Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  George’s demands echoed through the house. Her hands moved faster. She lifted the pastry from the surface. A crack appeared in the centre. Catherine groaned as his wails increased in volume. She pressed the mixture back together and re-rolled. Silently, she urged George to stop crying; silently, she answered his pleas.

  ‘Catherine. The baby.’

  She removed the cakes from the oven, ignoring Jack’s sharp tongue, and placed the pie inside. Then she wiped her flour-coated hands onto a cloth and rushed up the stairs.

  ‘Can you not hear him?’ his voice boomed, as her footsteps beat the wooden surface.

  Choosing not to respond and gritting her teeth, she stepped into the bedroom, lifted George from the crib, and placed him onto the floor. His tears dissolved into snuffles.

  She was removing his soiled pants when Arthur clambered out of bed and stepped towards her.

  ‘I had a dream. I was flying high above the hills and trees. Everything was tiny.’

  Josephine threw back her bed covers and toddled across. ‘You did not.’

  ‘I so did. I flew like a bird.’

  He flung his arms outwards and raced around the room. Josephine stood near the centre and clung to her doll, her eyes travelling with him. He brushed against her. She wobbled and flopped to the ground. There was a rush of tears.

  ‘Arthur. Go fetch the water from the kitchen to wash.’

  He swirled around the room.

  Arthur, now!’

  His arms slumped and his head dropped. Moving slowly, exaggerating each step as though it was a great effort, he shuffled away.

  A smile slithered across Josephine’s young face. She placed her thumb into her mouth. She stroked her dolls head.

  Arthur’s steps pounded the floor, echoing through the house. She imagined him stretching to reach for the water and straining as he lifted the container. Did Jack listen too? It was quiet next door. There were no creaks from the floorboards, and no sounds of cupboards or drawers opening or shutting. He was probably hiding under the covers, waiting for the noise to subside.

  Arthur returned with the water and proceeded to wash. Whilst keeping a firm eye on him, and ordering him to do it properly and not splash, she dressed George. Thankfully, her youngest son was accommodating, and stretched out his arms and relaxed his legs as she presented his outfit.

  An aroma of vegetables and herbs wafted through the air, and a rush of anxiety crept across her body. Jack would demand breakfast soon, and she hadn’t even started it yet. Having thrust George onto the floor, she hurried towards Josephine and removed her daughter’s nightclothes.

  ‘I can do it myself,’ she said.

  ‘Not today. We do not have time.’

  Josephine twisted away and held her arms firm to the body. She was scowling, holding her ground, and had a look about her that told gentle persuasion was going to be difficult if not impossible. Determined to overwhelm her, she forced her daughter’s arms into the air. The little girl screamed from the depth of her lungs and the sound ripped through the air.

  ‘Stop it!’ Catherine demanded.

  Josephine took another breath, but before she could let it out Catherine placed her warm sticky palm across her mouth. The little girl shook her head, attempting to wriggle free, and her arms pummelled Catherine’s middle. To prevent her thrashings, she had to remove it, but the instant she did a scream resonated through the house. The cavernous hole separated her face into two.

  ‘What is going on?’ A voice boomed.

  Josephine stopped wailing and shrunk to the ground.

  ‘Do you not have any control?’ he asked Catherine.

  Biting her lip, and whilst under his watchful eye, she washed and dressed her daughter, who remained obedient. Then, ushering them along the landing, she tolerated another cutting remark from her husband. Her body tightened, but she refused to give him the pleasure of her irritation. Because of her silence, or so she believed, he shuffled into the bedroom and closed the door. Relieved that the moment of tension was over she hurried the children into the playroom and shut the door. Then, she prepared Jack’s breakfast.

  Even downstairs, the sounds of youthful exuberance were audible. She was able to ignore it and placed the bacon into a pan. Yet, she worried about the effect it would have on Jack, as in recent days he’d had little sleep, felt nauseous, and had been suffering from regular headaches. She worried he was ill, and keen to avoid more arguments and criticisms and craving a stress-free day, she tried to make the perfect bacon sandwich.

  She had learned that Jack was a fussy eater. He enjoyed the pureness of fruit and vegetables, and at times disliked meat. He complained it made his feel sick and gave him abdominal pains, but he was not consistent. She could offer the same food on consecutive days; on the first, he would accept it and eat ravenously, and on the second, he would push it aside and complain of the bitter smell. She hoped today would he would be affable and headed to the table with his breakfast.

  He stared at the food, hesitating to eat. She surmised he was about to complain about the quality, but rather than making a cautious attempt, as was usually the case, he lifted the edge of the bacon with his fingers and peered underneath. He threw himself backward, the chair whooshing against the rug.

  He stared at her with wild eyes and then extended his neck to search the hallway. ‘Have you prepared this?’

  Lines appeared on Catherine’s face. ‘Of course I have.’

  He hurried to the outer door. A gush of refreshing air entered the house. He scanned the garden and searched the lane, and then, with an expression of puzzlement, he returned indoors.

  ‘Where is Annie?’

  Catherine was perplexed. ‘Annie?’

  The housemaid. Where is she?’

  ‘We do not have a housemaid.’

  Jack held his head low and shuffled back to the table. Of course not. I know that.’

  ‘Perhaps we should get one.’

  He jolted. ‘No!’

  Why ever not?’

  ‘We do not need one.’

  Cautiously, he nibbled his food. Puffing out, she trundled away. Maybe now she could feed the children.

  With the children in tow, Catherine and Jack approached the village fête. Even though the stalls were still being set up, villagers were beginning to gather in the field. Women wore their finest outfits and men wore their Sunday suits. It was an opportunity to express wealth, and for the children, good manners, and it was a chance to meet old acquaintances.

  Scanning her surroundings, a sense of excitement bubbled in her stomach. This annual event had always been one of her favourite occasions, and as a youngster, she had counted the days until it arrived. All year, she had saved the little bit of money she had acquired and searched the stalls for an unusual toy, ornament, or book. Sometimes, she found a suitable game to participate in, but more often than not, she watched her youngest brother and sister playing skittles and appreciated their fun.

  Striding alongside Jack, she searched for her mother and father, brothers and sisters while passing an arena and a number of stalls. Jack received many compliments regarding his family, and he responded graciously, praising her efforts before returning their kind words.

  She had known he would be keen to impress, and so she had instructed Arthur and Josephine to behaviour properly. This time her desires were, in fact, equal to her husbands. She did not want bitter words travelling around the village and was keen to depict a middle-to-upper class status. She glanced to her rear.

  Her children were walking side-by-side with a firm gait and an upright posture. She listened to their endless chatter. Whilst Arthur shared his knowledge of the fête, Josephine’s excitement grew and her tone became higher-pitched and her words less distinct. Their lively banter continued until they were a few yards from Jacks family stall. There, she spun to face the children and ordered them to stop talking. Arthur glimpsed at his father from his eye corner and bowed his head.

  They exchanged greetings,
and then she removed the cakes from a bag and placed them on the family stall.

  ‘I thought you were going to provide more than this,’ Jack hissed.

  ‘I said I would make two.’

  ‘That’s not good enough.’

  ‘I did what I could Jack. I have little time to spare.’

  ‘You shame me.’

  She clenched her jaw, withholding her exclamation. It irritated her that he made approving remarks when others could hear, yet criticised her as soon as they were out of earshot. Once upon a time, his good comments would have impressed her, but now she wondered if anything had ever come from the heart.

  Irritated, she followed Jack with her taut gaze, watching as he chatted with male family members and displaying a serious and confident demeanour, one justifying respect. Did they ever see the other side of Jack? Did they even know of his dual personality? Fighting a longing to blurt out the truth, she reminded herself of its futility.

  ‘You look tired,’ Mrs Cooper said, ‘are you well?’

  ‘I am well. I had to get up early. I had extra jobs to do today.’

  Mrs Cooper frowned. ‘I never understood why you refused to have a housemaid.’

  Speechless, she gawked at her mother-in-law.

  ‘The children will suffer,’ she said, rearranging the food on the table. ‘But I know it is pointless to try to persuade you otherwise. Jack has told me how he has tried.’

  Stunned, she fidgeted with her fingers, turning her gold wedding band.

  ‘He is proud of you and will not hear a bad word said about you.’

  ‘Who has being saying things about me?’

  No one dear.’

  She held a penetrating stare.

  ‘Jack says you get a bit confused at times and that you forget to do things. He worries for the children.’

  ‘The children are well cared for. I never forget to do anything regarding them.’

  ‘My dear, we all forget to do things at times.’

  She made fists with her hands.

  ‘Perhaps you should reconsider getting a housemaid. Otherwise we may-’

  ‘You may what? I have not done wrong!’

  Mrs Cooper looked to a stall a few yards away to where her son was standing. ‘I should not have said anything. I am sure he knows what he is doing.’

  Struggling to control her torrent of emotions and sensing an imminent outburst, Catherine strode away. Her head was down, and her strides with purpose and momentum. Familiar voices greeted her. Disregarding them, not even glimpsing, she hurried by and searched for a moment of privacy.

  She found solitude at the rear of a building, and leaned against the wall and tried to calm her pounding heart and heavy breaths. Tears stung her eyes and her clothes stuck to her heated body. She gazed at the vacant field and bubbling clouds and attempted to analyse what had just happened.

  There had been times when she made errors with food preparations, and on more than one occasion, she had not removed Albert’s dirty nappy as she should have. Jack had been furious. In her defence, she had told him the offending article had been out of reach of the children. It did little to calm his mood.

  Catherine slumped to the ground. She was a bad mother.

  A familiar voice sounded. She peered around the corner and saw Jack chatting with the dark-haired woman.

  She charged towards them. ‘What is going on?’

  Jack looked at her with horror in his eyes and tried to encourage her to retreat, pushing her a short distance away. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘And what do I think Jack? That she is your sister.’

  He looked to the ground.

  ‘Do not treat me like I am stupid.’

  ‘We are not having a relationship. She’s . . .’ he shoved his hands into his pockets and gulped, ‘. . . a friend.’

  Likely story, she thought, and then stared at the woman who was standing a few yards away and watching something at the other side of the building.

  ‘Eric, no!’ the woman said.

  The reply was high pitched and Catherine’s heart pounded. Eric was a child, a boy. She hurried across. The boy was about Arthur’s age, perhaps a little younger. Her heart hammered, her throat dried.

  ‘Please go,’ Jack told the dark-haired woman.

  As soon as I get my money.’

  Catherine’s jaw dropped and the realisation pummelled her insides. The boy was Jack’s son, his own flesh and blood. Moving like a woman possessed, she ignored his pathetic pleas to listen to his explanation, and retrieved her children and hurried out of the fête and towards home. Her head felt as though it was about to rupture. She wanted to be alone, away from the whispering voices and pointing fingers.

  ‘Go and play Arthur,’ she said upon their arrival.

  Arthur had a look of terror on his face and rushed into the playroom, only to return moments later with a notepad and a pencil, before vanishing into the garden. Grateful he was out of the way, Catherine placed George inside a play area in the house, gathered her buckets and went to the well. Josephine trailed on behind.

  Ignoring her presence, she lifted the stone blocks from the surface and levered the water to ground level. Her head was ringing with Jack’s betrayal. He had turned his family against her; he had appeared the perfect son. Did they know about the other child? Had she been alone in her ignorance?

  She stomped towards the house and the water sloshed inside the buckets, spilling onto the ground leaving a trail. How could he do such a thing? Had he no pride? If he had cared about her at all, he would have told her about his son years before, and not allowed her to find out the way she had. But he did not care, nor did he love her. That much was evident.

  She emptied the water into the tub and returned to the well, to where Josephine perched, peering down the drop with dangling legs. Oblivious to the danger and with her head pounding with the horrifying news, Catherine lowered the bucket to retrieve more water and wondered what she had done to deserve such a deceitful, nasty husband. Had she not always been the obedient wife? She had never shamed him, never done anything to deliberately anger him, and despite disagreeing with his decision to be without a housemaid, she had not complained excessively and worked until her hands were bleeding and raw. Perhaps that was her failing; perhaps she should have made more of a fuss.

  Josephine screamed and stumbled forwards. In a flash, Catherine lunged towards her and caught hold of her by her clothing. There was little to grip and the material slithered between her fingers. She needed more strength, a surge of energy. She needed assistance.

  Josephine was dangling and growing heavier and there was a wild look in her eyes. Blood gushed to Catherine’s face and her heart hammered. She fought for a better grasp. She leaned over the edge of the well and strained. Josephine was slipping, inch by tiny inch, and her scream was piercing the air.

  Catherine’s arms and shoulders bulged with the pain. She had nothing left to give, could hold on no more, and her agony echoed across the landscape.

  Josephine fell to her death.

  ‘You pushed her,’ a voice said.

  Through the haze, she caught sight of a figure. It was Jack. He asked if it was punishment.

  Chapter 26

  Present Day

  Mesmerised, Michaela gazed at the drawing of the well. Wanting to confirm her suspicion that she was looking at proof of Catherine’s innocence, she picked it up and hurried outside to the well. Once there, she stared at the image and tried to determine where Arthur had been when he had drawn his picture. She shuffled to her left and stood in front of a large bush. The house was in the background and the well in the foreground, exactly as it had been for Arthur. Crouching down to the grass, a moment of sadness overwhelmed.

  According to writings, it was a horrendous act of murder; Catherine had pushed Josephine into the well in a moment of madness, and Jack had been a witness. There was nothing about Arthur being there. What a horrid thing to have seen. Had Arthur ever come to terms with suc
h an atrocity? Had he even told anyone?

  She scrutinised the drawing and the labels that Arthur had attached to each person in the scene. Catherine was removing water from the well, Josephine perched on the side, and Jack stood a little further away hiding in the shadows. Yet Jack had said via newspaper reports that he had arrived as Catherine pushed their daughter, adding that he had no chance of saving her. If that were true, why had Arthur drawn him standing there? Didn’t that mean that he had been there a while and that he would have been able to save his little girl?

  Michaela dropped to the dry grass and gazed at the scene, and a thought dawned. If Catherine had known Jack was there, she would have asked for his assistance. Given the reports, it seemed clear that she believed she was alone.

  Alternatively, had Jack pushed Josephine into the well?

  Each scenario was shocking and disturbing, and she held a hand to her mouth, fighting back her tears and frustrations. She couldn’t turn back the clock, and she may never ascertain the truth. Maybe it had been a horrible accident, or maybe Jack had been guilty, but either way Catherine had been innocent and would have never pushed her daughter. Catherine’s plea for help written on the barn wall was proof of her desperation, as was her letter.

  With the drawing tight between her fingers, she headed back to the house. Something occupied Sam by the barn, and it caused her steps to falter. Fearing he would respond negatively and tell her of her foolishness or naivety, she hurried past and returned indoors.

  Without Sam to share her find, Michaela had spent the entire night pondering her discovery and awoke exhausted and tetchy. She had tried to progress with her day, but her fatigue had developed into a migraine forcing her to return to bed. Laid still, the light pressed onto her eyelids adding to the sharp jabs progressing across face and neck, and her heartbeat was rapid and sickness rose to her mouth. Barraged by irrepressible pain, she tried to project a calm image into her mind. She couldn’t, and the throbbing remained.