“What did you call it?” asked Martha in surprise.
“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to call it that. It’s the proper name for the cottage,” explained Mary. “I know Rob Mountford calls it Hawthorn Cottage – it’s a prettier name for a holiday let than Eyrie Farm. It’s called after the nests though, in the tall trees at the back – you know, meaning the nest of a bird of prey – e-y-r-i-e, not the other one.”
“God, it’s still not a very nice name when you say it out loud. Think we’ll stick to the prettier one.”
“You’re dead right. Well, I’m glad you’re coping up there by yourself . . . only . . .”
“Only what?” said Martha. “We’re doing great, aren’t we, Ruby-Doo? The weather’s been amazing, Ruby loves it and everything’s gone really well for us so far.”
“That’s good. It’s just . . . well . . . a wee thing like you up there on your own with a little baby . . .”
Martha saw that her face was worried, and her words sounded as if she were trying to say something other than what she meant.
“If you need any help at all,” continued Mary, “then just let me know.”
“Thanks, Mary,” replied Martha, touched by the sincerity of her offer, if a little puzzled by what she couldn’t read in her face. “Why don’t you call up sometime if you’re passing? We could do with a bit of company, couldn’t we, Rubes? And to be honest, I’d like to show the place off a bit!”
Mary’s face grew very animated at the invitation. “Oh, could I? I’d love to see it – I mean, it’s always been a bit of a ruin and no one would really go near it before . . . well, it was most likely dangerous, wasn’t it? I’ll definitely take you up on that sometime soon.”
“Done. Now, I’d better let you get back to work and get this madam home for her lunch and hopefully a nice long snooze so I can do some writing out in the garden – I feel I absolutely must make the most of this weather.”
“You’re right – forecast says it’s to break at the weekend. Then it’ll be back in your wellies up at Eyrie Farm – sorry! – Hawthorn Cottage,” laughed Mary.
Martha pushed the buggy down the slope toward the road with a wave. “See you tomorrow, Mary!”
Fortified by a perfect afternoon – a long session with her unicorn story in the shade while Ruby snoozed, followed by a simple salad for dinner with a chilled glass of locally made lemonade – Martha decided that it was time to take Mary’s advice and move Ruby to her own room.
The little girl kicked her legs in the air and watched from the safety of her mother’s bed, as Martha dragged the cot gently across the landing and stood it in the centre of the opposite room. Ruby’s changing unit was pulled under the window and the small bedside table that was the home of the thermometer was placed at the head of the cot, near the chimney-breast.
Martha had decorated the walls with framed photographs that she had taken herself – some bright green acorns, pink and purple gerbera daisies in an earthenware pot, Ruby herself, close up and grinning at four months. On the chimney-breast itself she hung a huge black-and-white picture that Sue had taken – Martha holding Ruby above her head as the baby beamed at the camera. Sue had it framed as a moving gift and Martha loved how it was the centre of the room.
The little bedroom was inviting by the time Martha had arranged everything and popped Hugo in at the head of the cot to wait for Ruby. By eight, the little girl had joined him and was sound asleep, her soother discarded by her face as was her habit. Martha felt reassured as she saw how peaceful she was. The room was dark with the blackout blind pulled and Ruby’s little nightlight cast rotating stars and moons around the walls.
Martha was grateful for the peace and quiet. She hadn’t before spent time at the dining table so she took that day’s newspaper, closed over the folding partition between the dining room and the kitchen and sat down at the huge antique table that filled the small space. She realised that she hadn’t read a newspaper since the previous week and soon lost herself in a feature article about stressed working mums juggling the nine to five along with their children, and she allowed herself to feel very smug.
She was disturbed by a sound from above her, from Ruby’s room. She was used to the house settling at night-time, old houses did – even new houses did it – but this sound was for all the world like a footstep just inside the door of Ruby’s room. It was loud enough to unsettle her and she glanced up at the ceiling uneasily before returning to her newspaper.
There it was again, another creak that sounded like a footstep. Martha sat back in her seat and listened, rationalising what she was hearing. She had never sat in this room in the evening time before, of course, and that was when the old house made its loudest creaks – she’d just never heard them from this angle. She listened again. Of course, she’d been dragging the furniture around as well so there was bound to be some adjustment in these wooden floors. Her shoulders relaxed and she returned to the paper. They tensed up again as quickly, however, when what sounded like another footstep creaked over her head. She shuddered. She knew it was only old floorboards creaking but it really did sound like there was someone creeping into the room, pausing between steps so as not to wake the sleeping baby. “Bloody hell,” she whispered and looked once again at her paper. Another step. She couldn’t concentrate and stood to go upstairs and check on Ruby.
“This is bloody ridiculous,” she said aloud and headed out through the small doorway under the stairs. She paused as she heard another step. She couldn’t help it – she was starting to feel really scared.
She looked upwards toward the landing. She could see nothing, but the last creak had convinced her that there was definitely someone upstairs. She must have left the conservatory door open and someone had got in through the kitchen and down the corridor without her noticing. The front door was definitely locked so the conservatory was the only means of entry. Martha suddenly began to burn with anger instead of fear. Who the hell was in her house?
She looked around frantically for something with which to arm herself. The closest thing to her was the fire extinguisher from beside the front door so she picked it up and, with another glance upwards, started up the stairs.
Her chest grew tight with tension and she held her breath as she silently negotiated the steps on tiptoe. She had no idea what she would do when she confronted whoever had got in. All she knew was that she had to get to Ruby and if whoever was upstairs was intent on harming her baby she felt full sure that if she had to she’d kill them with her bare hands.
Silently, she reached the top step and gingerly paused outside the bedroom door which was ajar. She could see the moons and stars rotating gently around the walls. Raising the fire extinguisher to the level of her face, Martha took a deep breath and pushed the door open as hard as she could.
For a split second everything went blank as a massive surge of adrenalin coursed through her body. Then, nothing. Literally. When she finally registered the room as a whole, Martha saw that there was no one there apart from Ruby who was so soundly asleep that she hadn’t even flinched at the door being pushed open. Martha stood there, stock still, the moons and stars still rotating silently, the only sound her breathing as she panted in the doorway.
Martha swung around. Logically, the intruder now had to be behind her. She charged across the landing – the bathroom – empty – as was her own bedroom. The small box-room was also empty, even the linen cupboard.
She returned to Ruby’s room, unnerved, and checked the room again before pulling the door closed behind her and walking down the stairs. Her legs trembled as she replaced the fire extinguisher and checked over her shoulder again. Still nothing. She made her way back through the kitchen, and out to the conservatory door which she found definitely locked. It gave her some relief to know that the sounds from above had been just creaks after all, but they had sounded so like footsteps.
Martha shivered as she boiled the kettle and made herself a cup of tea which she took u
pstairs and drank sitting up in bed, under the covers but fully clothed, before she tentatively climbed out and undressed. It took all of her willpower to force herself out onto the landing and into the bathroom to clean her teeth, all the while listening for any more sounds from Ruby’s bedroom, or anywhere in the house There was nothing to hear.
She returned for a last look into Ruby’s room and gazed at the sleeping baby, longing to scoop her up in her arms and bring her into her own bed where she could lock them away. With a deep breath, Martha steeled herself. There is no one in the house, she reasoned. We are perfectly safe and you’re imagining things that aren’t there. She crept from Ruby’s room and across the landing, feeling suddenly exhausted from her fright. She climbed into her own bed and turned to sleep, leaving her bedside light on.
Chapter 8
Eyrie Farm,
Shipton Abbey,
Norfolk,
England
April 15th, 1953
Dear Sr Agnes,
I start my letter again with an apology. I have been addressing your letters to Caroline Devlin but of course your name is Sr Agnes now. I am truly sorry. I only realised when my letters arrived back here at Eyrie Farm. It means you won’t have read any of my news so far so I have enclosed the letters with this one – read them in date order and you’ll know what is happening. I promise I’ll address you correctly from now on. I asked Mammy in my last letter what was the best way to address the envelope so that’s why it’s addressed to Sr M Agnes Devlin but please correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t want any more of my letters to go astray. To tell you the truth, I am surprised – and Mammy is too – that they wouldn’t know your lay name at the convent. At least the Reverend Mother would, surely? Mammy thinks that maybe your Reverend Mother doesn’t want you to correspond with me because of my situation here with Marion. She could have opened my letters – Mammy says Reverend Mothers do that sometimes, or the Novice Mistresses do – and of course you are still a novice and they will be guarding you from outside influences.
I start this letter in very bad form, Sr Agnes. Marion is trying my patience and indeed she’d try the patience of a saint, although I think she’s probably tried the patience of your patron saint already with her complete lack of chastity. I should try to be forgiving, like Jesus tells us, but I think that’s very hard at the moment and hopefully writing this letter will calm me down.
In my last letter I told you that Mammy was sending over clothes that belonged to Granny Flynn for me to alter for Marion when she gets bigger. I did my best, Sr Agnes, I truly did, but you know that seamstressing was never my skill. To tell the truth, the clothes were a little old and they were all in black which was all that Granny Flynn wore after Granda Flynn died. Marion didn’t like any of them. I told her that she didn’t need to like them, that no one would be seeing her until after the baby was born and then she could burn the clothes if she wanted as she wouldn’t have to hide herself any more.
What she did then was nearly a mortal sin. She leaped up from the chair by the fire and wouldn’t calm herself down. She picked up the scissors that I’d been using to sew and didn’t she start to cut up the clothes I was making for her! I was trying to pull them away and she was holding them out of my reach and waving the scissors around. I thought she’d stab me stone dead, so I did, with the way she was holding the sharp scissors. But worse than that! She ripped one dress clean through the middle and then took the scissors and held it over her belly and, God forgive her, threatened to stab herself! “I’ll rip my belly open,” she said, “and cut this babby out and burn it on the fire!” I started to cry – I’ll tell you that I didn’t know what to do!
When she’s been like this before at home I’ve always called Daddy or Mammy and they’ve taken care of it, but here I was, alone with her, begging her not to hurt the baby or herself. I know that to kill herself would be a mortal sin, but what kind of sin would it be to kill the baby when it’s still in her before it’s baptised and freed from sin?
I told her to calm down and pray to the Baby Jesus not to be so angry, and that her penance would be over soon. Oh, Sr Agnes, that made her even more cross and didn’t she go flying out of the house without a coat on her and hopped onto the bike – my bike I’ve come to think of it, even though Mr Mountford said it was for both of us to share. I ran down the lane after her but she wouldn’t stop when I called her and she went out onto the road. To make matters worse, what was she wearing only her nightdress still! I was so worried about her, thinking she’d be frozen to the bone, and what if the baby was harmed, or if she fell off the bike or a motor car came along and she was killed stone dead.
I ran out to the road after her but she was gone – I didn’t know which way she had turned and couldn’t see a thing except the barley fields around us. I ran a little of the way in one direction and a little in another but she was nowhere to be seen. I cried, Caroline, thinking that was the end of her. I started to run to the neighbour’s farm, then changed my mind and turned back and headed toward the village. But then I thought she might be hiding somewhere nearby – that surely she was and her in her nightdress! – and if I caused a great hue and cry I would bring even more shame on us needlessly. In the end I could think of nothing better to do but go back into the cottage and sit by the fire and pray she came back. Daddy would kill me if anything happened to Marion – she’s his pet, his oldest girl, despite all that she’s done.
I sat there for two hours, watching the clock as if that would bring her back. Thank God, I thought, the evenings are a bit longer now. Maybe that’ll save her. I was out of my mind with worry and had my coat on to go and search for her again when I heard, of all things, a motor car pull up outside. Oh dear God, it’s the police, I thought, but it wasn’t. Who was it only Mr Mountford in a big shiny black motor car and Marion sitting in the back of it, with his overcoat on her shoulders, like she was the Queen of England! I nearly died of shame, Caroline, sorry, Sr Agnes.
She sat in the back seat and waited to be helped out of the car, like a lady. If I could have got near to her I’d have dragged her out, baby or not. There were two young lads in the car with her, Mr Mountford’s sons. Robert, who is the same age as me, and Charles Junior who is about fifteen or sixteen. I was mortified and didn’t know where to look. Mr Mountford held the door open for her and she had the nerve to hold her hand out to be helped down from the car. That did it for me! I grabbed her and told her to go in and upstairs as quickly as possible and she did. Just flounced into the house like Lady Muck.
Thank God Mr Mountford said nothing. He just told me to watch her more carefully, got back in his motor car and drove away down the road again, but the two young lads were staring at me out through the back window. I thought I’d pass out with the shame.
And do you think Marion was sorry? Not a bit of it, she went to her bed and barked orders at me to bring her bread and jam, that she was starving and no dinner ready for her. And she the one who hasn’t eaten a dinner in weeks!
It gave me a terrible fright, the whole thing, and though she’s been as good as Marion can be since, it makes me nervous to think what she might do or say. Sometimes I feel like I am the older one – she doesn’t act a bit like she’s nineteen years old, nearly twenty!
Please pray for me that she behaves herself between now and when the baby is born.
With lots of love,
May God be with you,
Lily x
Chapter 9
June 19th
It was the first of many sleepless nights for Martha. Ruby began teething in earnest, waking during the night or early in the morning, crying for her soother, and then losing it five minutes later when she fell back to sleep and it dropped from her mouth, often falling through the bars of the cot. Frequently in the night, Martha would have to find a fresh one for her as her previous one would go missing as she tossed and turned. She had taken to placing a bank of five pacifiers on Ruby’s bedside table at night-time so that they wer
e convenient for her in the dark. Then as Ruby lost them through the night, she’d have a fresh one to hand. Martha also began to empathise with Sue’s hatred for the dawn chorus as morning after morning it kept her awake between trips to Ruby’s room.
The heat, too, was making it difficult to sleep. There had been no let-up in the heat wave and what had been so enjoyable at first was now oppressive and stifling. To top things off, some nights a bizarre and irritating scratching noise had started to come from the direction of the fireplace in Ruby’s room – mice or rats most likely, who went on the move at night-time when the house was quiet. She was relieved to see that there were no signs of mouse-holes or droppings, so obviously the pests weren’t emerging into Ruby’s room. However, Martha couldn’t sleep through the persistent scrabbling when it started, hearing it through the baby monitor.
Finally she decided it was time to call Rob Mountford.
He arrived mid-afternoon on a sticky Thursday. Martha was puréeing food for Ruby in the kitchen, oblivious to the fact that he had come in through the open conservatory door. The hand-blender whizzed noisily, blocking out any sound so she didn’t hear his footsteps behind her. She tutted as she splattered some puréed carrot out onto her arm and, as she turned to reach for a cloth, she saw Rob out of the corner of her eye. She screamed with fright, and dropped the blender, knocking puréed food all over the counter top and onto her clothes. Ruby let out a long wail of fright.
“Jesus!” Martha said and then, spotting that it was her landlord, her hand shot to her mouth. “I’m so sorry,” she said loudly. “My God but you gave me a terrible fright. Oh, I’m sorry, Ruby.” She bent to pick up the little girl whose eyes were fixed on the huge shape of the stranger inside the doorway.
Rob Mountford looked mortified. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I knocked but you didn’t hear me.”
The Dead Summer Page 5