The Stranger in Our Home

by Sophie Draper

  Stating the bleeding obvious, I thought. I smiled weakly.

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  The woman nodded, her stethoscope jumping like a snake. A man stood next to her.

  ‘I’m happy for you to take her home now,’ she said. ‘All the vital signs are good. Lots of rest, some sensible food and if you have any concerns you can phone this number day or night. She might be a bit dozy from the drugs we’ve given her, but she should be back to her old self by tomorrow. She was found just in time.’

  She waggled a sheet of paper at a man. I could make out telephone numbers and a series of paragraphs in black print. The paper blurred in and out of focus along with the man who held it. Craig.

  A nurse hovered behind us, keen to clear the bed. I stood up obediently and shuffled into a wheelchair. I was perfectly capable of walking but the staff insisted. My head was pounding, my mouth felt like I’d been eating sawdust and all I wanted was to get away from the stink of disinfectant and vomit and the threat of more needles puncturing my arm.

  Craig wheeled me through the doors and down the corridor. I didn’t speak. In the lift, I couldn’t even raise my eyes to look at him and he didn’t say anything either. A few moments later he was pushing a blanket around my body as I sat in his jeep. I felt the warm doggy breath of Patsy against my neck as she pushed forward from the back seat.

  Craig drove. Cars, buildings, street lights whizzed past me, the noise of the car heater hissing in my ears, the radio quietly playing music. Forty-five minutes later, we swung up the drive to Larkstone Farm. Craig held out his hand and I passed him my keys. There was a blast of cold air as the car door opened. Craig had unlocked the front door and he lifted me out, still wrapped in a blanket as if he was worried I might disintegrate without it. I was deposited on the sofa. An electric fan heater belted out hot air at my feet and a cupboard door banged in the distance. Craig reappeared a few minutes later with a hot mug.

  ‘Drink this,’ he said.

  My hands folded around the mug obediently and I nuzzled the steam rising up from the liquid. No alcohol this time. I gave a sigh of disappointment.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘I don’t understand what happened.’

  ‘You strayed from the path. In the dark and the fog, you ended up in the lake. If you’d been there much longer you could have died of hypothermia. What on earth possessed you?’

  I flinched at the censure in his voice. Why did he have to speak to me like that? I didn’t reply.

  ‘You were a heck of a way off the path, they said. They only found you because I raised the alarm. I called round the house and you weren’t back. You didn’t answer your phone either. I knew you’d gone to Carsington and when I got there your car was still parked up. There was a whole group of us looking for you. That, plus the fact your phone is waterproof; the police were able to trace your call.’

  Waterproof? That was news to me. Mind you, the phone had been expensive. It was apparently money well spent. I sat up a little, wondering if it had survived and if so where it was. Somewhere at the bottom of Carsington Water with my fictional water nixie. I shook my head. I could still picture her. I must have been hallucinating from the cold, but even now I could have sworn she was there.

  ‘I followed this guy, a runner. He was in front of me, pointing the way. At least I thought that was what he was doing. I must have been confused, the fog was so dense.’

  ‘No one said anything about a runner.’ Craig frowned. ‘Whoever it might have been was long gone, there were no other cars in the car park. It was the emergency services that found you.’

  ‘Oh!’ I sipped the tea. It was strong and full of sugar, but that was fine. Had it been only yesterday? I still couldn’t remember more than the vaguest details of my rescue and the journey to the hospital.

  ‘I’m staying over, Patsy too,’ he said. He nodded at Patsy, lounging on the rug near the fireplace.

  ‘I don’t understand. You said Patsy couldn’t stay here.’

  ‘I know, but let’s give it another try.’

  ‘Don’t you have work to do?’

  ‘Yes, but it can wait.’

  Clearly, he’d decided he had to stay with me. For the moment, I was more important than work.

  The cat appeared, jumping up onto my knees, staring at the dog disdainfully as if to rub it in that she was on my lap and Patsy was only on the rug. She lifted up one leg and began to lick her bottom to emphasise the point.

  We watched a film that afternoon, eating a slow meal on trays by the fire. I couldn’t ever remember having done that with Paul. I snuggled up to Craig and lowered my eyes, revelling in the warmth of his body. When the film was over, Craig talked about his time at college learning his craft. I listened, struck by the earnestness of his joy in carpentry, his description of different trees, how they grew and their relevant properties. The love of his work and his creative instinct shone through. In this respect at least, he was like me.

  We slept in the same bed that night, no sex, but side by side. I felt safe. No bad dreams. No strange noises. Just sleep.

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘It’s Twelfth Night tonight,’ said Craig.

  It was the next morning, only two days after the events at Carsington. I felt entirely normal, but Craig was still being super attentive. I was quite enjoying that.

  We were walking Patsy round the top field, the one that ran alongside the front drive. I was allowed out but not on my own, Craig said. He was wearing an oversized sheepskin jacket, his jaw jutting out from a loose woolly collar in a way that made him look like one of those aftershave ads in Country Life, the kind of magazines found piled up at the hospital.

  ‘So?’ I pretended not to understand the significance of the date.

  ‘The Wassail, remember?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ I’d hoped he’d forgotten about his suggestion we go together. ‘You planning on going?’ I said, playing innocent.

  ‘Us going. Remember?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, not after … I’ll be fine. I’ll look after Patsy for you, if you like. There’s a good film on tonight and I’ll enjoy a night on my own.’

  I wanted to let him off the hook, that’s what I told myself. How could I explain I didn’t want to go, when I didn’t fully understand the reasons myself?

  ‘Patsy will be quite happy for an evening. And I did ask the doctors, you’ll be okay as long as the weather’s not too cold and we don’t keep you out too long. I think you should come with me.’

  His tone was one of instruction, not invitation.

  ‘I hardly think your friends in the village will appreciate seeing me by your side. They don’t seem to like me much.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Why wouldn’t they like you?’ His tone softened. ‘It’s up to you, but if you think you might stay here …’

  Was that a question?

  ‘… you’re going to have to get to know people sooner or later. And what better way of doing that than coming along with me? I can introduce you to some of your other neighbours.’

  If you think you might stay here … I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I was still here, and that was as far as my thoughts had got. Had meeting Craig changed things? I drew breath, trying to ignore the tentative flutter of excitement in my belly.

  Maybe I shouldn’t let the hostility of some of the villagers get me down. I thought of the scratch on my car, why should I be intimidated? And he had a point, he must know all of the neighbours. Maybe they would accept me more easily, at least for a while, if I was seen tagging along with Craig.

  Sod it. I quashed my misgivings.

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  The evening was much milder than previous ones. Just as well since the entire proceedings of the Wassail took place outside. Craig wrapped me up like an Egyptian mummy and I was on a strict curfew at the first sign of any chill. He insisted he drive us in his jeep.

  The pub on the High Street was heaving and Craig headed straight for the bar. I skulked in a near
by doorway, snuggling into a deep scarf, already feeling on edge. The entire village had turned out, men, women, old and young, kids squawking in excitement like ducks flapping at their parents’ feet. The women had lanterns on sticks, the men brightly coloured rag capes draped across their shoulders, all of them armed with drums and pots and pans, for the moment silent. It could have been a scene from The Wicker Man.

  A troupe of Morris dancers clustered together, bells jangling restlessly. I felt the tension in me grow. A man began to sing, his voice deep and tuneful. When the song came to an end, the crowd cheered appreciatively, the air blossoming to life with their warm breath, the smoke from their lanterns floating into the night. A fiddle player lifted his bow. As the music rose above the crowd, it seemed familiar. I pulled my coat around me, tucking my chin further into my scarf. The Morris men leapt into action. They kicked out with their bells, flourishing with their hands. The crowd stirred, swaying to the beat of a single drummer. My eyes scanned the street and a movement caught my eye. A small face pushing through the crush – a boy. Was he jumping up to see? No, his expression was derisory and fierce, directed straight at me. I gasped, cold withering down my spine. Was that him? The boy I’d seen at the house?

  ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

  I almost jumped at the voice in my ear.

  ‘I’m not much of a cider drinker,’ the woman carried on. ‘Give me a beer any day!’ She had a distinctive mellow lyrical tone, not American like Steph, Canadian.

  My eyes flew back to the boy but already he was gone. Had I imagined him?

  ‘I love orchards,’ she carried on. ‘The blossom and the colours. Not sure which season I prefer, spring or fall! But I don’t understand, what’s this all about, this wassailing?’ Her smile was wide and appealing.

  The woman was older than me – forties? Apparently on her own. A vivid purple cap perched on her head and a full-length coat accentuated her short, rounded stature.

  ‘I …’ I coughed, lifting my chin. I had to jolt myself out of this mood I was in. ‘It’s a blessing of the trees for the coming year.’ I tucked my scarf down.

  ‘Oh, how quaint!’ the woman said, her voice full of unabashed warmth. ‘Why do they do that?’

  ‘The oldest tree is inhabited by Apple Tree Man – the fertility of the whole orchard relies on him. They pour cider on his roots and he points the way to treasure in return.’

  ‘Oh, wow! Hi, I’m Mary Beth Wheeler.’ The woman proffered a hand.

  I took it reluctantly.

  ‘Hi, I’m Caro.’ My eyes still pulled towards the crowd.

  ‘I moved into a cottage on Flagg Lane a few months ago.’ Mary Beth waved an arm in the direction of the village school. ‘Saw you arriving with your other half. He’s pretty cute, isn’t he?’

  ‘Er …’ Had she said Craig was cute? I didn’t comment on the ‘other half’.

  ‘Where do you live?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a bit out of the village.’ I nodded vaguely towards the hills.

  I hoped that was enough, stuffing my hands in my pockets and shifting my feet as if I was about to move on, but she continued.

  ‘Whereabouts, exactly?’

  I hesitated. ‘Larkstone Farm.’

  ‘Oh, you’re Elizabeth’s daughter!’

  My heart sank. She’d obviously known Elizabeth.

  ‘Stepdaughter,’ I said, feeling the weight of those words defeat me.

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ the woman replied. ‘I haven’t lived here long, so I didn’t know her well, but I knew of her.’

  There was something about her tone, a sympathy. As if she’d known, or guessed, what Elizabeth was like. She didn’t seem like the other villagers I’d encountered. She had the manner of an independent-minded soul, who liked to make up her own mind about people. I felt my spirits lift.

  ‘It’s beautiful up there,’ she said. ‘The views are stunning. I’d have loved to have been properly out in the countryside, but the village is more practical for me. I’m an artist too!’

  ‘I … I beg your pardon?’

  How did she know I was an artist? Did the gossips know that too?

  ‘I’m sorry, hon, word gets around!’

  I groaned inwardly, dreading to speculate what people had said, whatever it was behind their rudeness since I’d got here. Perhaps it was my art? Some people thought my style was strange, dark. That was the worst thing about gossip, trying to second-guess what rubbish people were actually thinking. Mary Beth’s hat bobbed up and down, the colour catching in the light of the lanterns about us.

  ‘Ain’t it pretty, all this?’ Her hand swept around in an expansive loop. ‘I love all this folksy stuff!’ She beamed at me again.

  I pushed my nose back into my scarf, trying not to let her see my conflicting expressions of horror and amusement.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I mumbled.

  She was looking at my boots. Doc Martens. They were practical. I looked at hers – fur-lined wedges in purple patchwork suede. Not at all practical. Cosy though. We both smiled.

  ‘An artist, you said?’

  ‘Well, I’m a potter in fact,’ Mary Beth explained. ‘Had to find a cottage with a shack in the garden!’

  ‘I just need a big table.’ I relaxed in spite of myself.

  Mary Beth took me by the arm and swung me round to face the crowd.

  ‘You see that woman over there?’

  I nodded.

  ‘See the ink on her fingers? She’s a teacher. And her hair tied back from her face? She’s a primary school teacher. They do that to stop themselves from catching nits!’

  Her laugh was like nutmeg and ginger sprinkled on a cup of coffee, warm and unexpected, with a hint of mischievous spice. She shook her head.

  ‘They work hard, teachers,’ she said, respect in her voice.

  She pointed to a middle-aged man in a bottle-green jacket and a flat cap on his head.

  ‘Now he’s a car dealer.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s got a copy of Auto Trader in his pocket and he’s been eyeing up the parked cars down the lane. His car’s the brand-spanking-new Range Rover blocking the vicar’s drive. The vicar bought a new second-hand car last week, told me all about it, very proud he was. Thinks he got a good deal. More like our car dealer got a good sale!’

  The man did indeed have a smug look about him.

  ‘You get all sorts moving into these villages, ousting the local families with their cash.’ She grinned at me sheepishly and shrugged her shoulders. ‘What can I say?’

  I laughed, enjoying her self-deprecating, acerbic sense of humour. She poked me with her gloved hand.

  ‘How about that fellow talking to your boyfriend?’

  ‘Oh, he’s not my …’ Was Craig my boyfriend? I felt a spread of heat on my face.

  I turned to look at Craig, then stopped. He was poised in the door of the pub, two pewter mugs balanced in one hand, his wallet in the other, deep in conversation with a man. I almost choked. It was Angus McCready.

  ‘Your go, Caro; what do you think his job is?’ Mary Beth’s eyes sparkled with anticipation.

  I watched the two men. Craig was engrossed in his conversation, certainly not desperate to drag himself away. My heart leapt against my ribs. I’d never mentioned the damage to my car, my suspicions. But he did know about McCready’s behaviour towards me in Ashbourne – so why were they talking like friends?

  I decided to play along. Maybe Mary Beth would tell me something useful.

  ‘Er, I reckon … he’s a dentist.’

  ‘Dentist?’ Mary Beth exclaimed, eager to enjoy the joke.

  ‘Yeah, look at his teeth, they’re a perfect white, you’ve got to be a dentist or a film star to have teeth that white.’ I pulled a face. ‘And he’s got a tan, bet he’s been to the Bahamas. Only dentists can afford to go on holiday in the Bahamas – pirates, the lot of them!’

  Mary Beth gave a tinkle of a laugh. ‘Oh, I like that! Ah
but no, I think he’s a builder. Look at his hands, they’re rough. He works outside with those hands and that tan.’

  A builder. I supposed that fitted. Did he and Craig work together? Was that how they knew each other?

  Angus threw his head back in laughter and I gritted my teeth. Ashbourne – how could Craig even speak to a man who’d treated me like that?

  CHAPTER 30

  Craig must have looked up and caught the expression on my face. He tucked his wallet into his pocket and extricated himself from the conversation with Angus. The man gave another bellow and pushed towards the bar and Craig weaved through the crowd towards me.

  ‘Mary Beth, this is Craig, a neighbour of mine.’

  Craig’s eyebrows rose as if to question the faint inflexion on ‘neighbour’. Mary Beth, fortunately, didn’t pick up on my antagonism, or at least was too polite to let it show.

  ‘Hi Craig.’ She smiled. ‘Now would that be Craig Atherton, the carpenter?’

  Craig nodded, flashing me another look as if he were still worried about my wellbeing.

  ‘Oh, well then, you’re just the man I could do with talking to. Someone mentioned your name to me the other day. I’ve got a cottage on Flagg Lane and my kitchen needs …’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I whispered. I had an urgent desire to get away, to be on my own, to process what I’d just seen.

  I ducked past Mary Beth to slide between two women chattering on the side-lines, avoiding Craig’s probing glance. He was clearly wondering where I was going. Mary Beth raised her eyebrows as if to ask the same thing, but I was already out of reach. When I looked back, Mary Beth was once more at full throttle, presumably quizzing Craig about his work.

  A few moments later, the noise of the crowd erupted, a crashing and banging on all those drums and saucepans and implements. The sound jarred in my ears. I felt a wave of panic, my need to escape intensifying. The man on the fiddle led the way, like the Pied Piper of Hamlyn. I watched the people following, the Morris dancers and the men in capes, the rest of them with their faces flushed with alcohol and the rhythm of the beat. The clashing colours of their clothes, the steam from their breaths, the sway and swagger of their hands and arms as they played their makeshift instruments. The noise increased and the movement of the crowd gained momentum, surging down the road. I felt alienated and alone, the pagan ferocity of their enjoyment engulfing me with irrational fear. The smiles that leered and turned away, the jostling of careless bodies, pushing me along. I thought of the boy I’d seen earlier in the crowd and a fleeting memory jogged in my head, a previous time – when I was little. Was this why I hadn’t wanted to come?