comforting domestic scenes. Blazing fires lit up siting rooms and children sat in front of the telly, watching The Wooden Tops.
She began to wish she was inside rather than out on such a grim evening. At one point, she was sure that she heard footsteps behind her. Or were they ahead of her? It was hard to tell. As she walked, she tried to remember the incident from when she was a child. But the more she tried to bring it to the forefront of her mind, the more it remained in shadow. Instead it led to other memories, such as her mother’s remarriage to Herbie Potter and each of her siblings going off into the world, whilst she stayed behind in Midchester. So she tried to recall that night again, but that only led to other memories of being bullied at school and the villagers who looked down on her and her family.
Those memories led to her feeling tense, and it was almost as if all those accusing people were hiding in the fog waiting for her. She could even hear their footsteps as they verbally abused her and then ran away. Then she became sure that they were real footprints that she heard.
“Who is it?” She longed for a voice to answer and alleviate her fears. No one replied, which only increased her fears. She tried to calm down. After all, she had walked the streets of Midchester all her life and at all times of the day. Yet for the first time she sensed malevolence in the air. For no good reason, she believed it was aimed at her. No, it was not the first time. She had felt that malevolence before, a long time ago.
Concentrating on not bumping into anything, and trying to hold back the tide of fear, she almost fell over the legs that were sticking out on the ground. A cold hand clutched her heart, and she very nearly screamed.
Oh yes, Cara, she thought, as she struggled to compose herself. Make a fuss over some effigy again and you won’t get away with it this time. She stooped down to push the Guy Fawkes out of the way, so that no one else would fall over it. But her hands did not touch old cloth, stuffed with newspaper. They touched a very solid set of warm legs.
“Hello?” Cara said, tentatively, thinking that maybe one of the older villagers had tripped over in the fog. “Who is this?” She moved her hands to the person’s head, but when she touched it, it flopped over. Cara gasped, trying to assess the situation.
Suddenly, and in the blink of an eye, the past came to her as clearly as if it were happening in front of her eyes. She had spent all that day, twenty years ago, reading a Ladybird book about Guy Fawkes and the Gunpowder Plot. The image of him and his effigy had stuck in her mind. Her mother had sent her to the corner shop to get some sugar, with the promise of bonfire toffee after tea. It was only a few doors away from their home, but Cara’s head was full to the brim with gunpowder, treason and plot. Enthralled by the big pile of wood she could see in the distance, she wandered off towards the village green where the first Bonfire Night party after the war was to be held.
She had seen fireworks when the war ended, and had longed to see more. Soon that would happen again, and the big pile of wood in front of her would light up the night sky. She saw the effigy resting against the side of the bonfire, and, in her childish way, assumed it had fallen from the top. She moved in closer. Her brothers had been making a Guy Fawkes, but this one was better. It looked real. Amused and excited, Cara had reached out and touched it. Like the figure in the fog, some twenty years later, the head fell forward, and that was when little Cara realised she was not looking at a model. It was a real person and they were hurt. The malevolence that haunted her for weeks afterwards filled the night air. She did not see anyone else, but she sensed there was someone lurking nearby.
She cried out and ran back to her mother, forgetting the sugar. On seeing her stricken daughter, Martha had roused Herbie from his place by the fire. He in his turn had called upon Len, who got all the other men out looking.
When they returned it was with much teasing of Cara. There was no Guy Fawkes on the Bonfire. Cara had been furious with them for laughing at her, and had gone to bed that night crying ‘There was, there was’.
And there had been. Twenty years later, Cara was convinced that she had not imagined it. The figure leaning against the bonfire had felt as real as the person lying on the ground on a cold November evening in nineteen-sixty-five.
Less than a second had passed as all the memories flooded her mind. He needed help, of that she was certain. Her hands were wet and sticky, and even though it was difficult to make out the substance in the dim light, she knew that it was blood. A wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat.
A hand touched her shoulder and a vaguely familiar voice said her name. That was when Cara really screamed.
Chapter Three
1946
We meet at the hotel in Shrewsbury. It’s a discreet place I’ve used before. They don’t much care how you sign the register. So Mr. and Mrs. Smith it is. I tell them to send the guest up when she arrives.
Despite all the times we’ve made love in the past, we’re shy with each other tonight. Between us is something unspoken and, to me, unspeakable.
“It’s been so long,” she whispers, curving her body into mine. “I’ve forgotten how good you feel.”
I tell her the same, and I mean it, despite thoughts of her betrayal racing through my head.
&nb
sp; As I hold her to me, I remember the pleasure we found in each other before the war. Is it so wrong of me to take that pleasure again?
Being close to her reminds me of the pain of that parting. It was the second time she had betrayed me. The first time resulted in a child that could never be mine, no matter how much she wanted us to live as a family. The second time was when she got on a boat to Australia, leaving not just me, but the Fatherland behind.
The worst of it is that I told her to go. Deep down I hoped she would not. I hoped she would choose me. Instead she chose the child and six years in an internment camp. She wrote to me soon afterwards, begging forgiveness, but I ignored her letters.
Still I hold her to me in this shabby hotel room. I might as well make the most of the time we have.
“I’ll never love anyone as I have loved you,” I tell her, truthfully.
“Then nothing else matters. We can be together!”
She thinks this is the beginning whereas I know it’s the end.
***
1966
“I’m so sorry, Cara,” said Guy, helping her to her feet. “I didn’t mean to make you jump, but I’d said your name a couple of times and you didn’t answer.”
“I didn’t hear you,” Cara said, her mind still lost somewhere in the past. “I think this man is hurt.” She did not have time to wonder why Guy Sullivan was there.
Guy kneeled down and lifted the man’s head toward the street lamp. “Oh my God,” he said. “It’s Carl Anderson. I had an appointment with him this afternoon but he didn’t turn up. I came down the village to see if I could find him.” He tested Anderson’s pulse and shook his head, grimly. “He’s dead.”
Cara’s heart leapt, even though it was as she suspected. “He’s covered in blood. Do you think he fell and hurt himself?” Even as Cara asked the question, she knew that was not the case. His death had the same synchronicity as her getting ready to judge the Guy Fawkes contest, just as she was reminded of finding a body on the bonfire some twenty years before.
“I’d be surprised if it he had,” Guy said in grim tones. “We’d better call and ambulance and the police.”
“There’s a phone in the village hall,” said Cara.
“I’ll stay here. That is if you don’t mind going up there alone.”
Cara tried a reassuring smile and failed. “I’ll be okay, I’m sure. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Afraid that she might trip in the fog, she walked as fast as she could towards the village hall, relieved to see that there was a light on. It meant that Meredith Cunningham was already there. Halfway there she turned back. In the shifting fog, and under the street light, she could just about make out Guy stooping over Carl Anderson. For a moment she felt certain that he was looking through Anderson’s pockets, but the fog shifted and she put it down to a trick of the light. After all, why would he do such a thing? To help eradicate the suspicion, Cara started running, mindless of the fog and eager to get some sort of help.
“Mrs. Cunningham…” she said, breathlessly, as she almost fell through the door, “there’s been an accident… someone is dead …we need…”
“I’ll get on the phone to the police,” said Meredith Cunningham. “Sit down, Cara. As soon as I’ve finished I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
Meredith Cunningham was a vibrant woman in her thirties, with strawberry blonde hair. People were often surprised to learn that she was married to the local vicar, Andrew Cunningham. But he was not the average vicar either, and had arrived in Midchester in the fifties, carrying a bunch of rock ‘n’ roll records, immediately winning the hearts of the female parishioners. The only woman who won his heart was Meredith and they had been together ever since. Meredith was also Peg Bradbourne’s niece, and the likeness was obvious to anyone who had met them both. One day Meredith would have the same owl-like eyes as her aunt, and was already every bit as insightful. At that moment in time she was a stunning splash of colour in a sometimes drab village.
“I have to go back. Guy … Mr. Sullivan … is down there with him.”
“If the man is already dead there’s little you can do,” said Meredith, as she headed for the small office which held the telephone. “And you might disturb some important evidence.” Meredith had picked up her aunt’s taste for sleuthing. In fact, from what Cara knew of village history, it was something that everyone got involved in at some time or another. She often wondered if it was a symptom of the village’s insularity. They always seemed to prefer solving their own mysteries and did not always take kindly to outsiders coming in, even if they were the police.
Cara knew that what Meredith said about staying put made sense, but some instinct told her that she had to go back as soon as possible. It was almost as if she was afraid that when she got there both the dead man and Guy Sullivan would be gone, just like the effigy had been gone twenty years before. Accepting that was exactly the reason she wanted to return, she muttered something to Meredith, who was already on the phone, and left the hall.
When she got there, she saw that a few people had come out of their houses, including the Simpsons and her mother and step-father. News must have travelled fast, as the Simpsons and the Potters lived in different parts of the village, and neither part was particularly close to where the man’s body was lying.
Anderson lay on the ground, exactly where she had left him. That was something at least.
“What’s gone on here?” she heard Len Simpson ask Guy.
“This man is dead,” said Guy, with a calmness that Cara envied. Her own heart was hammering in her chest.
“And exactly how did he get that way?”
“I found him,” Cara chipped in, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered. “I was on my way to the village hall and fell over him. Mr. Sullivan arrived afterwards.” Her voice faded away so that it sounded unconvincing even to herself. Had Guy arrived afterwards? She only assumed he had, but the image of Guy rifling through Anderson’s clothes would not leave her. Perhaps he had been there all along, and she had just disturbed him whilst he was attacking Anderson for some reason. What might the dead man have that Guy Sullivan wanted?
“What she says is correct,” said Guy. “I had an appointment with Mr. Anderson up at the Grange, but he failed to turn up. I’d come down to the village to see if I could find him.”
That he told everyone exactly the same story he had told Cara made her feel more secure. No doubt he would have proof of the appointment, and if he had really wanted to kill Anderson, he could have done so in private at the Grange and no one would have known about it. She had little doubt that the fiercely devoted Enid would help him bury the body in the back garden.
“Who is he then?” asked Herbie Potter.
As Herbie spoke, Cara’s mother broke away from him and came to Cara, putting her arm around her shoulders. “Are you alright, sweetheart?” she whispered.
“Yes, mum, but… it’s exactly the same as before.” Cara wanted to listen to what Guy said, but she did not want to ignore her mother.
“What do you mean?”
“Like when I saw the body on the bonfire. I know it was a real person.”
Martha Potter pressed her lips together in a thin line. “I thought you’d forgotten about that.”
“I did but Mr. Simpson and Herbie reminded me of it today in the pub.”
“Then I want a word with you, Herbie Potter,” Martha said, her voice rising.
“What?” Herbie frowned.
“Do you know how long it took for this child to stop having nightmares after she thought she saw that body? Of course you do, because you were there. I told you it wasn’t to be mentioned anymore.”
“She’s a grown up now, love. I didn’t think it would matter.”
“You all doubted her, but I never did,” said Mrs. Potter.
“What body is this?” Guy Sullivan’s deep voice cut into the conversation.
“It happened when I was a little girl,” Cara explained. “I’d f
orgotten until today. It was exactly this time of year and we had a fireworks party planned. But I thought … I know I found a body on the bonfire.”
“But there was nothing there when we all went to look,” said Len Simpson. “So we figured it was just a child’s overactive imagination.” His tone said that he still believed that.
“There was plenty of time for someone to shift it,” said Mrs. Potter. “Herbie didn’t go out for ten minutes after Cara come in crying about it. Then none of you believed it either. But I knew my girl didn’t lie.”
“Now, Martha, no one said she was lying,” said Mrs. Simpson.
“It was implied. You’ve accused my kids of all sorts over the years, because we used to be travellers. You more than anyone Myrtle Simpson.”
“Well I… If we’re going to start flinging accusations, I might remind you that Herbie here is no angel.”
“Herbie knew that what he did was wrong, and he’s been a good father to my children ever since.”
“Does any of this really matter?” Once again, Guy Sullivan stopped the conversation. He was a natural leader, and his commanding tones halted everyone in their tracks.
“It mattered to me,” Cara said, quietly. “It isn’t nice to be labelled a liar. I’m sure it mattered to the person I found as well.”
“Yes, of course it did, Cara,” he said in a kinder voice. “I meant the neighbourly feuds and who did what to whom and when. People are arguing and a dead man lies at their feet.”
“Sorry,” said Mrs. Potter.
“Sorry,” said everyone else in turn.
Cara was put in mind of a classroom full of children having been chastised by the teacher. She felt that way herself, looking down at her feet. What must Guy Sullivan think of them all bickering over the body of a dead man?
The police and ambulance arrived, and at the same time Meredith Cunningham came from the village hall to say she had made everyone tea. There weren’t many takers and Cara guessed that the women would be missing Ena Sharples on Coronation Street tonight because they had a real life drama to watch.
Bonfire Memories Page 3