Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  ‘I am sure Amelia’s book is about Catherine’s life. In the book, the poor woman knew that her husband was having an affair but there was nothing she could do about it. The law was not on her side.’

  He passed an interested glance.

  ‘He also hit her. She had no way out Sam.’ She paused. ‘I bet it happened to Catherine as well. I’d lay my life on it.’

  They weaved past two women with pushchairs and a roaming terrier dog. When the dog sniffed her ankles, it caused her rhythmical steps to falter and her contemplations regarding the book to come to a sudden end. Nevertheless, at the back of her mind, she remained certain that there was a link with Catherine and wished that Amelia had placed a note at the back telling of her sister’s plight.

  ‘Did I tell you I found some old newspaper articles?’ Sam said.

  She stopped and stared. ‘No.’

  He thrust his hands into his pockets and lowered his head.

  ‘What were they about?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t look.’

  ‘Sam. How could you not look?’

  ‘Your mother arrived and I got distracted. They might not be significant.’

  ‘Of course they will be. How could you forget something like that?’ She could not move quickly enough. ‘Come on, we have to get back home.’

  ‘Can’t it wait? I thought we were having time out from this.’

  Ignoring his plea, she retraced her footsteps to the car and paid no attention to the drilling sound of Sam’s moans or the ache forming in her legs. The articles had to be about Catherine, and there would be clues about her life. Why would anyone have kept them, otherwise?

  The car was a welcome sight. She turned around. Sam was a few metres away, frowning. He arrived, opened the doors, and heat rushed out.

  ‘Did we need to rush off? It’s not as if the articles are going anywhere.’

  She gave him a stare. This was important. Why did he not realise?

  ‘This was meant to be our afternoon off.’

  She shut the door, opened the window, and yanked at her seatbelt. The car purred into action, and Sam pulled away. The journey was slow and littered with red traffic lights and irritating queues. She drummed her fingers on the door handle and she clenched her jaw.

  They arrived home. The car had only just stopped when she rushed out of the door and raced to the house, fumbling for her key. As soon as she entered, she rushed up the stairs and ran into the spare room. Her eyes darted, looking for the tin. She reached to the cool surface, prised open the lid, and her heartbeat quickened.

  Inside was a number of newspaper articles. Amelia Davey had written them all.

  Chapter 20

  Summer 1908

  Catherine’s face was locked and expressionless, and her body was stiff and still as the tiny coffin lowered into the grave. It was a simple pine box, unlined and unadorned with sharp corners and clean edges. Within, dressed in a simple lacy gown was her precious daughter. Driven by a sudden urge to get to her, she surged forward. Jack held her back, gripping her wrist and passing a penetrating stare. Whilst uncomfortable with his touch, she stayed rock-still, waiting until his hand slackened before wriggling from his clutch. To her gratitude, he offered no resistance.

  The words spoken by the minister floated in the air and were as nonsensical as if spoken in a foreign language. She grasped the occasional phrases, such as a short life and an unexpected death, but she could not maintain her focus long enough to hear any more. All that mattered was that her little girl was dead.

  Catherine felt trapped; her chest was tight, her breathing restricted, and her twisted gut sent painful tremors along her frail body. She clasped her hands across her stomach, feeling for the new breath of life beneath, and she maintained her rigid focus on the small rectangular box.

  Marie’s life replayed in Catherine’s mind from her first smile to her last tear. Each day had been a novelty, and each day her daughter had witnessed strangeness. She had belly laughed at the most ridiculous sights and sounds, such as Catherine’s outstretched expression, and she had scowled her disapproval. She had been innocent and pure. Now she was dead.

  Catherine’s muscles tightened. She clenched her teeth, fought the welling tears, and stared at the grave. All sounds had been eliminated, and all sights, except for the one before her, irrelevant. She was without her baby girl. Never again would she feed her, bathe her, or cuddle her; never again would she see her sparkling eyes glistening in the daylight. It was too much to tolerate, and it caused a long, elongated moan to slip from her mouth.

  The mourners drifted into small groups leaving Catherine alone by the graveside. She snivelled. She bit her lip. She dabbed her glistening face with her embroidered handkerchief, tormented and in pain. Craving the sensation of her daughter’s small body pressing against her stomach and chest, she held her arms close to her body and whimpered slight sounds. Burdened with grief, she closed her eyes, hankering after the sweet scent of her baby girl.

  ‘Catherine.’

  Amelia’s familiar voice was a welcome sound, but she was voiceless and could not muster the strength to acknowledge her. Rather, she remained static by the graveside, with her head bowed and her hands clasped across her stomach.

  ‘I think Jack would like you by his side,’ her sister said.

  Fury leapt into her eyes. No, not this time.’

  She frowned.

  ‘Jack may be my husband, but only in title.’

  ‘You need each other. You have both suffered a terrible loss.’

  ‘I do not need Jack. Not now, not ever.’

  ‘He has his faults, but I believe he loves you.’

  ‘He has many faults.’

  She looked towards the group of mourners and tracked down her husband who was talking to his father. After a few moments, her father-in-law became aware of her penetrating stare, and sensing his reproach, she lowered her head.

  ‘They blame me.’

  ‘Why would they do that? Children die. It was not your fault.’

  ‘Jack blames me. He told me so.’

  Amelia squeezed Catherine’s hand. ‘He’s just upset. I doubt he meant it.’

  ‘No. He knew exactly what he was saying. Our marriage is over.’

  She did not respond.

  ‘Ever since you told me of his mistress, weeks ago, we have been under strain. We have no future.’

  ‘It will get better.’

  Catherine shook her head and her eyes rested on Marie’s grave. ‘I wish I wasn’t expecting.’

  ‘Don't say that.’

  ‘What chance does this little life have? I cannot stop what is happening. My life was not meant to turn out this way.’

  She squeezed her hand.

  ‘You have often told me that children are a burden. If I didn’t have Arthur, and if I wasn’t expecting another, I could travel with you.’

  ‘It is not all that it appears,’ Amelia said.

  Disagreeing, she cast a dark stare. It was exactly as it appeared. Why else would she always look elegant and enchanted? If she were unhappy, it would be visible in her skin and her attitude.

  ‘Just be careful what you wish for,’ she added. ‘One day it may come true.’

  Catherine and Jack spent the following days either avoiding each other or in near silence. Only essential exchanges took place, such as requests for firewood or water, or regarding Arthur, yet she had much to discuss. She wanted to question Jack about his affair, and she wanted to ease her turmoil relating to Marie.

  Holding back her bitterness, she continued her role as wife and mother and presented Jack with regular meals, warmth, and a clean home. Despite her torrid anger, she did not want to give him reason for a divorce; the humiliation would be unbearable. Yet, as she pondered her reasoning, she wondered how many of the villagers already knew of his cheating ways. Were the sniggers plentiful? Were the rumours rife? Did they feel pity? Catherine had grown used to living with a diminished status after los
ing Annie, and she had developed a hardened exterior when in company, but her resentment never lessened. She deserved better.

  Amelia was, in many ways, the most difficult person to face, as she exuded wealth and status, and walked tall and proud. Constructed from expensive fabrics and tailored to her fine figure, her clothes were without stains and tatty edges, and were of modern designs and with up-to-date embellishments. Envious, Catherine stared down to her ageing mourning frock and a perceived image of Jack’s mistress flickered into her mind. Simmering with anger, she continued to prepare Jack’s breakfast. Who was this woman? Was she a villager?

  This woman, this whore, had stolen her man. Jack, though, was far from innocent and had not resisted the woman’s flirtatious behaviour. He could have pushed her away; he could have turned her down. It wouldn’t have been difficult and it would have been the appropriate way to behave.

  Such thoughts took her back to years before when she had been the one he had courted. He had been a sociable man and was charming, dignified, and exuded self-respect. Proud to be with him, she considered herself the lucky sister. Why had everything turned out so dreadful, what had she done to deserve such distress, and why had he stopped loving her?

  Acting upon the sound of footsteps progressing down the stairs, she placed the sausage into the bread and presented him with the food.

  He smiled. ‘Thank you, darling.’

  A weight lifted. She forced herself to smile.

  ‘Why don’t you join me?’ he asked.

  ‘I have jobs to do.’

  ‘I’m sure they can wait.’ He pulled out a chair and patted the wooden frame. ‘Please sit.’

  Catherine hesitated.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you must.’

  She returned to the kitchen, placed food onto the plate, and returned to his side. His smile was warm and a yearning crept into his eyes.

  ‘I have been horrid to you,’ he said, ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘We are both grieving.’

  ‘That is no excuse. What happened to little Marie was awful, but we must deal with it, for Arthur’s sake.’ He followed her gaze to her pregnant belly. And for the sake of our new baby.’

  ‘I cannot lose another child, Jack. I cannot.’

  ‘We have been unlucky, but we will have a good future. I can feel it.’

  A vision of Jack’s mistress pressed into her thoughts. She wanted rid of the woman that was the fissure in her marriage, yet she dared not broach the subject, afraid of spoiling this rare moment. Instead, she stared at him, noting his roughened skin, moist eyes, and tight pink lips, and willed him to read her mind.

  He reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘We must forget the past. We are both guilty of crimes we should never have committed. We must forgive each other and never talk about it again. Are you willing?’

  Reluctantly, she nodded.

  ‘That’s the end of the matter then,’ he said and rose to leave.

  Once he had donned his hat and coat, he slipped out of the door. As he stepped away, the conversation repeated in her mind. Few words had been exchanged, the most relevant been his admission of guilt, yet it was the words that had not been said that had made the most impact. There had been love in his expression, hope in his eyes, and tenderness in his movements. It presented her with hope of an improved future and caused an unfamiliar sense of excitement to dance in her stomach.

  Standing at the window overlooking the lane, she watched his slim, sturdy figure fade. His motion was mechanical and his head fixated on the lane ahead. Then his gait loosened as though he was speaking to someone further along. She could not see much for the new hedge, and with her pulse quickening and dread forming in her gut, she hurried to the next room and pressed her cheek against the cool moist glass.

  Leafy branches wafted in the breeze, obscuring her view, and a bird darted by. She still could not see her husband or his companion, and looked to a gap further along the lane and waited for them to come into view. Then, as expected, a figure appeared. It was Jack, and by his side was a dark-haired woman. Their arms linked, their bodies together.

  Furious, Catherine stomped away, grabbed the dirty plates and slammed them onto the kitchen surface. Jack had lied. His words had been meaningless. However, keen to learn from her previous loss of temper, she did not vent her rage when Jack returned but kept her frustration private. To her surprise, his happy mood continued and she received many affectionate gestures over the coming days and weeks, re-igniting her hope that their future could be a happier one. Even so, when she met with his warmth and generosity, she could not help but contemplate what guided him.

  She banished the notion that his mistress created his joviality, preferring instead to believe it was something else. The woman who had met him along the lane could have been anyone, a family friend perhaps. She was not necessarily his mistress. Yet even if she were, linking arms was not proof of their intimacy. Jack had apologised for his mistakes, and he had suggested they moved on, forgetting what had gone before. There had to be some truth in his statement.

  However, Jack’s cheerful mood did not last and a few days later, he returned home from the mine with a strained ankle and bruises along his leg. He would not speak of the injury and consoled himself with a drink. The barrier he created was impenetrable.

  Catherine observed his mood from a distance, keen to keep a low profile. At times, she enjoyed the solitude and could split her time between Arthur’s needs and the household chores, but at other times, she felt a desperate loneliness and yearned adult companionship. Today was one of those days, and she glanced through the bedroom window and along the lane and wondered as to Jack’s tardiness. As had become the norm, she decided he had to be drinking.

  He should have warned her, especially given the lateness of the hour, and waiting for his return, dropped onto the edge of the bed and rested her hand on her large rounded belly. Given Jack’s current dark mood, and with Amelia away travelling, she pondered the imminent birth of her baby and feared it arriving in a solitary wilderness. After everything that had happened, it was hard to envisage her child bringing happiness. Would she be able to cherish its every breath or would she see it as a replacement for Marie? Would she, God forbid, resent it?

  Catherine had nothing to give; she had no love left. Her heart had broken too many times and the fractures were agonisingly transparent. She did not want the burden of another child, and one that would bleed her heart dry should she lose it. It would be unbearable and she could not endure any more sorrow. Closing her eyes, she wished herself into another life.

  Dressed in expensive fashionable attire, and without a child, she travelled faraway lands. She pushed aside beggars with disdain and witnessed the frivolous rich with reverence; yet, unlike the other women in her vision she lived by independent means, just as Amelia did.

  Reminded of her sister, she opened her eyes and reached into her bedside drawer for her letters wrapped in a piece of red ribbon. For a few seconds, she stared at the wodge, unsure whether to read them, unsure she could tolerate the rush of envy and longing she was sure to feel. Whilst she always enjoyed receiving the news, it caused her own life to shrink in comparison. She felt boxed in, burdened by the life she once craved. How could it have turned out so different to her expectations? Could she dream herself into a different place? Could she follow in her sister’s steps with her children in tow? The idea was ridiculous; the children were an inconvenience.

  She glanced at the clock. Jack would return home in a drunken stupor once the public-house shut, and he would expect a meal. Perhaps if she were asleep, he would let her rest and do without. Too tired to believe otherwise, she donned her nightclothes and climbed into bed. She drifted into a fitful sleep.

  The sound of raucous voices coming from close by caused her to awaken with a jolt. She peered between the curtains and saw shadowy figures staggering in the moonlight. Her heart quickened; they were stepping towa
rds the house. Resting on the edge of the bed and wondering what to do, she gazed at her nightclothes and wondered why Jack would bring anyone home at such a late hour. A muffled whimper penetrated her ears.

  Arthur had awakened. She hurried to his room, and with the aid of strip of moonlight coming from a gap between the curtains noticed his troubled face. Having spoken soothing words, she stroked aside his hair and placed a kiss on his cheek. Reassured, he closed his eyes.

  She was passing between the bedrooms when the outer door opened and Jack ushered the group into the parlour. It was easy to be able to distinguish Jack’s slurred words from the sound of the other voices; more worrying was her inability to recognise anyone else. Moving without sound, hoping not to be disturbed, she returned to her bed. The sound of boisterous laughter reverberated through her ears.

  After few moments, the cry of her name echoed through the house. Resentful of Jack’s request, she lay still in the darkness.

  ‘Catherine!’

  His steps were heavy weights upon the stairs. He crashed into the wall and he stumbled near the top. Then the door creaked open and his hazy figure emerged from behind the lamplight.

  ‘We need food,’ he said.

  ‘It is late and I am tired.’

  ‘Don’t make me threaten you. I’m sure you would not want me to tell anyone what you did to Marie.’

  She bolted upright and glared at his indistinct features. The strong scent of beer and smoke intermingled, and it sickened her. However, his suggestion regarding her baby daughter was more repulsive, and driven, she ripped aside the covers and donned her attire. Her movements were jerky, and her jaw was tight.

  Why did Jack never consider her needs? She was pregnant and finding it ever more difficult to complete her physical duties. She needed help, but more than that, she needed an understanding husband.

  At least the stove was still warm and easy to ignite. The bacon did not take long to cook, and the bread was quickly sliced. Begrudgingly, she placed a pile of sandwiches onto a plate and followed the riotous sounds into the next room. The moment she stepped inside, the men shouted their approval. Catherine felt little more than a housemaid, and as she leaned over to place the food onto a low table endured more sexist taunts and gestures.