by Dawson, H A
He progressed with his work, drilling and fixing lengths of wood to the walls to create a framework, but despite his best attempts, one piece didn’t quite fit, so he pulled it away and took it outside to remove a small slither. Standing in the mild spring air, taking a clean breath of air, he scanned his surroundings. Michaela was tending a patch of ground.
With a deep sadness, his thoughts reverted to the day of the miscarriage and to his feeling of complete inadequacy. He had been lost for words and felt a deepening haze clouding his productive thoughts. Nothing he said sounded helpful; nothing eased the pain that carved into Michaela’s face. Whilst squeezing her hand, he removed the drips from her face and suggested that there would be other babies, but rather than providing her with comfort, as had been his intention, her face had knotted ever tighter.
Eventually, she spoke. ‘But this is the baby I want. She was special, Sam. I want her back.’
Her pain had sliced through him like a knife. He tried to force out comforting words, but as his body tensed, his teeth clenched. Everything he considered sounded trite. Time may heal wounds, and there may be other babies, but that was not what she wanted to hear. She wanted to learn that there had been a mistake and that she was still pregnant. He exhaled loudly, disappointed by his inadequacy.
He knew that she had blamed herself. Had she worked too hard? Was she stressed? Had she eaten the wrong foods? Sam thought not, but deep inside he had doubts. He knew her stress levels were higher than was healthy, and he knew her sleeping patterns had been irregular. Were those the reasons for the loss, or had the miscarriage been a horrible, unavoidable event? As much as he hated to contemplate it, it may also have been something more sinister.
Neither of them had mentioned the curse connected to the house, but Sam suspected that he was not alone in his considerations. She had to be thinking the same. Was she also resisting?
Stepping back into the house his anxieties remained. Too many deaths had occurred on this patch of land. Was it arrogant to deny the existence of a mysterious force? He placed his piece of wood onto the floor, stepped into the kitchen, and reached for the cordless telephone. Uncertainly, he peered at Michaela through the window before calling his psychic friend, Liz Munroe.
‘I need some advice,’ he said, ‘we were told that the house we have moved into is cursed, and children, in particular, seem to be at risk. Do curses exist?’
‘Has something happened?’
Erm, not really.’
‘Sam?’
‘A little boy had an accident, but he is okay.’
‘And you’re worried it may happen again.’
‘Yes.’
‘I have come across something like this before. A young woman had an awful amount of bad luck. She had a car crash, a kitchen cupboard fell onto her, and she slipped down the stairs and broke her ankle, and so on.’
‘Was she cursed?’
‘She was adamant that she was, and would spend her time waiting for the next bad event to happen.’
‘What happened?’
‘I convinced her to be more positive. When our energy is down, we are vibrating at negative frequencies, and we attract events and people of the same frequencies. That is, bad attracts bad.’
In layman’s terms?’
‘On a simple level, if you’re tired everything seems to go wrong and the events take on more significance. The bus doesn’t turn up, you get wet when you take a lunchtime walk, and the shop runs out of bread. If you were in a positive mindset, you wouldn’t even notice them happening.’
‘But you don’t make yourself fall down the steps and break an ankle.’
‘No, but when you’re under stress, you pay less attention to things around you. That affects the outcome. That is, you’re clumsy with your footsteps and stumble.’
‘I see,’ Sam replied. ‘So we have to create more positive energy.’
Exactly. Think happy thoughts, do good deeds, and trust in your ability to deal with whatever comes along.’
‘That sounds straightforward.’
‘If you are in a negative place, it’s hard. It’s easy to blame a curse and put a negative spin on everything. Is Michaela okay?’
‘Yes, she’s fine. She doesn’t even know I’m ringing.’
‘Okay. Well, if you need any more advice, just ring. I’ll do what I can.’
‘Thanks Liz, I will.’
‘Bye.’
‘Bye.’
He placed the telephone onto the charger and floated back to his work, freed of his burden.
Tiptoeing along the linoleum hallway floor, Bloomer kept his knees bent, his head low and his one eye scanning for danger. When the outer door closed, he jolted, and for a moment seemed to consider his actions. It did not last; soon, the sight and smell of his food became his driving force, and he continued in a straight path to his dish in the kitchen. Hungry, he devoured the odorous chunks of meat.
Fizzling with unadulterated glee, Michaela peered through the living room door, eager to share her joy with Sam. ‘Bloomer’s inside,’ she said in a loud whisper.
His face broke into an immediate smile. ‘That’s good news.’
She remained in the doorway, one eye on Sam and the other on Bloomer. ‘He’s so skinny.’
‘He was at death’s door when we first started feeding him. It is going to take a while for him to recover.’
Motionless, she continued to watch over the nervous animal. His eagerness did not falter. He stood over his dish, stuffing one mouthful in after another and not appearing to chew. When he finished, he did not lick the juicy remnants but he turned his back to Michaela, and then without hesitation, he scurried upstairs.
With her skin tingling with excitement and light agile steps , she followed on behind. By the time she reached the top, there was no sign of him, forcing her to surmise that he had slipped through one of the two open bedroom doors. She first scanned a room containing storage boxes, and then her own bedroom. Bloomer was not in any obvious location. Mystified, she repeated her search.
She smoothed out the light-green patterned duvet on the bed and straightened several pairs of shoes pushing them under an armchair. There was still no sign of the cat. She called out his name but heard nothing, no scratching, licking, or rustling. Puzzled, she stepped around the room, scanning above and below her head; he was not on the top of the wardrobe and not hiding in a gap between two chests of drawers. Retreating she closed the door.
Sam was on the landing. ‘Where is he?’
‘I think he must be in here,’ she said, stepping into the next room.
She stood by the antique wardrobe and looked into the small gaps and hiding places. There was dust clinging to the boxes and cobwebs near the ceiling, but there was no sign of the cat. Baffled, she looked at Sam.
His expression was blank and without concern. ‘He’ll turn up.’
‘I want to know he’s okay.’
She peered behind a large painting leaning against the wall and looked at a box near the window, and then, having stepped towards the pile of boxes near the centre, she saw his static pose. A stifled exclamation slid from her mouth.
Bloomer did not react and remained crouched with his ears back and his head down. Hesitantly, she touched his coarse dry fur, feeling the grit and the dirty patches on his sides.
‘Aw!’ she said. ‘He’s just wet himself.’
‘Poor little chap. He must be terrified.’
She turned to Sam. ‘What should we do?’
‘We should leave him alone. He’ll clean himself up when we’ve gone.’
‘We can’t just leave him like that.’
‘I don’t think we have a choice. Look at him, he’s terrified.’
She turned her attention to Bloomer. He did not even flinch. His body was rigid, and his one good eye remained in a fixed position. Concluding Sam was right, and fighting her desire to comfort the little cat, she retreated from the room. Periodically, as the evening progressed, she returned to c
heck on him. Each time, he remained in his static pose, and each time, her sense of hopelessness mounted.
For days, Bloomer appeared at meal times then quickly retreated, hiding somewhere out of view. There had not been a sight or sound, and as a result and much to Sam’s dismay, Michaela’s brief respite from her grief had ended. He tried to lift her mood with witty remarks and a comforting hand, but her steps had become heavier and slower. He knew she wanted to hear the cheering sounds of the cat and to feel his soft warm fur upon her hands, a small consolation for her loss, but it was not to be. Bloomer remained elusive in his forlorn existence.
Saddened by his inability to help her, Sam continued his task of measuring the walls in preparation for producing another wooden framework. He had progressed half way around the landing when a rustling sound drew his attention. He looked around, scanning the landing and peering into the bathroom, but he saw nothing. Dismissing the sound as a mouse, he continued with his assignment, and picked up his clipboard and drew a rough sketch of the landing walls.
A short while later, it happened again and was coming from his feet. Curled up under the floorboards, next to an absent section by the wall, was Bloomer, amidst years of accumulated dust and cobwebs. Sam’s face brightened. The little cat gazed in a nonchalant manner.
He rushed outside to tell Michaela. She hurried indoors and crowded the hole, whispering in a soft and reassuring voice. ‘Poor little mite . . . to find solace in a tiny dusty space. What must he be thinking?’
‘His short life must have been fraught with difficulties.’
‘He looks happy. That makes it even worse.’
After several more minutes spent making soft murmuring sounds, Michaela gave Sam his instructions not to scare him, and went back outside. Smiling, he gave the cat a cursory glance and reached to his clipboard. Yet his mind remained on the small animal. Had he ever had human companions? Bloomer’s reaction to Michaela’s gentle touch, when he wet himself in the box, was one of pure terror, and so it was reasonable to assume that it had been a new experience. He also believed it improbable for a feral cat to be domesticated. However, this was no ordinary stray. Putting aside his earlier thoughts that human beings had hurt him, he speculated that the cat must have been born wild. Had he ever had a satisfying non-milk meal before his arrival at Primrose Cottage, and if so, how easy was it for him to catch prey with one eye?
His poor condition must have accumulated over several months. The cat looked young, he was a small cat with a rounded kitten face, and Sam estimated him to be, at most, twelve months old. Perhaps that was the reason for his adjustment into a domesticated world, as a much older cat would have been far less adaptable.
Sam was smiling at the curled little figure when Michaela burst through the outer door.
‘I’ve had another vision.’
He placed his clipboard onto the floor and peered over the banister, drawn to her contagious excitement. Her skin tone was pink and smooth, her smile broad, and her mannerisms loose and free. He ambled downstairs.
‘She was so sad Sam. I could feel her grief.’ She grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Catherine didn’t kill her first baby!’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘I’m not sure. The images were hazy.’
They wandered into the living room. Sam perched on the edge of the sofa and Michaela leaned against the window ledge, standing in near-silhouette.
‘It’s always weird. I can never get used to appearing in someone else’s life. I just wish I could ask questions.’
‘What would you ask?’
‘There is so much. I want to know everything about her: what she likes and dislikes, how she enjoys living in this house, what Jack is like, and what other family she has. I feel a strong connection to her Sammy.’
‘I know you do.’
She turned and gazed into the bright sunlight, and for a moment remained silent. When she turned her attention to him, her expression was intense.
‘She was on the ground by a plaque. It was for the baby.’
‘Do you think it’s somewhere on our land?’
‘It has to be.’ She grabbed his arm and led him outside. ‘Come on, we have to find it.’
Sam soaked up her animated enthusiasm and followed in her path, passing shrubs and treading on a lawn comprising of a mix of grasses and cut weeds.
‘I think it was near a tree,’ she said, ‘so we’ll start looking at the far end and work our way back to the house.’
‘I haven’t seen a plaque attached to any of the trees.’
‘No, me neither.’
They kept a steady pace and walked towards the perimeter of the land where an old willow tree stood, wrapped in a large ivy plant. Creeping and twisting, the ivy weaved along the branches, covering the bottom two-thirds of the trunk, and providing a home for countless insects, small birds, and mammals. It was a beautiful sight.
‘I don’t think it’s here,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t feel right.’
He gazed at the broad trunk and looked up to the branches, to the shimmering sunbeams brightening the leafy mass. ‘Are you sure? The tree is old enough to have been around last century.’
Even though she said she was sure, she scanned the nearby vegetation continuing her search. Deciding to assist, he flattened the nettles beneath his feet, searching for the carved piece of wood. The ground was hard and the weeds were unrelenting; it seemed a waste of time, causing his doubts to clarify in his mind.
Should they find the plaque, what would it prove? Okay, so Catherine had been grieving enough to create something in her child’s memory; it didn’t mean, though, that she hadn’t killed her child. Also, and perhaps more worryingly, what if they discovered something else, something more sinister. It didn’t seem wise to be delving into a past they knew nothing about, especially considering the multiple warnings they’d received.
‘I know it is around here somewhere,’ she said, ‘you do believe me don’t you?’
He nodded thoughtfully, and they progressed for a while longer until Michaela decided to look elsewhere. Skimming the land, her despondency was palpable, intensifying his doubts. He was about to speak out when her mood changed from despondency to elation.
‘They were over there,’ she said, rushing to a tree by the pond. ‘Catherine was crouched on the ground. Jack was in the background.’ Michaela peered over her shoulder. ‘He vomited Sam. That was why her baby died. They were both ill.’
She rummaged through the dry grasses with her fingertips, trampled the dock and nettles with her feet, and scrutinised the gaps in the bramble bush with tightly focused eyes.
‘We’ll be lucky to find anything,’ he said.
‘I’m not giving up. There’s a plaque here somewhere.’
He watched her eyes flit frenetically across the patch of land. Her eagerness had not waned, and her determination not stumbled; she was resolute in her search.
Eventually, she screeched out her joy. ‘I’ve found it.’
Surprised, he trotted towards her, watching her attempt to rip away a grass fabric binding the block of wood to the earth. Unsuccessful, she voiced her frustration.
‘Let me help,’ he said.
She ignored him and refused to give in. At last, the grass surrendered. She held the small plaque in her hands and looked to the inscription. The words, ‘Edward Cooper, a cherished firstborn’ were carved into the wood along with the dates of his birth and death.
She held it close to her heart. ‘I’m going to restore it and put it back near that tree.’
Striding back to the house, half-listening to her exuberance, he wondered about the circumstances of the boy’s death. Assuming it was murder, it was likely to be a poisoning, a common cause of death in that period. Had Catherine attempted to kill Jack too? Given his sickly state, it appeared a possibility.
Surreptitiously he glimpsed at Michaela and noted the twinkle in her eyes and the hope radiating from her general demeanour. Whilst he wanted to share his t
houghts, she spoke first and asked him if he was happy that they were starting to prove Catherine’s innocence. Too apprehensive to share his growing pessimism and too fearful that she was setting herself up for a major setback, he provided a vague nod.
Perhaps he should have spoken out. But Michaela was the happiest she had been since the miscarriage, and he couldn’t bear to spoil her mood. Concluding it was best to keep his doubts private, at least for now, he strode back into the house to continue his work.
Chapter 16
Leaning against the rickety kitchen cupboard, Michaela watched as Sam chopped the carrots into fine strips. His fingers were slim and elongated, his wrists slender, and his arms tanned, and he carried out his task with a natural ease, unhurried and precise. She was lucky to have him in her life, and wondered if Catherine and Jack’s relationship had been equally blessed.
Her recent vision formed in her mind. Catherine had been wearing a long black dress and a shawl, and her hair had been scraped back and her complexion a patchy grey. She had crouched to the muddy patch of ground, her grief gripping her and her blood-curdling wail echoing through the hillside. Jack, who had been standing at her rear, failed to react with any comforting hand or a sympathetic gaze and stared at her with revulsion.
Michaela could not accept that Jack’s illness had prevented him from soothing his wife, and believed he had another reason. Yet nothing she considered could explain his heartless behaviour. She had just lost her baby. Why could he not see that she needed him now more than ever? It could have been yesterday, it could have been her.
Her eyes wandered along the length of Sam’s scrawny body and to his loose fitting jeans and faded polo shirt. She looked at his fine wisps of hair, facial stubble and dimples, and she reminded herself of the emotional support she had received after the miscarriage. She was in no doubt he loved her. Had Jack ever loved Catherine?