by Dawson, H A
Once settled with refreshments, her mother started chatting about her position in the community, never asking her the reason for her unexpected visit. Whilst consideration would have been nice, she didn’t feel strong enough to face her comments. Instead, she listened in virtual silence to her tales, and before long, her attention drifted to her surroundings.
The room was white and had few embellishments. Within was a black leather three-piece suite, an intricately carved oak sideboard and matching coffee table, and a flat-screen television. Her mother had opted for a minimalist approach, and whilst she liked the carved wood, there was nothing else in the room that inspired her to generate ideas for her own interior design projects. Instead, she made comparisons to her childhood dwelling, which had been warm, colourful, cluttered and homely, and it triggered memories of possessions she rarely considered.
‘What did you do with all the paintings and photographs we used to have?’ she asked.
‘I disposed of most of them. Some are in boxes upstairs.’
‘Do you still have the painting of the children with ice creams?’
The one with the boy pushing the girl off the wall?’
‘Yes.’
Judith nodded. ‘I don’t know why you like it so much.’
‘Dad and I laughed so much when we saw it. It was a fantastic day. I can still remember everything that happened.’
‘Keep it to yourself, Michaela. I don’t want to have to listen to you reminiscing.’
Irritated, she withdrew from her mother’s forceful gaze.
‘I found some other things of your father’s that may be of interest to you,’ she continued, ‘most of it looks like junk to me, but you may as well have it.’
‘That’s great, thank you.’ Pausing, she studied her stern pose. ‘I do miss him, even after all these years.’
‘He didn’t take life seriously enough.’
‘You mean not like Jim did.’
She scowled. ‘Have you been listening to gossip again?’
Her voice dissolved into a squeak. ‘I remember you saying Dad didn’t get on with Jim, so I assumed-’
‘Don’t assume Michaela. You know nothing about Jim, and it’s better that it stays that way.’
She scowled. She was a grown woman and shouldn’t feel as though she wanted to crawl under a rock each time she received her mother’s castigation; she should be able to stand up to her or thrust it aside. Yet it wasn’t always easy. Despite being well practised and well versed in her responses, words evaded her.
‘A friend of yours visited me last week,’ she continued. ‘I think her name was Emily. She was wondering why you haven’t replied to her texts.’
‘I haven’t got around to it.’
‘I don’t appreciate doing your dirty work. Don’t string people along Michaela. It’s not a good habit.’
‘I’m not stringing her along.’
She leaned back onto the leather sofa and studied her expression. ‘What has happened to you? You used to be such a happy child, and all I ever see now is a sullen woman.’
‘I’m not sullen!’
‘I’m sure Sam must have noticed a change too. There was a time when you would never miss an opportunity to go out with your friends. That house is not doing you any favours.’
She pressed her lips together. She had just had a miscarriage. Was that not reason enough to be less animated than normal?
‘At least Jim had the sense to get out. He became moody, and not at all like he used to be.’ Pausing, her eyes glazed. ‘He stopped caring and was no fun to be around. He became resentful and lived in a dream world.’
‘I didn’t think you knew him.’
‘Of course I knew him . . . in the early days, before your father and I moved away.’
She frowned.
‘He was much better after he left that house . . . far happier.’
‘I can’t believe you’re blaming the house for his moods.’
‘Primrose Cottage is cursed, Michaela. Surely, you have seen that.’
‘No, it’s not. Sam and I are happy. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’
‘That is what Jim used to say, and look what happened to him.’
‘I’ve had enough,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘I’ve things to do.’
As you wish.’
‘Where are Dad’s things?’
‘I’ll get them,’ she said and hurried away.
During the journey home, Michaela was frustrated that she hadn’t said anything she had wanted to say and that she hadn’t even asked her mother about her relationship with Grace, which had been one of her priorities. Cowardice had caused her to back out, and now she regretted it. The only positive gained from the afternoon was the box of bits and bobs belonging to her father, and she planned to sift through them and drown herself in happy thoughts.
Approaching the village, she visualised her father slumped onto the armchair. His hands rested on his large rounded tummy, his legs were apart, and his head back as he chortled at one of his own jokes. With neatly cut hair and cleanly shaven, and wearing his favourite loose-fitting black trousers and a short-sleeved shirt, he had always maintained his well-groomed appearance; yet he had cared little for status and reputation.
Michaela had tried to emulate her father and had always had an urge to make him proud, but unlike with her mother, the task had been easy, as he had praised her efforts endlessly. Her confidence, during her teenage years, had reached a high level, yet since his passing, and particularly in recent months, her self-assured demeanour decreased.
Lifting the box from the car, she gazed at her fingernails. With soreness around the cuticles and ugly broken edges, it was an unsightly indication of her stress. She chewed and chewed, tearing away tiny strips at a time. Mostly, she was unaware of her persistent actions, and only when she noticed Sam’s curious gaze did she stop amidst a flurry of shame.
Longing for a private moment with the last of her father’s possessions, she scampered into the house, rushed up to her bedroom, and placed the dusty rectangular box onto the floor. Over the years, she had had countless conversations with his spirit, but now, as the warning to stop with her search was all around, her need was greater than ever. Her father would have been more sympathetic than her mother was, and he would have assisted with her quest. He would have told her the family secrets, helped her build up a relationship with Grace, and pushed aside her doubts regarding Sam. He was a wonderful man, generous and supportive, and she missed him.
Excited by the prospect of learning something knew about him, she lifted the lid on the box, wiped away the dust from her hands with a rag, and scanned the notebooks, papers, awards, and toys. Firstly, she selected a medal awarded for cross-country running. She was unaware that her father had ever been a physical man, let alone that someone honoured for his achievements. It was a surprise.
Next, she picked up toy soldiers, aircraft collectors cards, and a toy gun, and wondered about a life she never knew. Overall, they had spent so little time together, and she longed, just for a short while, to be able to revisit those precious moments with unprecedented clarity. She also wanted to know about his life within Primrose Cottage.
Had he watched the snowflakes slide down his bedroom window? Had he read books somewhere on their extensive patch of land under the summer skies? Had he played games with his brother and done chores for his father? Had he had a happy childhood or had he been grateful, as her mother had suggested, for the chance to leave?
She continued delving into a small part of his life, and sifted through the papers and notebooks, and discovered swimming and cricket certificates, schoolwork, and report cards. She read comments about the conscientious student who worked for pleasure, and she noted the praise he received for his good humour and easy-going nature. It engendered a moment of pride.
For a while, she continued to read his essays. The English was poor, and the script was difficult to read such was the scrawl, but he had been dilige
nt with punctuation and a smile slipped to her lips. The full stop was not a discreet dot, as one would expect, but a circle with neat shading. It was something she too had done as a child, causing a smile to slip to her lips.
An old photograph caught her attention. Plucking it free, she saw it was of a man alongside three boys. Jack was recognisable from his wedding photograph; the boys must have been his children. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a date on the reverse, but she surmised due to Catherine’s absence it must have been after her death.
She continued to flick through his belongings and found folded sheet of paper. Curious, she opened it up and stared at a drawing of a woman and girl at the water well, and a man at their rear. Sudden flashing images of a tragic accident, of screaming and heartbreak, pierced her heart and soul. Helpless to intervene, she waited for the vision to fade and waited for calmness to reassert itself.
Dazed and shaking, Michaela scutinised the name at the bottom of the yellowing sheet of paper. Catherine’s eldest child Arthur had drawn the image. He had witnessed the incident.
Chapter 25
1912
With Arthur and Josephine occupied, and her one-year-old child, George, sleeping, Catherine returned to the parlour and to Amelia. Her sister looked as striking as ever and wore a shimmering blue dress and a wide-brimmed hat adorned with flowers and fruit.
‘I love your outfit,’ Catherine said.
Amelia raised her hands. ‘This hat is ridiculous. They have become so big I feel as though I am carrying around an entire garden on my head.’
She smiled.
‘My contacts in London tell me hats are going to be smaller soon. I am going to have to purchase a new range.’
‘If that is the case, I will need a new one too.’
‘The best hats are in Paris. The only problem is, I can never make a decision and I have to buy several. I must make a trip soon.’
‘There must be some decent shops close by.’
She shook her head. ‘You should come with me. I’m certain Jack could cope without you for a few days.’
‘He would never agree.’
‘Really Catherine, you should stand up to him. You have worked slavishly for years . . . you deserve a break.’
‘He does not like me going away. He even gets angry with me if I spend too much time with mother and father.’
‘He is selfish.’
Catherine stared at the low table in the centre of the room and searched the scratches and grooves for an answer. Jack was not expecting anything more than was her duty, so why was she unhappy? In the past, she had scrutinised other young women and had witnessed joy and contentment etched onto their faces. Their lives were no different to hers. Was there something wrong with her? Was she suffering an illness?
‘When was the last time you had a day away?’ her sister asked.
‘I cannot remember.’
Frowning, she picked up the cup of tea and presented it to her mouth. Her face was smooth, her lips lush and pink. She looked as though she hadn’t aged since their lives took different paths eight years previous, and if anything she looked more beautiful. In comparison, she wore a grey frock covering a slumped midriff, and her complexion was coarse and ashen. In a poor attempt to hide her shame, she pressed her arms across her middle.
‘I am sorry you do not approve of my life,’ Catherine said.
‘Dearest sister, what makes you think that? I will love you no matter what.’
‘You have achieved much more than me.’
‘My life is not for everyone.’ A chink sounded as she placed her cup onto the saucer. ‘You are raising three beautiful children. That is an accomplishment.’
‘And look at how many I have lost. To lose Edward and Marie was horrendous, but then to lose Albert.’ Tears misted her eyes. She looked away. ‘He only had three short months and I have no idea why he was taken from me.’
Grief-stricken, she reflected upon her son’s last few hours. He had seemed healthy and had been fed, changed, and placed in his crib. Taking one last glance before progressing with her chores, she had studied his small features - his round button-like nose, his chubby cheeks, and his smooth eyelids - and she had witnessed contentment in his face. Then she left the room.
‘Babies don’t just die,’ Catherine said.
Amelia squeezed her hand. ‘Unfortunately, some do. It was unlikely there was anything you missed. Remember me telling you about our friend Anne? Her baby died in its sleep also.’
A tear slipped down Catherine’s cheek and her gut tightened. She had not paid Albert enough attention that day, and it was all because of her on-going argument with Jack. If only she could have her time again.
Her memories were vivid. Since Jack had been irritable and complained non-stop, she had left the nursery with her tensions running high. Firstly, he claimed the food he was eating was causing him illness, and then he moaned about the house. He said that she had been spending far too much time away from her chores, and he wanted more of her time dedicated to his well-being. His complaints were a common occurrence and unjustified, and her fury rumbled. His clothes were always in the rightful place and his shoes were always clean. Unwilling to take his nonsense, she defended her position. As usual, they argued; as usual Jack’s temper grew out of control and he slapped her upon her cheek. Furious, she thrust herself into her chores in a daze. Later, she found her dead son.
Like before, Jack’s accusation had been immediate, and he claimed he had witnessed her poisoning her baby son. How could he say such a horrendous thing? Yes, there had been times when she had wanted freedom from her children, but that was when she had been in a negative emotional state. She had never wanted them dead; she loved them deeply and with every ounce of her being.
She raised her hands to her face and peered at her sister through her fingers. Amelia knew little of the accusations she endured; her embarrassment was too great. Often, she wondered if she should have shared her ordeal, and not only regarding the accusation but other things too. However, as the years past, she decided it was too late. Jack was from an honourable family with wealth and contacts. Who would believe her?
‘You still have three beautiful children. Do not forget that Catherine. They are worth far more than what I have.’
‘But I do not want any more. I do not enjoy being with child, it is too tiring.’
‘I’m sure you don’t mean that.’
Catherine looked away. Amelia was right. She loved her children. It was the rest of her life she hated, Jack’s behaviour in particular.
‘It is a pity we cannot swap lives for a day,’ Amelia said.
She smiled. ‘Oh, wouldn’t that be fun. I would travel to foreign lands and take up new hobbies. I would buy expensive outfits and trinkets.’
‘And I would play with Arthur and Josephine, and cuddle George all day long.’
Catherine frowned. Amelia had no idea. There would be household chores to do, from dawn to dusk; there were Jack’s dark moods and frequent hallucinations to tolerate; there would be children to care for and entertain. Her sister would never be able to cope away from servants and a doting husband, and why should she?
‘All is not as it seems,’ Catherine said.
She tilted her head.
Maybe it was time to tell her the truth.
Perspiration trickled from her forehead and down her cheeks as she rushed to complete the cakes before breakfast. She scooped the creamy mixture into two tins and opened the oven door. Heat gushed out. She placed the cakes inside and glanced at the clock.
Soon, the children would be awakening. George would need attending to first, and then Josephine would need assistance. Her tasks normally occurred in an orderly robotic fashion, but as today was the day of the village fête, she had additional duties. Spinning around, she glanced at the mounting pile of dirty crockery and the diminished supply of water and decided the washing up would have to wait.
Concerned time was running out and her distractions would
soon present themselves, she poured the remaining water into a pan, placed it onto the heat ready for the children to wash, and then selected the ingredients for a pie. Having lined them up on the table, she started to chop in double-quick speed. Her arms ached and her head was fuzzy from lack of sleep, but that was no reason to stop. There was no one else to carry out her duties, was there?
Despite an occasional yearning, she had grown used to the loneliness and the lack of adult company. Maybe it was the isolation and living away from the village hubbub, or maybe it was her perpetual fatigue. Whatever the reason, she had little energy to change. Her life was different to how it once was, and as she pondered her days as a single woman, it seemed as though her memories belonged to someone else.
Catherine and Amelia had known almost everyone in the surrounding area, and they were popular and well received by the wealthy locals. Their father approved of their friendly approach and obvious good manners, and especially so when they gained the attention of the Coopers. Jack was a striking young man and he had been besotted with her. Aside from her physical attributes, and her lush auburn hair, glistening eyes, and smooth pale skin tone, she had moderate intelligence and an obedient personality. Thus, their marriage plans began within weeks. Catherine had been overjoyed. It felt like it was such a long, long time ago.
She glanced at the clock. Jack would soon want breakfast and the children would soon awaken. Urging herself to work faster, she mixed the flour and fat and rolled the pastry on the dusted surface. A hole appeared. Puffing, she squeezed the mixture back together and started over.
A squeal alerted her. She strained her ears to listen for George’s cries but heard nothing more. Grateful for an extra few moments, she rolled the pastry, placed it into a dish, and added the meat and vegetables. She looked at the clock. She scanned the mounting pile of dirty crockery. She rolled out the pastry lid.