by Dawson, H A
Having emptied the dirty water from the tub, she poured in the clean water and rinsed the nappies, but she felt little better and her rage remained. She visualised Jack’s naked body entwined around the stranger. She saw his wandering hands caressing her fine figure. She thought of their pleasurable moans.
The water dripped onto the stone floor and splashed onto her feet as she squeezed each nappy. Had he ever loved her? When had their marriage started to fail? Was it before Edward’s illness or was it after his death?
Catherine was in no doubt that Jack’s love had been slipping away, and speculated that her dowdy appearance had played a part, but without a housemaid, she was powerless. She glanced at her roughened hands and worn-out clothes, and she thought of her tired complexion and emaciated figure. Solemnly, she accepted that his mistress was more appealing to the eye, as she no longer resembled the woman he’d married. Surely, that was no excuse.
Desperate for a confrontation, Catherine continued with her chores and her fury remained. Even her children could not provide her with distraction, and extracted the last morsel of patience; Arthur continued to make demands and Marie’s screams antagonised. She wanted no part, and could not find sanctuary in Arthur’s soft features and small helpless body. He bleated in the corner of the room, sitting with his toys, and after many failed attempts refused to talk to her. Periodically, out of the corner of his eye, she noticed him peeking across the room. Unable to discharge her fury, and unable to respond to the demands of the forlorn little figure, she continued with her heavy-handed actions.
When Jack returned, Catherine was nursing Marie.
She unleashed her anger. ‘What were you doing with another woman?’
He was stunned. ‘Who I see is my business.’
‘And I have to just tolerate it!’
He stepped out of view, causing her to leap to her feet.
‘That’s right, just walk away,’ she said, ‘I do everything for you, and this is how you repay me.’
‘You are my wife. It is your job.’
Marie started to cry. Unable to provide her with any calmness, she rested her onto an armchair and moved away.
‘Yes, I am your wife, and you made me vows. How could you? Did you ever stop to think how I would feel?’
Marie’s bawling resonated.
He placed his jacket onto a peg. ‘Shut that baby up.’
Hovering in the doorway, she glanced at the red-faced little girl. ‘That is all you have to say. No explanation, no apology, nothing.’
‘I provide for you. Do not complain woman.’
‘And I provide for you, and I do not see other men.’
Marie’s screaming intensified. Unable to hear their fierce exchanges, they stepped away from the room.
‘Would I know if you did? You could be out with that whore of a sister for all I know.’
‘How dare you say such a thing?’
‘I have heard you gossiping about me at all hours of the day. Is it any wonder I go elsewhere for pleasure? You show me no respect.’
Catherine stared at Jack as he climbed the stairs, bewildered by his accusations. Her eyes bulged and her body quaked as she fought her raging anger, whilst in the background, Marie’s cries grated. Driven by her maternal instinct, she stepped into the room and slammed the door. The house shook.
She picked up a child, and for a few seconds held her to her breast. The wails continued. She pleaded with Marie to stop. She swayed her in her arms. She smoothed her hand across her back. The sounds intensified and Catherine tensed. Driven by raging adrenaline, she shook the youngster.
The crying stopped.
Trembling, Catherine looked into Marie’s glazed eyes and then placed her floppy body onto the chair. With a pounding heart and patchy red skin, she slumped to the ground, unable to comprehend the turn of events, unable to know what to do.
Chapter 19
Present Day
The small muddy plaque in memory of Edward Cooper lay on the wooden bench. The timeless inscription was filled with scraps of organic matter and the wood was decaying, but it was worthy of restoration. It was what Michaela wanted, and it was what Catherine would have wanted.
With a sense of helplessness, Michaela struggled to understand how other women ever coped with the tragic loss of a baby. Even if her pregnancy had gone full term and her baby was born healthy but died later, she didn’t believe her distress could have been greater. To make it worse, she had no features to focus upon – no fine wisps of hair, large button eyes, no smiles, and no tears. At least Catherine had known her child and had some memories as consolation. She had seen an array of emotions and perhaps even seen a grain of Edward’s personality. She would have held him to her breast and felt his tiny heart beat against hers. She would have shut her eyes and been able to trace his small features in her mind. Catherine had known her child intimately; Michaela had known nothing.
With a sinking heart, she scraped away the mud from the surface of the plaque, and then wiped it clean with a cloth, yet the organic matter remained in the carved lettering. What she needed was a tool to poke out the debris, and so she passed through the heavy wooden door, progressing into the barn to the place they were stored. However, as soon as she entered the barn, the swallow fled, agitated by her presence and flying in irregular circular motions above her head. Curious, she turned her attention to the nest, and to the clutch of small beaks resting on the edge. Given their size and appearance, she assumed they must be ready to fledge.
The adult bird darted into the barn, and then, having seen her made a swift return outside. Anticipating something spectacular, Michaela edged to the far wall and stood motionless, and after a few moments, the adult returned. It flew straight to the nest where the noisy youngsters squawked for food, presenting their beaks as vast hollows. In the blink of an eye, the parent dropped something into a mouth and then raced back into the hazy warmth.
The moment was enchanting and it lifted her from her sorrow. Determined not to let her sadness prevent her from the enjoyment of living, she strode across to a pile of tools, reached for a small brush and returned outside to the workbench. She eased free the compressed matter from the grooves and began to expose the cavities. It was rewarding, and the more she worked on the task, the more fulfilled she felt.
A car screeching to a halt, grinding the gravel particles on the drive interrupted her mood. When she turned her head and looked to see whom it was, her heart sank. Her mother climbed out of the car, slammed shut the door, and raised her sunglasses. Michaela was looking for a hiding place for the plaque when Judith asked her what she was doing.
‘I found this plaque in the garden. I’m restoring it.’
She scanned the writing. ‘Who was Edward?’
Catherine’s first child.’
‘Have you lost your mind? That plaque should be destroyed.’
She breathed out an exhausted breath.
‘Don’t tell me you still think she’s innocent, because she’s not. Why else would Jack have accused her? He was devastated when he discovered what had been happening. All reports tell of the immense love he had for her.’
‘I disagree. I don’t think he loved her at all.’
‘Oh Michaela,’ she said, ‘you live in such a fantasy.’
She scowled and thought of the letter and the dream, but she resisted sharing the information. Why should she defend herself? She did not have to prove herself to her mother, or to anyone for that matter.
‘Let the past be,’ she continued. ‘This obsession of yours is not healthy. I can understand you wanting to distract yourself, given your miscarriage, but this is not the way.’
Michaela bit her lip and scowled. ‘What are you afraid I’ll discover?’
Hesitating to respond, Judith averted her gaze and fiddled with her sunglasses.
‘You know something, and I will find out what it is.’
‘You’re being ridiculous. How could I know anything about Catherine? I hardly know an
ything about the Cooper family. Your father and I kept ourselves at a distance.’
‘Why?’
Because we wanted to! Don’t interrogate me, Michaela.’
She lowered her head and continued to brush away the remaining debris from the grooves. The task was near completion, and despite a patch of rotting wood, a fine crack, and a few splinters, the plaque was in remarkable condition.
‘I hope you’ve been doing as I suggested and staying away from Grace.’
The brush hovered above the wood. ‘I doubt there’s little chance of us becoming friends. We’ve had another argument.’
‘Well, I did warn you. I said she could be a difficult woman.’
‘So you do know her. I knew it.’
Judith shuffled, searching the vista for a distraction, and walked towards the house. ‘I can tell you’ve made up your mind . . . quite the stubborn one.’
Exasperated, Michaela followed, and minutes later, whilst Judith chatted with Sam, she made a drink and attempted to calm her irritations. They had always had a strained relationship, even whilst her father was alive more than ten years previous, but his passing had worsened the situation. With a curious mix of joy and sorrow, she remembered her father.
His death, a sudden and fatal heart attack, had been a shock, and her devastation had been considerable. As a diversion, she contacted family and friends and arranged the funeral, and somehow got through those early days in a haze. Over time, her sorrow subsided, and as the weeks crept by, her memories provided comfort.
They had shared many happy times, including trips to craft fairs and exhibitions, music festivals and weekends away, often without her mother. She appreciated his self-deprecating wit and light-hearted view on life, and loved how he preached to live for the day.
A thought struck her. He had paid little attention to his physical state, taking no exercise and grazing on cakes and pastries with regularity. Had his lifestyle been the cause of his death? It seemed probable. However, when she saw similarities to her own habits, she concluded he had inherited a weak heart.
She carried the coffees to the patio and sat opposite her mother.
‘Sam is making good progress,’ Judith stated. ‘The house smells a lot fresher too.’
‘We’re doing okay. I wish Dad could have seen it. I’m sure he would have approved.’
‘Your father was glad to get away from this place. I’m not sure he would have approved of you renovating it.’
‘Didn’t he get on with his family?’
Her eyes glazed. ‘He didn’t get on with Jim. They were different characters. In the early days, I urged him to stand up to him, but it just wasn’t in his nature. He was far too placid. I gave up in the end.’
‘That’s what I loved about him. He wasn’t easily stressed.’
‘Your father was predictable and had no will to fight.’
She sensed the hint of regret in her mother’s voice, and it caused her to ponder her parents’ relationship. There had been few arguments and she witnessed cooperation within the house, but they shared little activity away from the family home. She had never considered this a sign that their marriage was lacking, but now, as she watched her mother peer across the vast expanse, she reconsidered.
‘Do you miss him?’
‘It’s been a long time Michaela . . . though I do miss his sense of humour.’ She passed a curious glance. ‘Surely you know your father and I were living separate lives by the time he died?’
Surprised, she shook her head and wondered how she could have missed something so monumental. A myriad of family conversations flashed through her mind, and she saw strained moments and harsh words, yet nothing extreme or frequent. They always seemed happy in each other’s company, and it seemed a normal marriage. Nonetheless, she had never seen passion, not a hug or a kiss, and believed, with hindsight, that it must have been a sign of their underlying difficulties.
‘Why didn’t you separate?’
‘We would have done eventually, but we were still friends, and since neither of us had found another partner, we saw no need.’
‘I thought you were happy.’
‘Oh Michaela, you can be so naive at times. You live in your own little world, and never see what is going on around you.’
Biting her lip, she lowered her head and slipped a little way down the chair.
The seaside town was churning with cyclists, cars, and people wandering aimlessly, each with a different destination and plan in mind. Whilst some people were happy to relax in bars and cafés, others tried to resist the slow pace, and sounded horns and vocalised their frustrations as the hefty traffic ground to a halt. Sipping a lager, Michaela paid little attention to the noise, yet she felt soothed by the sounds and the closeness of other people. Children played on the swings, a group of teenagers laughed and chatted in loud voices, and four middle-aged adults sipped cocktails at a table near the car park entrance. She turned her attention to Sam.
‘When I was small, I would play on the swings whilst Dad and Mum had a drink, and then when I was older, Dad and I would come without her.’ She paused, her eyes glazing. ‘I can’t believe I never realised their relationship had so many difficulties.’
‘When do you think the problems started?’
She shook her head and then her eyes floated towards the main road. ‘I don’t know, although I do remember once when I was about six or seven that they had a massive row. Mum was shouting at Dad. It terrified me. I rushed to my room and hid under the bedclothes.’ She glimpsed at Sam. ‘A few minutes later I heard a crash. I never found out what it was. I was too scared to move.’
‘That must have been horrible.’
‘I hardly ever heard Dad shout. It was one of the things that irritated Mum - she couldn’t get him to argue.’
‘Do you know what the argument was about?’
‘No. Mum was denying doing something, but I don’t know what.’ She reached for his hand. ‘I hope we don’t end up like them.’
Never. We have too much in common.’
A glint appeared in her eyes, ‘and I am pretty darn perfect. There is not a lot to dislike.’ She gulped down the remnants of her drink and stood up. ‘Come on, no time to waste. Let’s take a wander in the park.’
Before he had a chance to disagree, she reached for his arm and prised him away from his seat. He swallowed the remnants of his drink, placed the glass on the table and licked away the froth from his lips, dutifully obeying. Then, as she made urgent strides to a path leading to the recreation area, Sam cupped one of her buttocks with his hand. She jerked, her wild exclamation breaking the tranquillity.
‘Sammy!’ Her walnut hair, lush and aromatic, dropped over her face as she turned her head.
He pulled her hips closer to his, compressing their bodies, and caressed her neck and cheeks with his lips. A flush of warmth rushed to her skin.
She pushed him away. ‘Control yourself man.’
Sam whined but agreed.
They strolled along the path, passing dwellings and overlooking gardens. Children played ball games, a dog barked, and a cat lazed in the sunshine. She stepped to avoid the encroaching nettles, inhaled the fragrance of the pristine rose blooms, and negotiated a barrier erected to stop cyclists, before entering the park. Around the perimeter was a substantial hedge and in the centre a playing field. A group of youngsters played football, whilst to one side, adults chatted. There were dog walkers in the distance and a jogger to her right.
They progressed along the flagged path making little chatter, and passed through a gap in the hedge to a quieter area where flowerbeds were in abundance. Glancing to her left, she caught sight of an elderly man stumbling and falling to the ground. She started towards him.
‘Leave him, he’s drunk,’ Sam said.
She looked at the bottle, and then the man. He was wearing a tattered brown jacket with holes, and dirty black trousers, and he was unshaven with grey thinning hair. Disregarding his plea, she stepped towards the
man, inhaled the stench of alcohol, and offered her assistance in raising him to his feet. Grateful, the man reached out his hand. He was too heavy to lift on her own, so whilst Michaela took hold of his dirty palms, Sam assisted him from the rear, and soon, he was on his feet, stable and staring at his bottle.
Reluctantly, she passed it across.
‘Ta love.’ he slurred. ‘You’re a good lass.’
‘Do you want me to help you to a bench?’
The man nodded. They linked arms, and taking tiny steps, wobbling and wavering, edged forward. Upon their arrival, he crashed onto the bench and almost fell off.
‘Will you be okay?’
The man raised himself upright. ‘Ta love.’
She strode away, passing Sam a proud glance. ‘See, no harm done.’
He smiled, reached to her hand, and together, they strode around the rectangular flowerbeds and progressed to a pond, making light conversation. It was good to get out and do something together other than renovating. It was also good to be able to think about something other than her miscarriage and Catherine. It was, in fact, the happiest and most relaxed she had felt in ages.
Regrettably, it did not continue. Upon the central island of the pond was a duck with a group of ducklings, and whilst her initial response was one of joy, when she watched the mother duck step onto the water, followed by her offspring, her concerns arose. Their chance of survival was slim; perhaps only one or two would stay alive, just like it had been for Catherine’s children.
She hadn’t wanted to think about her ancestor, but now that the thought entered her mind, she couldn’t help it. In particular, she considered Amelia Davey’s novel. Set in the late eighteen hundreds, it was about a woman in an unhappy marriage, and it told of the abuse she suffered in the hands of her adulterous and drunken husband. For years, she had obliged his every wish, but now, as her children grew older, she wanted an escape. However, the woman knew she was at her husband’s mercy; she had no personal income and no compassionate friends.