by Dawson, H A
‘I would like to do a blood test.’ The woman said. ‘Can you come back in two days for the results?’
‘I can.’
‘I will prescribe him some tablets to take in the meantime . . . to alleviate his discomfort.’
She returned to the car. She did not want to ask what was wrong. The woman’s anxious expression said enough.
The next two days were the longest of Michaela’s life despite noticing improvements in Bloomer’s condition. His bloating reduced and he started to eat, but he lacked energy and did not dart around the garden as he had done. His steps were now sedate, like an old man’s, and his enthusiasm absent. Something was wrong, and dread filled her every breath.
Sam, as usual, tried to take on the positive stance. She disregarded him with a barrage of abuse. What did he know? He hadn’t even noticed Bloomer’s troubles. Stomping around the house, struggling to ease her turbulent mind, she failed to concentrate on even the most menial of tasks. Even the radio grated.
Her hand brushed Bloomer's forehead. He looked at her with trust in his eyes and purred. It was a quiet sound and one that depicted contentment rather than overpowering elation. Perhaps Sam was correct, he was a young cat, and may still respond to treatment. Inhaling a heavy breath, she picked him up, placed him into the carrier, and made the dreaded journey to the vets.
The waiting room was bustling with sounds, but to Michaela, it was a quiet drone. She stood by the door, her heart pounding and her skin shivery, and waited for her turn.
‘Mrs Pearson?’
She lifted the weight from the floor and carried it to a room. The woman’s face was sorrowful. Michaela clenched her fists and tried to blank out her pounding heart.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘He has leukaemia. There’s little we can do. It is advanced.’
She bit her lip and tears misted her eyes.
‘He’s in a lot of pain and is unlikely to last the week. I can talk you through the options, but it might be best if we let him go peacefully.’
Trembling, she looked to Bloomer. He looked at her with love and adoration, and his one good eye glistened.
Chapter 32
The car door slammed to and she marched to the house. Sam called out, but his voice was a quiet cry in the distance. She did not turn to him, could not look him in the eye, and wanted neither sympathy nor a comforting hand. She needed to be alone.
Michaela’s head was hazy with sorrow, pounding, throbbing. She needed a release and needed to use up her surging energy, so despite the lateness of the day she ripped off her clothes, flung them onto the bed, and put on her gardening attire. Then, she stomped back downstairs and opened the outer door. The early evening sunshine crept towards her; it was a mellow scene, tranquil with soft orange undertones.
Sam strode towards her. She avoided making eye contact and kept her gaze fixated on the ground.
‘Where is he?’ he asked.
Gone. Leukaemia.’
She stormed away, beating the ground with her feet. Having retrieved a hoe and garden fork from the barn, she moved to a weedy flowerbed and tugged at the plant life, moving in a jerky and cumbersome manner. Her energy was uncontrollable and pounded through her veins, relentless in its fury. As a result, she ripped away the unwanted plant matter in half the normal time.
As she worked, a vision of Bloomer hounded her thoughts, from his early days under the bush to his seductive meow at feeding time. Tears filled her eyes. She yanked free a weed, and ripped away a small shrub in the process, snapping it from its roots. Her chest swelled. A scream hovered on her lips. He was dead, gone forever.
His life had been one massive ordeal, but he had come through, his bravery labelling him a winner. He had loved every second of his new life and amused her daily with his antics. Why was he taken? Had he not deserved happiness, a life? Had he not suffered enough? She told herself she had done everything possible, said it was not meant to be, but it eased nothing, only exacerbating the tightness in her abdomen.
She pressed her arm across her middle, stared at the bare soil and intermittent plants, and thrust the fork to the ground. A sense of emptiness washed over her. She had loved that little cat, damn it. Why him? Why had he been snatched so cruelly?
Michaela shuddered. Her skin was rippling with cold and her legs were weak and wobbly. She tottered back to the house, aimless and flat, and dropped onto the middle of the sofa. At the one end was a tad of white fur. She reached across to touch it. Her gut twisted and nausea rose to her mouth. She let out a desperate wail and pummelled the cushion with her fists. So much had happened in recent months, and Bloomer had been one of the few positives. He had been her lifeline, her saviour, and he had comforted when no one else had. He had not plotted against her like Grace, and he had not betrayed her like her mother.
A horrendous notion trickled towards her. When had her mother and Jim’s affair occurred? Was it before or after her birth? Experiencing a sudden and overwhelming need to speak to her mother, she hurried to the telephone, and with her hand shaking, dialled the number.
A clipboard rested on Sam’s lap and a pen was rotating between his fingers. He studied the graphical image of their new kitchen, scrutinising the finer details for any oversights. They had chosen beige drawers and cupboard fronts, solid oak worktops, and d-shaped handles, and they had all the usual built-in accessories, such as a cooker, dishwasher, fridge, and freezer. It looked modern and clean and the prospect excited. However, before he could sign the document, he needed to confirm his decision with Michaela, and headed to the foot of the stairs and called out her name.
‘What?’ she said.
‘I want to sign this document for the kitchen. Can we go through it?’
‘Just sign it.’
Sam trudged up the stairs to the bedroom. She rested on the bed with her back turned. ‘I’d like a bit of input.’
‘Just do it and stop bothering me.’
‘We’re going to have to cope with it for at least ten years. If it’s not suitable-’
She spun around. ‘Are you deaf? I said sign it.’
He held his gaze and frowned. Her skin had a patchy tone and her eyes were puffy. She looked as though she had been crying. ‘I’m sorry about Bloomer. I’m sad too.’
‘You think this is only about Bloomer?’
Silence
‘Are you completely stupid?’
He perched on the bed and reached out his hand. She knocked it away. ‘Just go, I want to be alone. And don’t bother me again.’
Deciding his efforts were futile, he slipped away. It wasn’t until he had reached the bottom of the stairs that he heard her sniffles restart. Sighing, he returned to the living room and glanced at a photograph of Bloomer on a table.
Tumours had filled his lungs making his breathing difficult. The vet had said it was amazing he had lived as long as he had, and said it would have been due to the bond he had developed with Michaela. Yet it was little consolation. It was a cruel world; the little cat deserved much more.
There was a knock at the door. He placed the clipboard and pen onto the coffee table, peered through the window and opened the door. It was Grace, and she had a wodge of papers in her hand.
‘Hello, Sam. I hope you don’t mind me popping around. I have that information you asked for.’
Sam passed a puzzled look.
Diet and stress?’
Oh yes, thanks. Come in.’
She stepped through the door, and her gaze drifted along the walls and between the rooms. ‘You look to be progressing nicely.’
He guided her into a room. ‘Yes, this is almost finished. We’ll be starting next door soon.’
‘I love the colours.’
‘Michaela is good with things like that. She’s quite the artist.’
‘Is she about?
‘She’s having a rest. She’s not feeling good.’
Grace nodded.
‘Just go through into the living room.’ He pointed the way. ‘I’
ll put the kettle on.’
He was heading into the kitchen when Michaela appeared, teary-eyed, at the top of the staircase.
‘Do you want a drink?’ he asked.
She stomped down the stairs. ‘No. I’m going outside. I’ve things to do.’
‘Grace is here. Do you want to tell her about your news regarding Jack?’
‘I am not interested in Grace . . . or Jack.’
The door slammed. Shame-faced, he peered into the sitting room.
‘I am sorry about that. She used to be sociable.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Grace said.
‘We’ve just had our cat put to sleep. He had leukaemia. She’s taken it badly.’
She nodded.
‘And to make it worse, a few days before it happened we returned home to find a drawing of the cat and the letters RIP on it. I don’t believe in the curse, but-’
‘The curse doesn’t exist Sam. It never has. It was a rumour that someone in the village started years ago.’
‘Mary?’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘How do you know?’
‘We went to see her. She went on and on about how evil Catherine was. It took us a while to realise that her father was Jack’s illegitimate son.’
‘Mary and her mother have always had it in for the family. They would pride themselves in spreading rumours and causing pain.’
‘Michaela was upset. She trusted her, thought of her as a friend.’ He gazed through the window. If only she would return and chat with Grace. He was certain they would become friends. It would do her a power of good. ‘I’ll get the drinks.’
He returned moments later, presented Grace her drink and sat on the sofa.
Grace looked to him, sheepish. ‘Mary wrote the first warning. I saw her leave.’
‘But it disappeared, how did she do it?’
‘It would have been clear plastic. She did it years ago when the family with the little girl lived here.’
‘But for what purpose?’ he asked.
She shrugged. ‘I think it’s just a hobby of hers. She’s always defended Jack and his fancy woman . . . quite a piece of work. I tried to warn you.’
‘She gave Michaela some photos of this house. I thought it was a good gesture until I saw them. One was of Judith with your father.’ He steadied his nerves. ‘They were canoodling.’
She said nothing, and held her hand over her face and looked to her lap.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It hurt, I’ll admit that, but it was more that it caused my brother’s death. You know, they even had the audacity to carry on seeing each other afterward, even though he had sworn to Mum that it was over. She even forgave him for a time, and he moved into her new place.’
‘I thought Judith went away.’
‘She did . . . eventually. It was the only way we could all deal with what had happened.’
‘So it wasn’t their choice.’
‘Put it this way, they were encouraged to leave.’
Sam frowned. Judith had said otherwise.
‘Before Judith left, she and Jim would sneak back to this place for privacy. Once I followed them. I was hiding by the side of the house when they came outside. They were talking about making alterations - I believed they were making plans to live together. He even had tools. Lord knows what they were planning. That was when he stopped being my dad.’
‘That is why you refer to him as Jim.’
‘Yes, we tried to make it work, but he was a difficult man to be around. I still hadn’t said everything I needed to when he died.’ Her face turned blotchy red. ‘Shit! He always had to have the last word.’
Sam sipped his coffee, and the warmth stayed in his throat. How the pain must have lingered. No wonder Grace hadn’t liked them arriving in the house. She must have suspected that the past would rear its head, just has Judith had.
‘Jim was in and out of the house for a while,’ she continued, ‘He even rented it out once. That was when the little girl fell down the stairs and died.’
She stared, urging him to make the connection. He looked at her, puzzled.
The repairs?’
It took a moment to dawn. Oh my God! You don’t think-’
She nodded. ‘A report said that the staircase was in a bad state of repair. It was okay when we’d lived in the house. It was the only explanation.’
‘Did you ever question him?’
‘I wanted to, but I just couldn’t do it.’
‘I am so sorry.’
‘Maybe now you can understand why I didn’t want you here. That’s why I encouraged the rumours about Catherine. I’ve been dreading it coming out. In fact, now it has it’s a huge relief.’
‘And we’ve made everything worse by digging up the past.’
‘You weren’t to know.’
Holding the mug firm in his hands, his irritations arose. Grace was wrong to have acted as she had. If she’d been honest from the start, Michaela would not have suffered. However, the more he thought about it, the more he realised it was an unreasonable ask. It was unrealistic to expect Grace to introduce herself, announce the affair, and say Jim and Judith had been responsible for the deaths of two children. Maybe it had been an inevitable path, after all.
‘How did you go on with Archie?’ Grace asked.
‘He told us quite a bit about Jack, but I should imagine it’s only what you already know.’
‘I got the impression Jack loved Catherine.’
‘I think he did, although it was far too late.’
She nodded. ‘You’re right there. It’s such a pity.’
‘I accept Catherine had a difficult life, but she wasn’t blameless as far as their marriage was concerned. She could have dealt with the situation differently, perhaps involved her family and forced Jack to get a housemaid. And if she suspected he hallucinated, she could have demanded he saw a medic. Being a strong, subservient woman may have been her biggest weakness.’
‘I agree. I wonder if her stress caused the children’s demise.’
‘I don’t see how. Poorer families managed okay.’
She nodded, thoughtful, ‘So what do you think happened?’
‘I’m not sure. We asked Archie what happened to them, but he told us so little.’
‘Do you think Archie was hiding something?’
‘If he was, he was a good liar. My first impression was that he was a trustworthy character.’
‘He was a doctor in his day.’
‘Really, he never said.’
‘I think Jack was one of his patients.’
‘That makes sense.’
She glanced through the window, leaned forward and clasped her hands. Now, about Michaela. I think I know what’s wrong with her. I think it was the same for Jack and Jim.’
‘Go on.’
‘It is to do with the house.’
‘But I thought you said the curse didn’t exist.’
No, not the curse, something else. And it could explain Michaela’s miscarriage too.’
Now he was interested.
Scowling, Michaela marched along the perimeter of the land. Her boots were heavy and caked in mud, her canvas pants were damp and smeared with dirt, and moisture lingered in the air, cooling and stimulating her hot skin. Once again, Sam was making easy conversation with Grace; it should be her.
She wondered why socialising had become difficult. She found herself shying away from people and situations, as through repelled by something out of her control. At the same time, she longed for the security of company - the sharing, the laughter, the teasing, and the unburdening – but each time she tried, she found herself unable to be civil.
Was it a trust issue? Her mother had deceived her, Mary had feigned friendship, and Grace had unresolved issues with her father and blamed her. Then there was Sam. Endlessly, she had told him not to form a relationship with Grace, but he never listened and had done it regardless of her feelings. Only Bloomer had been on her side.
&
nbsp; Dazed, she stared at the murky water and floating debris and remembered his forlorn little figure clinging to the branch. He had been the most gorgeous, well-behaved cat she had ever encountered. Even during his last moments, she could still see his appreciation scribed into his face, and her gut tightened. She wanted her time again, wanted to feel his kneading paws on her stomach and to listen to his purrs of contentment. No other cat could take his place. He was unique, special.
The plaque she had re-erected caught her eye. She strode towards it and crouched down, and fingered the words, ‘in memory of Edward Cooper’. Maybe she should do one for Bloomer too. Despite his incident in the tree, it had been one of his favourite locations. Had it been so for Catherine and her firstborn? It seemed likely. It was a beautiful spot, wild and natural, with small dips and mounds, weeds and mosses. It was also an appropriate setting for a diary.
Stretching out her legs, she sat on the ground with her hands placed on the moist blades of grass and felt the cooling breeze tickle her skin. It was refreshing and calming, and the perfect location for inducing a vision. Keen for one to emerge, she shut her eyes, cleared her mind and steadied her breathing. After a few moments, she asked Catherine where her diary was, and pleaded for an answer. Nothing happened. Frustrated, she ripped open her eyes and raised herself to her feet.
Turning her head, Michaela looked all around. Water droplets clung to leaves, the emerging sun warmed the sodden petals, and the leaves of a holly bush glistened, mirror-like. She strolled back to the pond, hoping for inspiration. Hoverflies fluttered in a carefree manner, dancing in the rising warmth, and a bird scooted across the surface. Inhaling a beautiful fresh floral scent, she followed the path to the apple trees.
It dawned. Archie had said that this had been Catherine’s favourite place. She scanned the ground, searching for a place to start, and then rushed away for a spade and fork. With an unsuppressed urgency, she pressed the prongs into the ground. The rainwater made the task easy, and the first segment prised free. She flung it to one side and poked around in the ground. Having found little more than bugs and worms, she moved along, widening her search.