by Dawson, H A
‘What about getting dressed, or having a shower?’
‘I’ll dress in bed and get an electric heater for the bathroom. It won’t be that bad.’
‘Have you an idea what it’s like living in a house that’s that cold? You’ll have to wear at least two jumpers.’
Silence.
‘Boy, you’re in for a surprise. You’ll have to put your coat and hat on just to move between the rooms. Even your breath will freeze! You won’t be able to see each other.’
‘It’ll be an experience . . . a challenge.’
There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘I’ve heard we’re having an exceptionally cold winter this year.’
‘Bring it on.’
Sam’s gaze had met with Harry’s and a knowing glance had passed between them. They were thinking her naïve, but she did not change her mind. Later, after Harry had departed, Sam had tried to discuss his fears with her, but she had dismissed him with a blasé remark, unwilling to listen. Maybe if she had, she would have been better prepared for living in such beastly conditions.
The outer door opened and Sam peered into the room. ‘You’ll never guess what. Grace is your cousin.’
‘What?’
‘Mary just told me. She’s Jim’s daughter.’
‘Why did Grace never say anything?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t know who I am.’
His eyes flitted. ‘She does. I let it slip . . . but she knew anyway.’
‘You’d have thought she would have told me.’
Michaela was pensive. What a strange way to behave. She obviously couldn’t be trusted.
‘It explains why she’s defended Jim,’ he said.
And how she knows my mother.’ She folded her arms and leaned back on the chair. ‘I told you they were keeping things from me. You never believed me, Sam.’
‘Please let’s not argue. By the way, Mary has invited us over. She has those photos for us. I said we would pop around in about an hour.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Please Michaela. She was keen to see us, and it’ll be good to have a break.’
Her scowl stretched across her forehead and her lips pouted.
‘I suspect she knows more about the Cooper family than she lets on. We might even find out a bit more about Catherine . . . or Grace and Jim.’
She looked through the window, pensive. She had wanted something to occupy her restless mind, and even though she didn’t feel up to socialising, it was only Mary; hence, she agreed to his suggestion.
Michaela knocked on the wooden door of the terraced house and huddled her arms closer to her body. The mist was drawing in and there was a freshening breeze. Shuddering, she glanced at the blooming pot plants situated next to the house and compared them to her pathetic attempts. Her inability to tend to hers properly was a depressing thought.
Seconds later, Mary opened the door and guided Michaela and Sam to the sitting room and then departed to make drinks. There was clutter everywhere; photographs and paintings were upon almost every square metre of wall, ornaments, and trinkets packed onto the surface of a glossy sideboard, and cacti and succulents filled the window ledge.
Mary carried the drinks in on a silver tray and placed them on a coffee table, pushing aside a television guide, magazines, and newspapers.
‘I’ve been a bit rushed,’ she said, ‘my neighbour popped around so I haven’t extracted those photographs for you.’
‘That’s okay,’ she replied, ‘pass them on another day.’
‘No, my love, that’s not what I meant. I have the box handy. I’ll just sift through them now for you. They shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’m not sure what they’ll show you. I doubt your house has changed much.’
Probably not.’
‘After Jim and Audrey left, it pretty much went to ruin. He used it as a dumping ground. Lord knows why, but he used to enjoy fiddling with the insides of televisions and such like, so everyone would pass them on to him.’
Michaela glimpsed at Sam. ‘We wondered where all the junk came from.’
‘Audrey wouldn’t have a bar of it, as you’d expect, so it happened after they split.’
‘Grace told us that Jim used to hallucinate,’ Sam said.
‘He did that. He was always a bit strange that way, but it seemed to be worse in his younger days. I think he must have learned to manage it.’
‘Any idea what caused it?’
Mary was pensive and her eyes drifted between them. ‘He said it was the house . . . the curse.’
Michaela reached to her necklace and fiddled with the chain. The curse didn’t exist. Why was everyone so willing to believe such rubbish?
‘That was the reason he didn’t leave the house to his kids. He didn’t want them to suffer,’ she continued.
‘How did Grace feel about that?’
‘I don’t know my love, but she didn’t go without. He gave her another property.’
Was Grace jealous of Michaela? Was that why she displayed an obvious dislike? It made sense. Even if she had not wanted the property for her own purposes, she could have sold it and made quite a bit of money. It confirmed her belief that she was responsible for the multiple warnings.
‘Didn’t you say that Jim wasn’t on speaking terms with his kids?’ Sam asked.
‘Dylan had been out of contact with Jim for years, that much is true. Grace made amends, but they still had a strained relationship. I think a lot was left unsaid.’
‘You seem to know a lot about them.’
Mary hesitated. ‘I have been around a long time . . . it’s a small village. There are no secrets here. Anyhow, he loved those kids, despite the bad feeling. That’s why he left the house to you, to get it out of the way since it was bad news. I suspect there may have been other reasons too.’
‘Like what?’ Michaela asked.
‘I don’t know, I’m just rambling. I’ll get the box of photos.’
She levered herself from her chair and hobbled out of the room. Michaela leaned forward and spoke to Sam in a low voice. ‘What do you think she meant?’
‘I’ve no idea. I think she knows about your relationship with Jim though.’
‘Like she said, there are no secrets in this village.’
Mary returned with the box, dropped them onto the sofa next to Michaela, and sat alongside. Her breathing laboured.
‘Is your chest still giving you trouble?’
‘It is a bit. I’ve given up with the fitness classes. I’m finding it a bit too hard.’
‘It’ll get easier.’
‘So I’m told, but I’m too busy doing other things. I have coffee mornings to attend.’
Mary removed the lid. Inside were a few envelopes, and alongside, in total disarray, hundreds of photographs. Some were black and white; others were colour. She removed the first envelope, peeked inside, and placed it on the edge of the table. Her gaze wandered to the fireplace. For a moment, she held a pensive stare then glanced to Michaela. ‘Jim was nothing like Arthur.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think madness skipped a generation.’
Michaela could feel Sam’s eyes bore into her and colour flushed her cheeks. She resisted looking at him.
‘Jack was loopy and in an institute for a while,’ Mary continued, ‘but it was all because of Catherine. She caused his breakdown. When he was sick, she didn’t look after him as you would expect from a good wife, she let him be. She was a frosty woman.’
‘Maybe she was misunderstood.’
‘People used to joke that she could freeze fire.’
‘Was she that bad?’ Sam asked.
‘She was. I think if she had had her way, she would have finished him off as well as the kids. Rumour has it, she tried.’
‘Michaela said she saw him vomit in one of her visions.’
Her head jerked and her eyes widened. How could he share such a thing?
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‘Well, that proves it,’ she said, ‘so she did try to poison him.’ A smile crept across her face.
‘No she didn’t! He was just ill . . . caught a bug.’
‘Michaela,’ he said in a soft tone, ‘Edward was poisoned, and Jack was ill at the same time. It makes sense.’
‘No Sam, it doesn’t’
‘Well, I guess we’ll never know,’ Mary said.
Michaela gritted her teeth. Catherine was the victim, not Jack. How could they both be so naïve?
She continued to simmer whilst Mary fingered through the box of photographs. What did Mary know anyway? Just because she was older and from the village didn’t mean she was any more likely to know the truth. In fact, it was more likely that she would have heard rumours. She should be keeping the tittle-tattle to herself. She was supposed to be a friend.
‘These photos bring back memories,’ Mary said. ‘See this . . . these are my parents, Eric and Lillian. They’re both gone now.’
She placed an assortment of black and white images on the table and picked up another envelope. She peered inside. ‘Holiday snaps. Those were the days.’
Michaela perused inside the box, her eyes searching for familiar sights, but at the same time, she was growing bored. The photographs of the house were not going to provide her with any clues into Catherine’s plight and she wanted to go home.
Being sociable was a strain. She wanted solitude and thought of Bloomer and his desperation to show his love and appreciation, and her irritation dissolved a little. She imagined his high-pitched meow and visualised his happy smiling face and silky fur. He would be curled up and purring; he would be a picture of contentment.
An old photograph caught her gaze. She was certain it was Jack and he was alongside Mary’s parents. She moved her hand towards it, but Mary was there first and pushed the photograph underneath the others.
‘That was Jack,’ she said.
She looked uneasy.
‘It was a wedding photograph. Can I have a look?’
She surrendering to her forceful stare and plucked out the image with her fingertips.
‘He’s with the wedding party. They’re your parent’s.’
Her lips pressed tight. Sam leaned across for a look and gave her an enquiring glance.
‘He knew them,’ Mary said, ‘it was a small community. Despite his problems, he was a well-respected man.’
‘But this is a family picture.’
She bit her lip and floated her eyes. ‘Jack had a child by another woman. It wasn’t common knowledge . . . at least it wasn’t at the time.’
She was aghast. ‘Whilst he was married to Catherine?’
‘I suppose it was.’
Poor woman.’
‘Monica?’
No, not his bit on the side! I was talking about Catherine. No wonder she was frosty towards Jack.’
She shook her head. ‘Catherine did far worse. I’m surprised he never divorced her. He would have got the children in those days.’
‘He should have divorced her. Catherine would have had a happier life alone.’
Mary dropped the photograph onto her lap, grasped Michaela’s wrist and glared. ‘You have to stop all this nonsense about Catherine. You’re wrong about her.’
She eased free her arm. ‘I am going to prove her innocence.’
‘No, you never will. Heed the warning. There are so many stories I could tell you about how wicked she was. Monica saved him. He never had mental problems when he was with her.’
Michaela gritted her teeth and looked away. It was obvious they would never agree, and it wasn’t worth the effort.
‘Jack was such a good man,’ she continued, ‘don’t destroy his memories. You’ll upset a lot of people.’
There was venom in her eyes; it was something she had not seen before, and it caused her to shudder.
‘No more needs to be said. Now let’s bury our differences and move on. You’re a good lass. I know you’ll so the right thing. Now my love, here are the photographs.’
Michaela removed them from the envelope and flicked through the images, but her mind remained on Jack and Catherine’s life and the news of his adultery. Having a child with another woman was more than she had anticipated, and she could not recall any suggestion of it in Amelia’s novel. She either had not known about it or had felt too ashamed to mention it in her book.
‘You have a fantastic house,’ Mary said.
She thought of the chaos, the brick, dust and the unclean living conditions, and experienced a sense of shame. Not willing to relent, she told her she should come around when more of it was complete.
Mary agreed.
‘I will introduce you to my cat, Bloomer. He was a scraggy stray, but no more. It took us ages for me to coax him inside. He’s adorable; the best cat you will ever meet. I love him to bits.’
She smiled wryly.
‘We had to feed him outside for weeks, and then, once he was brave enough to enter the house, he lived under the floorboards. It’s only in the last few days that he has decided he likes being touched.’
‘I am not a big fan of cats.’
‘You’d like him. He’s sweet, and clean too. He’ll always use his tray, even if I haven’t emptied it, and will pile up his poop and the litter like bangers and mash.’
Mary chuckled.
‘In fact, when I clean it out, he will play in the litter. He thinks it’s a sandpit.’
‘Then I look forward to meeting him.’
‘You’ll love him. He keeps me sane.’
After a little while longer making general conversation, Michaela and Sam departed. She placed the photographs into the side pocket of the car and fastened her seatbelt.
‘Aren’t you going to look at them?’ he asked.
‘Later. They don’t seem that interesting.’
He switched on the car lights and manoeuvred the car around. A car passed them on the other side, heading towards the sea front. It seemed a little dismal for anyone to be taking a walk and it caused her to wonder about the motives of the occupants. Unable to come to a sensible conclusion, her thoughts drifted back to their conversation with Mary.
‘Oh my God!’ she cried.
‘What is it?’
‘How could we have been so stupid? Mary’s father was Jack’s illegitimate child. Jack was her grandfather!’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘The article at the library said two of Catherine’s children survived. I have a photo of Jack with three boys, taken after Catherine’s death. One of them had to have been Eric, Mary’s father.’
‘No wonder she sides with Jack and opposes Catherine.’
Exactly! It makes perfect sense.’
Chapter 28
1912
Catherine had spent the last few weeks in a trance-like state, fumbling through her chores, completing only the bare necessity. The house lacked the usual sheen, the clothes held stubborn stains, and the food was improperly cooked. Jack did not complain and seemed as stunned as she was by the recent turn of events.
Conversations had been an unnecessary use of energy, and most of the time they spent their evenings in silence, often finding separate parts of the house to occupy. It was an essential move, as neither of them could look into the other’s eye. Exchanged words were mumbled, but even that was an effort for Catherine; she despised the sound of her own voice and would rather remain quiet and in isolation.
Occasionally, Jack looked at her with contempt. She knew it was all she could expect and her self-hatred ruled. He would turn away and absorb himself in a newspaper or book, and his words, spoken at the scene of Josephine’s death, would continue to rattle inside of her head.
She had gone through the incident so many times that her thoughts were forever impressed into her mind. Yet despite the relentless self-induced torture, she could not reach a definitive conclusion as to the actual cause of her daughter’s death. Had Josephine suffered a terrible accident, or had she,
as Jack had insisted, pushed her? The truth would not come and it was exasperating.
Catherine heaved a heavy breath and tried to push aside an insidious thought. If she had been innocent, wouldn’t the scene have had clarity? The visions in her mind were far from obvious, and to her regret, she could imagine herself, in her anger, stepping to one side and placing the palms of her hands onto her daughter’s back. Maybe she was evil, just as Jack had suggested.
With panic clutching her throat, she searched for reassurance and flicked through her diary looking at her recordings of the previous deaths. Other women lost children, although not as many as she had, especially in such circumstances. She could have done more for Edward. It was definitely so for Marie, and maybe for Albert too. As far as Albert was concerned, she feared she had unwittingly caused damage in her desperate attempt to cause an abortion. Alternatively, had Jack been right in that he had died while she was experiencing a moment of fury? She couldn’t remember doing anything to hurt him, but Jack had been adamant.
Yet the words within the diary said otherwise. She flicked through the pages and gazed at the text. Half of the time, she didn’t seem to know what she was doing, and if she needed examples, she needed to look no further than to Albert and Josephine. Was it possible that she had skipped over the details that she had preferred not to see?
Blood rushed to her skin and she began to tremble, causing her diary to drop out of her hand, onto her lap, and slither down her skirt and crash to the floor. She was a horrid person, unworthy of motherhood, unworthy of happiness. Her heart hammered and moisture bubbled in her eyes. Why had she done it? Was she, as Jack had said, trying to punish him for his behaviour with the dark-haired woman? She paced the floor with her finger locked between her teeth and released an elongated moan.
Jack had told her all along of her toxic behaviour, and she refused to listen. Why had she not sought help? If she had, Marie, Albert, and Josephine would be alive. They would be the proud family she had always dreamed of, the perfect family unit. Tears wet her cheeks.
The door creaked open. Out of her eye corner, she saw Jack and stayed motionless, unsure of how to react. She wanted to scream and pummel his chest, she wanted the sensation of his arms around her body and his tender lips on her cheek, and she wanted privacy and solitude. She loved him and she hated him. He was to blame for her rage, yet at the same time, he was innocent. She was the guilty party; she was the murderer.