by Dawson, H A
‘I am expecting another child.’
‘That is good news . . . is it not?’
‘It is.’
‘Is Jack glad?’
Of course.’
‘I am pleased you are happy and that Jack has come to his senses. I assume he is treating you better.’
She managed a nod.
‘I have not heard or seen anything untoward. In fact earlier, when I was behind him, I heard him telling his friends how much he loves you.’
The words echoed through her thoughts. In her bitterness, she wondered if her sister had heard her name mentioned, and believed not. He must have been speaking of the dark-haired woman; either that or Amelia must have misinterpreted his remarks. Unable to question her sister for fear she may retract her statement, she voiced a polite comment and waited for Jack to indicate it was time to return home.
Battling her listlessness, Catherine prepared a picnic basket for a late afternoon walk then proceeded to gather Josephine’s essentials.
Jack appeared at the nursery door. ‘We should go.’
By the time she arrived downstairs, Jack was waiting with Arthur by the pram, and the picnic basket was at their feet. Duty-bound and with her daughter settled, they left the house and proceeded down the lane onto a well-used path. The large spindly branches of the willow trees swayed in the gentle breeze, whilst the leaves on the evergreens rustled in the dappled sunlight. She trod on the spongy grass and strained to push the pram over the moist ground. Looking to the ground, the vivid green stems glistened with a coating of water and droplets clung to the tips, whilst at each side were vast muddy pools.
Only recently, the rain had gushed down the lane by the house, following the undulations along the hills to the valley and river below. The vista had been unrecognisable, as the once green landscape transformed into a pond, and was dull and murky under the laden skies. Thankfully, it did not last, and soon, the rippling water receded, leaving a flattened patch of dirty, saturated land.
Consequently, Catherine expected problems, so she was not surprised when the pram came to an abrupt halt. Jolting, she looked down to the mud that caked the wheels, briefly regretted the cleaning she would have to do upon her return, and tried to push it free. Even though she pulled the pram backward and attempted to renegotiate the track, her efforts were futile and she could not move.
Jack was striding away. She called him back and asked for his assistance.
He turned his head and stared at her wide-eyed, as though something horrendous was in his sight. Concerned by his reaction, she looked over her shoulder, but there was nothing there. Perplexed, she returned her gaze to his and reiterated her request.
His hands rose and he shuffled backward. ‘Don’t make me touch it.’
Her pulse quickened. She looked to the pram, searching for something out of the ordinary, and then looked to Arthur, who had shuffled to her rear and was peering from around her hip.
‘Jack, what is wrong?’
‘It is after me.’
Her skin tingled. ‘What is after you?’
He pointed to the pram. Arthur whimpered. She stroked his fine blond hair with her hand and encouraged him to nestle deeper.
‘Stop it! You are scaring Arthur.’
Jack’s body slackened and his intense gaze lessened.
‘Lift the pram, now.’
He obeyed. She let out a loud breath and proceeded to move forward, but a tug at her skirt caused resistance. Arthur’s face was pink and contorted, and his lips quivered.
‘It is all right. Your father was just having fun.’ She glared at her husband. ‘That is right, isn’t it?’
Jack’s eyes flickered. He nodded his head.
Whilst irritated by his behaviour, she paid him no attention and they continued along the path until they reached a small meandering stream. The water had spilled over the bank and flooded the plain, and it was bubbling and frothing. It wasn’t a scenic spot, but she was in no mood to travel further, especially since Josephine was wailing. So she announced her decision to rest.
Jack did not reply, but scanned the area with wide fearful eyes, glanced behind a shrub, and bobbed down looking under the bench.
‘What are you looking for?’
Once again, he stared at her wide-eyed, but before he could answer, she raised her hand. ‘No. Do not answer that. I am going to settle Josephine.’
Jack wandered to the water’s edge, leaving Arthur on the bench by her side. She was reaching to Josephine when her son gripped her arm in a fearful pose.
‘Go see what your father is doing please,’ she said.
He shook his head and perched on the bench.
‘Now Arthur, go. I have to deal with Josephine.’
His eyes flickered from side to side and his head was low. Catherine held a determined expression, and eventually the little boy slithered from the bench and made tentative steps forward until he was a short distance from his father’s side. He seemed unwilling to progress any further, and remained in a taut pose, answering his questions in a submissive manner. Whilst Arthur seemed to be acting a little out character and was more subdued than normal, she didn’t have time to consider his behaviour and progressed with her task of settling her young daughter.
Having nursed her baby girl for a short time, she was able to return her to the pram. Grateful for one less difficulty, she reached for the picnic and called Jack and Arthur to offer them food. The boy was swift to return, and sat by her side and tucked into bits of cold sliced meat, segments of sausage, and bread, all individually wrapped. There was also shellfish in a small container, a favourite of Jacks, which he willingly received. It was a satisfactory occasion, and once they completed the food, she reached for a small piece of cloth and wiped clean her face.
One problem remained. For the duration, Jack’s irrational behaviour continued. He scanned the horizon with fear in his eyes, and on three occasions bolted to his feet and looked to what appeared to her to be an obscured object. If they had been alone, she would have commented, but she knew, as Arthur’s scrutiny was intense, that if she were to question Jack she would have to choose her words with care. Her young son was already unsettled; a careless comment could cause him deep trauma.
Suddenly, Jack leapt to his feet, hurried to the rear of the shrub, then returned to the bench and stared at Josephine. It was not a loving fatherly gaze but an apprehensive one, and her anxiety mounted. Forcing calmness upon herself, she concluded that Jack feared for his daughter’s safety. But why, and from whom? No one would ever wish to harm a defenceless child.
Concerned for her son, she stroked his hand. He did not flinch and stared relentlessly at his father, his grip tight and his body stiff.
‘Josephine is not safe,’ the boy said.
She jerked. ‘What did you say?’
His mouth dropped open. He shook his head. He spoke in a squeak. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
Perplexed and anxious, she hurried to Josephine and lifted her from the pram. Pressing her daughter’s small, fragile body to her breast, her heart hammered, intense with dread. What did Arthur know? Jack had often told her she was to blame for the death of their children, but she didn’t think he had ever said anything in front of him. There again, he had been witness to other things that he should not have heard or seen, so it was possible.
He had experienced far too much for his young years.
Did Arthur blame her for Edward and Marie’s deaths also? Was that the reason for his subdued behaviour?
She cast him a quick sideways glance. The fear in her son’s expression twisted her gut.
Chapter 23
Present Day
Twisting and turning, and with his tail erect, Bloomer looked up at Sam and pleaded for his early morning feed. Refusing to rest his vocal cords, he weaved around his legs as Sam carried out his chores, filling the kettle with cold water, pouring coffee into a mug, and stepping to the fridge for the milk.
‘Okay, I’m on to it,�
�� Sam said, and leaned over and poured some milk into his dish.
The lapping was instant and hectic, warming his heart. If he had seen him today for the first time, he would have believed there had been no trauma in his life. He acted like any other cat; he was well-adjusted to domesticated life and basked in happiness. It was worth the wait. It’s just a pity that he and Michaela were not able to do the same.
Folding his arms, leaning into the shabby unit, he contemplated message in the barn. Who had left it? How serious were they? Should they stop their search? The questions were many, the answers non-existent. However, there was one thing he was certain of, and that was the effect it had had on Michaela.
The previous night she had claimed indifference to the incident and watched television in a solitary mood. Refusing to utter a word, she held an intense stare and remained in a trance-like state for the remainder of the evening. She even refused to eat, claiming she was not hungry and wanted only for peace and quiet. It was difficult to accept she was capable of disregarding it so soon.
Steam rose to the ceiling. He poured the boiling water into his mug and stirred, and the smell of coffee wafted to his nostrils, causing an instinctive inhalation. The liquid swirled and splashed over the edge. Noting the dribbles on the surface, he reached for a sheet of kitchen towel and soaked up the mess. As he acted, he hoped the message in the barn would be as easy to remove.
Someone must have been watching the house and had seen them leave, yet Sam had not seen any vehicles parked along the lane. Had the person walked from the village, or had it been Grace. She had made it clear she disapproved of their search into Catherine’s life, and if she had been at the supermarket as Michaela suggested she would have known the house was empty.
The act was distasteful. So often, she had appeared cold and unfriendly and accepted neither Michaela’s amicable demeanour, nor his more distant approach. He headed to the living room, saddened by her need to cause distress, and tried to fathom out her motive.
He presumed it was something to do with her relationship with Jim. Even so, why would that mean she was against their search into Catherine’s life? Jim may have been a descendant of Catherine’s, and he may even have been ashamed of whatever she had done, but he had carried no blame. So why Grace’s concern? It must be relating to something else.
Sam believed they had always presented themselves as good neighbours: never obtrusive, friendly and tolerant. They had not complained when she had had a noisy barbecue, or when her exuberant gardener had sawn through a lower branch of one of their trees, yet they had often been at the receiving end of her bouts of anger.
Accepting personality differences, Sam closed the door on his contemplations and flicked through a newspaper. It was not long before Michaela arrived downstairs.
Tight-lipped, she made her breakfast, entered the room, and sat on the armchair near the door. Her gaze fixated on her cereal, and her expression dark. There was greyness beneath her eyes, creases on her cheeks, and distress in her eyes, and it seemed as though she was carrying on with her self-enforced seclusion from the world. Deciding he would speak to her when she was ready, he let her persist with her ritual, reached for his empty coffee mug and stood up.
She caught his eye. Her face scrunched and her lips formed a tight line. She opened her mouth to speak. No words materialized.
Bad night?’ Sam asked.
Michaela frowned and nodded her head. ‘W-was it Catherine?’
The blood-red words appeared in his mind, suggestive of a warning from beyond. Could it be true? Had Catherine objected to their search?
‘No,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t Catherine.’
‘Well who Sam?’
‘I don’t know . . . kids?’
‘I don’t believe that for a second, and I doubt you do.’
He fiddled with a rip on his shirt. It was worth a try.
‘If it wasn’t Catherine,’ she continued, ‘it must have been Grace.’
‘I’ve wondered that.’
‘Why does she hate me so much?’
‘I don’t think she hates you.’
‘She watches me all the time . . . it’s horrible. Every time I am down that end of the garden, I can feel her glaring at me. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Yes, it is.’
He could only recall a few times when Grace was outside at the same time as Michaela. During the week, she was often absent, causing him to believe she worked.
‘You don’t believe me?’
He pressed his arms across his middle and averted his gaze. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Don’t lie.’ She stood up. ‘Everyone is plotting against me. Mum, Grace, the villagers, and now you.’ She looked at the ceiling and searched each wall. ‘That woman is probably listening to us right now and having a good laugh. How am I ever going to make a life for myself when she has already turned everyone against me?’
‘You’re being paranoid.’
‘I am not! She hates me, Sam.’
‘How about I have a chat with her?’
‘No.’
Why ever not?’
‘I said no!’
She paced the room. Her steps were fast and frequent, and her eyes had a wild glint. ‘We’re not safe here. We have to get out.’
‘Now you are being ridiculous.’
‘We’re being watched . . . all of the time. I can feel it. Something’s going to happen, something terrible.’
‘No, it’s not. You have to stop thinking about these warnings . . . this curse. There will be a logical explanation, and I know you don’t like me saying it, but I still think it’s likely to be a prank.’
‘You agreed it was Grace.’
‘I said I’d considered it. I never agreed.’
Michaela tilted her head. She was listening to something, and held her hand in the air, urging him to stay quiet. Only the faint rush of wind was audible.
‘You heard them too, right?’
He looked at her, blank.
‘Someone’s out there.’
He stood up. ‘Then I’ll go have a look around.’
She grabbed his arm. ‘No!’
Why ever not?’
‘It’s not safe. Please, Sam.’
He gazed at her with bewilderment, yanked free his arm, and headed to the outer door. She looked like a child lost, as tears stung her eyes and her body crumpled.
‘They’ll turn you against me too,’ she said.
He shut the door. The morning air was refreshing and the sunlight intense and he huddled his arms closer to his body as he stepped across the makeshift patio. Drawn by Michaela’s odd behaviour, he looked to the living room window. The curtains flickered and her shadowy figure hunched alongside. Her expression depicted her terror.
As a conscious act of appeasement, he moved deliberately and mechanically, searching the immediate vicinity and beyond the shrubs and trees. He looked across the landscape, scanning left and right, noticing nothing unexpected or unusual. Then, hoping his act would settle her down, he indicated to her that they were safe.
To his regret, she wasn’t convinced and pointed to the driveway and gestured that there was something there. He looked across and shook his head. She cupped her ear with her hand and mouthed for him to listen. He shrugged and walked away, and once out of view, breathed a sigh of relief.
Removing the message in the barn was his first task. He prised open the heavy door and stepped into the dark, dusty space, and waited for his eyes to adjust. When he located the mirror he became rigid and motionless, and his arms dropped to his side, his jaw loosened, and a cool tingling sensation passed through his skin. The mirror was where it had been the previous night, but there was nothing written on it. He stood and stared, searching for an explanation and wondered what had happened and how they could have imagined the entire incident.
He glanced over his shoulder, hoping that Michaela hadn’t followed him, and made a tentat
ive step forward, watching his reflection as he approached. Once there, he crouched down, pressed his finger onto the reflective surface, and scrutinised it for a hint of red. There were no smears, nothing. It was a worrying situation.
Michaela’s mutterings continued after Sam returned from the barn. She was adamant someone was watching her, and pointed to shadows and movements in the garden, claiming that someone was out there. He could tell her notion overwhelmed, but he was helpless to assist, since the more he denied her claim, the more she said that he was against her. Hiding his exasperation, he listened as she ranted until the topic switched to her mother. ‘She always criticises me,’ she whined. He knew that was true, but when she declared that Judith was plotting against her, he feared that she was paranoid and walked away.
Grateful to be away from her perplexing behaviour, he sauntered to the edge of the land, searching the vista for a moment of calm, and breathed in the fresh air. Trees rustled in the gentle wind, rabbits grazed on the short spikes of grass, and in the distance, children played by the river. He could hear the boys’ gleeful cries as they raced along the bank, and it created a moment of appreciation, gladdened by the sight and sounds of normality.
What was going on between them and their neighbour was far from normal, and his gaze drifted to the high hedges along part of the border with Grace’s house. Upon closer inspection, the tall branches drooped to the ground and were scraggy and unkempt due to years of deficient maintenance, so for a change from his normal tasks, he decided to prune. He selected loppers, a garden saw, and heavy-duty gloves from the barn, before returning to the overgrown hedge. As he worked, he periodically peered across the border. Grace did not appear.
A branch tumbled to the ground, scratching Sam’s arms and body. He manoeuvred the three-metre length, extracting it from a stray bramble, and placed it on top of the others. The pile was growing and neatness in the hedge was emerging. To make space at his feet, he grabbed hold of a couple of main stems at the base and dragged them across a grassy track. Many of the smaller branches and twigs clung on, trapped within. He deposited them in an out-of-sight location at the rear of the brick building and headed back to the hedge.