by Dawson, H A
Why had he not contacted the police? Why had he not sent her away? She looked through the window and visualised the approaching constabulary. They would grab her by her arms and guide her away. Arthur would be a witness. Shame would be his only emotion.
Jack edged closer. There was sadness in his eyes. She looked away and edged backward as his imaginary accusations streamed through her mind. She yearned to be able to form a defence and justify her actions. Her pathetic apologies refused to come forth.
He spoke in a subdued tone. ‘Come here.’
She edged a little closer and he placed his arms around her rigid body, and bit-by-bit her statuesque body softened. His musky odour wafted into her, lessening the pain that was a constant battering as she nestled her head into his shoulder, consoling herself with his warm tender touch.
‘Everything will be all right,’ he said
Her forehead creased. What did he mean? Was he talking about the time after her arrest, or was he implying he would keep her secret? Would he continue to fight for her once the truth was exposed? Questions dripped from her mind, but none could escape from her mouth, and she stared at him, helpless.
‘I will do whatever it takes to help you.’
‘Have you . . .’ Her words were lost. She was going to ask if he had reported her to the police and looked through the window overlooking the lane searching for their arrival. There was no one there. She gave him a frantic look and shook her head.
‘I do love you, Catherine. I am sorry.’
It sounded as if he spoke of his guilt. Fearing his actions, she weaved past and rushed down the steps, and wondered if someone had already arrived to take her away. She could hear nothing and scanned each room. There was still no one there.
Arthur lifted his head from his notebook and peered at her with a perplexed look. She could see the anxiety carved into his face, yet he did not speak and slipped a little lower down the chair, his notebook pressing into his chest.
His curiosity grew. ‘What are you doing?’
He shook his head.
‘Arthur?’
‘I am drawing.’
‘Can I have a look?’
The whites of his eyes grew more vivid as he clutched his work. Resisting his attempts at secrecy, she prised the notebook away. The picture was of a tree. She looked at him with confusion and then began flicking through the other sheets. He would not look at her and fiddled with the hem of his tunic. She stopped at an image of the well.
Her heart hammered. He had seen everything, witnessed the atrocity. How could he even look her in the eye? Her shame, already indescribable, was now even worse. Should she tear it up, burn it on the fire? She may be able to keep her husband quiet, but she could never stop an innocent comment from slipping from her child’s mouth.
Heavy footsteps moving in the upstairs room alerted her. She pushed the notebook into his hands and leaned to his ear. ‘Keep it safe. Do not let anyone see it.’
The boy nodded. She rushed into the kitchen and scanned the clean surfaces and gleaming sink, and rested her hands on the scratched surface. Her breathing rate was intense. She told herself to calm down, reminded herself that Jack loved her and that her crime was their secret. She may still have time to amend her ways.
Thoughts of her diary, strewn on the bedroom floor, caused her to jerk. Jack would be looking at it, searching for her admission of guilt. He may even tear out the pages and keep the evidence of her crimes. She spun around and darted to the staircase where she collided with Jack. Mumbling her apology and noticing the regret in his expression, she stumbled up the stairs.
It was exactly where she had left it. Sighing, she lifted it from the floor, pressed it to her abdomen, and looked for a place for safe keeping. No one must see it. If she was going to make a new start, she must start with an empty book.
The room had few secretive spots. The drawers and cupboards were accessed frequently and the space under the bed too obvious. She looked through the window at the darkening sky and rustling trees and shrubs, and she gazed at thick tussocks interspersed across the grassy landscape. An idea struck her: she would bury it.
Catherine found an almost-empty tin in a cupboard. She removed the contents, placed her diary inside, and placed it under the bed ready to bury it at first light. Then she proceeded to her desk, her mind whirring, a plan forming in her thoughts. Just to be certain, she reached to the last letter she’d received from Amelia and scanned the contents.
Her sister had spoken of the pleasures of married life, but there was a sad undertone. Each day she prayed for a child, and whilst she knew Catherine’s losses were massive, the joys of motherhood were a too greater joy for her to dismiss. How she wished that money could buy her a child, but it was not to be. The sad fact remained; Amelia was barren.
Catherine reached for a clean sheet of paper and started writing. The words spilled from her tongue; she thought of her innocence, the safety of her children, and the evil that had become part of her life, and she concluded that Arthur and George would be safe with Amelia. Pensive, and fearing about Jack’s response, she stared at the ink and watched it dry.
‘Catherine.’
Hastily, she placed the letter into a folder containing house documents and turned around to face Jack.
‘I am donating some money to a charity tomorrow. I will be meeting with a group of people from the village. I want you and the children to be there. Dress in your finest clothes. There will be people from the newspaper.’
‘But I am in mourning. I only wear black.’
‘So wear your finest black outfit.’
He turned and walked away. She was not ready to see anyone and wanted to remain indoors. People would make unkind remarks about her role as mother and they would blame her for her losses. Searching for an excuse, she perched herself on the edge of a chair and rocked back and forth.
No solution came, and whilst she complained to Jack about her lack of time available to her, it proved without worth and they started away from the house, striding along a familiar track. The grass was tall with vigorous growth and there were few trodden patches. To make it worse, there had been a recent downpour, and the grasses drooped towards her, splashing her skirt and soaking her ankle boots.
She resisted her desire to complain about what she perceived to be an unnecessary journey, and trudged along, remaining a few steps to Jack’s rear. Unappreciative of Jack’s reasoning for the family outing, she questioned his motives. He could have gone alone. Why did he want his wife, the murderer, with him? Everyone would be participating in unkind whisperings. Why was he so unaware? Someone may even ask for an explanation. Would she blurt out the truth or would her sobbing choke her tongue?
She sighted a man and a woman on another path across the field, staring and talking. Catherine’s head sank closer to her shoulders and her eyes dipped. Wanting to vanish, she manoeuvred herself into Jack’s shadow and watched him raise his arm and wave. Desperate to maintain an enforced segregation from the strangers, she resisted flinging herself towards him to change his mind; instead, she prayed the ground would swallow her up.
The convergence of their paths was imminent and her steps slowed, her mind searching for an escape. She wanted to run; she wanted to be in the privacy of her home. Unable to tolerate the meeting and suffering rising panic, she halted her steps.
Jack turned to face her, passing her an enquiring look. Wide-eyed and voiceless, her hands gripped the pram and her arms tightened. Her breaths were shallow and fast and her mouth was dry as she stared at the couple, advancing towards them. Sensing their castigation, she faced Jack and whimpering her need to go home.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You will walk with me.’
‘Who . . . who are they?’
‘They are from the next village, and they are attending the presentation.’
‘Do they know of our loss?’
Thoughtfully, he looked towards them. ‘I have no idea. Why do you ask?’
She sta
red, too anxious to respond.
‘Do not worry, I will protect you.’
Blood drained from her face. She gulped away her terror.
‘We have to keep moving. Are you ready to go on?’
Catherine nodded, and drawing strength from her innate obedience, she pushed the pram forwards, as they passed the site of the fête her gut churned as the feelings of anger, wretchedness, and vulnerability resurfaced. Determined not to think about it, wanting to retain a small sense of self-respect at Jack’s function, as soon as they approached their destination, she banished it from her mind the best she could.
Succumbing to her deepening anxieties, fighting her leaden legs, she stepped towards the building. It was difficult to drive herself towards the gathering folks, and she searched for strength and reassurance from her husband. He seemed unaffected by recent events and strode with his head held high, his shoulders back, and with calmness in his expression. Did he not care that they all knew of her wickedness? How could he be so impervious?
Disregarding his strangeness, she strode alongside him and into the grounds, keeping her head low and her thoughts guarded. When she saw the piercing stares, and noted the whispering and pointing, a lump formed in her throat. Trying to remain inconspicuous, she edged to her husband’s rear stepping from view.
A group of official looking men approached, and for a second, she feared they were going to arrest her, and her pulse raced, shaking her body. She could not move, could not make eye contact, and urged them away. When she heard them greet Jack with adoration, her release of tension almost caused her to sing out her joy. Buttoning her mouth and holding back a grin, she watched as her husband soaked up the kind compliments and introduced his family.
Her newfound confidence was temporary. As soon as Jack stepped away leaving Catherine alone with Arthur and George, her nervousness returned. She looked to the crowd, searching for a familiar face and craving the comfort of someone from her family. Two large women with wrinkled faces and rounded waists caught her attention.
‘She has just lost a child,’ the grey-haired woman said.
How so?’
‘She fell down a well.’
‘That is a bit careless,’ the other woman replied.
The grey-haired woman placed her hand in front of her mouth and whispered something to her companion whilst continuing to look at Catherine. Catherine strained her ears to listen, but the words were lost amongst the low rumble of voices. Anxious, her skin rippled and her adrenaline surged. She looked towards Jack, who was now moving into the building, and she turned to Arthur.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we will wait for your father over there.’
She strode away from the crowd, progressing across the lawn and towards a small stream. It wasn’t fast or deep, but it carried an element of danger, and given recent events, added to her low mood, she couldn’t take a risk and turned back around.
Arthur did not move and looked at the scene with excited eyes.
‘Can I have a look down there please?’ Arthur asked. ‘We will be careful.’
She glanced at the building, searching for Jack. ‘No Arthur.’
‘Please.’
She looked at his doleful eyes, and then to George who was already prising himself from the pram.
‘Do not go any further than that shrub over there.’
Agreeing, he scampered away. To be certain they did as instructed, she kept them in her sight. As promised, they stopped at the shrub, plucked leaves from the tree, and chatted and pointed to the white water bubbling over the rounded stones.
The sound of gossiping voices caught her attention. Unwillingly, she looked at the expanding group encroaching ever closer and clenched her jaw.
‘It could not have been an accident,’ one woman said. ‘She obviously had no control.’
‘It is a disgrace,’ said another.
Her shame intensified. She looked through the windows of the building, pleading in silence for Jack to return and searching for a glimpse of the group. Every second was tense, every second adding to her anxiety.
‘Who is she?’ someone asked.
Jack Cooper’s wife.’
She glimpsed at the window and gawped. The poor man.’
Catherine tried to block out the comments, but the more effort she put in, the more she felt suffocated. Everyone appeared to be staring at her; all fingers appeared to be wagging in her direction.
A scream resonated. Her head jerked and she searched for the boys. Arthur’s anxious whitened face peered from the shrub next to the stream. He cried out to her. Catherine ran towards the gushing water.
Her heart was pounding. Another accident. Another death. She could not breathe. She could not move fast enough.
George was thrashing face down in the water. Small waves rose and fell, soaking his body and saturating his head. She stepped down the slippery embankment and yanked him free. Water spluttered from his mouth. He whimpered. She held him to her chest and turned to face the crowd.
All eyes were upon her. All of their comments about Josephine rang inside her head: echoing, pounding, and piercing her gut. She thought of Josephine’s death, then Albert’s, Marie’s, and Edward’s. Jack’s voice sounded, over and over, ‘you pushed her; you killed her.’ She raised her hand to her mouth. Her throat tightened. She could not breathe.
She was an unfit mother. Jack had said it. His mother had said it. The villagers said it. It had to be true.
Catherine raced to the first woman and thrust her wet son into her arms. ‘Take him. I cannot look after him anymore.’
She rushed to Arthur and dragged him towards the group. Then she seized hold of a woman’s wrist and pressed her son's hand into hers. ‘He is yours.’
‘What is going in?’ Jack said.
Her eyes flitted between Jack and the men, who were exiting the building in a group. Their presence was overpowering, and she looked left and right, searching for an escape. All eyes bore into her.
‘I did it. I killed her . . . I killed them all,’ she yelled.
The words were coarse and unfamiliar. She weaved through the crowd, frantically pushing away human obstructions and headed to the gate.
‘Catherine, Stop!’
She ignored Jack’s call and ran. Her steps pounded the grass. Her eyes were misty, her lungs burned, and salty droplets of water carried in the sea air roughening her throat. Gasping for breath, she stood at the sea's edge. Waves crashed onto the rock beneath her feet. It was a desolate scene. It was the site of her destiny.
Chapter 29
Present Day
There was rapid movement on the bed, tiny steps, bouncing, leaping, and spinning. Michaela’s eyes were shut and her head thick with sleep, but she smiled, a broad appreciative smile. She knew it was Bloomer; it had become his latest daily ritual.
She turned onto her back, away from the bulge that was Sam’s body, and watched the little cat. He chased his tail near the edge of the bed, caught the black tip before it moved away, and repeated his efforts. Then there was a thud. He had fallen onto the floor, causing a chuckle to escape her lips.
Unperturbed, Bloomer leaped back onto the mattress and strode towards her, his back straight, his tail erect, and when they made eye contact, he released a happy meow. His desires were clear to see, and so long as she looked to his one good eye, there was no indication of his suffering, no sign of his tormented life in the wild.
She freed her arm from a tangle of covers and reached to his soft fur. He rubbed himself into her, urgently and passionately, and started his engine, purring with rhythm and excitement. Soothed by his carefree sounds, her eyes closed, and soon, he nestled into her and kneaded her tender skin with the piercing tips of his claws. Gritting her teeth, she blanked out the pain, grateful for the joy he brought. Hence, she slipped into a relaxed state.
Bloomer coughed, arousing her from her nap. Michaela reached to his head and fingered his ears, offering a soothing hand. As he pressed into her, absorbing
her touch, her fingers travelled to his neck. There she found two small lumps.
Dryness rose in her throat and her adrenaline surged. There was one at either side of his throat and they were hard and round. She didn’t know what they were, and before she had a chance to reach a conclusion, he shifted positions, rolling from his stomach to his back and causing them to disappear. Yet her worry remained. After a few minutes of contemplation, she reminded herself of his tail-chasing activity and blissful demeanor, decided they weren’t a concern, and closed her eyes and slipped into a calming sleep.
The leisurely morning Michaela was enjoying was not destined to last. Her mother was arriving within the hour to pick apples, and as she prepared a sandwich, she could feel herself tense. Keen not to let her imminent arrival ruin her remaining time, she placed the sandwiches onto two separate plates and carried them along the hallway into their living space, passing Bloomer on route. Smiling at her delightful cat, she passed Sam his food then sat near to the door and began to eat. She had only taken a couple of bites when Bloomer wandered into the room, sniffing the air.
Several days passed since she discovered his lumps, and whilst she was curious, she wasn’t concerned. They had not grown and did not appear to be bothering him. He had a healthy appetite and boundless energy, and bolted around the house, leaping between the furniture and charging up the curtains. If he had appeared distressed, she would have acted; as it was, she saw no need.
A meow signalled a need. She turned her head and saw him standing by the outside door asking to go out. Giving in to his wish, she rested her plate on the sofa and let him free. After prancing across the concrete, he settled on the grass and started to wash. His behaviour was different to his first trip back into the outside world.