Unhallowed Ground

by Gillian White

  ‘What job could I do? I’ve got no bleeding certificates.’

  ‘There must be something.’ If Georgie sounds sharp it’s because she’s so reluctant to take this voluntary client on board.

  ‘Chad doesn’t mean to hurt me, it’s only when he comes home sloshed. He’s sorry in the morning.’ But her bruises are proof, to her, of Chad’s love. That same hoary old chestnut. Proof of Chad’s ownership of her. ‘He shouts at me to get out, he swears he doesn’t want me, but I know he does really.’ She muses on in silence before going on, probably for Georgie’s benefit, ‘But one day soon I’m determined to leave him.’

  ‘Yes, Donna. You really ought to, for your own sake.’

  It is so easy to know other people’s answers.

  ‘And I think I’m in love with somebody else,’ says Donna. Mysteriously.

  The logs duly arrive. The surly Buckpits stack them neatly in Georgie’s newly whitewashed woodshed, completely free of clutter now, but not quite dry because some of the slates on the roof are loose, they don’t overlap correctly, if you look up you can see slithers of sky, and when it rains there’s a steady drip. Georgie puts down a bracket to catch it.

  The woodshed is satisfactorily full. Yet again she attempts to communicate. ‘That’s wonderful. Now I’ll be warm whatever the weather threatens to do.’ But the brothers gaze at her steadily as they wipe their hands on their overalls. Lot has the decency to give a kind of a nod, not a friendly nod, of course, more of a crude acknowledgement.

  They clearly disapprove of their new neighbour’s independence. Of her up-until-now sociable lifestyle. Of her unmarried status. They probably think her a scarlet woman.

  Otherwise Georgie is well prepared for the coming winter siege. There are books she has meant to read for years, a stock of good wine in the larder, the freezer is brimming with food. She has made jelly and jam from her apples, although she’s not keen on jam. She could live on blackberries for the next ten years, and they slop, frozenly, with the plums across the bottom of the freezer. Her chickens provide her with large brown eggs and there is milk on her step each morning. She has spent many days exploring, driving round the countryside getting to know her way round, stopping at tempting country pubs and taking photos with Stephen’s excellent camera. She has been for long walks with Lola, and she knows she is a hundred times fitter than when she first arrived. So run the days… Sometimes she fiddles with Stephen’s paints. She kept a few clean canvases, his brushes and his easel, fingering them and wondering if she could, one day… Wondering about his talent and if she ought to try herself. She never has, apart from her childish efforts at school, which were never especially successful, rather apathetic in fact. It would be a way to pass the hours and, who knows, like Donna, she might surprise herself.

  She thinks about this so much that it becomes a worry. Her palms are almost itching with the desire to try and yet she’s afraid in case she fails.

  But this evening, after Donna’s departure, she plucks up courage, she mixes some paints on a palette, sits at the table and tackles the sunset. Ridiculous really, what a daunting subject for an amateur. She makes a total mess of it, and as she obstinately perseveres, trying to correct her mistakes, it gets worse. The whole ugly mess she makes depresses Georgie deeply, for she is a stubborn woman, unable to accept the fact that she cannot be fair at everything. She has to plod doggedly on, in spite of the unlikely odds, she is determined to keep trying.

  So it is late when she finally lets Lola out and frustrated goes upstairs to bed. She abandons the ruined canvas crossly and leaves it beside the rubbish bin. She sticks the brushes in jam jars of turps and leaves the paints on the table. There is no need to clear up, what bliss, so different to her life in London. She has no reason to rush off anywhere first thing in the morning and visitors are out of the question. Georgie’s got all the time in the world.

  She’s not in the habit of locking the door, there is no real need to do so. Buried away in Wooton-Coney, such simple security measures would feel quite ridiculous, pandering to needless panic. Even the sighting of the stranger, although it made her uneasy, is not by itself a reason to make her start on the business of locks and bolts. And the foolish suspicion that someone stalks her on her walks is nothing but that, a flight of imagination.

  We know she was never the self-indulgent type with an overactive imagination. Georgina Jefferson is multi-steady, her feet are firmly stuck to the ground. She would be most unlikely to see a ghost, and if she did she would deny it, put it down to her state of mind, shadows and effects of the light. The Loch Ness monster could rise and sink before Georgie’s eyes and she would turn it into a submarine, a wave, or a floating tree trunk. She quite understands that those who see these manifestations truly believe what they say, but they are poor misguided souls, too naive to be taken seriously. It is a need they have to fulfil, like religion. She does not feel the need for extra drama in her life, or the supernatural. She does not need a god either. She is who she is, and has always been contented with that, able to cope remarkably well without an eternal purpose. You might think these sensible qualities would protect her now.

  But a heavy grey blanket comes up from the west. The morning brings a slow, steady drizzle, the sort of condition she will soon get used to. The whole cottage turns dark with it, and water drips depressingly off the edges of the thatch and turns it a mucky brown. Every so often there is a dull thud as a drenched old apple drops onto the grass. She goes to the kitchen to let Lola out. She will have a restoring cup of coffee before she tackles the mess of paints left on the table from last night.

  She pauses to inspect the colours and textures, but only briefly. Her eyes are drawn to the smears of red which now cover the palette. A watery red, not like the oils which bump and wrinkle underneath. This is more like a watercolour.

  Frowning, she picks up the palette and holds it to the light. Her oils from last night are almost dry, but this red is still wet and running. New paint? She stares round anxiously with gazing eyes. Is her kitchen undisturbed? And is the palette in the same place as she left it last night? Or has somebody been in here and moved it?

  But why?

  And who the hell would?

  Georgie sits down, not frightened yet, just terribly bewildered. Could she have made those marks herself and forgotten all about them? Had she mixed up some powder paint? No, that was ridiculous. If she had done that she would remember.

  Seated at the table with her coffee before her she touches the red paint tentatively with her finger, she rubs it with her thumb. Jesus! Is it paint? There is a brackishness about it. She cannot decide. She smells the stain on the end of her finger. Nothing, only hand cream. In her complete bewilderment she is tempted to lick it. She brings her finger towards her mouth, but cannot bring herself to take it further.

  It could be the juice of berries, she supposes, sloes perhaps, or blackberries, there are plenty of those about. But the colour is not quite right for either of those, and how would they have reached her palette? The appalling thought that the red could be blood keeps crossing her mind, but then she laughs out loud at such a ludicrously outrageous idea.

  She must have left those marks herself, there is no other rational explanation, but she’s going to enquire just the same. The whole problem is so bizarre she can find no sensible answer. She tries to dismiss it, but that’s not so easy.

  As Georgie progresses through the day, not doing much, not doing enough to distract her, her thoughts keep turning morbidly to dwell on that blessed doll, the make-up case, the figure on the hill, the feeling of being spied upon on her favourite walk. Her heart sickens and sinks. All the inexplicable issues come together to worry her, so she finds it quite impossible to concentrate on anything else. She knows that it is illogical, but she is being haunted by neurotic concerns and knows how absurd she would sound if she tried to explain them to anyone else.

  The world as she has known it is falling away from her.

  In the end she
sits, just sits, mute, waiting and frightened, incapable of movement of body or mind.

  Dear God, she is not that confused, she is not that blind to reality yet. All that is wrong with Georgie is that she is almost paralysed with terror and apprehension. These marks are not made of paint. Neither are they innocent berries. They are blood stains put there deliberately. And she has always had such a horror of insanity.

  Right. This is it. This is enough. This is the time to call it a day. But everyone would naturally conclude that living alone was affecting her mind, that she was seeing danger behind every shadow. They would be proved right after all. They would tell her she wasn’t coping, they would advise her to return to London immediately, and Georgie, the successful one, would feel, once again, that she’d failed.

  And Georgie doesn’t want that. Dammit, she wants her dignity back.

  NINETEEN

  WHO ARE THESE FAT-HEADS? Heroines who stay in hotels while the tap water splashes with gore, remain loyal to maniacs with axes, wander down into crypts and cellars to investigate some spine-chilling scream, oh no, Georgina Jefferson is certainly not one of those.

  So she rarely watches the predictable horrors of mass entertainment, they try her patience too much.

  Should she, at this moment in time, leave Furze Pen Cottage and return to London? Would she, if she had been watching a film, have lost sympathy with herself by now and turned off?

  Well, all she can say in mitigation is that the situation is not too dire an emergency yet, certainly not dire enough to disrupt all her careful plans. No cause for panic, just unpleasant and rather nasty, so she sets off, true to form, to find some reasonable explanation for the paint, and the only individual she considers remotely suitable, the only house in Wooton-Coney to which she is welcomed, is the eccentric home of the Horsefields.

  Back in her bright velour tracksuits after the summer break, this morning Nancy wears pink bottoms and a fluorescent-orange top. Her Hi-Tec boots make her feet look preposterously large under such a small and bustling body. Helpless to refuse her largess, Georgie does not protest as she is ushered to the fire while Nancy rushes off to make proud preparation.

  It is not unusual for Georgie to pop round in this casual way. Feeling so sorry for Horace, and having admiration for the manner in which he protects his demented wife who depends on him entirely, she has been known to pop round for a chat. There is no help for poor Horace, no magic agency who will come in and take charge while he has a rest, and he would not consider leaving her anyway. Nancy would not cope left on her own with strangers.

  He raises the subject himself in a roundabout way. After Nancy leaves the room, when her slipstream has spun off behind her, he says in his gloomy Eeyoreish style, ‘You look strained. You look as if you haven’t been sleeping. You must be missing your friends.’

  Unsure how she should start without sounding overdramatic, Georgie says, ‘It’s not that, Horace. But you’re right, I am under strain because I’ve been so worried just lately.’ It seems unfair to burden him with more, but hell, he’s the only one around her who will listen. He might be miserable and morose, but at least he’s fairly normal.

  It helps her to go on with her tale when she sees he’s not watching. Instead he sits, staring abjectly into the fire with his sunken eyes half closed, his long fingers strumming the arm of his chair and his weary legs crossed. With the minimum of emotion, careful not to overdo it, she tells him how she came downstairs and discovered the wet paint. She is careful to make it abundantly clear that she is no fool, not the kind to be unduly influenced by strange fears and fantasies. ‘I know there must be some reasonable explanation,’ she says, ‘because there always is to these happenings.’ And then, because of his continuing silence, because of his comfortable, relaxing breathing, she goes on to tell him about the doll and the make-up case, she even describes her disquieted feelings when taking her favourite walk.

  ‘Dammit, Horace, there was someone there.’

  He listens without a word, and Georgie feels as flustered and foolish as Nancy.

  Finally, after a good deal of silent thought and strumming, Horace opens his eyes and pronounces, ‘There is something about this place.’

  Georgie is disappointed in him. She expected something more positive. She says again with more emphasis, ‘But someone has actually been inside my cottage at night while I was sleeping upstairs. And who was the person on the hill—that still disturbs me. Hell, Horace, I walked towards it and it just disappeared, shot into the copse before I could reach it.’ She leans forward and clasps her fingers. ‘It was as real as you are, believe me. Listen, do you think that some tramp could have come to the hamlet and is living in a deserted barn, visiting woodsheds at night and generally wandering around? Could this be possible? But if there is someone, then how come I am the only person to have seen him?’ She shakes her head. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘That is possible, I suppose. Or it might be that odd girl, Donna, she’s in the habit of walking at night. I once saw her dancing on the hill. Thought it was a monstrous crow the way the moonlight lit her up. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’

  Georgie sits back, relieved after bearing her soul. ‘Well, I’m hardly on speaking terms with Mrs Buckpit, and the brothers have never said one word to me. Chad Cramer’s still put out because of Stephen’s furniture, and I think if I mentioned these things to Donna she might panic, she can be hysterical. No, I haven’t said anything. That’s why I’m here. I decided to ask you first.’

  Horace lifts his funereal eyes and rests them on Georgie. ‘Have you considered the possibility,’ he asks, ‘that you might be imagining things?’

  Her answer is swift. She puts him straight. ‘I am definitely not that sort of person. I have even, in my time, been called insensitive.’

  Is Horace even listening? Still staring in his hang-dog way, he advises in all seriousness, ‘Perhaps it might be wiser if you went back to London.’

  ‘So you think all this is in my head,’ Georgie bridles, ‘and that I am losing my marbles?’

  His answer is slow and ponderous. ‘No, not quite. I think it’s difficult for anyone to come to terms with somewhere as unique as this from the sort of life you have obviously been used to. This solitary existence could well affect you, I certainly don’t believe you are making anything up. Strange things do happen in the country, but you appear to have lumped all sorts of little incidents together and associated them with one man, the figure you saw on the hill.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Georgie, ‘that’s true. I have. So you’re saying that all these events could be unconnected?’

  ‘And that most of them are just the sort of silly, odd occurrences that happen every day. When you lead a sociable, busy life, like yours, you don’t notice them. But now there’s time to sit and think.’

  ‘It’s incredible what the effects can do. OK, I give you that a stranger could have been passing through and that Stephen, for some reason, kept a doll and a child’s make-up case in his woodshed. They might even belong to Donna, the girl is such a puzzle. I even give you the unlikely possibility that the fire could have started on its own. But how about the paint? It was blood, Horace, dammit, and I know how unbelievable that might sound, but I know without doubt, it was blood.’

  ‘A bird could have flown in your window that night. It could have wounded itself while trying to escape, banging against the window. It could have left a mess on the table…’

  Georgie, exasperated, cries, ‘But there was no blood anywhere else in the room. My God, I looked, I checked.’

  ‘Or a rodent. There are rats in the country, you know.’

  Why is he denying the truth? To protect her? To make her feel better? There is nothing more annoying than this. ‘What? A wounded rat? A wounded rat managed to climb onto my table, not leaving a trace anywhere else, and stagger about in the paint for a while before wiping its feet and retreating?’

  Horace remains patient. ‘I am merely attempting to j
ustify…’

  ‘But there isn’t an answer, Horace, is there? That’s what’s so alarming. There really is no reasonable answer.’ Georgie looks at him sadly, they exchange gloomy glances. ‘Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps I should go back to London.’

  He raises melancholic eyebrows which force hairy question marks on his forehead. ‘I think that is probably the answer.’

  ‘But I have nowhere to go in London.’ Georgie gives a tired shrug. ‘My flat is let. I would have to find somewhere else and start over again.’

  ‘That sounds like an excuse to me, not an insurmountable problem.’

  But there’s another reason. ‘I really don’t want to leave the cottage to go to seed again, empty for another winter. The damp would soon break through and destroy all the work we’ve done.’

  ‘I’d be happy to take care of the cottage. I could light the odd fire, if that’s what you wanted.’ The poor man sounds so terribly weary.

  ‘I challenged myself to stay here. I told myself I could do it. There are important reasons why I need to be on my own.’ She is not prepared to delve any further into her own personal problems. She does not want Wooton-Coney to know what drove her here, or to realize who she is.

  ‘You have to make your own decision,’ says Horace, over noises from the kitchen, the preparatory sounds of Nancy’s return. ‘Of course. But my advice to you is to leave.’

  His words are laden with foreboding and gloom.

  They go through the familiar performance with the hostess trolley and Nancy’s excitement at catering for that rare event, a visitor. This time she sits beside Georgie and shows her some precious catalogues. They encompass everything, from children’s toys to bathroom suites, from underwear to garden sheds. ‘I am a special, treasured customer,’ she says, scurrying off to find the letters where the customer’s name is printed in a slot. ‘Dear Mrs Horsefield,’ she reads her favourite out to Georgie. ‘We know how proud you will be to know you have been awarded our silver shield, a shield only ever presented to those customers whose patronage we particularly treasure.’ And Nancy holds up a cardboard shield she has carefully covered with cling film. ‘I am determined to get the gold shield one day,’ she tells Georgie excitedly while Horace pours the tea.