by Dawson, H A
‘I’m even more convinced than ever that Catherine was innocent,’ she said.
He held the knife in a static position, hovering above the carrot, and turned his head. ‘It’s admirable that you want to defend her, and I can understand that, but history says otherwise.’
Such history is hearsay! She was in unbearable pain when she lost her baby. She wouldn’t have felt like that if she had murdered him.’
‘Michaela, you’ve just lost your baby too. Are you sure you’re not projecting your feelings onto Catherine?’
Her eyes narrowed and her face tensed. ‘This is not about me! And no I am not!’
He gathered the sliced carrot into a pan and selected a summer cabbage from the fridge. He pushed him aside.
‘I’ll do that.’ she said.
Her chopping was vigorous. Firstly, she cut it into large flat sections, and then she diced each segment. Within a few seconds, whilst he hovered at her rear, she had placed the cabbage into the pan, added water, and placed it onto the hob.
‘Proving Catherine’s innocence is going to be difficult, if not impossible,’ he said.
‘We could have a séance, or maybe get an Ouija board. She’ll want to tell her side of the story, so she’s likely to appear.’
‘How about we check the facts first? After all, we only know what your mother told us.’
She opened the freezer, selected two vegetarian mince pies, and placed them into the hot oven.
‘Okay, but then we should try to contact Catherine.’
Sam shuffled.
‘I thought you said you’d help.’
‘I’m just not sure having a séance is a good idea.’
Why ever not? She was innocent!’
‘Michaela . . .’ he puffed out a breath of air ‘. . . we don’t know that. The locals are adamant that her spirit still wanders around here. We don’t know what we’re letting ourselves in for.’
It was impossible for her to agree with him. It also seemed impossible for her to persuade him into believing otherwise. She would have liked his support, and she would have liked him to agree to her suggestion, but she wasn’t in the mood to overwhelm him with a persuasive argument. Instead, she told him she disagreed and wandered into the sitting room and gazed through the window into the late evening sun.
After a few moments, Sam appeared at her rear and told her he would love to solve the mystery, but reiterated his disapproval of having a séance or similar.
‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘But I will find another way of proving this. I feel a connection with Catherine that I can’t explain. All I can say is that I’ve a strong sense she’s reaching out to me. I’m not going crazy Sam.’
‘I know you’re not. But I still think we should be careful.’
Frustrated, Michaela stared in Sam’s general direction. Her mind was in turmoil. She thought of her unfathomable urgency to prove Catherine’s innocence and considered her desire to protect and defend. She knew she should fear the woman who had supposedly caused intense pain for her immediate family, but she could not; the pain she visualised belonged to Catherine.
‘Do you have any ideas where we could start looking to ascertain the truth?’ she asked.
‘The local library might have the answers, and there’s Grace too. I’m certain she knows more than she lets on.’
She swallowed and looked at her feet. Not Grace. Never Grace. It may have been her intention to sidle up to her and apologise, but that was before the miscarriage. Now, her confidence was lost.
‘There’s a village fête next weekend,’ he continued, ‘we could try asking some of the locals.’
‘I suppose we could.’
‘Don’t go getting your hopes up, though. We might never find out what happened.’
‘Oh Sammy, we will. You can be so negative at times.’
His gaze was intense. ‘You have been through a massive trauma. I couldn’t bear to see you hurt again.’
She clenched her teeth and blinked away her rising tears. ‘I am not going to get hurt again,’ she whispered, ‘I couldn’t bear it either.’
The light trickled into the small gap in the floorboards, illuminating Bloomer’s one good eye and white face, and he remained curled in a tight ball. Occasionally, he raised his head and watched with curiosity as Sam and Michaela carried the boxes between the rooms, and once, alerted to a banging sound, his ears pricked and his eyes widened.
She smiled. ‘I’m sorry little chap,’ she said, ‘we won’t be long.’
She stood to one side allowing Sam to manoeuvre a large rectangular box along the narrow corridor. His neck muscles strained his face reddening.
‘Who needs the gym, when we have all this,’ she said.
He placed the box onto another. ‘It’s cheaper. I’m not sure it’s as much fun, though.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I find gyms boring. I would sooner dig in the garden and inhale the fresh country air than be in a smelly stuffy room.’
They stepped back into the room and gazed at the space. Only the century old wardrobe remained. She walked to the far end, her steps echoing on the wooden floor, and scanned the brick walls and fine cracks in the ceiling.
‘I think we should still make this into a nursery,’ he said. ‘It’s the smallest of the three rooms. It makes sense.’
She gawked at him, and her legs weakened and a lump in her throat knotted her reply. Through the window, a tree swayed in the gentle breeze and birds hopped through the canopy, and in the meadow, near the river, waterfowl gathered.
His hand dropped onto her shoulder. She recoiled, fighting his comforting gesture.
‘Are you ready to talk about it?’ he asked.
Tongue-tied, she shook her head.
‘I hurt too, but it will get easier.’
‘When Sam? When will it get easier?’
He reached for her hands. ‘I don’t know, but I can promise you, you won’t always feel this bad.’
Her face was pale and pinched, and her eyes watery. ‘I don’t want to feel any other way. I don’t want to forget our baby.’
‘That won’t happen.’
Relenting to his offer of sympathy, she pressed her rounded body into his scrawny frame, searching for his comforting odour and rhythmical heartbeat. He was her lifeline, her entire reason for living; he was all she had.
Her baby had gone. She had killed her child and yanked herself free. ‘It’s my fault she died!’
‘Of course it isn’t. Don’t you ever think that! Miscarriages just happen.’
‘No they don’t! There’s always a reason. It was something I did or something I ate. Or maybe it was the stress. I should have looked after her better.’
‘No.’ He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. It just happened. You didn’t wish it upon yourself.’
‘But I could have taken more care.’
‘You were taking care. You rested when you were tired and you ate healthy meals. There wasn’t any more you could have done.’
So why Sam? Why me?’
‘I don’t know. I wish I did.’
His presence was comforting, an absolute necessity, and she nestled into him, battling to relax her heaving chest. She did not enjoy feeling deep sorrow, but at the same time, she struggled to let it go.
‘I think we deserve a break,’ he said, ‘I’ll go make a drink.’
He reached for his clipboard and pen that rested on the window ledge and stepped forward. The pen slipped free and rolled under the wardrobe. He crouched down and stretched out his arm, feeling amongst the dust and debris that coated the floor. When he stood up, he was holding a sheet of paper, looking at the writing. His expression was one of surprise and concern.
‘What is it?’
He showed her an old letter, it was written and signed by Catherine Cooper. Her eyes flashed across the neat ink script and her mouth loosened.
‘Dearest sister,’ it said, ‘the accusations continue. I
fear I can no longer prove my innocence and sense that the end is nigh. My only consideration is for the safety for two remaining children, Arthur and George. Who will protect them once I am gone? I was hoping you might be able to help. Please consider my plan and hurry. Evil is all around.’
‘I knew she was innocent,’ she blurted. ‘I just knew it.’
Her heart pounded and her palms were sweaty. Leaning against the wall, fighting a rush of nausea, she read the letter until she could recall every word and every splodge of ink.
‘It was meant to be Sam. It’s fate. We’ve been drawn here to expose the truth.’
She gawped at the letter, ignoring his curious and sceptical expression. At last, she had the start she had wanted. Now, her journey could begin.
The letter was never far from Michaela’s mind, and in an attempt to search for more evidence she decided her best option was to speak with the villagers. Some of the older residents must have the facts; they could have witnessed the incidents as children, heard their parents talk of the atrocities, or perhaps been close friends of the family. Someone must know the truth, and she was determined to find out whom that person was. One way or another she was going to prove her hunch.
The noise emanating from the fête trickled through the village streets. There were screams from exhilarated youngsters, exclamations from enthusiastic stallholders, and jaunty tunes performed by the jazz band. Approaching the field entrance, she inhaled a curious mix of aromas. There was candyfloss to her right, hotdogs and onions to her left, and coming from somewhere ahead was the scent of far-eastern spices. With Sam by her side, they joined the meandering crowd and headed to a cluster of stalls.
Michaela should have been appreciative of the outing, as not only did it provide her with an opportunity to search for the truth regarding Catherine, but it also gave her time away from the renovations. However, having seen all the families, her heart was heavy, her zeal lacking. It was a day for parents to spend with children, and she was the misfit.
She felt vulnerable and transparent. Did everyone wonder why she was not a mother? Did everyone consider her a little bit weird? Unable to resist, Michaela stared at two small children licking ice cream. Their faces were enchanted and their small hands gripping the cones as their tongues gathered the creamy substance.
‘One day you’ll be a fantastic mother,’ Sam whispered.
She stared at the cropped grass.
‘Don’t give up. It will happen.’
Frowning, she marched ahead, battling with images of her lost baby. In her mind, she nursed her in the early hours, breastfed her until she slept, and played with her on the lounge room floor. Then the tears stung. Unable to tolerate more pain, she took a soothing breath, told herself she would learn to cope with her loss, and forced a distraction.
A craft stall was ahead. Amongst the mass of objects were crocheted kitchen towel holders, potpourri bags, painted candleholders, and decorative coat hangers, all in a variety of colours and textures. The most beautiful item, though, was an embroidered hand towel; the intricate work was impressive, and the image of the waterside scene, with meadow plants, dragonflies, and kingfishers, quite beautiful. Yet, she could gather no enthusiasm to make the purchase and solemnly stepped away.
Next, Michaela and Sam approached a fire brigade display. Two young boys sat in the driving compartment, their expressions eager as a firefighter talked them through the controls. In response, they both chatted at once; one of the boys begged for the siren, and the other joined in with his pleas. As a distraction, the man placed a hat upon each of the youngsters’ heads. Despite their faces almost disappearing, they both squealed their pleasure.
Sam squeezed her hand. She pulled free and hurried onwards, disliking his oppressive offer of sympathy. Maybe one day she would be able to look to children with genuine warmth in her heart, and maybe one day she would welcome his kind gestures, but not today. Her anguish was raw, and it was difficult to imagine it lifting.
At the end of the row, at the back of an orange and yellow striped stand, was a stack of cuddly toys. The bears caught Sam’s gaze, and within a couple of seconds, he had paid his money and received soft balls to knock over the stacked tin cans. The first ball missed by at least twenty centimetres. She sounded her amusement.
‘I’d like to see you do better,’ he said.
Deciding to have a go, she handed over her money to the stallholder as Sam took his next throw. The ball missed by a whisker. They cried out in unison.
‘I bet I can do better,’ she said and threw the ball. To her delight, the cans clattered to the table.
‘Lucky shot.’ Sam said.
Pure skill.’
The stallholder grinned and handed her a small pink bear.
‘You deserve it,’ Sam said, kissing her cheek. ‘Fancy a drink?’
The café was on the edge of the fête. It was stuffy and airless inside the marquee, and so they opted for a table in the fresh air. Positioning herself to watch the activities, she focused on the excited cries of the youngsters and their unappreciative mothers, her heart laden with grief.
‘Have you picked out anyone to speak to yet?’ Sam asked.
‘What?’
‘I thought you were going to ask the older generation about Catherine.’
‘I was.’ She hesitated. Suddenly it did not seem like such a good idea. ‘I’m not sure now. They’ll all gossip Sam.’
‘You might be right.’
‘From what we’ve already gathered, no one will have a kind word to say about her. They’ll tell us Catherine was evil and I can’t cope with that right now.’
‘It might not prove worthwhile anyway. Our house is remote. It’s possible that Catherine kept herself away from the rest of the villagers.’
Yes, maybe.’ She reached to her plastic cup. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do. How am I ever going to find a sympathiser?’
Disheartened that her search continued to meet dead ends, she gazed into her coffee and searched for inspiration. If only she knew more about Catherine’s life. She must have had friends in the village; perhaps she had attended church. Maybe if she claimed she was researching something else and did not mention the infamous Catherine Cooper, she may find out more. At least then, she wouldn’t have to deal with the hardened stares and cutting remarks.
‘Hello,’ Sam said, looking at someone at her rear.
Michaela spun around. ‘Hello Mary. Lovely to see you. How’s your chest?’
Hello you two. I’m not doing too bad, and thanks for asking. I still struggle with my breathing a bit, but the fitness class I’ve joined is helping.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘How are you doing with the renovations?’
‘I am getting a bit fed up of the muck and dust.’
‘Well, I think what you are doing is fantastic. You’re both brave.’
Mary pulled out a chair and flopped onto the plastic surface. They exchanged pleasantries about the fete, before an opportunity arose to ask her about Catherine Cooper and she felt unable to resist. As expected, Mary told her that she knew she had killed her children.
‘Do you know the circumstances?’
‘I don’t know much.’
‘I don’t believe she killed them,’ she said. ‘We’ve found a letter. She said she was innocent and was worried for her two remaining children.’
‘She would say that, wouldn’t she?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She’s not going to write a letter saying she’s guilty, now is she?’
Michaela swallowed a lump in her throat. ‘I’ve had visions as well, rather like a premonition but relating to the past. Catherine was devastated when Edward died. I even managed to locate a plaque in his memory.’
‘Her actions could have been what upset her.’
‘No.’ A chill passed through her. ‘That wasn’t the case.’
Hmm. I think you’re right. I doubt she had a conscience.’
> She averted her stony gaze.
‘I can understand that you feel a connection to Catherine, living in that house, and all, but be careful what you say. Especially around here.’
‘I understand that, but the letter confirmed what I was already feeling. I feel as though I am destined to prove her innocence,’ she paused, studying her companion’s expressionless face. ‘When the visions happen, they seem real. I only wish I could instigate them.’
‘Rather you than me my love. By all accounts, Catherine was not a nice woman. Soon after she married, she changed. It may have been that married life didn’t agree with her, but for whatever the reason, she became withdrawn and didn’t socialise much. It’s said she was cool towards Jack if you know what I mean.’
In the bedroom?’
Mary nodded, ‘She never changed into nice outfits, ready for when he returned home from work. It was expected in those days.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘It is just something I remember my mother talking about many years ago. It was such a horrific story it stuck with me.’
‘So what happened to her?’
‘Catherine? She killed herself. She knew it was the end. I don’t think she felt she had any other choice. The police were on their way.’
Michaela’s hand covered her mouth and the colour drained from her face. Was her life that horrendous she had to end it all? What an atrocious way to go.
‘It was a small blessing that she never took her two little boys with her,’ Mary said.
‘Who informed the police?’
‘Jack. He had to do it to save his boys.’
The words faded. What happened to the love she shared with her husband on the day the wedding? Concerned, she glanced at her husband with new eyes. Would he ever turn against her in the same way Jack had turned against Catherine? She prayed not.
‘I don’t understand why she would kill herself,’ she said.
Mary leaned forward and grabbed hold of her hand. ‘Catherine deserved to die. She did kill her children. That’s why people say that place of yours is haunted. She was a wicked woman.’