Poet's Cottage
Page 19
Gracie turned away abruptly, putting her sunglasses on, and Sadie let the lace curtain fall. She felt terrible that she had hurt her friend by flirting with Gary – but surely Gracie would get over it in time. Gary obviously wasn’t interested in her.
In the shower she thought about the barn dance. Pencubitt might look like a sleepy, idyllic coastal town, but it was beginning to resemble Peyton Place with all its secrets and scandals. Rinsing apple-scented conditioner from her hair, Sadie debated whether to spend the day browsing the local markets and strolling on the beach, or staying home to work on an article on lavender growing in Tasmania for Java magazine.
Betty came downstairs as Sadie was frying bacon and scrambling eggs. ‘That smells lush, Mum. Can I have extra bacon?’ She held out her mobile. ‘Dylan texted me. He wants to meet this afternoon to show me his boat. Can I go? Please?’
Sadie flipped the bacon, caught between relief that Betty’s appetite was so healthy these days and concern about her daughter’s new relationship. Although she knew that Betty could never be fully ‘cured’ of her anorexia, she had begun to hope that those terrible days of watching her daughter deny herself food were well and truly over.
‘I hope you’ll be sensible with this boy,’ she said. ‘Remember not to rush into anything.’ She gave her daughter a meaningful look and Betty rolled her eyes.
‘Not like you last night with that slimy dentist,’ she said cheekily, and Sadie flushed as she handed her daughter a generous serving of bacon and eggs.
A few minutes later, Sadie was gathering her shopping bags, having decided to go to the markets, when Betty said, ‘Mum?’
‘What is it?’ Sadie asked, expecting her daughter to ask for some money.
‘Mum, do you think there’s any chance you might get back together with Dad?’
‘What makes you ask that?’ Sadie said, her heart catching when she saw Betty’s expression. Guilt slammed its fist into her face again.
‘It’s just, he seemed a bit jealous, when you were outside with that slimy tooth-puller last night . . .’
‘He did?’ Sadie shook her head, trying to remember. She had been so embarrassed she had only been able to focus on her own feelings. She paused, unsure of how to proceed, then decided honesty was the best way to go. ‘Even if he was, that doesn’t mean he’s jealous and wants to get back together. Your father is in love with Jackie. He’s told me that several times. I know it’s hard for you, Betty, but you have to accept it. He does still care a lot for me and he loves you more than anything in this world but he’s chosen to make a life with Jackie.’ Damn Jack and his girlfriend for what he had put Betty through. Sadie shouldn’t have to have these conversations with her daughter.
‘Maybe you’re wrong,’ Betty said. ‘He’s been pretty short with Jackie lately. Maybe he’ll get rid of her and come back to us.’
Sadie sighed. How to explain to her idealistic daughter that life didn’t always work out the way you wanted it to? ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ she said as gently as she could. ‘Just know that even though your father and I don’t live together anymore our love for you has never changed.’ Her voice trembled and Betty moved to hug her.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
After her mother had left, looking frail and beautiful at the same time with her vintage Parisian scarf tied around her head and wearing her battered pink Converse sneakers, Betty contemplated what to do with her own morning. She had refused to go to the market, thinking she might enjoy the rare chance to have the house to herself. But once her mother had left, the sky seemed to darken as if a storm was approaching and the house filled with an oppressive feeling.
Betty had thought she might lie on her bed and read Webweaver, but she felt uneasy. Looking around her room, she again felt as though someone had rifled through it. Several times lately she wanted to confide to Sadie that she suspected there had been somebody in the house, but was reluctant to admit her fears in case it upset her mother. She was annoyed with herself: who had heard of anybody being afraid in a house on a Saturday morning? But knowing that Pearl had been murdered in this house brought the past into the present; it was as if the screams of her dying great-grandmother were still embedded in the walls of Poet’s Cottage.
Unable to read, she turned on her laptop to check her blog. No comments. Zowie was obviously too busy to continue baiting her. Zowie, Brad and the St Catherine’s gang already inhabited another lifetime.
I’ve met someone. He’s cool, really beautiful. He’s a fisherman and I’ve become good friends with his sister. She’s really cool too. She’s travelled heaps. She studies belly dancing and has an awesome body. She’s probably the most confident person I’ve ever met. Her brother has been asking about me since I arrived, which is so amazing. I only met him last night at a barn dance. He seems to be interested in me. He kissed me last night and –
Betty chewed her biro as she stared at the screen. Reflecting on Brad and Zowie brought on pricks of guilt about her overreaction to Zowie’s previous email. Having now met Dylan, there was no way Betty wanted to leave Pencubitt. Not only had she worried her father so much that he’d dropped everything and flown to Tasmania, but she had hurt her mother by going behind her back. As much as Betty could clash with her mother, she hated to think she had caused her more distress after the shocker of a year she had already endured.
If only her parents would fall back in love with each other. Why couldn’t life flow smoothly and in the way it was meant to? Jackie was sweet and very pretty, but her parents should be together!
Angry with herself for even attempting to impress her old classmates, she highlighted the text and deleted it. Then a thought struck her – why not try to write her own story? Perhaps she had inherited her mother’s and great-grandmother’s talent for writing. She had always loved English at school. Excitedly, she began planning a story about a girls’ school with angels and zombies for teachers. She was happily plotting an obnoxious schoolgirl (who resembled Zowie) when she was interrupted by a banging noise. What the hell was that? Leaving the laptop open, her heart thumping loudly, she crept downstairs, trying not to make a sound, half prepared to flee back up to her room. The sound seemed to have come from the kitchen. Cursing herself for her fear, she tiptoed into the room and stopped short in astonishment to see the back door open. Living in Sydney had taught Betty to be security conscious from an early age: there was no way she would have gone upstairs without securing the door.
Had the banging noise been Pearl’s ghost trying to get her attention? ‘If this is you, Pearl, go away!’ she whispered. ‘Go to the light or something and leave this house.’ She waited; there seemed to be little difference in the atmosphere of the house, which still felt heavy and oppressive. Betty had read about dead people being trapped between worlds. Perhaps that was the energy she was sensing? Her great-grandmother might be trying to communicate, to reveal the mystery of her final moments – or could she be trying to warn her? She shuddered. Then – a darker thought. In Webweaver Pearl wasn’t depicted as the nicest human being; what if she was haunting the house with some malevolent intent? ‘Get a grip,’ she muttered to herself. She could imagine Zowie’s scorn if she knew Betty was quivering in her kitchen over the possibility that Poet’s Cottage was haunted.
Seeking diversion, she moved to the sink to put the kettle on. Outside there was a loud clap of thunder and it began to rain. Just perfect. Real Hammer Horror weather. She ran water into the kettle then glanced up and screamed in terror. The largest huntsman spider she had ever seen was perched on the wall right beside the tap. She had nearly touched it!
‘What is it? Are you alright?’ Thomasina rushed into the kitchen, her face filled with fear. Shaking, Betty pointed at the spider and Thomasina’s eyes widened.
‘My, that’s a big one,’ she said. ‘She came in with the rain I expect.’
‘Kill it! Can you kill it, please?’ Betty pleaded. ‘It nearly gave me a heart attack.’
Betty put the kitchen table between herself and the spider, peeking through her fingers. ‘Argh! It moved! Hit it with something! I’m going to faint! Kill it!’
‘For the love of Jesus!’ Thomasina snapped. Ignoring Betty’s screams she reached towards the spider and allowed it to crawl onto her gnarled old hand. ‘Come on, Hairy Legs,’ she cooed. ‘Let’s take you outside before the big sook over there smashes you to bits.’
Thomasina walked outside with her arm outstretched and set the spider down gently on a large leaf. She turned back to Betty, now hovering at the door. ‘Looks like you’ve inherited your grandmother’s cowardice. Marguerite always wet her knickers every time she saw a spider or a worm. Well, I pity you!’
Betty had to repress a smile when she remembered how Nannabella had feared all creepy crawlies. Sadie used to worry that her mother would end up poisoning herself with her frequent pest inspections and chemical sprays. It appeared Marguerite had never rid herself of her early phobias.
‘You’re not afraid of them at all?’ she asked her great-aunt.
‘ ’Course not!’ Thomasina snapped. ‘Their bite doesn’t hurt – unlike most people I know. It’s stinking people I don’t like. I’d rather live with a houseful of huntsmans than people.’
Impulsively, Betty asked, ‘Would you like to have a cup of tea with me? The jug’s just boiled.’ She didn’t fancy having to face the kitchen alone.
Thomasina looked surprised. ‘If you like,’ she said slowly. ‘But not in there.’ She jerked her head at Poet’s Cottage.
Betty nodded. After what Thomasina had witnessed in that cellar, it was a miracle she could even live in the back garden.
‘How about you come to my house?’ Thomasina said with a cackle.
Betty understood that her great-aunt had set her some mysterious challenge. ‘Okay, but what sort of tea do you have?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘None of the fancy stuff you’re used to, madam, but it’s a good brew.’ Thomasina marched away, clearly expecting Betty to follow.
Betty followed her aunt through the garden and into the tiny stone house, hoping her tea wasn’t too awful. Somehow she doubted her aunt would be brewing the verbena-lemon blend that she favoured. Most of all, she prayed there were no spiders.
She was out of luck. Several large huntsmans were positioned over doorways and clocks, a fact Thomasina pointed out gleefully. ‘They’re good company and keep the insects down,’ she said.
To Betty’s relief, Thomasina didn’t touch the spiders but busied herself boiling water in her cluttered little kitchen. Betty surveyed the room, which seemed even more interesting than it had on her previous brief visit, as her aunt made tea in a brown teapot. A pile of old magazines lay on the table; one of them was open to a half-completed crossword puzzle. A large sketchpad had beautifully drawn fairies and pixies playing in a garden of gum trees and Australian native flowers, and beside it sat a notebook with what looked like a few lines of a scribbled story. Betty could just make out the title, ‘The Magpie’s Eye’.
‘These drawings are beautiful,’ she exclaimed. ‘And you write, too? You’re a webweaver?’
Thomasina’s face darkened and she shut the notebook. ‘I fiddle to pass the time,’ she said. ‘I’m not a webweaver – stupid term if ever I heard one! Only that sly Birdie Pinkerton could come up with a name like that. I’m not like my mother in any way, shape or form. I hated her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Betty offered. She felt ill at ease. She had never met an adult like Thomasina before. The old woman appeared to have discarded all normal rules of social etiquette and said exactly what she was thinking. As she sipped her tea Betty kept a wary eye on a large huntsman near the kitchen clock. The brew was surprisingly tasty. When she praised it and asked for the blend, her aunt shrugged and said it was just a load of herbs thrown together.
They sat in silence for a few moments while Thomasina studied Betty’s face. ‘You’re a pretty girl. Any boyfriend?’
Betty told her about Dylan, and Thomasina nodded. ‘I think I know of him. Not a bad family. How’s the house treating you?’
Without really knowing how it happened, Betty found herself telling her crotchety, eccentric great-aunt all the things she had been unable to say to her mother: the oppressive feeling in the house, the strange noises late at night as if somebody was walking around, the feeling when she returned to her bedroom that things had been moved. The sensation that she was being watched – and the nightmares she had begun to have. Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words. She told Thomasina about the space-clearing episode and the figure Jackie claimed to have seen in the cellar. She even heard herself describing her horror at finding her mother outside with the dentist and her hopes that her parents would reunite. Then there was the bullying at St Catherine’s and her anorexia, and how she blamed herself for her parents’ break-up. She described what it had been like to grow up in Sydney with Sadie and Marguerite – who both seemed so perfect and close – and under the shadow of Pearl. Marguerite, always so immaculate, forever obsessively cleaning her spotless home. Betty had often noticed how critical Marguerite could be of anything too flamboyant or eccentric. She had never forgotten her grandmother’s disappointed expression when she had dyed her hair cherry red one winter and joked about getting a tattoo. From the few stories Marguerite had shared with Betty, it was obvious she had her mother on a pedestal. How could anybody hope to compete with the legendary Pearl Tatlow? And as little as Pearl had been discussed, her presence seemed to permeate them all, a lingering fragrance from the past, subtly influencing almost every action.
Thomasina sat patiently, sipping her tea, her eyes never leaving Betty’s. When Betty finally paused for breath, she said, ‘Like feeling sorry for yourself, don’t you?’ Before Betty could begin to protest, she added, ‘I’m not saying you weren’t handed a broken-backed snake. Having Marguerite around must have been a trial – but against the odds, your own mother appears to have turned out quite well. You’re clearly a bit of a drama queen and rather too fond of moping around. All that teenage angst – if bloody Mother is still hanging around the house, you’ll soon bore her out of there!’ Seeing Betty’s hurt expression, Thomasina gave her a wry smile. ‘I mean, you’re young and beautiful. You have a nice young man after you and you’re down in the dumps because life hasn’t given you everything you wanted. Well, face it now – it won’t. I know you want your mum and dad to be back together. I’d like to have a wishing chair in my backyard but sometimes life doesn’t give us anything except lemons and a piss in the wind.’ She awkwardly patted Betty’s hand for a moment and then snatched it back as if the contact was too much. ‘Make lemonade!’ she snapped.
Betty dabbed her eyes with a tissue she’d found in her pocket and decided she hated her great-aunt and would never visit her again. But she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Do you think the house is haunted?’
‘Of course I do!’ Thomasina snorted. ‘As if my mother would let go of anything. Especially Poet’s Cottage. Why do you think I won’t go in there unless I have to? Yes, it’s just her style not to leave us in peace.’
Jack’s voice sounded from the house, calling Betty, and she stood up to leave.
‘Anytime you want to visit me, feel free,’ Thomasina said in an offhand way. ‘Don’t bring your mother with you. I don’t want to be overrun with visitors.’
Thomasina was totally mad, Betty thought as she headed towards the house. But she couldn’t help feeling a small stab of pleasure at being invited back. Perhaps she would visit – just once more.
Betty ran in the back door, calling for her father, then stopped at the sound of an old-fashioned jazz song coming from the front room. ‘Dad?’<
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Jack entered the kitchen. ‘There you are, Bets! We let ourselves in; no wonder you couldn’t hear us knocking, playing that music so loudly. I must say it’s a big improvement on Nick Cave.’
Confused, Betty followed him into the dining room, dread curdling in her stomach. Jackie waltzed alone, while the ancient phonogram played ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’ ’. The crackly sound put chills down Betty’s spine.
‘Incredible you got it working again,’ Jack said. ‘Mind you, they knew about quality back then. Most things don’t last six months nowadays.’
‘I didn’t touch it,’ Betty said. ‘I wouldn’t know how to work an antique like that.’
‘Well if you didn’t,’ Jack said, ‘who the bloody hell did?’
In spite of the rain, Sadie was enjoying her time at the local market. She had always liked browsing Rozelle or Paddington markets in Sydney but the Pencubitt markets were a real treasure trove. There were ducks, organic vegetables, DVDs, deer antlers, scented candles, soaps, estate jewellery, hand-sewn and knitted items for sale. In the distance she spotted Simon Parish and his son buying bags of vegetables and she quickly changed direction before he spotted her. An elderly lady was selling exquisite linen, tablecloths and pillowslips trimmed with lace and she paused to examine them. She had chosen a couple of tablecloths when she noticed a pile of old Pencubitt Historical Society magazines on the adjacent stall. Thinking she might be able to use them to work up a local story she bought them all, as well as the tablecloths, then checked her watch – time to head home before Betty left for her date with Dylan.
‘Sadie!’ Wearing a navy and white striped top and denim jeans, Maria grabbed Sadie’s arm. ‘I had a feeling I might bump into you here. Do you have time for a coffee? There’s something I have to talk to you about.’
When Sadie agreed, Maria looked relieved. ‘Let’s head down to the dock so we can get a little privacy. If you want to go and bags a table for us, I’ll get some coffees from the school stall.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not the best brew but any profits support the local school.’