Dark Places

by Dawson, H A

  For the first few weeks in their care, he had never approached the door and stayed away from the fresh floral-scented air. She assumed that the outdoors was an instinctual reminder of his starvation, and whilst he had insufficient confidence to return there, it remained a lure. Sitting on the landing window ledge, he stared at the scene, following the birds in the trees and the rabbits in the meadowland. His tail swished back and forth, and he released squawk-like meows. Yet still, his courage lacked.

  Eventually, the day came when he approached the door and sniffed the air. He even managed to step over the threshold, but after a couple of seconds, he decided it was a step too far and retreated indoors. She decided that everything must be a reminder of his dreadful past - the vast open space, the bush he had slept under, the food he had yearned for – and she wanted to reassure him. Speaking softly, she crouched down outside and encouraged him towards her. It must have helped, as within moments he dashed to a bush.

  She didn’t see him for the rest of the day, nor at the end of the day when he should have returned for his meal. Anxious, she wandered up and down their plot of land, calling out his name. She never sighted him and he did not return. Heavy-hearted, she returned indoors.

  It took two more days for him to reappear, and he acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. She hoped this excursion would be different.

  She turned to Sam. ‘I hope he comes back sooner this time.’

  ‘You have to stop all this worrying. He’ll be fine. He’s got over what bothered him.’

  She looked towards her empty plate. ‘I just care about him, that’s all.’

  ‘He’s a cat. He has a lot of exploring to do.’

  ‘I know. It’s just . . .’ her voice trailed. She caught a glimpse of Sam’s disapproval, and awaiting his rebuke, replayed her whining voice in her mind. ‘I’m such a worrywart. I don’t know how you cope with me.’

  ‘Neither do I.’ Carrying his plate and mug, he walked across the room. At the doorway, he turned and winked.

  She was considering her reply when the sound of a vehicle arriving on the drive caught her attention. It would be her mother; her punctuality was irksome. It would have been nice if just for once her mother arrived late. Despondent, she strode into the kitchen, placed her plate into the sink, and passing time, tidied away a few stray objects.

  ‘Your mother’s here,’ Sam said, poking his head into the room. ‘If you want me I’ll be pruning the hedge I started the other week.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to chat to her whilst I do the hedge?’

  He grinned. ‘I’m sure.’

  As she wiped the surface, she listened to their exchange. She had hoped their conversation would last so she could gain a few more moments of tranquillity. It didn’t, and almost immediately, he announced his departure and disappeared outside. Forced to engage in conversation, Michaela turned around about to speak. Her mother was scrutinising a partially decorated room with a critical eye.

  ‘I thought you’d have had this room completed by now,’ she said.

  Michaela stiffened. ‘We’ve been busy.’

  ‘Doing what? Do you like living in this mess?’

  Not wanting to allow her to continue her inspection, she stepped outside and sank onto a chair at the makeshift patio. ‘We’re doing the best we can.’

  ‘You should hire more help.’

  ‘Why? We’re doing fine as we are.’

  ‘Michaela, you’re delusional. You can’t invite anyone around to a house like this, it’s embarrassing.’

  Her mother was right, but she would not agree. ‘It’s not embarrassing - it’s in a state of renovation.’

  ‘I did say it was a bad idea you taking on this house. You should listen more and act less. You’re far too impulsive.’

  ‘I like living here.’

  Oh darling, surely not.’

  Her eyes narrowed. Simmering, she watched as her mother looked at every nook and cranny in the exterior house wall. It seemed as though she was searching for flaws, but rather than seeing her behaviour as one of her normal characteristics, she wondered if her reasoning was deeper rooted.

  ‘Why do you hate me living here so much?’ she asked.

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  She hesitated, pensive. ‘The offer is still open if you want to stay with me for a while.’

  ‘Mum . . . no.’

  ‘Be a little gracious. You’re exasperating and I am only trying to help you.’

  ‘No, you’re trying to interfere.’

  ‘Now why would I do that?’

  Choosing not to reply, she held a stiff pose.

  ‘It’s a good job I never had any more children. I couldn’t cope with two of you.’

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’

  She averted her gaze.

  ‘Why didn’t you have any more children, anyway?’

  Her reply was meek. ‘We couldn’t have any.’

  ‘But you had me.’

  ‘Yes, I had you. That’s enough for anyone. Please don’t pester me.’

  Judith’s fingers rested on her cheeks and there was anxiety in her eyes. She was definitely hiding something. Perhaps she had lost a child at birth, or perhaps she had struggled to get pregnant.

  She decided to ask. ‘Did you lose a child here at Primrose cottage?’

  Her head spun, her jaw dropped, and her worry intensified. It took her a couple of seconds to gain her composure, and when she did, she told her to stop her interrogation.

  Michaela was about to voice a retort when Sam appeared from the drive, dropped the envelope of the photographs on the table, and asked her if she’d looked at them.

  She shook her head.

  ‘What are they?’ Judith asked.

  ‘Old photos of the house,’ she replied. ‘They’re not interesting. We got them from a woman in the village.’

  ‘I thought you might want a look.’ Sam said to Judith. ‘They might bring back memories.’

  ‘I don’t wish to bring back memories of this place.’

  He turned and walked away. Deciding to persist with the conversation, Michaela told her mother that the person who had passed them on was a descendent of Jack Cooper. ‘Her father was his illegitimate son,’ she said.

  ‘Are you talking about Mary White?’

  ‘You know her?’

  Her face was ashen. She spoke in a whisper. ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘She told me a bit about Catherine. Why?’

  Judith exhaled and her shoulders dropped. ‘She’s a gossip who cannot be trusted.’ She paused. ‘I do wish you would stop doing this. What do you think it will prove?’

  ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you unhappy Michaela, is that it?’

  Deciding it was unworthy of a response, she withheld her negative reply.

  ‘Then why? You risk upsetting many people with this fantasy of yours. Let it be.’

  ‘I’m not out to upset anyone.’

  ‘No, but you will if you carry on. Please do as I ask darling, just this once.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Now, I’m going to get a box for the apples from the car. Let’s not talk of this again.’

  Curious as to her behaviour, she watched her go. She wore a colourful printed skirt, a pastel top, and a thin woollen cardigan; her skirt wafted in the breeze, her gait was mechanical with short fast steps, and her head was low. As usual, her sunglasses rested upon her mid-brown hair.

  Michaela’s annoyances rang through her mind. Was it impossible for her mother to be nice, just for once? Why couldn’t they have a normal relationship, like the one her friends had? They could go shopping together or go to shows. She could lean on her in times of need, sharing her most private thoughts. Instead, she always felt guarded, and always had to be ready for the next attack. It was wrong, and feeling more agitated than normal, waited for her mother’s return.

  Judith appeared at the table
.

  ‘You should be supporting me,’ Michaela said, ‘isn’t that what mothers should do?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Everything – the house, my relationships with my neighbours, and Catherine. You’re always the antagonist.’

  ‘And you’re always sensitive. All I ask is one small thing, yet you’re determined to go against my wishes. Why is that?’

  ‘I could say the same.’

  After an indeterminable amount of time with neither backing down, her mother suggested they picked the apples. Whilst Michaela would have liked to gain a little support, the tension was wearing, and she stomped through the grasses and weeds and arrived at the trees.

  The branches were laden with apples of varying sizes, bending towards the ground and ready to drop. They were set in twos or threes with an unblemished shiny green-yellow skin unlike the ones of the ground that festered in the damp warmth. As she approached, she accidently kicked one aside, causing a wasp to emerge in a drunken stupor. Unconcerned, she looked through the leafy mass for the largest apples, extended her arm, and twisted one free.

  ‘I used to pick these apples for my mother many years ago,’ Judith said. ‘That’s how I met your father.’

  ‘How did she know the Coopers?’

  ‘Arthur invited all the villagers to pick what they wanted.’

  ‘That was nice of him.’

  ‘They’d only rot on the ground. It seemed such a waste.’

  ‘What was Dad like?’

  Judith’s eyes floated to the horizon. ‘It was love at first sight. He was a catch.’

  ‘Was he your first love?’

  ‘He was,’ she said, dreamy-eyed.

  Seeing her mother in such a state was amusing and pleasing. She rarely saw her softer side and it was appealing. It also proved they had created her in an act of love rather than because of a random lustful act, and it provided a moment of reassurance. Smiling softly to herself, whilst periodically passing her mother quick sideways glances, she continued her task.

  Even with ladders, the largest and most succulent apples were out of reach. Resorting to the next best, at least until she could purchase an apple picker, she stretched her arm as far as possible, balanced on her toes, and extended her fingers. She managed to poke a vivid green apple with her fingertip, but she could not grasp it, and it did not release. Beaten, she dropped her feet to the ground.

  A loud squeak alerted her. Her eyes darted towards the sound and her arms dropped to her side. It was coming from the pond, out of view. It occurred again, and this time the sound was more distinct. It was definitely a meow.

  ‘Bloomer sounds like he’s in trouble,’ she said.

  Disregarding her mother’s plea to ignore him, she rushed to gap in the hedge and scanned the pond. The sunlight glistened on the water, and all around the edge, the verdant pond life wafted in a light breeze. Whilst it was a picturesque scene, she couldn’t see her cat, and folded her arms and pleaded with him to call out. It took a few moments for him to respond, and when he did, she tracked him to a spindly branch overhanging the water. Then, to her horror, he started towards her, creeping along the narrowing branch.

  Driven to act, she hurried around the pond to the base of the tree and tried to encourage him back. He seemed to be responding and tried to turn. However, as he did so, the vibrations caused him to freeze and he released a scared meow. It was a desperate sound and he didn’t seem to know what to do. She called and called. He was motionless, rigid with terror and dropping closer to the water. When she looked down to the murky depths, she feared he was going to jump.

  The water did not look to be too deep. It would only take a few steps and she could reach him. She glanced at her feet and legs to check her attire. They would be sodden, but they were old, and it was only mucky water. Her foot made a squelching sound. A chill crept along her leg.

  ‘No Michaela.’

  She stopped and turned her head. Judith was a distance away peering from around a bush.

  ‘Leave him,’ she said. ‘He’s a cat for goodness sake.’

  ‘It’s only water.’

  She made tentative steps forward, searching for a secure place with each foot, and looking to the grass and shrubs a short distance away. It wasn’t too far to her cat; nonetheless, the further she progressed, the more unstable she became.

  ‘I need a long branch,’ she called out. ‘Can you find one?’

  She did not respond.

  Michaela dare not turn around, for fear of slipping. ‘Mum?’

  ‘I, erm . . .’

  Bloomer meowed plaintively.

  Ignoring the cold and the sludge that penetrated her boots, Michaela pressed on, unwilling to wait for her mother to assist. She could afford no slip-ups and looked ahead. The branch her cat was perched upon was inviting, offering her stability; at the same time, a sudden yank and he would fall off. Instead, and having gained firmness with her feet, she moved to a spot beneath him and reached up her arms. She had hoped her cat would be cooperative, but his claws extended, his legs thrashing and his eyes were wild. Not giving up, she tried again. This time, he backed away, returning to the centre of the tree.

  Whilst she was grateful for his safety, she was not so lucky. In the scuffle, she had moved her foot and it became trapped in a tangle of debris. She dared not move, and feeling unstable, used her peripheral vision to search for her mother: Judith was out of sight.

  ‘I’m stuck,’ she yelled.

  ‘I’ll get Sam.’

  Sam was chatting with Grace at the border when he heard Judith’s frantic cries.

  ‘It’s Michaela. She’s stuck in the pond. She tried to save that darn cat she loves so much.’

  He turned to Grace. ‘I should go.’

  He dropped his saw near the pile of pruned branches, and strode towards her, curiously absorbing her whitened face.

  ‘She’s okay isn’t she?’ he asked.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’

  His chest tightened. Hurrying along, he leapt over broken twigs and clumps of grass littering his path and progressed to the other end of their plot.

  ‘I told her not to go in,’ Judith yelled, ‘but she wouldn’t listen.’

  He neared the pond, pounding the grass with heavy steps, but when he saw her, upright and calm, his anxieties sank away. He scowled at Judith, who had stopped a few metres away and peered from behind a shrub.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘My foot is stuck. I need a stick for support. She wouldn’t pass me one.’

  He turned to Judith. She had moved away.

  ‘Perhaps if I come in, you can lean on me.’

  ‘No Sammy, there is no point in you getting wet. I just need something to lean on.’

  He peeled away the twigs from a hefty branch that had broken in the wind and flung it towards Michaela. It floated on the water. She bent over, pulled it towards her, and submerged one end.

  ‘That’s better.’

  Her body relaxed. She wriggled free her leg and moved to the edge.

  ‘So what happened to Bloomer?’ Sam asked.

  ‘He ran off. Damned cat.’

  He chuckled and looked at her soggy feet and legs. ‘Boy, you’re going to stink.’

  Once they arrived back at the house, she removed her sodden clothes, left them on the makeshift patio, and went indoors to wash and change. He was about to return to his pruning task when he noticed Judith hovering at his rear.

  He passed her a curious look. ‘Why were you so terrified?’

  She averted an anxious stare. ‘I don’t like water.’

  He was wondering if there had ever been an incident to cause her such distress when his gaze drifted to the envelope of photographs. As though driven by an external force, he extracted them and began perusing the images. The first few showed little more than the panoramic views, but then his eyes rested on an image of their outbuildings. Alongside, unaware of the camera, were two people, two lovers.


  They were small and out of focus, and he strained to see the detail.

  ‘I think I’ll go. It’s been a stressful day,’ Judith announced.

  He looked at her, his mouth agape.

  ‘Say goodbye to Michaela for me, and thanks for the apples.’

  She lifted the box from the table and hurried to the car.

  Unconcerned by her swift departure, he returned his attention to the photograph. He felt certain the woman in the image was Judith, and it made sense, every damned bit of it.

  The engine started. He hurried to the drive, clenching the photograph, and gawped as she drove away. She must have seen what he was looking at; her departure had been rather sudden, even for Judith. She knew what he had discovered.

  But she couldn’t run forever. They were catching up, and fast.

  Chapter 30

  Sam stood on the driveway clutching something between his fingers. It looked like a photograph; it must be of the house. Disregarding it, Michaela scrutinised his trance-like expression and followed his gaze to the road.

  ‘Mum’s left?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a relief. I was beginning to get a headache. That woman wears me out. Fancy a coffee?’

  He agreed, and she drifted towards the open door, passing her muddy boots, socks, and jeans, and progressed to the kitchen. Once she had prepared the cups for a coffee, Bloomer arrived in the room; his neck extended, his tail erect, and his meows persistent.

  ‘You’re trouble little man.’

  He rubbed himself into her and closed his eyes. She leaned over and brushed her hand along the length of his back. His demands became forceful and he started to purr. He displayed no signs of the traumatic incident he’d just experienced, proving his strength of character, his confidence, and well-being. Smiling softly, she poured the bubbling water into the mugs and carried the drinks outside to the patio.

  Sam was gazing into the distance. When he saw her arrive, he turned to face her. ‘Do you think Judith is hiding something?’

  ‘I do, but I’m not sure what it is. She was a bit off with me earlier and hinted at having fertility problems. I had a wild notion that she lost a child, here at Primrose Cottage. She said she hadn’t.’