They sat in silence for a while at the bar, Rob sinking a pint of ale. Martha presumed that he would order them a taxi to get home. She then decided it was her turn to try again to make conversation.
“So, Rob, who was it lived in the cottage before it was left derelict?” she asked.
“Not sure,” came the reply.
She was sure that she detected something more behind the response. There was something in the way his eyes shifted to the right as he answered. She decided to probe more. “Mary tells me it was called Eyrie Farm before,” she said. “That could be taken as quite a spooky name, couldn’t it?”
Rob’s eyes shifted again to his right. Martha followed them and saw them directed toward the old lady who had stared at them when they arrived. She was staring at them again and as Martha’s eyes met hers she stood up, resting a crooked, wizened hand on the table to balance herself. She started to move unsteadily toward the bar, shuffling round the table where she had been sitting alone, negotiating her way around the bar stools.
“Right,” said Rob. “Time to go.”
Martha looked back at him as he got off his bar stool and saw that he was deliberately pretending not to see the old lady approaching. She saw, too, that he had taken his keys from his pocket. “You’re going to drive?” she said in disbelief, her attention drawn from the old woman.
“Of course,” he said distractedly and, turning, walked away.
Martha slid off her bar stool. “But you’ve . . .” she started.
She was interrupted by a crackly voice in her ear. “There’s a boy up there,” it said.
Martha turned to see the old lady behind her. She was tiny, even smaller than Martha, her face lined with a thousand creases, her watery eyes sad and blue. She slurred her words when she spoke but Martha could detect a hint of an Irish accent.
“At Eyrie Farm,” she continued.
Martha stared at her, mesmerised by a strange fear, trying to take in every aspect of the ancient face. “What boy?” she asked.
“A little boy,” the old woman said, gesturing as if Martha should know what she was talking about. Her eyes were glazed.
Martha was about to ask her what she meant when she was startled by a bellow from the doorway.
“Come on!” shouted Rob gruffly.
Momentarily stunned by the tone of his voice, Martha scurried after him and, like a scolded child, stepped quickly through the door he held open for her.
In the Land Rover she kicked herself – firstly for allowing herself to even step into a vehicle with someone who was clearly over the limit, secondly for allowing herself to be spoken to like that. She sat in silence, staring out the window, knowing that to ask who the old lady was and what the hell she meant would either get no answer at all or at best an unintelligible grunt. This made her even angrier and she seethed silently while Rob leaned over the wheel, deep in concentration. It was getting harder to see again – the storm had abated while they were in the restaurant but now seemed to be returning and gathering strength as it came.
The short trip back to Hawthorn Cottage was quiet and tense and seemed to take forever. An anxious Martha was relieved to make out the gap in the hedge that was the start of her driveway and relaxed a little as Rob negotiated the turn carefully. She could hear a low rumble of thunder overhead as the cottage came into view. There’s something wrong, thought Martha. Why is it completely dark? A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the scene before her and she shrieked in fright to see a dark figure standing at the bay window of her living room.
“What?” shouted Rob gruffly as he himself jumped and pushed down on the brake suddenly, twisting the wheel sharply to avoid Martha’s own car parked in the drive.
He had barely come to a halt when Martha flung herself out of the door and pelted across the gravel to her front door, fumbling in her bag for the keys as she ran. She had just reached towards the lock when the door swung open and she was greeted by a clearly terrified Alison Stockwell, Ruby crying in her arms.
“Thank God you’re home, Mrs Armstrong!” said Alison.
Martha fumbled to take the crying Ruby from her. “What happened?” she asked, breathlessly. “Is Ruby okay?”
“She’s fine, Mrs Armstrong, but –“
“Why is it dark?” demanded Rob, appearing behind Martha, clearly annoyed and reaching over Martha’s head to flick the hall light-switch on and off.
“I don’t know,” said Alison, her voice trembling. “It went all dark about an hour ago and Ruby was crying and then there was this huge crash from her room – I didn’t know what to do!”
Martha felt herself grow annoyed as Rob charged past her and up the stairs. “Why didn’t you ring me?” she demanded of the teenager.
Alison started to cry fresh tears. “My battery went dead – I don’t know why, it was full when I got here. I couldn’t use the landline with the power gone – I’ve just been trying to keep Ruby calm but I think she’s scared of the dark or something.”
Martha jumped as the lights suddenly came on around her. She could now fully see Alison’s terrified, tear-stained face, white with fear and worry, and instantly felt sorry for her. “You poor thing,” she said. “I’m sorry for shouting.” She put an arm around the teenager’s shoulders. “You must have had an awful fright. Come in and tell me exactly what happened.”
She guided the frightened girl back into the living room where the TV had flickered back into life and the lamplight was warm. Alison shakily sat down on the armchair beside the fireplace and Martha sat on the couch, gently lying Ruby down beside her. Ruby was instantly calmed by the brightness and her mother’s presence and started to play with her feet. She stared across at her baby-sitter.
“Look – she’s calm as anything now so don’t worry about her,” said Martha. “What time did she wake?”
“You see, that’s the thing,” replied Alison, her eyes red-rimmed and wide. “She’s been awake all evening – or at least that’s what it sounded like. I could hear this awful crying coming from her room – terrible sobbing and gasping like she was trying to catch her breath, so I’d run upstairs to get her but when I’d get into her room she’d be sound asleep.”
Martha nodded. “She’s teething. She gets really upset sometimes if her soother falls out but she can sometimes get it back in herself before you get there.”
Alison looked at her in disbelief. “This wasn’t teething pains – I’ve worked with my mum in the crèche and I know what teething pains sound like. This was more like someone was trying to hurt her – it was a screaming and gasping for air sort of crying.”
Martha nodded again. Alison might be used to babies but she was clearly embellishing the story. “So when did she wake up properly then?” she asked patiently. She could hear rumbling and scraping upstairs as Rob did whatever he was doing and she wished he’d stop.
“When the lights went out. She started to cry properly then so I went up to get her. I picked her up to try to comfort her but – well, her room felt funny so I brought her downstairs.”
“What do you mean the room felt funny?” asked Martha, rubbing Ruby’s tummy.
Alison hesitated. “This sounds stupid but like there was someone else in there.”
Martha dismissed the thought. “That was probably static electricity from the storm. It can make you feel all tingly sometimes. Besides, it can be very disconcerting with the blackout blind in that room.”
Alison looked at Martha with a dismissive look of her own. “It was freezing cold up there as well. Much colder than down here. I brought Ruby down to keep her warm as much as anything. Then there was that massive crash from her room – I was too scared to go up to see and my phone wouldn’t work so I just stood at the window and waited . . . it was so dark . . .”
Martha put her hand out to touch the girl’s knee. “I don’t blame you for being scared, you poor thing. Thanks so much for looking after Ruby – you did all the right things.”
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Alison gave a weak smile and looked up as Rob stamped into the room.
“Bloody bugger plaster’s off the wall,” he growled. This time there was no apology for the swear word. “Brought this down with it.” He thrust out his hand which held the smashed frame of the photo of Ruby and Martha that she had hung on the chimney-breast.
Martha took it from him and looked at it in disappointment.
“That was the bang you heard, I reckon, Alison,” he continued. “Power’s fine though – the trip-switch had been flipped. Lightning must have caused a power surge or something. Plaster’s gone where you’ve been hearing that scratching. Whatever’s doing it must be dislodging it or something, I dunno.”
Martha shuddered as if someone had walked over her grave.
“I’ll try to get it sorted for you as soon as I can,” said Rob. “But I’m very busy at the moment. You right there, Alison?”
Martha noticed that he hadn’t once looked her in the eye as he spoke. Alison stood up meekly and followed Rob out into the hall.
“Wait,” said Martha, remembering that Rob was over the limit. “You can’t –”
But he was gone. Alison looked back almost apologetically at Martha and followed him. Still on the sofa with Ruby, Martha heard the door click closed and, as the outside sensor light came on, through the window saw Alison step into the passenger side of the Land Rover and watched as Rob executed a clumsy three-point turn and drove away.
Chapter 11
June 22nd
The sun was beating down again the following afternoon, as if the storm had never happened. A fresher breeze blew through the open door of the conservatory, however, which was a huge relief to Martha whose head was thumping as she lay on the wicker sofa while Ruby thankfully had a long sleep upstairs.
Martha wasn’t hungover from the fine wines at the restaurant but from the half-bottle she had drunk by herself at home after Rob and Alison had left. Ruby had settled to sleep happily in Martha’s bed and then Martha had gone into the other bedroom to survey the damage. It was messy – a pile of rubble lay at the base of the wall where the hearth was encased and some red bricks were exposed. Rob, of course, had made the mess worse by tramping through the rubble, pressing it into the cracks between the beams of the beautiful wooden floor and kicking it far and wide under the cot and over to the changing unit. The unmistakable trail of his dusty footprints was everywhere. Martha scanned the scene and swore under her breath. She’d clean it up tomorrow. She went back downstairs and almost absent-mindedly poured herself a glass from the open wine in the fridge. She was seething still – at the fact Rob must have done a shoddy job in the first place for this damage to happen and at the fact that he had created even more mess for her to clean up. Her thoughts turned to the disastrous date – the way he had spoken to her, to the waitress and the drive home. The deceit in asking her for a drink and then actually taking her for a candlelit meal – the damned presumption of it all. She was annoyed too with Alison and her tales of gasping and screaming. What was she trying to do – frighten the wits out of her?
Martha realised she was dwelling on her anger because if she was angry then she couldn’t give in to what was actually bothering her. The simple fact was, she was scared. All these creaky floorboards, scratching noises, thunder and lightning, Alison’s stories about the room feeling like there was someone else in it. It was ridiculous but it was starting to unnerve her. She poured herself a second glass of wine and looked around the walls of her living room. She wasn’t easily scared but she was finding more and more that Hawthorn Cottage – Eyrie Farm – was putting her on edge.
But as she lay now, her head splitting, in the conservatory, she was more concerned with how awful she felt than with how the house made her feel. She reached her hand out to the pint glass of water on the table beside her and grimaced as she took a mouthful and realised it was warm. With a sigh, she pushed herself off the couch and was about to go into the kitchen when out of the conservatory window she saw the familiar shape of Mary Stockwell heading for the front door.
Martha groaned. She really didn’t want company, especially that of a woman who was undoubtedly going to berate her for leaving her daughter alone with a crotchety baby in a storm and then not paying her. Martha picked up the envelope with Alison’s baby-sitting wages in it, which she’d forgotten to give her the night before, and shuffled toward the front door.
Mary’s face was surprisingly friendly as Martha opened the door.
“Mary, how nice to see you,” said Martha. “Before you say anything, I am so sorry about last night – poor Alison –”
Mary cut her short. “‘Poor Alison’ is fine,” she said quickly. “It was nothing that a four-hour conversation with one of her school pals didn’t sort out.”
Martha noticed she was peering eagerly down the hallway behind her.
“I didn’t come about Alison,” Mary went on. “I came to see how you and Ruby were doing after it all – are you okay?”
Martha looked puzzled as she stood by for Mary to come through. “Us?” she said. “We’re fine – apart from the mess in Ruby’s room and my thumping headache!”
Mary looked relieved as she stepped in. “Oh good,” she said, glancing up the stairs behind Martha’s head. “Whatever happened? All I got from Alison was a rather jumbled tale of gasping babies and collapsing chimneys!”
Martha smiled. “Come and see,” she said and led Mary up the stairs to Ruby’s room, signalling for her to shush so as not to wake the sleeping baby.
Martha opened the door wide and pointed silently at the wall. Only the barest glimpse of exposed red brick was visible. She had tidied up that morning and stood a large picture up against the wall to hide the damage. “I cleaned up what I could,” she whispered. “And that hideous thing was the best I could find to hide the bricks. Neither Dan nor I wanted it from our house but I lost the toss unfortunately – typical where it concerns my marriage, it seems!” Martha grinned, realising she was sounding bitter. “Sorry for griping. But seriously – a giant picture of a hare in a massive white frame!”
Mary laughed softly and crept further into the room, to Martha’s surprise. She silently crossed to the damaged wall and peered behind the picture, then leant it back against the wall and crossed again to the doorway.
“Of course Rob Mountford made a right old mess tramping around in the debris,” continued Martha.
“That’d be Rob alright! I remember him when he was young playing with my neighbours’ kids next door. He was always walking allsorts into the carpet there too – mainly dog or cat allsorts!”
Mary grimaced and Martha wrinkled her nose and laughed.
“I can’t help but be mad at him, though,” she said then. “If he’d just done the wall right in the first place before painting it then none of this would have happened.”
Mary looked puzzled. “That’s what I can’t figure out,” she said. “Big Rob Mountford may be many things but a shoddy workman isn’t one of them. He’s very thorough, and excellent at what he does. His reputation round these parts is second to none. And he put so much into this place – spent a couple of years getting it right so I just can’t see him doing a rubbish plastering job. Anyway – you promised I could have a snoop round – can I take you up on that?”
Martha smiled. “Absolutely,” she said and stretched out her arm. “This way for the guided tour, madam!”
When they had finished viewing the house, Martha made tea and they sat in the conservatory to drink it.
“Robbie’s certainly done a super job on this place,” said Mary admiringly, then added with a smirk, “Speaking of Robbie, how did your romantic meal go?”
“How did you know it was a meal?” asked Martha, aghast. “It was only meant to be a drink and when I got there it was all candlelight and wine! But ‘romantic’ it wasn’t! It was impossible to even talk to him – he had a list of questions he seemed to have learned by rote, and other than t
hat he was monosyllabic!”
“Oh dear, my fault, I think,” said Mary, sipping her tea. “When he called to ask Alison to baby-sit he sort of cornered me and asked me for advice. He was insistent on the surprise table in The Refectory – I couldn’t get him to stick to just the drink. I did, however, advise him to take an interest in what you had to say – ask a few questions and that. Rob was always what you might call literal about things.”
Martha nodded, finally understanding some of the previous night’s events. “Now it’s a bit clearer alright,” she smiled. “He’s not going to get all serious, is he? I’m just out of a really horrible divorce and I can’t even think of a relationship at the moment, no matter how much of a cliché that sounds.”
“I understand completely. Hopefully Rob will too. He can be a nice guy, you know.”
“I know you’ve known him a lot longer than me but I’ve found him a little, well, rude sometimes.”
“You mean arrogant?” smiled Mary.
“That too!” Martha fired back, her face spreading into a grin.
“Oh dear,” sighed Mary. “That’ll be his dad, and his grandad, I suppose. Rob was always told to just go out there and take what he wanted and his forefathers led by example. They were self-made millionaires and I think Robbie was brought up thinking greed was good and all that 80’s stuff. He was a late baby as well which didn’t help.”
“That’s exactly what I thought had happened.”
“It’s not Rob’s fault he’s the way he is,” said Mary. “It was just him and his sister and his dad growing up – his mum died when they were small and she was much younger than his dad. There they were, growing up in that massive house over the far side of town – have you seen it yet?”
Martha shook her head.
The Dead Summer Page 7