The Memory of Midnight

by Pamela Hartshorne

  Hunched forward over the wheel as he peered at house numbers, Luke drove slowly along the street. ‘I think . . . yes, this is it.’ He pulled into the drive and stopped the car in front of an unassuming semi.

  ‘This is where he lives?’

  ‘What were you expecting? A haunted house?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nothing this . . .’ Tess studied the house through the windscreen. It had a neat front garden, with standard roses lining the path up to a blue front door. The windows were criss-crossed with mock-Tudor panes and discreetly screened with lacy net curtains. ‘Nothing this ordinary,’ she said at last.

  ‘Ambrose seems very ordinary when you meet him. His name’s the weirdest thing about him, I reckon.’ Luke glanced at Tess. ‘You’ve been very quiet for the last few miles. Nervous?’

  ‘A bit.’ She wound down the window to let in some air. It was hot in the car but she wasn’t ready to get out just yet and put herself in the hands of Ambrose Pennington.

  She’d liked the drive across the flat Lincolnshire fenland. The sky was wider than in York and the sense of space liberating. For miles, it seemed, they had been able to see Lincoln’s cathedral perched atop a ridge that jutted into the horizon. For Tess, it had been a time of limbo, and she had felt curiously weightless sitting next to Luke as the old car rattled along. In motion, there was nothing she could do, but the closer they got to the city, the faster her reservations came crowding back.

  ‘I haven’t – what should I call it? – slipped . . . for two weeks now.’ It had been an enormous relief to be able to reassure Vanessa, who had taken to studying her with an anxious frown, that she was fine.

  And she was. She thought she was anyway. There had been no disturbing phone calls, no glimpses of men who might or might not have been Martin in the summer holiday crowds. Once or twice, the doorbell had rung, and she had answered the intercom to find that nobody was there, but it was an easy mistake to press the wrong button, after all.

  There had been no Nell either. Tess still ached for the baby she had lost. That Nell had lost, she had to keep reminding herself. She held onto Oscar so tightly now that he wriggled to get away.

  The desperate scraping and scratching in the wall still rasped into her dreams, but Tess was almost used to it now, just as she was used to the pain in her fingers that came and went without warning. She wanted to relax, but she didn’t quite dare.

  It had taken Luke some time to set up the meeting with Ambrose Pennington. Several times Tess had picked up the phone to ask Luke to cancel it, only to change her mind at the last minute. That very morning when she and Luke dropped Oscar off with her disapproving mother, she had been tempted to suggest they forget the whole thing and go to the coast instead, but in the end she had decided to go through with it.

  ‘I’d like to think it means Nell has finished with me, but I can feel she’s still there,’ she told Luke. ‘She’s waiting for something, and she’s . . . frustrated with me. I wish I could see some kind of pattern and then I could understand it better, but I can’t. I don’t know why I should slip three times in one day, and then not at all for a whole week. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Maybe it depends on you being in a certain place, or a certain mood,’ said Luke. ‘Maybe that makes you more vulnerable to her.’

  Tess made a face. ‘It’s possible. But then why didn’t I slip when Vanessa started talking about calling Martin and I was beginning to panic?’

  ‘Maybe you’re stronger than you think you are,’ said Luke.

  A tiny silence fell. Tess looked through the windscreen at the house and sighed. She was very conscious of Luke beside her. ‘I wish . . . things could just be normal,’ she said. Whatever normal was. She could hardly remember any more. ‘I want to be in Lincoln to look at the castle and the cathedral, not talk to some oddly named man I’ve never met about regression.’

  ‘We can go into the city if you want. You don’t have to see Ambrose. He said he’d understand if you decided against it at the last minute.’

  ‘No, I need to.’ Tess sucked in a breath. ‘This has been going on long enough. I need to take control. I need to deal with Nell, and then I need to deal with Martin. This Ambrose seems to be my best bet.’

  ‘Okay.’ Luke pulled the key out of the ignition. ‘But if you change your mind at any point, you just need to say, and we’ll go.’

  Tess started to get out, then turned back, one hand on the door handle. ‘I’m glad you’re going to be with me, Luke.’ She hesitated. ‘You won’t let him do anything funny, will you?’

  Luke’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘No, I won’t do that. Don’t worry, I’ll stay with you,’ he said gruffly, and then, as if against his will, he reached out and grazed a knuckle down the side of her cheek with a twisted smile. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you,’ he said. ‘You can count on it.’

  Ambrose Pennington was a short, very dapper man in his sixties. He wore beige slacks and a blue jumper over a checked shirt and a tie. His hands were small and he had a soft, unassuming voice. Shaking his hand, Tess was unimpressed. This was her best hope of dealing with the situation? She had expected someone with a bit more presence.

  She exchanged a glance with Luke as Ambrose led them into the living room. It had been extended into a small conservatory at the back of the house. Beyond it Tess could see a small, well-tended garden.

  Gingerly, she sat on the edge of a beige armchair which was part of a matching suite. Like everything else about the house and its owner, it was inoffensive, but there was nothing to inspire confidence either.

  ‘You’re having some doubts,’ Ambrose said in a mild voice as he took a seat opposite her. ‘About me or about what you’re doing here?’

  Tess hesitated. She didn’t want to be rude.

  He smiled. ‘Be honest!’

  ‘All right.’ She drew a breath, slowly let it out. ‘Both, I think.’

  ‘I’m not here to persuade you to believe anything you don’t already believe,’ said Ambrose. ‘But I can’t help you unless you trust me.’

  She could see that. After all, what did she have to lose? If Ambrose was a fake, nothing would happen. And if he wasn’t . . . She shot a glance at Luke, who had taken a seat near the conservatory, the usual ferocious look on his face, and she remembered what he had said. I won’t let anything happen to you. Her cheek prickled with heat still where he had touched it.

  Deliberately, she made her shoulders relax.

  ‘What exactly are you going to do?’ she asked Ambrose.

  ‘Nothing you don’t want to do, I promise you,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me about Nell? Luke’s already told me something of your story, but it would be good to hear it in your own words.’

  ‘From the beginning?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘From whenever you think it began.’

  Tess began, haltingly at first, and then more fluently. Like Luke, Ambrose didn’t interrupt other than to ask an occasional question to make sure that he was following. He steepled his fingers under his bottom lip and rubbed them slowly from side to side as he listened. It ought to have been annoying, but his gaze was steady and Tess was insensibly reassured.

  ‘Remarkable,’ he said when she had finished. ‘It’s rare to come across a past life experienced so coherently.’

  ‘Do . . . do you think Nell is real? Or is she just some part of my subconscious?’

  Ambrose didn’t answer immediately. His palms were still pressed together and he rested his mouth on the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘Nell is real to you, and it’s clear that she is a powerful force.’

  ‘What does she want from me?’

  ‘I think you’re in a better position to answer that than I am.’

  ‘She wants me to relive her life,’ Tess said slowly.

  Ambrose nodded. ‘I think that is clear. Perhaps she wants you not to make the mistakes that she made, but, of course, you can’t do that. You are bound o
n her path, and you can’t change it.’

  ‘But what if that path ends badly?’ Luke put in.

  ‘Indeed. If Nell is so set on reliving her experience, I think it’s safe to assume that it did end badly. This could be very dangerous for you, Tess. You’ve told me that you woke with bruises once, that you have had pain that lasts into the present. What if Nell is more badly hurt? What if she dies? I’m not trying to alarm you, but you need to understand how serious a situation you may be dealing with.’

  Tess swallowed. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘If you will allow me to hypnotize you, I think the best thing would be for me to try and make contact with Nell. Whether she is a ghost or whether she exists deep in your subconscious, it doesn’t matter. If we can find out what she is searching for, maybe then we can decide what to do.’

  ‘I’ve never been hypnotized.’ Tess bit her lip. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to relax enough.’

  ‘Let’s just try, shall we?’

  She shifted uneasily in the armchair. ‘What should I do? Lie down and close my eyes?’

  ‘You can lie down if you think you’d be more comfortable, otherwise stay where you are.’

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ she decided after a moment. She shuffled back against the cushions and laid her arms along the rests as she closed her eyes.

  ‘Okay,’ she said.

  ‘Good.’ She strained to hear if Ambrose was moving, but the only sound was the tick of a clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Are you comfortable, Tess?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said determinedly.

  ‘In that case I want you to keep your eyes closed and think about a time you were really happy.’

  Tess’s face puckered with effort. She wanted to relax, but her mind kept jumping feverishly between being swung up in her father’s arms to lying in the sand dunes with Luke, and then to Oscar. The first time she had held him in her arms. No, later, when he was a toddler, learning to walk. She remembered how he had let go of the chair, how he had wavered for a moment before staggering into her outstretched hands.

  But then the door had opened and Martin had come in.

  Her eyes snapped open. ‘It’s not working!’

  ‘Let’s not force it.’ Ambrose was unfazed. ‘Luke, would you mind making some tea? A warm drink can help relaxation.’

  ‘I think I should stay with Tess.’

  ‘It’s okay, Luke.’ Tess forced a smile. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Ambrose turned back to Tess as Luke left the room reluctantly, and his eyes followed hers to the mirror above the mantelpiece. It had an ornately carved wooden frame. ‘I see you’re looking at my mirror,’ he said casually. ‘It’s unusual, isn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm,’ said Tess, but she couldn’t focus on the frame properly. Her eyes were screwed up as if the light bouncing off the mirror was too bright.

  ‘Is the light bothering you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, and it was. All of a sudden the glare had gone and instead the mirror seemed to give off a beckoning luminosity.

  Ambrose kept his voice quiet and easy. ‘Can you see what’s in the mirror?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ she said slowly. She could, but the image was indistinct, as if the surface was dull and smudged. She peered closer.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see my face,’ she said, unaware of her voice thickening and broadening. She was puzzled by the question. What else would she see when she looked in a glass?

  ‘How do you look?’

  ‘I look tired. I look hot.’ She wiped her cheeks with her fingers. Her face was shiny with sweat. It had been a long, hot summer, and beneath her cap, her hair was sticking to her scalp.

  She hadn’t slept for what felt like weeks. Nell lowered the glass with a sigh and dropped it onto the coverlet beside her. What use in looking at her reflection? It would not change her puffy eyes or the ankles swollen like two bolsters. Those days she was like some lardy sow weighed down by her dugs.

  But it was worth it. Nell laid her hands over her belly. It was high and tight as a drum, and she smiled and winced as she felt the babe kick. It was as restless as she was these long days. Part of her longed to have the baby and be rid of this great weight that pinned her to the bed and made the simplest of tasks an effort, but part of her dreaded it too. Not for the pain, though she knew it would be great, but because once the child was born, there would be nothing to keep Ralph away from her again.

  This time when she told Ralph she was with child, she didn’t say anything about being careful, but it seemed that he remembered how she lost the earlier babe and he had managed to keep his fists to himself. Thus far anyway. He slept in his closet, and Nell was glad of it.

  The prospect of a child had made her strong, and she moved around the house with a new confidence. She saw Ralph’s jaw working in frustration when he looked at her sometimes, but his desire for a son was great and he stayed away from her. Nell didn’t know where he went at night, and she didn’t want to know. He would be inflicting his warped desires on some woman, she doubted not, and, like the last time, she was sorry for it, but she had to keep her baby safe.

  It could not be long now. Grimacing at another vigorous kick, Nell hauled herself up against the bolsters. She had been resting as Janet told her she must, and as Ralph insisted, and for once she was not sorry to do as he said. But now she was bored and restless. Fine as it was, her linen smock itched and stuck to her skin and she had to relieve herself again.

  Once getting out of bed was easy. She didn’t even have to think about pushing back the coverlet and swinging her legs to the floor. Now she had to roll herself awkwardly over to the edge and struggle to sit upright before sliding to the floor. She used the chamber pot and once more dragged herself to her feet.

  Unaware of the open window only a few inches away, a fly was trapped against the casement, bumping and buzzing frantically as it attempted to beat its way through the glass. Taking pity on its wretchedness, Nell cupped her hands around it and edged it towards the air. It vibrated unpleasantly against her palms and she wrinkled her nose, glad to let it go as soon as it caught the scent of freedom.

  The fly disappeared into the heat, leaving a turgid silence behind it. Nell brushed the feel of it from her fingers and pushed the window as far as it would go in the hope of catching some air, but there was no breeze to be found. Below in the street, work went on; the shutters were open, but folk walked slowly as if it were an effort to push themselves through the thick air. It was too hot for conversation. Even the bells ringing the hour sounded muffled. It reminded Nell of the day she had played hide-and-seek with Tom.

  Every now and then, like now, the memory of him slipped past the guard she had put on her memory and stabbed her, dagger quick, dagger sharp, and she flinched away from it.

  She turned away from the casement. Enough. She had a babe to think of now. There had been too much resting, too much time to think. She needed a simple task to keep her mind occupied.

  When she went down to the kitchen, the maids Mary and Eliza were sitting in the yard, fanning themselves, eyes closed. Their heads were tilted back, their throats slick with sweat. Their legs were splayed and they had hoisted their skirts to their knees. She should reprove them, Nell knew, but how could she when she and Alice had done the same on hot days? She didn’t have the heart to make them go back inside into the stifling kitchen.

  The linen was back from the laundresses who worked in St George’s Close. The baskets were full and still sitting near the kitchen door. She would fold the linen and put it away, Nell decided. It would be a nice restful job. She would ask Janet to carry the baskets up to the parlour and pull the cloth up since Nell could no longer bend to reach it. They would do it together. Janet wasn’t giddy like the two maids. Her stolid competence was soothing.

  Where was Janet? Nell stood at the bottom of the stairs, pressing her hands to her aching back.

  And that was when she heard it.

  Chapter Fourteen


  ‘What do you hear?’

  Oddly, the voice breaking into her head did not startle her. She didn’t recognize it, but it seemed natural to answer as she looked up the stairs towards the hall.

  ‘A noise,’ she said.

  ‘What sort of noise?’

  A stifled grunting. A gasping, quickly smothered. Disquiet tickled the base of her spine. ‘It’s the kind of noise I make when Ralph wants me to be quiet. The noise he makes when he is rutting.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to pretend that I haven’t heard it. I want to turn away and go and sit with Eliza and Mary out in the yard. But I can’t.’

  The stairs had never seemed as steep or as long. Without meaning to, Nell found herself moving softly, silently.

  Step by step, she pulled herself up and memory came slicing again, swift as a knife: fisting her skirts and running up the stairs, while Tom counted to a hundred in the yard. She couldn’t imagine now being able to run at all, let alone that quickly or that easily. Before, she had jumped over the step that creaked. This time, there was no way to avoid it. Her weight bore down on it and the silence was fractured with a great groan of straining wood.

  When she was on the next step, Nell paused. Listened.

  Nothing.

  Had she imagined those noises?

  Still, she crept on, up to the top where she stood in the dim hall and looked around, just as she had done that day. The wainscot was smooth and polished now. Instead of new wood, Nell could smell the herbs she had directed Mary to strew on the floor only that morning: fleabane and wormwood, lavender and pennyroyal, lady’s bedstraw and wild thyme. She had dried the herbs herself, and kept them in great jars in her still room.

  Nell was thinking about herbs because she didn’t want to think about what was in the closet. Once the door had stood ajar, beckoning her in, but today it was firmly closed.

  Very quietly, she moved across the hall, and put her ear to the door. Inside, she could hear grunting and slapping, sharp cries of pain quickly stifled.