I scrub at my eyes, stinging with dust and tiredness.
‘Look, I don’t understand why everyone is making such a fuss about this woman. Old people lose their marbles all the time, what’s so dramatic about that?’
Jem looks across at me. In the deepening shadows of the car, I can’t make out her expression.
‘Emeline wasn’t old,’ she says slowly, ‘that’s what was so awful, she was only nineteen or twenty when she disappeared. And as for losing her marbles …’ She squints out through the smeared windscreen at nothing in particular. ‘I don’t know. People here will tell you that she was mad, that she couldn’t cope after her brothers were killed and her mother died. They’ll tell you that she tried to hurt herself, more than once, and that in the end, she probably succeeded.’
26th February 1919, Hallerton
I did not mean to. I swear I did not mean to. Can hardly hold a pen now but they won’t talk to me, won’t let me tell them it was an accident so must write it down here. Words are swimming. Must try – concentrate on the letters and stay calm. One at a time.
Dinner was going well. Captain from Harwich ate enough for six people. Smiled at me with his eyes that had seen so many oceans, and I almost begged him to take me away when he sailed; set me at the front of his ship until my skin turned to wood.
But the captain is retired now. Talked about the Navy, and Thorpe and Granson about London. Rossiter looking my way – a thirsty man at a public house – asked my accomplishments.
Such a meaningless question. Andrew answered for me, said I sang and spoke French and was fond of cooking, as they could see. He was speaking of a stranger. Once, someone with my name had done those things, but she was as lost as if I had drowned her on the marsh.
Could not eat. Edith saw, took my full plate without anyone noticing. Sometimes I think she is the only one who understands. She lost her son, Jeremy. He was our delivery boy. He used to share his apple with me.
Dessert served. Andrew nodded in approval. Thought my plan was working. I could not eat that either, refilled my glass instead. Wine pale as elderflower. I drank it, poured more and drank again.
They rose to go to the study, talk business. I rose too. Their business was Hallerton and Hallerton is mine, and Timothy’s. Andrew stopped me. He looked alarmed, asked in a hushed tone what I was doing, said I didn’t know my place. Do not remember what I said. The gentlemen were watching from the door so he relented, said I might join them if I behaved like a lady, served the port in Father’s glasses.
The pain is dreadful, hot and smarting. Wish I could rip off the bandages, plunge my hands into the pitcher – must be brief, can barely form letters.
Glasses in the kitchen. Edith in the dining room. A mouthful from the bottle in my pocket, terribly bitter.
I pulled the cork from the port, angry with Andrew. Ruby liquid flowed into fragile glass, but then it was blood, dark and draining from a vein, from a hole no bigger than a coin in the stomach of a boy, pouring into mud, so much of it that his body must have been a husk, without all that liquid to fill it.
Next a scream, Edith’s. Do not know how much time had passed, only wondered why she should scream about spilled port. Then, warmth against my palms, and weakness. I looked down at the glasses.
No glasses. Only broken shards on the tray, in my hands. No pain, just surprise. Blood on the tiled floor.
Faces, Andrew’s, Rossiter’s, dear Captain’s, jolly no more. They carried me, found the bottle in my pocket. Took it away. Perhaps doctor will give me more. He is coming soon. He must. I can tell him I did not mean it.
June 1969
Nineteen or twenty when she disappeared. Nineteen or twenty.
As tired as I am, I can’t sleep. I don’t know if it’s the heat, or the strange place or the distant sound of the sea across the dunes, but even though I sparked out as soon as my head touched the pillow, now I’m wide awake.
A quarter to four in the morning, according to the clock beside the bed. Why should it bother me that Mrs Mallory’s Aunt Emeline wasn’t some doddery old lady who went a bit doolally? Nineteen … The same age as Stephanie and me.
It makes no difference. I’m going to go back to Hallerton as planned, dig up what I can to prove that Emeline is long dead, then leave. Even Jem implied that she probably killed herself years ago. The fact that she was my age doesn’t change anything.
It changes everything, says a quiet voice at the back of my mind.
Resolutely, I shut my eyes and try to sleep. The pub is quiet. Unsurprising, seeing as I’m the only guest. Stan and Betty Throgmorton, the landlords, must be snoring somewhere. Stan seems all right, but Betty’s eyes needled me from across the bar, and I heard her snort with disdain when I called Jem ‘Miss Durrant’.
Four o’clock. I peek through the curtains. It’s not-quite dawn, the sky pigeon grey. Across the village green, movement catches my eye: an old man in an oilskin coat stepping out of a dilapidated cottage. A white cat slips out behind him, and he bends to scratch its ears. For one, bewildering instant, I want to be him, with a boat and a cat and the dawn on the sea to call my own.
God, I need sleep.
Four thirty. The room turns pale and the seagulls start up an almighty racket. No point in sleeping now. I wish I’d brought a book or something. There isn’t even a radio in the room. Eventually I retrieve the file on Hallerton from the briefcase. It’s a strange mix of old documents from Uncle Durrant’s days and new ones from Mrs Mallory. Might as well do something useful and sort them out.
It makes for dull reading. There’s the proposal from the holiday camp people, land reports and valuations and official correspondence. Behind that is a page of Hillbrand’s notes from the meeting, deciphered and typed up by Jill. At the bottom, a line catches my eye: E.V. last seen 27 February 1919.
February twenty-seventh. Why does that date look so familiar? I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere recently. In a desk drawer, on a crumpled bill, above the details of a doctor’s visit … I’m sure of it. Or am I? I forgot about everything else when Jem scared the daylights out of me. What did I think I had seen, there at the window? Either way, I’m not going to find any answers lying in bed.
Five o’clock. I creep down the stairs and out of the pub. I should wait for Stan and Betty to be up, but there’s something restless in my chest, clattering around. I think it’s excitement.
Across the village green, a bakery is just opening. The smell of freshly baked bread is too much to resist. A couple of old ladies are gossiping by the door, but they fall silent as soon as I approach, hissing about ‘the Vane girl’ and ‘the house’. I try to ignore them as I buy a couple of rolls.
Outside, I follow Jem’s directions towards Hallerton. Away from the village, the land opens out. This must be the marsh. Clumps of reeds, froths of pink and yellow flowers. There’s a flash, and a great white bird takes off, trailing toothpick legs towards the sea. I wonder if the old fisherman will watch it, from his gently rocking boat.
Eventually, the path disappears into a wilderness of green, a jungle of brambles and hedges that must once have formed the boundary of Hallerton. I wade through the tall grass of the garden, disturbing clouds of insects and startling the crows on the old terrace. They watch with their quick, black eyes as I take a seat on the steps.
Dad will be working through his kipper soon. Louise will be prodding at her bowl of cornflakes. They seem centuries away. Even the bread here tastes different: chewy and floury, nothing like the sliced white we have at home. The crows limp and loiter nearer, pretending they aren’t interested. Smart buggers. I tear up the remaining roll and scatter it their way. They stab up the pieces and carry them off to who knows where.
In the morning light the house looks sad, softly decaying. The yellow stone around the doors and windows is crumbling and green with lichen, but once it must have glowed, radiating the heat of a summer’s day. The creepers choking the walls must once have been climbing flowers, the wilderness of grass
a lawn for games and picnics. All around, the trees echo with birdsong. Would Emeline Vane have heard the same songs, fifty years ago?
I pick my way through greenery around the side of the house. My neck doesn’t prickle quite so much when I let myself in, but still I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched. The study is as I left it, stuffy as ever. I loosen my tie, already reaching for the piece of paper that I left resting on top of the drawer. A crumpled bill, the handwriting smudged and hasty:
Dr B. Lewis
26th February 1919
Night call: 2/6
16 fl. oz. lithium bromide: 3/6
Two drams as needed
There was a visit from a doctor the night before Emeline went missing? I stare at the old paper, fragile in my fingers. Rustle up something useful, Hillbrand said, like proof that this Miss Vane was barking. Slowly, I smooth out the note and place it in the folder of papers, wondering why I feel so strange.
27th February 1919, Hallerton
Edith sleeping, so can write … Will have to hide this book. Pencil, almost blunt. Can’t unscrew pen. Doctor gave me something, stronger than the morphine. Drags me down. Sand in a bottle.
Timothy cried. I remember that. Wish I did not. Wish we were playing. I held him tight but Edith came with the glass, made me let go.
I am not well, they tell me, Andrew, Dr Lewis. He bandaged my hands. Not well. Too much, Mother and Albie and Freddie and the house. I need rest, they say. Andrew found a place. On the continent, in the mountains. Name of a saint …
St Augustine’s. Clean air and quiet and no more worry about Hallerton. Do not want to go. Must. What if I lose myself again? What if next time I can’t stop, a step too far on the marsh?
Will go. Andrew says better soon, that Hallerton upsets me.
Nearly dawn. Today then. Edith will wake soon. Pour sand into a glass. It drowns me. Maybe better, maybe I
June 1969
By noon, the study is like a furnace. Sweat drips from my forehead on to the papers, the text blurring before my eyes. Finally, thirst forces me to explore the rest of the house. My tongue feels like a big, dry toad in my mouth. I’d give anything for a drink, even a pint of warm bitter from The Old Cow.
I wander through the rooms. Some are thick with plaster fragments, others are musty and blooming with fungus. At the back of the house I find the huge, old kitchen, all shattered tiles and corroded pipes. Once it must have been a hive of activity, but now it’s silent. A shiver runs down my back. No wonder Mrs Mallory wants shot of this place.
There’s a door to the outside, secured by a rusted bolt. Sunlight hits me as I step on to the terrace. I peel the shirt from my back and tie it around my waist. I find a tap on the wall and turn it hopefully. It chokes and hisses and clanks, until water explodes from the end. It’s brown and cloudy at first, but soon clears.
I stick my wrists under the stream. It’s cool, and I decide I don’t care where it comes from. I gulp it straight from my cupped hands, until it fills my empty belly with an earthy, metallic chill. Distantly, I hear a church bell toll one o’clock. Jem said that if I gave her a crown for the week, she’d bring me lunch every day. It must be lunchtime soon. I’m just about to head back inside when I hear the crunch of tyres pulling on to the drive.
We sit on the terrace, in a patch of shade cast by a woody old lilac tree. The stones are cooler here, and belatedly I think of my suit trousers.
‘Forget it,’ Jem says as I try to brush grit from the fabric, ‘there’s no one here to look smart for. Be cool.’
She’s abandoned her sandals and sunglasses, and is rooting through a canvas bag with quick, green-stained fingers.
‘Here.’ She flings something at me. I fumble a catch. A bottle of beer, the glass cold against my palm. I’ve never seen anything so enticing.
‘I’m supposed to be working.’
‘Too hot to work,’ she says, opening her own, ‘for a few hours at least.’
I don’t need persuading. The beer is nothing like the ale or bitter I’m used to. It’s light and fresh and sparkles down my throat. We sit in silence for a while, chewing through ham and tomato sandwiches the size of dinner plates, with only the high hissing of the leaves and the drone of the insect-filled garden for company. I think of Steph’s radio, blaring out music over the fryer in the fish and chip shop. It’ll be sizzling in there today.
I lean back on my elbows. The ghost of a breeze drifts past, stirring the greenery above. Drinking the last quarter of the beer, I start to relax. Jem produces a punnet of strawberries. They’re rich and red and explode on my tongue like sherbet.
‘These are delicious.’
‘Thanks, man. Having a good crop this year.’
‘You grew these?’ It occurs to me that I don’t know anything about Jem. Do hippies have jobs? I can’t imagine her walking into an office, or a shop. ‘Is that what you do?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’ She flicks the strawberry top off into the shrubbery. ‘The fruit and veg are for fun. Most of the time I’m over at Heathwicke, doing the roses.’
I have no idea what she’s talking about. She notices and smiles.
‘Heathwicke’s a country estate, inland a ways. Still lived in, unlike this place. The old man there is crazy about his roses. Won’t let anyone touch them, except me.’
There’s a note of pride in her voice. I try to imagine what it must be like, out under the sun all day, surrounded by flowers, no need for ties, or briefcases or lace-up shoes.
‘Cool.’
She nods, opens another beer and passes it to me. I take a swig without thinking.
‘How’s your work?’ she asks softly, as if someone might hear.
‘All right.’ I twist the bottle in my hands. ‘I think I found something today, but I’m not sure … Don’t suppose you know what lithium bromide is?’
She takes a deep drink, pushes the beer around her mouth, thinking.
‘You probably get it by mixing lithium carbonate with hydrobromic acid. Why?’
Not the answer I was expecting.
‘I, er … The thing I found, it mentions lithium bromide, two drams.’
She’s watching me now, alert. I wonder if I’ve said too much.
‘Sounds like a prescription. They used to use it as a sedative, back in the day. Nasty stuff.’
Proof, Hillbrand wanted. Looks like I’ve found it. Despite the heat, a shiver runs through me as I wonder what could have happened to Emeline, to merit a night call from the doctor, strong sedatives.
Jem must see the change in my face. ‘You still haven’t told me why,’ she says, frowning.
How much has Hillbrand told her about why I’m here? Does she know that it’s my job to dig up dirt? To prove that Emeline Vane was out of her mind and leave Hallerton open for a quick sale, for the wrecking ball and a developer to scour its presence from the land? My cheeks are hot with shame. I realize that I don’t want her to know.
‘It’s probably nothing.’ I tip the bottle too far and spill beer down my chin. ‘How do you know all that stuff anyway?’ I say hastily, wiping it away. ‘You sound like a scientist.’
Jem laughs, pulling a cloth pouch from her bag.
‘Got a degree in biology. Half a degree, anyway. I was only interested in plants, but they made us do some chemistry. Speaking of which …’ She smiles over at me. In her lap, there’s a small heap of dried green stuff, some rolling papers. ‘You game?’
‘What’s Jem short for?’ I watch the smoke drift into a parasol of leaves and branches. ‘Is it gem, like a jewel? Short for Gemma?’
I can’t see her face, lying on my back as I am, but I hear her laughter, warm and dry as hay.
‘Jem, short for Jemima. Like the Puddle-Duck. Can you believe that?’
‘Jemima Durrant,’ I repeat, and laugh. My eyes are heavy. ‘Have you always been here? In Saltedge?’
‘Nah. Used to visit my granny here as a kid. Came back to look after her when she got ill a few years ago. She died
last spring.’
The breeze plucks weakly at the hem of my trousers. Jem nudges my arm, the smoke between her fingers.
‘Better not,’ I mumble, ‘work to do.’
I think about Hillbrand, cramming down an egg sandwich at his desk as the traffic exhausts itself on London’s melting roads. I think of the expenses for my first business trip and all of a sudden I’m laughing, at the ridiculousness of it all, at Berni Inns and trouser presses when I’m here, flat on my back beneath a glorious blue sky, drinking and smoking with a hippy.
Jem’s laughing too, and I realize that I’ve found a friend here, albeit an unlikely one. We laugh ourselves out, until all I can do is breathe in the scent of the summer afternoon: warm stone and lilac blossom, grass and pungent smoke and the distant earthiness of the marshes. I close my eyes and feel myself slip into a doze, watched over by the strange, silent house …
The sound of wings wakes me, frenzied beating. I lurch upright, breaking instantly into a sweat, but there’s nothing. The terrace is absolutely motionless, and for a second, it’s like the world has stopped altogether.
Gingerly, I turn my head. No Jem. No bag. How long have I been asleep? My head feels like it’s filled with cotton wool. The sun smoulders, the leaves droop. Impossible to tell what time of day it is.
I’m reaching for my watch when there’s a cry, ragged in the stillness. Two crows flap down on to the terrace, grease-black and ungainly. One of them has something in its beak that the other one wants. They caw and dance around each other, wings half extended. Someone else might laugh, watching them, but I don’t. It wouldn’t be right.
Whatever the crows are fighting over, it’s small and thin and metallic. Shaped like a figure, maybe, edged with faded pink … The second crow screams in protest as the first shoots into the air, still carrying its prize. It doesn’t fly to the usual perch on the study window sill but banks sharply upward, fluttering into the house through a broken second-floor window. Maybe it has a nest inside.
Where the Wild Cherries Grow Page 6