The Dead Summer

by Helen Moorhouse

  “Bloody hell,” said Mary quietly so that the children inside wouldn’t hear. “That’s nasty.”

  Martha shook her head. “Long story. And I’d better be off. Actually, I’m going to head down to the village for a bit – I fancy breakfast in the tearooms.”

  “Mmmm . . . I’d love to join you . . . D’you think Ruby would mind helping Aneta keep an eye on these others for an hour or so?”

  The two women peered in the door where two toddlers ambled around, examining their surroundings. Kai had a dummy firmly planted in his mouth. The plastic rim was in the design of a huge set of teeth which gave him the appearance of having a grisly grown-up grin. Ella was busy humming a tune to herself and swinging a bib round and round absent-mindedly, like a propeller.

  “Aw bless,” said Martha sweetly, followed by “Bye then!” and she pretended to scarper.

  They both laughed and Mary turned with Ruby in her arms to head inside.

  “Actually, Mary,” said Martha, “how about some supper later, at the cottage? Nothing fancy – just some pasta and salad but I’d really like the company.”

  Mary smiled. “That sounds like bliss! An evening away from stroppy teenagers who are hot, bored and waiting for exam results? What time do you want me?”

  “About sixish would be lovely,” said Martha.

  “See you then!” said Mary and then turned suddenly to make a grab for Kai who was swinging from the door handle.

  Martha smiled and turned toward the village, feeling a flood of relief that she wouldn’t be alone that evening.

  Martha sipped a glass of wine as she prepared supper. She traced a finger down the condensation on her glass. It was yet another stifling evening after a day of thundery downpours. She felt a bead of sweat trickle down the back of her strapless sundress.

  She was jumpy as she prepared the food and was trying her best not to let her mind wander. There was a strange feeling about the house. Logically, it could only be a combination of the humidity and the events of the previous day but that didn’t stop her having to suddenly look over her shoulder more than once, sure that someone was watching her from the doorway. The trill of the doorbell made her jump out of her skin but the fright was followed by an immediate relief that company had arrived.

  The two women ate in the kitchen. The grey skies outside were too grim to contemplate using the conservatory and she made the table cheery with tea-lights and a bunch of flowers from the garden.

  Both of them cleared their plates, chatting about the weather, the news, current affairs. While Martha took a break to change and feed Ruby and get her to bed, Mary washed up and prepared a pot of coffee and two plates of brownies from the village bakery and ice cream from a local dairy. She served them up just as Martha returned, baby monitor in hand.

  “Oh my God, Mary,” she exclaimed, taking in the gleaming work surface and empty sink. “I don’t think there’s been a night in almost seven months when my washing-up’s been done before ten – sometimes ten the following morning need I add!” It was a simple gesture but Martha was overwhelmed.

  “Oh it’s nothing! I know it’s tough on your own and it’s the least I could do after that grub – where did you learn to cook like that?”

  “Oh, it was nothing special,” Martha shrugged as she crossed the room to the fridge and took out a second bottle of wine. “Top up?”

  Mary nodded enthusiastically and held out her glass for a refill.

  “My dad taught me to cook,” said Martha, raising her glass to her companion and staring into space. “He and my mum ran a little country pub.”

  Mary noticed the faraway stare. “You alright, love?” she asked.

  Martha looked at her, as if coming back into the conversation. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said and looked down. “My mum used to help my dad in the kitchens but she died when I was five.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Martha . . . was it just you and your dad then?”

  Martha nodded. “Till I met Dan – my husband. It wasn’t a bad life really. Mum had been sick for years, wasn’t ever able to look after me or anything, so it was almost a release for her, and for my dad to be honest. And he coped very well on his own, bless him. I learned from the best!”

  Mary nodded. “I know what you mean. My husband has been gone for years. Didn’t die of course, just . . . up and left us all.” She looked into the distance. “I coped on my own. It was better than . . . well . . . what things were like before he went. Him cadging money we didn’t have, being an awful example for the kids. Only one who remembers him really is Ryan – my eldest. The others don’t really know much about him and that’s for the best.”

  Martha thought she could discern a nervous look in Mary’s eyes as she spoke about her husband. What had he done that was so bad, she wondered. She looked sympathetically at her friend. “At least you’ve given me hope that Ruby won’t grow into a total disaster with her father off the scene,” she said, the unmistakable tone of bitterness creeping again into her voice.

  “You’ve got to try to let go of him for her sake,” chided Mary softly. “Don’t make her bitter about someone she doesn’t even know.”

  Martha nodded. “You’re right,” she said, “but sometimes it’s very hard.”

  The two sat in silence for a moment.

  “Besides which,” said Mary, “won’t she have her new daddy, Rob, to take care of her?”

  Martha threw back her head and laughed. “Dear heavens – never!” she cried out dramatically, thumping her fist on the table in mock determination.

  Mary laughed. “I’ll stop, I promise! But remember you’re young and pretty, Martha – you’ll meet someone new, for sure.”

  Martha blushed and shook her head. “Oh, speaking of Rob Mountford,” she said, taking a swig of wine, “I met Lil Flynn in the Abbot’s the other day again.”

  Mary sat up, her expression earnest.

  “She said her name was Lil Mountford,” Martha went on. “Have you any idea why?”

  Mary looked genuinely baffled. “Not a clue. I’ve only ever known her as Lil Flynn – she used to run a little sewing business from her house out near the marshes. She never married – not as long as I’ve been here anyway.”

  “So you’re not local?” queried Martha.

  Mary shook her head. “Not a bit of it – I’m from Bickford originally. Duncan Stockwell was the local – Drunken Duncan as they used to call him in the day. I just never left Shipton Abbey after he did.” She paused, stared into space. “Reckoned that it was the safest place to be as long as he wanted to be somewhere else.”

  “I didn’t realise you weren’t born and bred here,” said Martha, refilling their glasses and feeling slightly tipsy. “So you don’t know the history of this place at all then?”

  “Only the stories,” said Mary, raising her glass to her lips. She stopped midway, as if she realised she had said something she shouldn’t have.

  “What stories?” asked Martha, her heart beginning to beat a little faster.

  Mary hesitated, looked around her. “Oh nothing. Just local yarns about it being haunted – you know the way these stories spread around when a place is deserted. There’s bound to be tall tales.” She looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  “What kind of tales?” asked Martha again, sitting up straight in her chair.

  Mary shook her head. “I’m not filling your head with stories made up by . . . kids . . . over the years, and then leaving you on your own with a small baby to be frightened. There’s nothing in this house, and that’s an end to it.”

  Martha was silenced by how forcefully the older woman had spoken.

  “Now the abbey, on the other hand,” said Mary, “there’s somewhere you shouldn’t go at night-time – all sorts of tales from there.” She spoke quickly, as if changing the subject away from Hawthorn Cottage. “There was a team of archaeologists did a dig a few years back and they couldn’t move for bones.”

  “Yuk!” s
aid Martha, momentarily distracted.

  “Oh yes,” continued Mary. “Apparently the monks liked to immure folk as punishment at one stage.”

  Martha started. There was that word again: immure.

  “Dear God,” she said, “is that really true?”

  “Apparently,” nodded Mary.

  Martha noticed that her eyes were a little glassy. “There was a bad lot in there once. They’d have their way with local boys and then blame them for the sin that they’d just committed. They bricked them up in walls as the punishment. Apparently the place was literally insulated with young lads – some of ’em barely more than babies.”

  Martha shuddered. “That’s terrible,” she said.

  Mary shrugged. “Different times. All the lands as far as Bickford were owned by the abbey. No one dared say a thing when their children went missing – they’d been called by the monks in the first place and that was a great honour. No one realised their little boys were entombed in the abbey walls.”

  Martha shivered, feeling extremely disturbed. She felt the prickle of an unexpected tear and excused herself to go to the bathroom.

  So, she thought, as she made her way up the gloomy stairs. The monks had invented the habit of bricking little boys up hereabouts. So it wasn’t an entirely random concept – probably just a local legend that grew arms and legs over the centuries and was now the favoured method of the local drunk for scaring people.

  Martha reached the landing at the top of the stairs and bent to click on the small lamp she kept on a table outside her bedroom door. It cast a low but warm glow over the wooden floor. She carried on into the bathroom. She looked in the mirror as she washed her hands. It stood to reason, she thought, that if this house or at least parts of it had been built about the same time as the abbey, then maybe that’s what the tales were that Mary was talking about.

  She actually found herself feeling a bit better as she dried her hands. Mary was right – it was just stories, nothing to get spooked about.

  There was a lightness in her step as she left the bathroom and crept softly over to Ruby’s room to check her. She felt better again when she saw that none of her soothers had gone missing and the one that Ruby had used to get herself to sleep was now firmly embedded in her cheek. Martha smiled and gently wrestled it out. Ruby gave a long, sleepy sigh and turned her head to reveal a large red mark where the pacifier had been. Martha bent to leave a lingering kiss on her forehead.

  She hadn’t realised before now how much her meeting with Lil Flynn had stayed with her, how much the old woman had creeped her out. And yes – it was scary to have someone break into her house – she had yet to figure out how to deal with that – but at least it was something physical, and careful locking of doors and keeping the alarm set would sort that one out. She was new in the village after all. It had probably just been kids in her house, larking about on their summer holidays. Even Mary had said hers were bored and that usually led to mischief. Surely if anyone wanted to harm her, they had ample opportunity to do so. No, it wasn’t the physical presence of an intruder that had unnerved her so much that she had stayed in the village all morning. It was a creepy old woman who had tall tales mixed up with whiskey in her head.

  Martha stole from Ruby’s room and, as she turned away from her bedroom door, she saw a glimpse of something black lurch into the bathroom. Martha grinned again – Mary was certainly showing the effects of the wine. Come to think of it, she wasn’t feeling too clever herself. Time for a fresh pot of coffee, she thought and headed downstairs. She’d have it ready for Mary when she returned from the bathroom.

  Martha made her way down the stairs, feeling her skirt generate a light breeze around her legs as she walked which was nice in the humidity of the evening. It was still uncomfortably sticky, even though it was nearly ten o’clock. She pushed open the kitchen door and stepped in, eyes focused on the coffee-maker, and jumped as she registered a shape at the kitchen table. She gasped and turned sharply, only to see Mary with her back to her, sitting exactly where she had left her earlier.

  “Mary!” she exclaimed, shocked.

  The older woman turned to face her, a sheepish expression on her face. “I hope you don’t mind, Martha,” she said, “but I’ve phoned for Ryan to come and get me. I’m a little woozy on my feet after all this wine and it’s a school night.”

  Martha watched as Mary got to her feet unsteadily.

  “I’ll just use your bathroom,” Mary whispered, and stepped carefully out into the corridor, her black skirt floating behind her.

  Martha gazed after her. If Mary was just going to the bathroom now, then who the hell had she just seen going into it? The sense of unease that the house gave her, that had lifted earlier when she heard about the tales of the monks, suddenly descended again. What was going on here? Had she seen . . . ? Oh, cut it out, Martha, she said to herself. Just snap out of it. It was dark upstairs, the landing dimly lit, and she’d had her own fair share of wine. All she had seen was a trick of the light as they called it, just a distortion of her vision from the corner of her eye. “Get over yourself,” she whispered and made her way toward the coffee pot.

  She was too tired to stay up after Ryan arrived in his souped-up car and carted his mother off with a roar from the exhaust. Martha went immediately up to bed and fell into a deep sleep. Her mind reeled from the events of the past couple of days but she couldn’t think about it, couldn’t reason any longer with herself. She just needed to sleep it all away, to be oblivious. She fell into a deep sleep, unmoving except to cast off her duvet in the humidity.

  Late into the night she stirred, checked her clock, saw that it was three thirty, then found a cool spot on the pillow and fell straight back to sleep. She sighed as she felt the duvet lift beside her. Dan’s late again, she thought. But it’s nice to have him here. She settled her body against the weight in the bed beside her, felt the hairs on his legs as she touched against him. Maybe tomorrow they could talk, sort all this mess out, she thought, and fell further into sleep.

  Chapter 18

  July 3rd

  Martha didn’t remember her dream the following morning – she was too intrigued by a postcard waiting for her in the tree at the end of the driveway. The postcard was from Sue – a picture of Loch Ness, postmarked Edinburgh. Martha smiled and turned the card over. It was years since anyone had sent her a postcard – trust Sue. ‘Sending you a wee pressie from Scotland,’ it said. Martha pondered over what it might be. Sue favoured the more unusual gift and Martha reckoned that it could be anything from a stick of rock to the actual Loch Ness monster.

  Rob Mountford returned that day also, bringing a pale and sheepish Sam with him. They got to work immediately on the septic tank. Martha listened to the hum of their voices in the distance as she sat in the study, working hard to make up for her previous day off. Only Aneta had been there to greet her at Lullabies that morning so she assumed that Mary was having a lie-in after the excesses of the night before and felt guilty.

  The routine stayed like that for the next few days. The men continued to work in the garden and Martha worked in her study in the mornings and in the afternoons took advantage of the return of finer, fresher weather to take Ruby on trips in the car to the surrounding area. Sue had taken to texting her daily, enquiring if she was okay, as if checking in to see what new disaster had befallen Martha and Ruby in the wilds of Norfolk. Martha was touched but also somewhat exasperated. Sue never once mentioned the Scottish gift, which left Martha feeling very intrigued.

  On Friday afternoon, Martha placed Ruby in her buggy and went to explore the abbey properly for the first time since she had moved to the country. It was difficult, however, to negotiate the buggy over the uneven ground and Martha gave up eventually as a group of tourists stared at her efforts.

  Dressed in a light sundress and flip-flops, she rested on the wide grassy area at the side of the abbey, overlooking the estuary. It had once been a massive cemetery but was now a pi
cnic area. Martha looked around her, feeling that it was inappropriate to picnic on the site where so many bodies had found their final resting place. She found herself wondering if the bodies of the young boys were underneath her also, and suppressed a shudder.

  She sat Ruby on the ground between her legs and gave her a toy to play with but the little girl returned to one of her favourite pursuits of trying to eat as much grass as possible which Martha had to dust from her hands and occasionally retrieve from her mouth.

  Martha sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. She suddenly felt very much in need of a rest. True, she had been desperate to get out of the city and away to her new life but, now that she was here, she felt like it was an awful lot of work. She was responsible not only for herself but exclusively for Ruby too – everything her little girl ate, wore, learned. She had to be there too if anything went wrong . . . Suddenly, sitting on the grass in glorious sunshine, the magnitude of caring for her daughter hit Martha and she felt overwhelmed. What if an emergency happened? What if she needed to get her to hospital? Worse – what if something happened to Martha and Ruby was left alone? They could be alone in that house for days before anyone found them. If something happened at a weekend then no one would know anything was wrong until Monday or Tuesday if Ruby didn’t turn up at crèche . . .

  Her head began to throb with the sudden worry. This time two years ago she would have been finishing for the weekend, sitting outside a pub in London maybe, enjoying a drink with colleagues before heading home to Dan and a barbeque in the garden . . . she had really only herself to worry about. She wouldn’t change Ruby for the world, of course, but what a huge task being a mother on her own was. Martha wondered if this was how her father had felt when her mother died . . .

  Maybe having another person around might help, she thought. She could look into tidying out the boxroom, taking a lodger perhaps? Another girl who maybe worked locally? Just another presence at Hawthorn Cottage. Surely Rob Mountford couldn’t complain about extra rent?