by Dawson, H A
Driven to make it a little bit better, she scrubbed the walls, floors, and surfaces, she tidied up out-of-place bits and pieces, and she cleaned cupboards and drawers. As she progressed, she made a mental note of necessary purchases, including essential items such as cleaning fluid and cloths, and non-essentials, such as flowers and candles. Even the small things could make the house more homely; it was better than doing nothing.
‘Fancy a trip to the supermarket?’ Michaela asked at the end of the day.
‘I suppose so. Shall we eat before or afterward?’
‘We could buy something while we’re there.’
Sam nodded, and within a few minutes, they had started their journey. Despite Michaela having worked hard all day, she still felt restless and her head and neck ached. Vacantly, she stared out of the window, and watched the scenery change from open countryside with high roadside hedges, to urban sprawl. It was humid and she looked skywards at the heavy rain clouds that darkened the summer sky, and longed for the explosive sound of thunder and lightning, along with the cooling splashes of the water. It would be wonderful being able to rush through long, sodden grass and let the rain drench her clothes and skin. It would be stimulating and invigorating, a great way to break her melancholy.
They arrived at the supermarket, parked the car, and walked through the large double doors, zigzagging past shoppers with packed trolleys and folks carrying numerous bags. It was cool inside and it helped to clear her muggy head as she selected fruit and vegetables before progressing to the bakery section. She left Sam to select a loaf and meandered along the next aisle. Moments later a child’s cry caught her attention. She lifted her head and looked at the far end of the supermarket, looking for the source.
She jolted and gawped. A distance away, Grace was chatting with her mother.
She spun around. Sam, quick.’
He approached her at an unhurried pace and lifted his head. ‘What is it?’
‘Mum was talking to Grace . . . down there.’
He sauntered across and followed her gaze.
‘She’s gone now. I said they knew each other. I’m going to go see if I can find them. Take the trolley.’
She hurried along the centre aisle, looking left and right, and walked up and down each section. She could not find them. It was baffling and frustrating.
She returned to Sam, who was now in the cereal section. ‘It was them. I’m not going mad Sam.’
Reluctantly, she continued with the shopping, fighting her swirling thoughts. She had already guessed her mother knew Grace, but to witness her lies first hand was disappointing. Then a thought struck her. What if they had seen her too? Was that why they left the store? Their deception turned her stomach.
Michaela was still simmering when they returned to the car with a trolley full of products. ‘Mum saw me, Sam. I know she did.’
He lifted the goods into her boot of the car. ‘I suspected that your mother knew Grace the first time she visited the house.’
‘You never said anything.’
‘It was when Grace appeared in the garden. She seemed keen to avoid her.’
‘Grace said she had lived there for years,’ she said, ‘She could have met Mum when she started dating Dad.’
‘Grace is not that old. She must only be in her forties.’
Michaela was pensive. He was probably right, but she looked much older. ‘So maybe her parents lived in that house. She could have still met Mum when she was a little girl.’
Sam turned on the engine and pulled out of the parking bay. ‘I have an idea.’
‘Go on.’
‘Maybe Grace saw something that your mum doesn’t want you finding out about.’
Her face lit up. ‘That’s possible. Mum’s trying to keep her quiet.’
‘It’s just an idea.’
‘That must be it. But why Sam? What are they hiding?’
He shook his head.
Her exclusion was infuriating. Didn’t they realise she would find out what had happened given time? They should tell her the truth. It would be easier for all concerned.
Her ponderings continued for the remainder of their journey home, and few words were exchanged. In what appeared to be little time, Sam turned into their drive and switched off the engine. For a moment, she listened to the silence. The earlier storm clouds had vanished, the wind had died away, and there was no sound of distant traffic or birdsong. Stepping out of the car, she breathed in the fresh air, appreciative of the cleansing tranquillity, and headed to the rear. Then she caught a glimpse of the barn door.
‘Did you leave that door open?’
Sam turned and stared. ‘No.’
They stepped to the entrance and scanned the darkness for signs of an intruder. Propped up at the far side was a mirror, and scrawled in red were the words, ‘search the past at your peril.’
Shuddering, she closed her arms across her icy-cold body and released a pained cry.
He motioned her away. ‘I’ll clean it up in the morning.’
Reluctantly, she did as instructed, passing one last glance into the barn and searching for the source.
‘Forget it!’ he said. ‘It’ll be kids.’
‘It won’t be kids, Sam.’
She wanted to elaborate, but words would not leave her mouth. Instead, she slipped inside the house to the sofa, grabbed a cushion and pressed it to her aching abdomen.
Chapter 22
1909
Josephine entered the world as a healthy baby girl, yet Catherine could not summon either elation or contentment. Momentary relief was her only emotion since she was grateful for the loss of weight. Thereafter, she hoped that the sight of her newborn would provide her with a surge of energy and excitement, but when she saw the little figure, pink and wrinkled and with the tiniest of features, she could only think of Marie.
Her grief was as raw as ever as Josephine acted as a reminder of what had been. She would rush to the crib, hoping to see her first daughter and instead saw an impostor. The similarities between the two girls were uncanny, even to the untrained eye, and she interpreted it as punishment. She had made a terrible mistake with Marie, and one that roamed in her tortured soul, yet at the time she had been innocent of her actions. It was a pathetic defence.
Sorrow and remorse clutched at her throat. She stared at Josephine’s vivid blue eyes and she saw Marie’s castigation and heard her asking painful questions. What did you do to me? Why didn’t you protect me? Didn’t you love me? Without answers, she blocked out the torturous interrogation from her mind.
Like many times before, her face and eyes swelled with grief, and her tears trailed across her face. Not once had she let Jack see her weakness, so he remained ignorant of her torment. Determined to keep him at an emotional distance, she maintained a hardened facade, unwilling to give him reason for complaint and unwilling to drain herself of energy she needed.
The crackling fire mingled with the gentle patter of snowflakes on the glass. Stepping closer to the darkness and to the white particles as they kissed the window, the cool air wafted across her skin. It was an unforgiving scene, harsh and desolate, and it did not fill her with thoughts of optimism and opportunities. How she longed for the long summer days and nourishing warmth of the sun, when, just for a moment, she may enjoy the intensity of the sun and feel rays of hope.
The door creaked open. Jack appeared within the nursery.
‘Are you going to come to the parlour?’ he asked.
‘No, I am going to sit with Josephine for a while.’
He reached into the crib. Her tiny fingers wrapped tight around his forefinger. He crooned to his daughter.
‘Are you worried about her?’ he asked.
‘No. She is healthy.’
Jack nodded. ‘You are a fantastic mother. She can tell. She will repay you one day.’
She had heard his compliments many times before, but his attempts to be agreeable were futile. Learning from experience, she never rejected them outri
ght, nor did she soak up the praise.
‘Please don’t shut me out,’ he continued. ‘I don’t know what else I can do to make you forgive me.’
‘There is nothing else you can do. It is going to take a while for me to heal.’
‘I am sorry for what happened that night. I was drunk.’
‘So you have said.’ Her gut tightened and her breathing restricted as she relived her ordeal, from the moment she saw the woman in her lounge, jeering alongside her husband, to the incident in the bedroom. Her screams echoed through her head, pounding the sides of her skull as Jack’s putrid breath lingered just inches above her nostrils. However, her son’s small face was what upset her the most, as there was no way of telling how he suffered. She did not want to confront him in case she drew attention to something that had not caused him anguish, but at the same time, she needed to relieve any pain. If only she could read his mind.
Jack reached for her hand. ‘Please Catherine, forgive me.’
His palm was warm and sticky. She wanted to pull away, but something deep within her needed to feel his touch. Despite his behaviour being atrocious, he was still her husband and she needed him in her life more than she cared to admit. All too often, she had rejected his pleas, so this time she relented and stood up. He seized her in his arms and dropped a wave of feather-like kisses along his neck. Fighting the tightness in her body, she tried to blank out images of that horrendous night, and instead focused on his apology. Not since that moment had he forced himself upon her, and not since then had she allowed him his marital rights.
Initially, he had withdrawn from making advances. It was difficult to believe his heart had the capability of feeling shame, but she wanted to believe he did; it was preferential to the alternative, which was too horrendous for her to bear. She was the frumpy wife with the baby. There was no way he would choose her over the red-hot dark-haired woman, the one with the rounded figure, the one with the sumptuous clothing.
Moments later, he dropped her onto the bed and her body warmed to his touch. As she lay still, her mental anguish remained. She prayed it would not lead to another pregnancy and another child, as the emotional excursion was far more than she could tolerate. Instead, she craved a life without responsibility; she wanted a tad of happiness.
The moment she discovered she was with child, Catherine wished it away. Despite abortion being illegal, it was widespread, but she knew Jack would never agree. To go ahead she needed help and considered asking Amelia, but she was hesitant with her decision. How could she explain her reasoning? Her rationale may be simple - she had nothing to offer another child – but it sounded absurd.
Catherine had heard of other more obscure methods for inducing abortion, including using herbs, sharpened implements, and applying pressure, yet she was ignorant of the exact procedure. Nevertheless, she forced pain upon her womb and continued until the tears streamed. Exhausted, she flopped onto her bed and waited. Nothing happened. She repeated her actions. She prayed; she appealed; she made blind promises. The baby remained with her.
Resigning herself to a new wave of motherhood, Catherine decided it was time to tell Jack. He was reading a newspaper in the parlour when she appeared.
‘I am expecting another baby.’
His arm sank and he stood up. ‘That is fantastic. I hope for a boy.’
Catherine could not match his enthusiasm and cringed as his arms settled on her upper arms.
‘Are you unhappy?’
Of course not.’
‘Good. Then we should celebrate. We must go out for a walk tomorrow afternoon. Prepare a picnic.’
‘I have too much to do Jack. I need to repair Arthur’s tunic.’
Nonsense. You have plenty of time for that.’
He returned to the newspaper. Irritated, Catherine shuffled out of the room to make a drink.
Did he not realise that she worked far more hours than he did and that she did not have time for pastimes? She did not want to have to spend an afternoon away from the home when there was work to do. In addition, there was Josephine to consider. It was too time-consuming gathering her essentials for the sake of a short walk. Puffing, she dropped onto a stool in the kitchen and gazed at the clean work surfaces, cupboards, and floor, searching for a solution.
Regardless of her feelings, she still had work to do, and poured the boiling water into a teapot and carried the tray into the parlour. Jack did not lift his gaze from the paper, nor did he offer light conversation. For a moment, she rested on the edge of the chair and searched his physique, then wondered what he thought about their marriage and their lives. Was it what he expected? Was he happy?
Smoke lingered in the air. She poured the tea into the cup and the silence continued. It irritated her that he rarely asked questions, and in particular regarding the children. She thought of the drawing Arthur had done and the happy sounds Josephine had made, but her enthusiasm waned. Previous happy moments had been crushed; she dared not allow joy to surface.
He reached for his cup. She imagined his odorous breath mingling with the tea; she watched his roughened dried lips press on the china. But then, her eyes darted to his neck. Smeared beneath his shirt collar was a red mark. It was lipstick.
Suddenly, the nursery had more appeal. She scurried away, leaving behind her drink. Catherine did not intend to return for a while and knew from experience that it was rare for Jack to question her disappearance. With her insides twisting with sorrow, she stared at her baby girl, but once again, she saw Marie. It was a heart-wrenching moment.
The following morning, having had breakfast, she dressed Arthur and Josephine in their finest outfits, and then changed from her drab working clothes into her Sunday best, and progressed to church. It was early spring and the air was chilling and the sky a murky grey. Strolling along, Catherine searched in the distance for storm clouds, eager to find a reason for abandoning their walk later in the day. Instead, she saw a wave of blue, and her heart sank.
Putting it from her mind, she gazed at the people in small groups ambling along the lanes, heading in the same direction as she, and searched the distant specks for members of her own family. It was not easy to determine who was who, and whilst everyone was familiar, she only exchanged polite greetings. Eventually, and grateful to have arrived, she passed through the gates and strode to the church entrance.
She stepped through the large wooden doors and moved towards the pews, her boots making a click-clack sound on the stone floor. Once settled, she waited for the service to start, feeling the chill in the air and coolness wafting around her. Vacantly, she looked up to the high ceiling and the stained glass windows, and then to the altar. For some inexplicable reason, it reminded her of the day of Josephine’s christening.
Her daughter’s white dress was one of the finest she had ever seen; the yoke had vertical panels of lace and hand embroidery, and the skirt joined with tiny gathers. It was of exquisite design, and she looked quite beautiful. Nonetheless, it was difficult to summon pride as it reminded her of Edward and Marie and their horribly shortened lives, both of whom had worn the same outfit. They should be with her, sitting alongside Arthur; they should be displaying their Sunday respect.
Saddened to be enduring another bout of heartache, she glimpsed at Jack and considered him lucky. He should be grateful to be absent of emotion, and focused straight ahead and listened to the minister who had initiated the service. If only she could receive solace the way he seemed to be doing, but she had lost her faith long ago. If there were a God, he would not have allowed her children to suffer. They had been innocent, undeserving; they should be living a full and happy life. Distressed, and trying to comprehend her shattered world, she clenched her hands in her lap, kept her gaze fixated, and sought comfort in the sermon.
Once the service had ended, she stepped outside, shared the necessary pleasantries with her mother and father, and joined Amelia in a quiet spot in the church grounds.
‘I have noticed that you speak little with y
our old friends anymore,’ Amelia said, ‘it would do you good to chat with them.’
‘I do speak with them.’
‘I have never seen you.’
The accusation tightened Catherine’s stomach. ‘What do you know? You're rarely around. You are always travelling.’
‘I am here most of the time. You still have much in common with Anne. I thought you used to be good friends.’
‘What you mean to say is that we both lead dull lives,’ she hissed.
The pained look on her face caused her to regret her envious outburst.
‘That is not what I meant,’ she said quietly. ‘Have you not heard? Her baby has just died.’
Regretting her inability to communicate freely, she passed her sister a tight stare. She could make an effort, but if she did, she sensed that she would have to divulge aspects of her life that she wished to remain private; thus, it made more sense to withdraw. Nonetheless, it was a sad decision. Her meetings with Anne had always been happy occasions. Long ago, they had talked non-stop, barely pausing for breath, speaking from the heart.
‘Do not disregard everyone,’ Amelia continued. ‘Friends are important.’
Catherine’s response had a frosty edge. ‘I do not have time.’
‘Elizabeth was asking after you, as well. She surmised that Jack was treating you too well and keeping you from your friends.’
She received her comment with appreciation, believing that Elizabeth, in the least, didn’t know of the hardship she endured or of Jack’s cheating ways. Yet she couldn’t find it within herself to comment, and nodded a vague response and strolled towards a bench a short distance away.
‘Is something wrong? You do not seem yourself,’ she said.