The Dead Summer

by Helen Moorhouse

  Martha felt her interest rise. This had to be them – the Mannions. Was Henry one of the children? Had they left him behind? Tried to kill him because they were poor?

  “What was their name?” she barked at Mary and Ruby turned her head, startled, and stared at her mother.

  “There’s a good girl,” said Mary soothingly to the little girl, while Martha resisted the impulse to go to her. Ruby’s attention switched back to chewing the toy in her hand and Mary continued quietly. “I haven’t the faintest what their name was, Martha, I’m sorry. This was way back during the war and I’m old but not that old!” She attempted a smile but Martha remained impassive. “And not from the area anyway. I only know what Duncan told me and Lord knows he was rarely sober enough to make any sense once he’d been to that place.”

  Martha’s eyes opened a little wider. So Duncan Stockwell had some sort of connection with Eyrie Farm?

  “Apparently,” Mary continued, taking a sip from her water, “after Charles Mountford bought it, it lay idle for a while, got overgrown and a little shabby. Then two women moved in after the war, lived there for a few years and then – to my knowledge – just vanished. Both of them. After they left, the house was left too – to run to ruin until Rob Mountford took to doing it up and then you moved in.”

  Martha stared at Mary who was slugging back her water. “That’s it?” she said. “That’s the history of the farm that everyone’s been hiding from me? Why keep all of that secret?” She could feel her anger rising. Mary must be still lying to her.

  “Look, Martha, my knowledge of the history is sketchy but I only came here in the 80’s from Bickford when Duncan and I got married. By that stage there were all sorts of local legends about the place – ‘don’t go near Eyrie Farm or the witch’ll get you’ type of tales. Local kids used to dare each other to go up there at night-time and over the years a few of ’em came back none the better for it with tales of shadowy figures and screaming babies and awful scratching noises like someone being buried alive. Of course no one with any sense believed them but then the tales grew arms and legs and next thing there were ghostly monks eating children and phantom ponies and all sorts.”

  Martha took a drink from her water, feeling the condensation from the plastic bottle trickle down her fingers in drops. “I had an idea that the stories would be something like that. Again, how does all this mean it has to be such a secret?”

  Mary fanned her face with a laminated sheet of paper she had picked up. “Because . . . oh, rats!” she muttered.

  Martha turned to see Kai waddle in the door with his mum. It had completely slipped her mind that Mary was simply arriving to do a day’s work when she ambushed her. Martha was irrationally furious at the interruption. She knew it was a combination of heat and tiredness mostly but that didn’t stop her staring at Kai’s mum who scarpered within minutes of arriving, furious that the rich writer from London should look down on her like that.

  With Kai settled with some toy cars, Mary returned to Martha and opened her mouth to begin again. The attempt was further frustrated by the arrival of Ella and her smartly-dressed mother. Martha wanted to scream but held back when she saw Aneta arrive. At least now she would have Mary’s undivided attention for a few moments.

  Mary ushered Aneta outside to the little garden play area with Ruby and the two toddlers, even though the Polish girl objected that this wasn’t the normal routine. After what seemed like an age, Mary settled herself back beside Martha and resumed.

  “I never believed all the village stories,” she said. “When you start hearing about ghostly puppies it renders them a little invalid. Or so I thought at the time. Duncan never believed them either, and the 80’s were hard on us with Ryan after arriving and Claire on the way so that’s why he took the job up at the farm when Charlie Mountford – Rob’s dad – offered it to him.”

  “What job was that?” asked Martha.

  “Security, of all things. In the summer of ’87 there was a bunch of travellers arrived in the village. They set themselves up on the abbey grounds – tents and campfires and whatnot. They were peaceable enough – didn’t mean to cause any harm but you can imagine the fuss. Anyway, as it happens, Geoff Cooper from the service station had some huge bust-up with Charlie Mountford over some land when he was building his house. Geoff threatened to tell the travellers about Eyrie Farm being vacant and of course Charlie didn’t trust him. And one thing that drives Charlie Mountford nuts is thinking that someone has something belonging to him that they shouldn’t so he decided to put a security guard up at the house and offered Duncan the job after he got laid off. We were penniless, so he took it till something better came along, but night after night he’d come back, terrified, telling me about all this stuff that used to go on at the place.” Mary looked into space pensively. “He started drinking heavily. He never had a problem with drink until then – the odd pint of ale, glass of wine at Christmas, but he never drank seriously. That place seemed to drive him to it. Alone up there night after night, stuck in that little room at the back where your study is now – it was the only one that was liveable in, even though it was just four walls and a plastic sheet over the window. He’d sit in there with a torch and a book keeping an eye out for the travellers, but they never came. She did though, he said – a woman. Is that what you saw?”

  Martha didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to have to tell Mary what had happened. Not yet. “What else did he experience, Mary?” she asked, her voice gentler than it had been.

  Mary sniffed. Martha noticed that there were tears forming in her eyes. “Scratching mostly,” she said. “From that room where Ruby sleeps. Occasionally he’d hear a child crying, or footsteps upstairs and he’d go up there to find no one. He started having a little tipple to calm his nerves after he heard the growling – he said it was like a rabid dog – but he couldn’t see dogs anywhere. Then he must have started taking a bottle with him when he went up there at night. He changed in himself – he was miserable and quiet, not interested in anything – he wasn’t even there when Claire was born. His moods just got worse and worse and he’d come home stinking of whiskey and white as a sheet. Then he didn’t come home one night – I had to ring Charlie Mountford to go up there to see if he was dead or alive. He was passed out on the floor of that room when Charlie found him. He sacked him on the spot for being drunk.”

  “I suppose it was to be expected, really, wasn’t it?” said Martha. It was the only thing she could think of to say but she regretted instantly how hard it sounded.

  “Irony of the whole damn thing is that was the first night he’d been up there sober in a month!” said Mary grimly. “We literally didn’t have a penny – I made him late because I needed money for nappies and we had a huge argument. He couldn’t get tick anywhere in the village and, besides which, he was seen cycling up by Eyrie Farm twenty minutes after he left home so he didn’t have time to even go looking for booze. True, he could have had a stash up there but not very much if he was so desperate for my last fiver that he nearly hit me for it. And anyway, I doubt at that stage if he was capable of leaving anything behind him.”

  “So why was he unconscious?”

  “That woman. He said he saw a woman up there. A woman with black clothes and rotten teeth, appearing in front of him everywhere he went, pounding at the wall. He passed out from fear because she wouldn’t leave him alone – knocked his torch from his hand, slammed the door and locked it. He said she was screaming at him, and screaming at the child and the child was screaming too and then she was screaming at him to get out –”

  “Stop!” said Martha, shaken.

  They stared at each other silently.

  “Yes,” Martha said at last. “I’ve seen her too but she’s gone now . . . and the boy.”

  Mary’s eyes widened. “So it’s true then?”

  “You know it is! All that stuff you just said – you knew all of this and you kept it from me! How could you do that? Why?”


  For the first time, Martha noticed that Mary’s knuckles were white, her nails dug deep into her palms.

  “I thought . . . I thought you’d tell me I was talking rubbish. I was testing you – you see, I never fully believed Duncan – he told me so many lies. As time went on and I hated him so much, I figured he was making it all up to get out of doing the job. I didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth – told him that I was a fool to listen to him and that it was all lies. Told him that if there was a single shred of truth to it, that it was nothing but pink elephants – he left because he couldn’t take me calling him a liar.”

  The realisation that her husband had been telling the truth seemed to shock Mary to the core. Martha instinctively held out her hand and grasped that of the older woman.

  “That damn place has haunted me for over twenty years, Martha,” said Mary in a whisper. “All the time I was blaming it for Duncan leaving when it was my fault for not believing him.”

  “It wasn’t you, Mary,” said Martha gently. “That house is so pretty on the outside but when you’re alone there it’s enough to drive you mad. Those feelings of sadness and melancholy that Duncan had – that’s what that woman does – did. Sucking out energy from people to give herself power. She did it to me, but help arrived in time . . .”

  Mary wasn’t listening. “That’s why I was so eager to see the place – to prove that it was just a house and that I’d been right to kick him out, right that he was a liar and a drunk. Then I thought Alison was trying to upset me when she came out with the same stuff after being there. She’s going through a rebellious phase – I thought maybe someone had told her the stories about her dad – it’s not hard to hear them around Shipton. We had a huge fight – her screaming it was true and me refusing to listen to her. I marched up there right afterwards to see for myself.”

  “Mary,” said Martha firmly. “Mary!”

  The childminder ignored her. Martha had to grasp her friend by her shoulders to get her to look in her eyes.

  “Yes, Duncan and Alison were telling the truth,” she said, “but it’s not your fault that Duncan left you. That house – whatever was in that house – was evil. But it’s gone now. My friends took care of that.”

  Mary looked at Martha with sadness in her eyes. “That’s not much use to me now, love. I loved the bones of that man till he went to that house. Did everything I could to make it work afterward – had Alison and Oliver to try and bring us back to where we were. And I’ve been on my own ever since.”

  Martha nodded. “I know. But you have four wonderful children and this place –”

  She was interrupted by the back door opening and the clumping footsteps of two hot and bothered toddlers and a red-faced Aneta with an equally red-faced Ruby. “It is too hot, Mrs Stockwell, for the little ones,” she said.

  Mary looked away and wiped the corners of her eyes. “That’s fine, Aneta,” she said as her assistant proceeded to take the children’s cups from their shelves to give them drinks. She gestured to Martha that she should follow her to the front door. “Can you make sure Ruby gets a drink too, Aneta?” she said, before stepping outside into the thick heat.

  They sat on the low wall outside.

  “What is with this weather?” Mary asked out of the blue.

  There was silence between them for a while.

  “Martha, I don’t want to know what happened to you at that house,” said Mary, shuddering slightly. “But I do want to know that you and Ruby are alright.”

  Martha was relieved. She didn’t know if she could tell her, could tell anyone in fact. “We’re going back to London,” she replied.

  Mary looked down at her hands. “I thought you might. I suppose you want to be sure that Ruby’s safe. When are you going?”

  “Today,” said Martha.

  Mary was taken aback.

  “My friends are leaving today,” said Martha, although when she thought about it she hadn’t discussed with Gabriel and Will what they planned to do beyond having a sleep at the B&B for a few hours. “I can’t stay at the cottage any more. I know that whatever was there is gone, but too much has happened for me to feel easy there, especially now that I know what happened to you and Duncan.”

  “I’ll miss you both to bits,” said Mary warmly. “But you’re right. Get as far as you can from that farmhouse. But, by the way, is there something I should know about that very dishy man from the café?”

  Martha looked at her friend and saw a mischievous glint in her eye. “Good God, Mary! All you’ve told me and you’re still trying to pair me off? Is it all you ever think about? First Rob Mountford, and now Will!”

  “Will, is it? Where there’s a Will . . .” said Mary, grinning. “I know which one of them I’d prefer for sure!”

  Martha rolled her eyes. “Do me a favour and never take up comedy, do you hear me?”

  Martha was glad to see Mary laugh. She’d arrived there, angry with her for the lies, and was leaving feeling only guilt and sadness that she had upset such a kind person. Upset to learn that Eyrie Farm had spread its poison to another family.

  “Can I leave Ruby here for a couple of hours?” she asked. “I’ll pay for all the days she missed, of course – and up to the end of the month.”

  “Don’t be so silly,” Mary dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “You’ll need every penny you can moving back to the city. Leave her here as long as you like – in fact, I’d rather you never took her back to that place.”

  Martha suddenly felt a compulsion to hug her friend and threw her arms around her. It was an awkward hug, Mary taken by surprise and unaccustomed to the affection, but she returned it as warmly as she could. As Martha released her, she saw Mary wipe another tear from her eye.

  “I should only be a couple of hours, absolute max,” said Martha. “And I’ll see you when I come to get her.”

  Mary watched her step over the wall into the neighbouring car park and climb into her car which she had reversed into a parking space. Martha waved as she engaged the car in first gear and gently rolled down the slight incline to the car park entrance. Mary was surprised to see her turn not right toward Eyrie Farm, but left into the village.

  Martha had one more person to see.

  Martha opened both the driver and passenger side windows all the way down as she drove out of the car park of the Abbot’s Rest. John Farnley himself had opened the B&B door where he was still serving breakfasts. He was puzzled as to why Martha wanted that particular address but he gave it nonetheless. There was something weird going on up at Eyrie Farm these days what with those fellows from Scotland and the car full of equipment, asking questions.

  Martha skirted the village, unable to get up enough speed to create the crosswind she required. Once past the Bickford roundabout she hoped to be able to speed up but she found herself crawling along behind a tractor, unable to overtake on the winding country roads. Martha sighed in frustration.

  Eventually the tractor slowed practically to a halt and negotiated an awkward turn into a field where hay was being cut and she stepped up the pace a little. She thought about Eyrie Farm as she drove, how lucky she actually was, in a way, that all of this had come to a head and that she could finally get away. Her country dream was over, she knew, but she felt no disappointment, just relief. Sue was right. Martha was a city girl and always had been. Even as a child she longed to get away from the village and into the anonymity of the city. She had been kidding herself to think that she could start again in the country, alone, with no support for herself and Ruby. The more she thought about it, the more foolish she felt for ever thinking it could work.

  Martha spotted the crossroads and knew that she was on the right road, close at last to her destination. She turned left, and drove inland, on a small road, bordered either side by reeds and marshy ground. She rounded a bend, and there it was, the cottage, just as John Farnley had described it. Outside was parked an old, white Ford Fiesta. I
t was filthy, but she could see fresh tyre tracks behind it. Odd, she thought.

  She pulled in behind the Ford Fiesta and looked around her. This place was even more bleak and desolate that Eyrie Farm. She surveyed the rundown house. It was a one-storey building, more of a bungalow than a cottage. The exterior had never been painted and Martha could see long cracks running their way down the render. The flatness of the surrounding land meant that the cottage would be clearly exposed to winds from the estuary in bad weather. From where she was parked, Martha could see that the guttering was overgrown with weeds and that moss was growing between some of the roof tiles. The roof itself sagged in the centre, as though it hadn’t long before a storm blew it right in. A porch ran along the front of the house, the window frames originally painted black but the paint dried and peeling to reveal wood turned grey by the weather underneath. It looked rotten in parts. A dead plant stood in a pot on the sill inside, and the glass itself was filthy. In each window along the front of the building, grey net curtains hung, some of them with holes ripped in them. Had Martha not been sure of John Farnley’s directions she would never have believed that the house was inhabited.

  The grass beneath her feet was flattened by being driven over, but weeds grew everywhere, a huge bank of them forming a border between the area in front of the house and the marshy land around. Dandelions licked the edge of the house itself, in the way that other houses might have rosebushes. Martha stepped gingerly through the greenery and made her way to the front door where the grass thinned out and a dry patch of dirt formed a welcome mat. She peered through the grimy porch door while trying the handle – it was locked. Inside she could see a brown door with a dirty fanlight above it, paint cracked and peeling, and the brasses green with lack of maintenance. It looked as though no one had been here to help this woman out in a very long time, if ever.