‘Marie is talking to your Aunty Marjorie,’ I whispered.
‘She’s dead.’
‘I know that, but it makes no difference to Marie. She has powers beyond the veil.’
‘It’s because she’s from up North. They’re all strange once you get past Stoke-on-Trent. She’s obviously deluded,’ replied Will, a southerner of the dyed-in-the-wool variety. He turned over and went straight back to sleep. I gave him a sharp kick.
‘Wake up, Will. WILL! What are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m going to go back to sleep, and I suggest you do the same,’ said Will. ‘Ghosts aren’t real, so don’t start worrying about them as well.’
For an hour or more I lay in bed and thought about Marie in the room next door. Shutting my eyes tightly didn’t make the image of her talking to dead relatives go away, it was just another unsettling thing to happen in the already long list of peculiar events that this last year had brought.
Despite Will’s matter of fact dismissal of the spirit world, I wasn’t convinced. In all our conversations we had never mentioned Marjorie to Marie; we had had more urgent ground to cover. Marjorie had lived at the farm with Will’s uncle for thirty happy years. And she had been, as Marie said, very friendly and chatty.
Over breakfast, Marie went into more detail about her visions from the night before.
‘A bad man came on a black horse,’ she informed us.
‘Would you like more porridge, Vernon?’ I bustled about.
‘No thanks, pet.’
‘A double murder, Dervla,’ Marie said.
I paused, the Marmite-covered toast hovering in front of my mouth.
‘It happened on this farm hundreds of years ago,’ she continued.
There was absolutely no way she could have known about this. We already knew about the murder, originally from rumours told by inebriated locals at the pub, then from a chat with the land agent – who’d had a word with the estate historian. but we still couldn’t be sure if it had taken place at our house or in the cottage down the road. All we’d been told was there was apparently a preserved arm of the murderer in the Tower of London, a warning that they had used in those days, we guessed, to put off other murderers! The victims were said to have been pushed down a well. It had given us the heebie-jeebies when we discovered one in our garden, so Will had filled it in with the help of Nathan, the apprentice, whom he had dangled tantalisingly over the hole on a flimsy looking rope.
‘Down the well, he pushed the bodies.’ Marie’s eyes went skyward. My daughter’s eyes widened.
It was quite some time before Sasha would sleep in her room on her own.
All the house had a wonderful feeling, apart from the stairs leading to the bedrooms, and the backhouse where the washing machine lived. Sasha and I would skit through as quickly as possible, partly because we both felt it was uncomfortable to be out there, but also because of the mice.
‘Mummy, is someone watching us?’
‘No darling,’ I replied. ‘Only the mice are looking at us washing our pants and socks. When there’s a missing sock, the mice have taken it to make a nest.’
‘Like the tooth fairy?’
‘Yes, that’s it. The fairies take your teeth and make them into dentures for when you’re old, that’s why you have to give your teeth up.’
As I sat at the office desk, Marie came and stood behind me; she rested her hands on my shoulders, touched my head, stroked my hair gently. A shiver went through me; it was the first time she had touched me in a tender way.
I served the lunch later that day, trying to make it look easy. All that was missing was my green tomato chutney, so I popped back into the kitchen, leaving Marie, Vernon, Sash and Will to battle with some bread and cheese. When I re-appeared, Vernon fell upon the chutney eagerly.
‘Did you make this, Dervla?’ he asked.
‘Hmm, well, “make” could be a bit of an exaggeration. I chucked it all together, put it in the Rayburn for eight hours and hoped for the best.’
‘It looks delicious,’ he said, turning to Marie. ‘Just like my mother used to make.’ He looked back at me. ‘Marie has never made me a single jar of jam or chutney, and we been together over twenty year.’
Marie snorted. Vernon took a huge spoonful, scraping it round the Kilner jar, savouring the action. He opened his mouth wide, leaned forward slightly and popped the spoon in, casting Marie a look. This was all very enthusiastic on Vernon’s part – he took another huge spoonful, but during only his second mouthful he began to choke, then to swallow frantically again and again, and then he had to do more swallowing than is good for a man. Next, his face twisted slightly to the side, Marie jumped up.
‘Oh my God, he’s having a stroke,’ she said.
‘Should we put him in the recovery position?’ asked Will.
‘Get him some water, love, quick!’ Marie shouted. Will was up from his chair and thumping Vernon on the back with hefty blacksmith blows between the shoulder blades.
‘God, that vinegar is strong, Dervla. What did you use – Parazone?’ Vernon said, regaining his composure.
‘Blimey, Diz, I didn’t think you were going to serve that stuff. She took the enamel of the Rayburn when she made that, Vernon,’ said Will. ‘We had to get the darn thing repaired.’
My culinary reputation in doubt, I went back to the kitchen, and thought about the next meal. I had spent ages the day before preparing what was really only a shepherd’s pie. With my mind not on the job, I had been surprised at how well it had turned out. It was during the re-heating process that something must have gone wrong. A hormonal reaction from Daphne perhaps or maybe because it hadn’t been prepared with enough love. Now the pie was sagging in the middle and looked more than a little disappointed.
I set about the washing up while Marie and Sasha planned the afternoon’s shopping expedition. Will prepared to retire to the safety of his forge.
‘I can’t face a shopping trip,’ he said, heaving on his overalls.
‘Nor can I,’ I said, stacking the pots into the dishwasher.
Marie, Vernon, Sasha, and I spent the afternoon visiting the city of Bath. It was a fair drive, but Vernon had hinted that he would like to go there, after having seen its retail potential featured in one of his many favourite daytime TV programmes. I explained to him, that there was much more to Bath than shops and the odd auction house and, when we arrived, suggested a trip to the Roman Baths for starters.
‘I’m not bothered this time, pet, but I could really do wi’ a cuppa,’ he said. ‘As long as there’s some shops for Marie…’
Sasha and Marie disappeared into department stores, while Vernon and I took refuge from the shops and the rain in a Georgian-style teashop. We nibbled at Bath buns whilst our coats, slung over the backs of our chairs, steamed in front of the tiny coal fire. Condensation misted up the small leaded window panes, but not so much that we didn’t notice Sasha and Marie returning from the shops with an array of huge bags and neat little boxes.
Marie burst through the door, her entrance disrupting the polite mutterings of the Bath tourists. A stern-looking man and his wife glanced over disapprovingly.
‘Oh, we’ve had a fab time,’ she said. ‘Sash, show your mam what we got.’
Sasha hoisted herself onto the chair next to me, her eyes falling upon the bun, which sat at eye level on the small table.
The man and his wife had plenty more to stare at as Marie started to empty the contents of the shopping bags over our tea table. I hastily moved the cups and plates as bras, pants and assorted clothing descended onto the white linen tablecloth.
‘Look, Mummy! Look at what Marie Dishcloth got for me: it’s a skirt.’
‘Wow, will you actually wear it?’ I asked. My daughter had been in combats and muted, camouflage colours for some months.
‘Yes! Can I change
into it now?’
‘Okay, come on then,’ I replied, getting up from the table. I cast a look over my shoulder.
‘Order yourself tea and cake, Marie, my treat.’
Sasha went into the Ladies with her remaining bag of shopping, whilst I waited by the door. After some time, she emerged. The new skirt was purple and just above the knee, and there were tights too, pink and woolly. Sasha had worn her Converse daps to Bath. Emerald green – the overall look was alarming.
‘Gosh, you look amazing!’
‘Do I?’ she asked.
Abandoning her discarded camouflage clothes in the cubicle, she walked back out to the tearoom where she stared at herself in the mirror that took up the entire back wall. Then she gave a little twirl and ran over to Marie.
Thank goodness, the camouflage phase was over.
Chapter 28
Bleak January
‘I’ve always hated January,’ said Will, resting his hand on Merlin’s head. ‘Something awful always happens in January, but this is bloody terrible. I don’t know what we’ll do without him.’ Will shifted uncomfortably forward to the front of the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘And we can’t tell Sash yet, she’s going to be devastated.’
‘How could this be happening to you, mate?’ Will continued, leaning down, burying his face in Merlin’s coat to hide his tears. ‘We’ve taken such care of him, he’s had the best of everything. There never was such a spoiled dog.’
Merlin had been suffering from lupus for several years now. But recently he’d developed a kidney problem and the rapid decline in his health that followed had only taken a few weeks. He was on the maximum dose of the two types of drugs the vet had prescribed, so I knew that soon, we would have to let him go.
‘I won’t have him suffering,’ Will said. ‘As much as it’ll break our hearts, I won’t let my lovely Merlin feel any pain.’
‘Of course not, neither of us would let that happen.’
‘How long’s he got, do they know?’ asked Will.
‘A few months, at the most.’
Will left the room, but it was no good going after him; when he was upset or ill he always wanted to be alone. I knelt down in front of Merlin who was, as ever, resplendent. He gave my hand a lick and grizzled to show he wanted a fuss. He could have as much fuss as he wanted.
‘Oh, Merlin,’ I said.
‘I can’t stand it, Dizzy, I have to go for a drive,’ Will called.
‘Be careful, Will. It’s not a great idea to drive if you’re upset.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said, coming back from the kitchen. He crashed about trying to find his keys, then he was out of the front door. After a few minutes the truck started up.
‘Come on, Merlin.’
I patted the hearth rug and he came to lie next to me, stretching himself out to feel the warmth. Through the tears, I told him how brilliant he was, how very important. The fire spat and hissed as a log shifted in the grate, hinting at the displacement to come. But still the flames danced their light over the room, giving the illusion of a cosy winter ahead.
*
Merlin was put to sleep on a Monday; it was in so many respects a beautiful day, a beautiful day for others. He lay on the front lawn in the June sunshine, soaking the heat into his old and worn bones for the last time. It’s always a long wait when you know the vet is going to end a life. We had been incapable of doing anything else but fussing around Merlin for the last twenty-four hours.
On his last night, he gave up trying to climb the stairs to jump into bed with us. Instead, I brought the comfort downstairs. Together with his other best friend, the little black whippet we had acquired three years before, we kept vigil over our beloved Merlin, snuggling next to each other on one of the larger dog beds, next to the sofa that Merlin had chosen. Wrapped up in a duvet, we watched the eleven-year-old Merlin doze, ready to cover him up with his favourite red woollen blanket should he become cold. Every now and again he’d get up to turn and adjust his uncomfortable self.
*
Summer mornings begin early. On Merlin’s final day, the first sun crept through the crack in the curtains and I heard the birds cheerily calling their bliss as they started a new day. I shut my eyes and tried to hold onto the normality that was the start of another morning, pretending that the terrible thing that was about to happen couldn’t be real. But, of course, everything had already changed.
By the time the sun had reached its highest point, Merlin’s body lay on the grass in the June sunshine, the vet and nurse gone. The little black whippet nuzzled and examined his friend. We let our tears wash over him. Kneeling to stroke and kiss his head, it was unbearable to think of putting Merlin into the ground. I breathed in his smell, kissed him between his ears, and then, pulling my head away, tried to photograph his face with my mind. I thought of the seemingly endless days we’d spent together over the years, Merlin had seen me through some tricky times. Then I covered him in his red woollen blanket, even though he wouldn’t be able to feel its warmth.
I desperately tried to hold onto the feeling of Merlin, but I knew that love would never leave me. I had been blessed that he had accompanied me on part of my journey.
When Will and I finally got up to walk back into the house to make yet more tea, I only got as far as the front door. I felt a sudden rush of joy; Merlin was finally free. It was only then that I knew he had truly gone, that he wasn’t going to follow. The whirlwind of energy, the spirit that we knew as Merlin, had left us.
The little black whippet was miserable. Over the next few days, we watched him closely and noticed that on more than one occasion he took his treats and bones to place them on the spot on the lawn where Merlin had been put to sleep. We knew we would have to get him a friend, but right then it was unbearable to imagine who or what could go even a small way to fill the void.
Chapter 29
Leaving
There was more loss in store for us. It had taken us two years, but we had now, finally, come to terms with the fact that we would have to leave the farm. With the new management brought onto the estate, the general feeling was that the best times were behind us. What had once been a beautiful country estate was starting to resemble a theme park; plastic replaced wood and stone. Apparently, customers liked it that way and the new management team needed to boost visitor numbers. Our once-familiar world had become unfamiliar, corporate. We understood only too well what upset this would bring for local families and staff. Some, like Will’s family, had lived and worked there for generations. There was little compassion for us with our twenty-five-year occupation of the farm. Nor was there much recognition of the time, love and money we had spent. Forgotten were our battles to obtain planning permission to start the forge in the old dairy at a time when farming had become no longer viable. Through all the uncertainties of the past, we had managed to hang onto the farm. We’d been good tenants; we had loved the place like our own.
We wrote letter after letter, only to be ignored and it became apparent that we would never be able to obtain a proper lease on the house. With only four years remaining on the forge, we were extremely vulnerable. Other people’s plans for our home, their visions for the future, were a mystery to us. We couldn’t risk what could happen in the long term.
We tried to turn our hearts to stone, without success. So, in one final desperate attempt, we wrote again to the estate. We asked if they would please consider selling to us. After months of waiting, the reply we received was as expected. Will and I sat opposite each other with the letter between us on our familiar kitchen table.
‘We can afford a decent place of our own now, Diz, and it will be in the country,’ Will said.
Nodding, I pushed back the lump in my throat before trying to speak.
‘Yes, yes, but it won’t be like this. It won’t be like here, with all these memories. Your family has lived in this
house since the 1940s. It won’t be home.’
‘The old estate is gone. They were brilliant to us, but everything changes,’ Will replied. ‘We’ll have to start looking for a place.’
‘But, it’s not just the house,’ I said, feeling desperate. ‘What about the business?’
‘I may have to carry on from here until the four years are up. It will be awful to see someone else living in the house, while Nathan and I are in the forge, but we can’t move it all at once.’
Will, as expected, didn’t let his feelings show. Even though he had lived within two miles of our present home all of his life, first farming the land and then turning the old milking parlour that his uncle had used for thirty years into a forge; even though he and his family were truly a part of the estate – we had to go. We started our search.
Some of the cottages we viewed were in strange locations. One was attached to a deserted pig unit – the house didn’t smell much better than the sties. Then there was the one where the occupants had clearly fallen out in a spectacular fashion with their neighbours.
‘Why the twelve-foot poplar hedge?’ asked Will.
Next was the creepy falling-down house that was up for auction. The previous residents had used it as a location to make porn films.
‘I won’t live here,’ Sasha muttered, and strode off to wait in the car.
There were some beautiful places, but they were next to bypasses.
‘Too near the road,’ we agreed.
There were mill houses, too.
‘You can’t risk the flooding,’ Mum said. We shook our heads.
After viewing an old industrial railway site, complete with ramshackle wrecks of dwellings, that could, with a huge budget and the will of Joan of Arc maybe – just maybe – work, we made our decision.
‘We need another forest home,’ Will said.
In desperation, I rang Marie and asked her if she could please do one of her readings – whether I believed it or not. I needed some help.
Strays and Relations Page 16