by Lulu Taylor
It was hard for Emily to find the time to do the research she longed to devote herself to when she had to look after the children. There was still no sign of Tom and no message from him. He was probably still sleeping off whatever had knocked him out so comprehensively.
In the end, desperate for some time to herself, she parked the children in front of one of their favourite films and closed the study curtains against the glorious day outside.
Bad mother. But just this once . . . I have to get some free time.
At the table, she bent over her computer, following search terms and directions to web pages as she trailed Catherine Few back through the years. She had tried this before, when she’d first learned of her bequest, but she hadn’t applied the kind of rigour she now did.
I have to think laterally. I can’t just stop when I seem to hit a dead end.
The search term ‘Catherine Few’ brought up so little. So she tried again, typing in ‘Ralph Few’ instead. This was a richer source of exploration and she soon found herself on a trail that delivered tiny snippets of information, leading her from web page to web page, some useless or incomprehensible, others giving her just a little piece more. Eventually she found a download of an old sales catalogue that included works by Ralph Few. There was an artist’s biography too; just a few lines but it included his birth and death dates, and where he had been born. That will help. She scrolled through the pages of the catalogue until she found some of Ralph’s pictures. They were beautiful – vibrant and striking. Most were of men but there were a few of women too. Emily stopped suddenly and gasped. She was looking at a portrait of a girl in a dark overcoat against a stormy sky, with dark hair, grey eyes and a determined chin. It was titled ‘Catherine’.
Catherine!
Was it a coincidence? A different Catherine altogether?
Emily stared at the picture on her screen, her heart pounding. No, it must be the real Catherine – and she’s nothing like the picture on my wall in the sitting room.
Her eye was caught by a small explanation under the picture’s title. It read: ‘This is believed to be a portrait of the artist’s sister.’
Emily read it over two or three times. His sister? But that’s impossible . . . isn’t it? She was his wife. Or . . .
Her mind began to whir. She stopped looking at the screen and gazed unseeingly into the garden as the possibilities began to flood into her mind. After a while she stood up and said, ‘That’s it! That’s it! I’ve got it, I’m sure I have.’ She sat down and began to write an email as fast as she could.
Cameron, I’ve got it. They swapped identities. It wasn’t Cressida who arrived in Australia – it was Catherine! It’s the only answer. I’m sure of it. Call me when you can and we can discuss it.
She pressed ‘send’ and sat back, triumphant. She had solved the mystery. But what an amazing story it was. If she was right, then the Catherine Few who had lived here all these years was not Catherine at all but her aunt Cressida. Emily got up and went through to the sitting room, where the portrait hung over the fireplace. She gazed up at it as though trying to read the truth in those lucid brown eyes.
So Cressida, is that what you and Ralph did? You took on his sister’s identity and pretended to be his wife? But why? Did your family disapprove of him so much? Why couldn’t you have simply married him as he was and become Cressida Few? And why send Catherine to Australia disguised as you?
She stared at the pink, slightly parted lips, as though they might suddenly move and begin to tell her the truth. Emily felt obscurely frustrated. The mystery was only half resolved. She might now know that Cressida had taken on Catherine’s identity but she had no idea of why. A thought crossed her mind and she hurried back to her computer, to the open web page. Then she picked up the telephone to make a call.
‘Yes, you’re quite right,’ the man’s voice on the other end of the telephone said in a rather quavering tone. ‘I did compile the catalogue for the sale that included Ralph Few’s work. Goodness me, that was a long time ago.’
‘That’s wonderful news. I don’t know if you’ll be able to help me as it was so long ago, but one of the portraits was titled “Catherine” and you had it down as the artist’s sister, rather than his wife. Why was that?’
The man sounded surprised. ‘It was because his wife told me that the portrait was of the sister. She brought the paintings to us to sell, you see. The artist was dead by then. She was also Catherine Few, but the portrait was most certainly not of her. She told me that it was an early work done of his sister but that she was now dead. I remember it quite distinctly because his wife was such a striking woman. And her air of sadness struck me at the time. Yes, Catherine Few. I never forgot her. The work sold well too.’ The old man on the other end of the line sighed. Then said, ‘I’m sorry, will you excuse me? Someone has come into the shop. Give me your number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.’
‘Of course.’ Emily recited her telephone number. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you.’
When the old man had rung off, she sat back in her chair thinking hard. I refuse to believe that it’s a coincidence that his sister was called Catherine and that’s the name Cressida took on. Because it was certainly Cressida who sold those paintings. I’ve never been more sure of anything. Another thought struck her. But Cressida must have become an artist herself. She must have painted those landscapes, the ones with all the snow.
Emily stood up, eager to look again at all the paintings. If they were really by her aunt, then they had a deeper, more emotional significance for her.
She went to go to the door when the telephone rang. Stopping, she scooped it up to answer it. ‘Hello?’
She’d expected the quavery tones of the art dealer so she was surprised when it was a woman’s voice on the other end.
‘Emily?’
It was a voice she knew and yet it was hard to place it at first. It was so full of emotion, so suffused with a bubbling joy, that it was quite unfamiliar.
‘Yes?’
‘Emily, it’s Diana. I had to ring you at once. You have to know. It’s Will! He’s . . . Oh Emily! He’s woken up! He’s come out of his coma! Isn’t it marvellous news?’
When Tom arrived an hour later, he found all the doors locked. He pounded at the back door.
‘Emily, are you there? Open up.’
Emily heard it from some place within her dazed brain. She was sitting at the kitchen table, a blanket around her shoulders to stop the shivering. She got up and went to the back door, checking first that it was Tom, then unbolted it.
‘Tom,’ she said in a dull voice.
‘Christ, Em, what is it?’ There was concern all over his face. ‘What the hell’s happened? Where are the kids?’
‘In the study, watching telly.’ She looked in the direction of the passage. ‘They’re fine but I need to get them their supper soon. They’ve been in there most of the afternoon.’
‘Okay, I’ll do that.’ He led her back to the table. ‘But what’s happened?’ He looked down at the table, a worried expression on his face. He picked up the kitchen knife that was lying there. ‘And what’s this doing here, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Tom . . .’ she whispered and began to shake again. ‘It’s Will.’
‘Will?’
She nodded, her eyes wide. ‘Diana called. He’s out of his coma. He’s woken up.’ The fear began to possess her, a vile sickness, everything she had felt in her nightmares. She saw Will’s eyes flicking open, green and malevolent. She saw him twisting and getting out of his hospital bed with one thought on his mind. To find her. To kill her. To take the children. She began to sob. ‘What am I going to do?’
Tom wrapped her in his arms. ‘Hey, don’t be scared. I’m here. I’ll look after you.’
She sobbed wildly for a few minutes, managing to pant out words into his chest. ‘I . . . I got away . . . we’re safe here . . . and now . . . everything I’ve done, all I’ve built without him . . . he’s going to
come and tear it down and . . . destroy us!’
‘Hey, Emily, why are you so frightened?’ Tom pulled away, and gazed at her searchingly. ‘What is it? This is more than Will waking up. You’re fucking terrified! You’ve got a bloody knife! What did he do, Emily?’ Tom’s voice took on a commanding tone. ‘Tell me what he did.’
‘He . . . He . . .’ Even now the words were so hard to say. She had told no one. No one knew. But she had to explain what happened if she was going to protect the children. ‘He ran the car off the road on purpose,’ she said, and at once she felt a shuddering relief that the words were out. ‘He wanted to kill us both. It was an attempt at murder-suicide because of what he’d done, the way he’d ruined us.’
An appalled look crossed Tom’s face. ‘Christ! He did that?’
She nodded. ‘I haven’t been able to say it before now because . . . I just couldn’t. It’s too terrible.’
Tom’s expression hardened and his blue eyes turned icy. ‘It’s evil. It’s sheer bloody evil.’ He got up and began to pace about, his face serious. ‘This is much more serious than I ever understood. It’s in deeper than I suspected.’
She was shaking again. Was Tom going to respond in his strange new way? Was he going to start talking about demons again? I don’t need that, she wanted to shout. I need help – real help in the real world!
‘What did Diana say?’ demanded Tom, turning to face her.
‘Not much really. She said he’s woken up and they’re making arrangements to move him out of the intensive care unit. She said he was doing well, really well.’ Nausea swirled around her stomach again. ‘I don’t know what that means. I couldn’t take it all in. She wants me to go down, take the children to see him.’ She gazed up at Tom, agonised. ‘I don’t know how I can! I thought I’d never have to see him again, or face him after what he did. I’ve put him out of my mind, I’ve started to get better. Oh Tom!’ She began to heave soundless, heavy sobs of sheer terror. ‘He’s going to come here and take it all away!’ Her voice stuttered into silence and tears poured down her cheeks.
‘We’ll stop him, don’t worry,’ Tom said firmly. ‘Listen, you’ll be fine. Don’t worry about your knife and locking the doors. He won’t be coming here any time soon, I promise. And I’m right nearby. You can always reach me if you need me. I had no idea what he’d done. I have to get some advice on this. Listen, I’m going back to the cottage, okay? I want to make some calls. I’ll be back later to check on you. Now, calm down and look after the children. Just be completely normal. We’re going to be fine, I promise.’
She nodded, trying to keep calm. She knew rationally that there was no way a man who had just woken from a coma of some months was going to jump in a car and drive up here, but that did nothing to damp down the horrible fear pounding in her chest. ‘Are you going to leave me alone?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Just for a while. You’ll be all right, I promise.’ Tom turned to stare her in the face. ‘I’m doing what’s best for you, you need to believe that. We have to sort this out once and for all.’
It took all her strength to cook a simple supper for the children and act as normally as she could around them. They didn’t seem to notice anything as she put their pasta in front of them, helped them eat, gave them fruit and yoghurt and then wiped them up and took them upstairs. After a while, behaving normally began to calm her. She could almost believe that things were just the same as they ever were as they all cuddled up on Emily’s bed for stories. She read them more than usual, not wanting to lose the comfort of their small, warm bodies, and she finished on Peter Rabbit before she took them into their rooms and tucked them up for the night. She went in to Carrie last, kneeling down by the little bed to kiss her and stroke her head and talk about their day.
‘Goodnight, darling,’ she whispered as she got up to leave.
‘Mummy, Mummy . . .’ Carrie looked up at her with solemn eyes. ‘I have to tell you something.’ She reached out a hand to Emily and pulled her back down to her level.
‘What is it?’ She turned her head so that Carrie could whisper into her ear.
‘Mummy . . .’ – the voice came soft and sweet – ‘stay away from Mr McGregor’s garden. It’s dangerous. Do you promise?’
A wave of sadness and fear crashed over her. Her eyes stung with tears. ‘Yes, darling. I promise,’ she whispered. ‘Goodnight.’
Downstairs she paced about, unable to settle. She poured a glass of wine but it tasted bitter, and she didn’t take more than a sip. She couldn’t even think of eating. All she could do was move around the house, checking the doors and the windows were closed and locked. Her emotions veered between fear – she jumped violently at the slightest sound – and anger. This house had been her safe place, her refuge, the sanctuary that had been given to her when Will had destroyed everything. Here, the nightmares had gone away, and now they were back. She knew with certainty that they would infect her sleep again, and even if they didn’t, she was living a waking nightmare now that she knew Will had woken up.
She stopped in front of the portrait in the sitting room, looking up at the sweet, unchanging face. What do I do, Cressida? Did you ever know fear like this when you lived here? Or should I call you Catherine? The world seemed suddenly more confusing than ever, with its shifting characters. One moment, the woman in the painting was Cressida Fellbridge, then she became Catherine Few. She was a wife, then a sister and then a wife again. She was in December House and in Australia at the same time. Will had been, to all intents and purposes, dead but now he was alive again, resurrected for some awful reason, and she was afraid now. Even Tom, once her rock, had begun to change into someone she didn’t know, someone who had visions, communed with spirits, spoke to the dead, and believed that evil had to be cast out.
I need something I can trust, something I can rely on.
She stared at the portrait for another moment, and then went to the phone.
James arrived ten minutes after she called him and one look at her face was enough. He enfolded her in his arms, hugging her closely to him, and she found herself in the position she had, very strangely, longed to be in. She was pressed to his warm, firm body, her nose buried in his jumper, engulfed by that sweet yet masculine scent, with the tang of wood-smoke, the faint aroma of citrus and a kind of honeyed musk. The whole thing acted like a sedative on her, and she felt the panic leaving her body almost as though it was expelled with her breath.
‘Emily, what is it? What’s wrong?’ he said gently. ‘You sounded very upset on the phone. I’m worried about you.’
She pressed her cheek to him, her arms around him now, inhaling. I could get addicted to this, she thought hazily.
‘Emily?’ He pulled away from her and looked down, concern in his blue eyes. ‘What is it? Something’s wrong.’
She nodded. ‘Come through.’ They went to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa together. When he was sitting near her, a worried frown creasing his forehead, he said, ‘So?’
‘I’ve had a phone call,’ she said. ‘My husband’s woken up from his coma.’
James took this in. ‘But that’s good news. You must be pleased.’ He looked at the expression on Emily’s face. ‘Aren’t you?’
She gazed down at the cushion she’d pulled onto her knees. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t want him to get better. I wish he was dead.’ She glanced up to see his reaction to this awful, inhuman statement. He’ll hate me now. Despise me. He’ll get up and leave.
James gazed at her without saying anything. His expression did not become outraged or disgusted, as she’d feared it might. ‘I see,’ he said after a while.
‘I know it sounds a terrible thing for a wife to say but’ – she swallowed – ‘he did something very bad. He caused the car accident we were in on purpose, to kill us both. Because he’d taken all our money and gambled it away. He didn’t succeed – we both survived. But . . .’ She looked at him, and then turned her eyes away, biting her lip.
&nbs
p; ‘No wonder you felt that then,’ he said in a steady voice. ‘Who could blame you? I don’t think anyone would feel any differently. He did a wicked and cowardly thing. It takes a while to recover from someone treating you like that, if you ever do. I think you’ve been very brave, Emily. You’ve sorted out your life and brought your children here and started again. It takes courage and resolution to make that happen.’
‘But . . .’ She closed her eyes. ‘It wasn’t like that. You see, he’d changed before that. For months beforehand, I knew there was something wrong, and I did nothing about it. He became so frightening; he wasn’t the Will I’d married at all. Or maybe he’d been like that all along and I’d never seen it. But he got worse, whatever it was. He was angry all the time, obsessed with work; I couldn’t do anything right; the children couldn’t do anything right either . . . and I thought that if I was just a good enough wife, then I could fix it. I tried to be better and better but the harder I tried, the angrier he got, and the more I seemed to fail. He found fault with everything. He started . . .’ She gulped and stopped herself. She couldn’t quite tell everything. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know that we weren’t the perfect family any more, and that Will was losing it. I couldn’t admit to myself that everything was going wrong and that I’d have to start taking everything apart.’ She was trembling again. ‘So you see, the crash was my fault too. I didn’t tell anyone or do anything until it was too late and he tried to kill us. And after that, I couldn’t bear to say it, or speak it aloud, because everyone would know what I’d done. And they’d know what he was. They’d think we were both monsters. Maybe . . . maybe they’d even take the children away.’
James look appalled. He reached over and took her hand. ‘Emily, you can’t blame yourself! It sounds like Will was having some kind of breakdown; you can’t be responsible for that.’
She ran a hand through her hair and over her forehead in despair. ‘But I was responsible for myself and for the children. I risked all of it, I risked their futures!’