The Memory of Midnight

by Pamela Hartshorne

  Tess studied her image. He’d caught her as she stood alone, gazing up at the cathedral. Her arms were tight around her, and the tendons in her neck stood out, but there was something ethereal about her profile against the massive stone, something about the angles of her face and the contrast of lights and textures that made the picture beautiful and oddly powerful.

  ‘I don’t look very happy,’ she said.

  ‘No.’ Luke took the camera back, looked at the image again with a frown. ‘You look lonely.’ He glanced up at her, his grey eyes uncomfortably keen.

  In spite of herself, Tess flushed. Why did loneliness always feel so humiliating?

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, avoiding his unspoken question.

  He patted his camera. ‘I’ve got a job later. Taking pictures of some civic party at the Guildhall. I’ve only got a few more books to put back in Richard’s study, but I’ll do that tomorrow. I’m just killing time for now. This is the morning Dad’s carers come, and he likes to grumble to them about me, so I clear out whether I’ve got a job or not . . . Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

  Caught unawares by his abrupt question, Tess opened her mouth to tell him that he was talking nonsense and that she was absolutely fine. She meant to say that. She was quite sure that she was going to say that, that the words were already formed on her tongue, but instead she heard herself say, ‘I’m scared.’

  Luke didn’t tell her that she was being silly, or chivvy her into cheering up the way Vanessa would have done. His eyes were fixed on her face. ‘What of?’ he asked.

  ‘Something’s happening to me.’ Tess couldn’t look at him. She kept her gaze fixed on the carved stonework behind his shoulder. Part of her was appalled that she had admitted her fear, but it was a relief to be able to tell someone the truth, and Luke felt safe. He had listened before, and he would listen again. ‘Something I don’t understand and I don’t seem to be able to control. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared,’ she said again.

  ‘Let’s go and have a coffee,’ said Luke, touching her arm. ‘There’s a quiet place just round the corner. You can tell me about it there.’

  ‘All right.’ Anything was better than going back to the flat where Nell – or Ralph – might be waiting for her.

  ‘We’ll go upstairs,’ Luke said when they got to the coffee shop in Goodramgate. ‘It’ll be quieter up there.’

  Tess climbed the narrow stairs, already regretting that she had told Luke as much as she had. What if he thought she was crazy? But she could hardly turn round and run out. He really would think she was crazy then.

  She sat at a table and reached for the menu to disguise her discomfort, sucking in a sharp breath at the white-hot searing sensation in her fingers as they closed around the laminated sheet. Luke swung his camera bag to the floor and pulled out the chair opposite. ‘I often come here,’ he said. ‘The coffee’s good and they do great bacon butties.’

  An oppressive sense of familiarity was beginning to nag at Tess’s senses. ‘I’ve been here before,’ she said.

  ‘Really? I don’t remember what was here before. I don’t think it was a cafe.’

  ‘It was a parlour,’ Tess said and it felt as if the words were being dragged out of her mouth. ‘Elizabeth Hutchinson’s parlour.’

  Luke pursed his lips. ‘Elizabeth Hutchinson? I don’t remember her.’

  ‘It was panelled.’ Without realizing it, Tess’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘There are new painted cloths on the wall. Elizabeth is very proud of them. Ralph imported them from Italy, no less, and made the Hutchinsons a gift of them. Elizabeth thinks Ralph is so generous.’

  She saw Elizabeth looking at her taffeta doublet and her slashed sleeves. A roll at her hips set her skirts fashionably wide. Her rebato ruff was dyed blue and sat stiffly up from her collar, while a purse of red silk and a crystal looking glass hung from her girdle. A necklace glimmered at her throat and jewels trembled in her ears.

  ‘She thinks I am the luckiest woman in York.’

  ‘Who does?’

  The voice was unfamiliar, distant. She didn’t answer. She was looking beyond him now, at the embroidered cushions on the window seat, at the little table, at the carpet on the wainscot chest . . . oh, sweet Jesù, the chest! It was not as big as the chest in the great chamber she shared with Ralph, but terror crouched inside it anyway.

  She jerked her eyes away but it was too late. Ralph had seen her notice the chest. His gaze flicked between it and her face, and he smiled, showing his teeth. Elizabeth looked on enviously. She wished her husband would treat her the way Ralph Maskewe treated Nell.

  It did not take Ralph long to discover what Nell feared the most. He had found the perfect punishment for her, and it pleased him. In public he was the most doting of husbands. He showered Nell with jewels and gifts, and boasted of her beauty. In private he corrected her for the slightest transgression. Sometimes she smiled too widely; sometimes not widely enough. Sometimes he chastised her for turning her head away so that she didn’t have to meet his eyes; sometimes for staring at him. The slightest hesitation could provoke him to a fury. Choosing to wear one of the presents he had given her rather than another could make his eyes blank with rage.

  Four months she had been married, and already Nell was expert in the signs that she had done something wrong. There was always something wrong, because if there wasn’t, Ralph would not be able to punish her in the great bed at night, and if he couldn’t punish her, he couldn’t get hard enough to get his satisfaction with her.

  In the chamber was a long chest, heavily carved, bigger even than the one in the closet. Ralph opened it one night barely a week after they were wed, and without thinking, Nell flinched.

  Immediately, he was alert to the possibilities. She corrected herself straight away and stood perfectly still, but Ralph was like a cat at a mouse hole, scenting its victim, gleaming with anticipation.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked her.

  ‘Nothing.’

  But he was looking between her and the chest and the bone-white teeth showed in a smile of pure understanding. ‘You are frightened of being shut in the chest,’ he said, nodding, pleased to have a riddle solved so easily. ‘That day you climbed in as a child, that has marked you.’

  ‘No,’ said Nell, knowing she must not show him any weakness, but he knew anyway. He sensed it. He had a gift for it.

  ‘Prove it,’ he said.

  ‘There is no need.’ Nell moved away, pretending disinterest. She picked up her hairbrush and began brushing out her hair, hoping that he could not see how her hands were shaking.

  Ralph wasn’t fooled by her nonchalance. ‘If you are not afraid, get in the chest.’

  Her heart was ramming into her throat. The jabs, the slaps, the pinches, the blows . . . she could bear those if she had to. But this she could not bear. To lie in the stifling darkness; to feel the blackness press down on her. She would not be able to breathe. She would die, and wretched as her life was with him, Nell was not ready to die.

  ‘It was you that day, wasn’t it?’ The words were out of her mouth before she realized. She lowered the brush, turned to face him.

  He didn’t even try to pretend that he didn’t know what she was talking about. He laughed. ‘You were such a reckless little thing. You had no right to go in the closet and you knew it, didn’t you? I watched you tiptoe in. I could not resist. The ledger was there, just heavy enough to stop you getting out. I imagined you in there, realizing too late what a mistake you had made.’ He chuckled, as if remembering the antics of a puppy. ‘Such a pretty little thing you were, but you only ever had eyes for Tom.’

  His face changed at the mention of Tom. ‘It was always Tom, wasn’t it?’ he said savagely.

  ‘Tom would not have trapped me in a box,’ she said, her voice quavering in spite of her efforts to keep it steady.

  ‘That is because Tom has no imagination. He has no idea of how exquisitely we feel when we are at the edge of our capabi
lities. Can you tell me you do not appreciate the pleasure more when the pain is past?’

  ‘You were not in the box,’ she pointed out. ‘I was frightened. I couldn’t breathe.’

  ‘That is the whole point!’ he cried. ‘Was not that first lungful of air the sweetest breath you ever drew?’

  Nell was backing away from him. ‘I was a child,’ she said even as she wondered why she was trying to reason with him.

  He laughed, a high titter that made her skin prickle with disgust. ‘You were old enough to know that you didn’t like me. You didn’t even try to like me.’ His voice was pettish now. ‘You deserved to be punished. So sweet you were, insisting on taking Tom’s punishment for him! Your little hand outstretched . . . how those lashes must have stung!’

  ‘They did,’ said Nell, hoping that she could distract him from the chest now. She was edging her way towards the door. If he tried to make her get in the chest, she would run. She would scream for the servants. Janet slept above. She would come and help her mistress.

  ‘Get in the chest.’ Ralph’s voice was silky smooth. He was watching her, coming at the door from the other side of the chamber. He knows, she thought. He knows. ‘Show me that you are not afraid.’

  ‘Ralph – husband – do not make me do this.’ To her dismay, Nell heard her voice tremble.

  ‘You lied to me, didn’t you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes, you lied. You are afraid. I told you before not to lie to me, Nell.’

  Nell dropped the brush and whirled for the door. The latch was in her hand when Ralph dragged her back and knocked her with the back of his hand clear across the room. She banged her head against the floor as she landed, and she lay, stunned and helpless, as he stood over her and dragged her up.

  ‘No . . .’ she moaned. ‘No, please no . . .’

  ‘You lied to me and I won’t have it,’ he said, twisting her hair in his hand until she sobbed with the pain of it. With his other hand, he scooped the clothes out of the chest to make room for her.

  Nell struggled then. She opened her mouth to scream and shout, but he banged her head again on the edge of the chest until it rang. Then he was bundling her into the chest and slamming down the lid, trapping her in the blackness where terror licked its greedy lips and reached for her.

  Nell screamed and screamed as she hammered frantically on the lid. Ralph must be sitting on it. There was no air. She had to have air!

  ‘If you scream, I will not let you out,’ Ralph said conversationally, and at the same time she heard the sound of knocking on the chamber door. ‘Master? Mistress? Are you all right? We heard shouting.’

  ‘Go back to bed,’ Ralph shouted. ‘Your mistress was having a nightmare.’

  ‘Help me!’ Nell gasped but she was weakening, and they did not hear. The blackness was swallowing her, chomping at her like a vagrant on a snatched pie, and the chest had turned into an abyss. She was falling into it, twisting and turning in the terror, and just when she was about to smash into the bottom of it, the lid was wrenched open, and Ralph was staring down at her with affection in his eyes.

  ‘Poor little Nell,’ he said as she sucked air into her raw throat, too rigid with fear to even move. ‘You don’t like it, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was hoarse.

  ‘Then you must never lie to me again. Come.’ Almost tenderly, he lifted her out of the chest and laid her on the floor, pushing up her shift so he could have his way with her. He pumped briskly, elated by his victory, and Nell lay, legs splayed, utterly defeated, the tears running silently down her cheeks.

  After that, Ralph only had to look at the chest to make her do whatever he wanted. She was bruised and battered the next day, and he insisted she lie abed. He had forgotten himself so far as to hit her face and a great yellowy black bruise blossomed on her cheek. She told Janet that she fell and hit her face on the chest, and Janet seemed to believe her. Why should she do otherwise? Ralph was hovering attentively, making sure that wine and delicacies were brought to tempt her appetite. He was always charming with the servants, who blushed and fluttered whenever he teased them. They thought he adored her.

  So when Janet exclaimed at her bruise, all Ralph had to do was flick a glance at the chest, and Nell looked at Janet. ‘I hope I did not disturb you last night, Janet,’ she said obediently. ‘Such a foolish dream I had.’

  And that was that.

  The Hutchinsons’ chest was all it took to bring back the bitter memory. Nell could feel Ralph’s smile like a smear. In spite of herself, she glanced back at the chest, but there was something odd about it. It was rippling, and she blinked at it again, certain she must be imagining it. But no, it was shifting, changing shape, and now it was a round table with two strange straight-backed chairs on either side. What was happening? She looked at the others to see if they had noticed, but Elizabeth had gone. John Hutchinson had gone too, and so had Ralph. In their place was a hatless man with keen eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  ‘Who is Ralph?’ he asked.

  ‘Ralph is my husband,’ she whispered fearfully. She felt disconnected from everything, as if she were floating above the room, looking down at herself, except it wasn’t her. It was an older woman with cropped dark hair and peculiar clothes. She wore no cap, no gown, and her face was haunted.

  ‘Tess?’ said the man.

  Tess? Tess. She was Tess. Tess slammed back into her body and she jerked back in the chair, her eyes wide and shocked, her hands flat on the table to steady herself.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Luke. ‘Just breathe.’

  Breathe. A good idea. Tess drew in a breath, let it out slowly. In, out, in, out, while her racing pulse slowed. A waitress was standing by the table and Luke was talking to her, but Tess just kept her eyes on her throbbing hands and concentrated on making each breath slower and deeper than the last.

  ‘I’ve ordered you a latte,’ said Luke when the waitress had gone. He leant forward and covered her hands with his own. His touch was warm and incredibly comforting. ‘Are you okay?’

  He knew. Tess nodded and moistened her lips. ‘How long was I . . . like that?’

  ‘Not long. A few moments. You were looking round the room and you started to talk about Ralph. It was as if you were there, but not there at the same time.’ His smile was a little crooked. ‘I don’t mind telling you, the hairs went up on the back of my neck! What happened?’

  ‘You won’t believe me.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’ he asked reasonably.

  ‘Because I hardly know whether I believe it myself. Everything I’ve ever studied tells me that it’s impossible, that I don’t believe it, but it’s real – it’s happening.’ In spite of the pain, she twisted her hands together on the tabletop and looked at Luke. ‘But if it’s not real, I’m losing my mind, and that scares me even more.’

  ‘Tell me,’ he said.

  So she did. She told him everything, from that first memory of hiding in the chest in Mr Maskewe’s closet to making love with Tom by the Foss, and her eyes slid away from his then as she remembered how she and Luke had also made love with the same awkwardness and exhilaration and giddy pleasure.

  Luke didn’t interrupt her. He didn’t gasp or shake his head or try to tell her that she was talking nonsense. He just listened until the waitress brought their coffee. He waited until she’d gone, and Tess had wrapped her hands around her cup for comfort.

  ‘What’s wrong with your hands?’ he said, noticing her involuntary wince.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Tess wasn’t sorry to be diverted from her story. She took one hand away from the cup to turn it over and look at it. ‘My fingers are sore. It comes and goes. I think it must be some kind of rheumatism. I can’t see anything wrong with them.’

  Luke nodded. ‘Go on then,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me it all.’

  She told him about saying goodbye to Tom. About Ralph and the way he had used her father’s obligation to him. About the wedding and the chest, and the hatred and fear
of Ralph that now settled like a stone in her gut.

  And when she had finished, her face was burning with shame at how easily Ralph had vanquished her spirit.

  ‘Tess, it wasn’t you,’ said Luke.

  ‘It feels as if it was me,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. I started off talking about Nell because I wanted to make her something separate from me, but I ended up talking about what I did and what I feel.’

  She sounded crazy. Maybe she was crazy. But she had proof, didn’t she?

  The cup rattled against the saucer as she put it down, eager to show Luke that she wasn’t making the whole thing up. ‘I’ve still got the bruises from last night,’ she said, pulling her sleeve up her arm to show him where Ralph had pinched and twisted her tender flesh. Only that morning her breasts and the insides of her arms had been covered with livid purple bruises, but now she stared in disbelief at her smooth skin.

  ‘I don’t understand . . .’ Frantically, she pulled up her other sleeve, but that arm was as unblemished as the other. ‘They’ve gone,’ she said blankly. ‘They were there this morning, and now they’ve gone.’

  Slowly, she raised her eyes to Luke. ‘What’s happening to me?’

  He looked back at her thoughtfully. ‘What do you think is happening?’

  ‘I think I’m regressing. I think I’m possessed and that Nell is taking over my mind.’ There, she had said it. Tess was simultaneously relieved and terrified, and a tide of colour rose in her face.

  ‘Why are you blushing?’

  ‘Because I can’t believe I just said that!’ Tess dropped her head into her hands and dragged her fingers through her hair, biting back another wince. Her hair. She had had it cut when she left Martin, and now it bounced choppily around her face. Nell’s hair fell to her waist, and it was a rippling brown, while hers was dark. They were completely different.

  ‘It’s embarrassing,’ she muttered after a moment. ‘Trained historical researchers don’t run around seeing ghosts or talking about travelling through time. It’s crazy. I’m crazy.’