The Dead Summer

by Helen Moorhouse

  Martha tried the doorbell but it produced no sound. She knocked on the glass and waited, wondering if the old woman would even talk to her but she had to try. Lil Flynn knew something about Eyrie Farm and she needed to know what.

  There was no sound from the cottage. Martha turned her back to the front door while she waited, gazing out over the flat marsh around her, toward the hills in the distance. She imagined this being the view that she would see every day and pictured the pretty scene from the window of Eyrie Farm – the recently cultivated garden, the trees and surrounding fields. How grim this all seemed, she thought, and turned back to the house to see if anyone was coming.

  The sight that greeted her made her jump. It was a ghostly vision, the woman’s face thin and lined, her rheumy pale eyes standing out in the wrinkles. Her skin was grey and pasty, the body skeletal. Martha breathed in sharply – the woman peering at her through the brown door was, for a second, reminiscent of the other woman – the one at Eyrie Farm. Miss Mannion.

  Lil Flynn stared at Martha as she slowly shuffled around the door, hanging on to the handle for support as she stepped down into the tiled porch and then standing there for a moment, as if waiting for a pain to subside. She lurched toward the porch door and covered the space in one step but it was a clumsy one and Martha feared that she might fall over at any minute. The woman looked as if she was in agony, thought Martha, seeing her face scrunch up as she paused again, then opened the lock from the inside slowly and carefully before turning the handle and peering out at Martha.

  “What d’you want?” she croaked, her voice thin and reedy.

  “Lil, isn’t it? Lil Flynn – I mean Mountford.” She remembered how the old woman had been so indignant about her name when she had met her that day in the pub.

  It seemed to work. The posture of the elderly woman seemed to relax a little and she looked Martha up and down.

  “And to whom am I speaking?” she asked in her rasping voice, her accent affected, like someone trying to talk posh.

  “My name is Martha Armstrong. I’ve been living for a while up at Eyrie Farm.”

  “What do you want me for?”

  Martha stepped toward the door of the house. “I’d like to talk to you for a while if I could – emm – Lil.” She had hoped to address her using the Mountford name for further success but, realising she didn’t know if it was Miss or Mrs, she decided against it and hoped using the Christian name didn’t sound disrespectful.

  Lil Flynn turned her back rather abruptly on Martha and shuffled back across the porch and into the house, negotiating the step with great difficulty. She made no move to close the door behind her and Martha hoped it was an indication to follow. She stepped into the porch which smelled vaguely of onions and noticed two strings of them hanging on hooks under the window to her left. They were dried up and unused, Martha wondered if the old lady had perhaps grown them herself – but where was there to grow vegetables on this marsh, she wondered.

  Lil disappeared into the house and Martha took a hesitant step after her. The brown door led immediately into a surprisingly large kitchen which was stiflingly warm and smelled of must and old cooking smells. There was a vague odour of fish in the air and Martha wrinkled her nose involuntarily. There was a filthy window draped with net curtains so dirty they were almost black, over a sink and draining-board piled high with pots, dishes and utensils. The cupboards had been painted a salmon colour once but, like all the other paintwork she had seen, it was cracked and peeling in places, under layers of grime in others. The worktop was covered in dust – Martha could tell that some of it had been there so long it was sticky – that was in the places that she could actually see the surface. The cupboard tops were covered in the woman’s belongings – she could see stacks of bowls and cups, plates, cutlery and other kitchen equipment. Alongside these items were old handbags, stacks of kitchen towels, an ancient typewriter. It looked as though the old lady had been having some sort of cleanout and had stacked belongings from her whole life through on the surfaces. A table in the centre of the kitchen area was also covered with papers, boxes, and plastic bags full of God knows what.

  Martha scanned the area in front of her – the whole floor was covered in ancient linoleum, riddled with holes where she could see grey concrete underneath. There was a pattern on the lino but it was so old and faint and filthy that she could barely make it out. Directly opposite her was another door, made of plywood. There was a gap about an inch thick at the base of the door where Martha could make out daylight. It must be freezing here in wintertime, she thought. She could see that the wood frames in the kitchen windows were rotten in here as well.

  To her left, an old-fashioned solid fuel cooker was set into a recess in the wall. It was a faded orange colour, the dials grimy and cracked, the top black and dirty. Above it, a metal shelf for airing clothes jutted out from the wall, the length of the cooker surface. A wooden-framed chair sat in the middle of the room and Martha noticed it was facing an old TV set with a pair of old-fashioned rabbit ears perched on top. The TV stood on a unit set into the corner of the room by the other door. The shelves of the unit were also covered in all sorts of old stuff – yellowed books and papers, old notebooks.

  Still standing in the doorway, Martha looked at the old lady, who was lowering herself onto a chair at the filthy and crowded table. None of the chairs around the table matched each other, as though they had been donated by various different sources, or found discarded over the years. Along the wall to Martha’s right stood a dresser unit, another surface covered in pottery, bits of broken jewellery, cups with no handles. The place was like a tip, she thought, and looking at its owner she realised that it had taken a very long time to get into this state and that, if left to her, there was no way that Lil Flynn would be capable at lifting half the stuff, never mind doing a full clearout.

  “Close the door,” snapped Lil as she sat down. “You’re letting all the heat out.”

  The room was stifling, thought Martha. It needed airing, for all of the windows and both doors to be opened and fresh air allowed to blow through, especially with the heat today. She looked at her hostess and saw her shiver, pulling her cardigan tight around her shoulders. Martha did as she was bidden and closed the brown door into the kitchen behind her.

  “Haven’t heard it called that in a while,” said Lil Flynn, leaning her elbow on the table beside her. She nodded her head to indicate that Martha should sit down at the table with her and Martha hesitantly crossed the room, feeling the heat and the smell become overbearing. This would need to be fast, she thought.

  “What’s that, then?” asked Martha, lowering herself onto the dusty chair facing Lil.

  “Eyrie Farm,” said the old lady. “Thought the new name was Hawthorn Cottage. Bit fancy for that place, I think, but sure I suppose I haven’t seen it since Little Robbie did it up.”

  Martha noticed that the old lady slurred her words. It was only half past nine in the morning – how could she drink so early? And where had she the booze hidden? For all the clutter on every surface save that of the solid fuel cooker Martha could see no bottles or cans of any sort. At least she wasn’t rambling like she had been the two times she’d met her in the pub. She was right to come here early, to get to her while she might still be able to speak some sort of sense.

  “In fact,” continued Lil, “Little Robbie told me to only ever call it Hawthorn Cottage. Told me I was never to breathe a word to the girl up at the farm with the baby.” She looked directly at Martha. “That’s you, isn’t it?” The she suddenly gasped, and arched her back with pain, taking a sharp intake of breath which made a hissing noise.

  Martha was alarmed. “Are you alright? Can I get you anything? Some water? I think I have some painkillers in my bag . . .”

  The old woman made a ‘pff’ sound at the mention of the pain-killers. “Sure I’ve enough of them to cure an army,” she scoffed. “None of them bloody work. I do be in cloud-cuckoo-land wit
h them half of the time but the pain still kills me.”

  Martha settled back in her chair, unsure what to do next. Should she continue to ask what she needed to ask? Was it fair on a sick old lady?

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked in her kindest voice. “Do you have any whiskey?” Maybe just the one would warm the old lady up sufficiently to talk to her. Martha assumed that one wouldn’t do any harm to a habitual boozer, might even help take the pain away. She looked around again, searching for a bottle.

  Lil glared at her across the table. “Are you suggesting that I take alcohol?” she asked, clearly outraged.

  Martha sat back in her seat, feeling sheepish. She knew she shouldn’t have asked. “Not at all, Lil – it’s just that I know you sometimes like a little tipple and I wondered if it – might – help with your pain maybe. No harm in a small one!” Martha grinned sheepishly, hoping to backpedal her way out of the faux pas with a little charm.

  Instead of agreeing or even refusing, Lil Flynn pushed herself up from the chair and stood over Martha, pointing a finger furiously at her. “I am a proud Pioneer, madam! And I have been since I was twelve years of age. I took the pledge before my confirmation and I have never broken it!” she said fiercely, jabbing her finger at Martha. She turned suddenly and shuffled around to one of the handbags on the nearby countertop, using the table for support as she did so. She rummaged in the bag for a few moments before turning back, as quickly as she could, and slammed something down on the table in front of Martha. It was a small pin in the shape of a heart, surrounded by a circle of metal. Inside the heart was a picture of another heart, topped by a cross and with what looked like rays of some sort coming from them both. Martha studied it and looked back up at Lil, not understanding what she was trying to demonstrate.

  Lil looked from the pin back to Martha and was clearly frustrated that the younger woman didn’t understand what she was trying to say. “Pioneer Total Abstinence Association,” she said, lowering herself back onto the chair where she had been sitting previously, grimacing with the pain as she did so. “In Ireland we join the Pioneers to vow that we will abstain from alcoholic drink until we are a certain age, or for life in my case. I have never broken my pledge in all my years, and never will.”

  “I don’t understand . . .” said Martha. “When I’ve seen you before you’ve been in the pub . . . and . . .” She couldn’t think of a polite way to bring up the way Lil slurred her words, nor the hint of alcohol from her breath the last time they met.

  Lil interrupted her. “This is young Robbie Mountford and his bastard of a father. I never use curses, but that man is the devil’s own. He’s a troublemaker and he has the young fellah at it as well.” She was clearly agitated and gripped her hands together, her knuckles white.

  “I’m sorry, Lil, but I really don’t understand,” said Martha, alarmed that she had caused the woman such stress when she hadn’t been there five minutes.

  Lil looked at Martha, her watery eyes even more moist than when Martha had seen her before. “You may have seen me in the pub because I sometimes go there for a glass of orange. It’s lonely living out here and I go there for company now and again. It’s not entirely suitable for a woman to go alone but no one takes any notice of me and sometimes the village folk will talk to me. I’ve no one, so what choice do I have when no one ever comes all the way out here to see me? Except that Community Nurse once in a blue moon, but I talk to her at the door – never let her in, interfering busybody that she is. I can’t drive any more though, so I’ve no way to get to the pub unless I go down to the road and manage to get a lift from a neighbour.”

  Martha opened her mouth to say something but Lil continued.

  “Young Charlie Mountford turned the village folk against me over the years, telling them stories about me that are all lies. He says I talk funny because I’ve taken drink, but I’ve talked funny since I was in hospital that time. And like I said, them tablets the doctor does have me take, they send me to the moon sometimes, so I’ve stopped taking them.” The old lady folded her arms, like a petulant child.

  Martha was unsure what to do at her outburst. “I’m sorry, Lil. I only knew what I assumed, but I was wrong and I’m really very sorry.”

  Lil shrugged. “Sure I’d probably think it meself,” she said, looking away from Martha. “Folk find it hard to understand me sometimes with the accent and the damage.”

  “What damage was that, Lil?” asked Martha gently, genuinely intrigued by the fact that the woman was vehemently denying everything she had assumed about her. She had to admit that she had never actually seen the woman with a drink in her hand, but all the evidence pointed to what people in the village had said.

  Lil sighed, stared into space for a moment and then looked at Martha. “Will you make me a cup of tea like a good girl?”

  “Of course,” said Martha and stood up to fill the rusted kettle. She extracted a cup and saucer from the pile of dishes in the sink which she now saw were encrusted with old food – clearly Lily hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days if not weeks. She rinsed the cup thoroughly with boiling water before adding a teabag. The necessary items for making tea were all open beside the kettle, including the milk and Martha recoiled as she smelled the carton. She spotted a small fridge set in under the worktop beside her and opened it. Thankfully there was an unopened carton in the door. It was out of date but, once opened, smelled considerably better than the one on the worktop so Martha set it, the tea and the sugar on the table in front of Lil and sat back down again.

  “Are you not having one?” said Lil in surprise, as she gingerly poured in a small drop of milk to the cup.

  Martha balked at the thought. “No thanks, Lil, I had one just before I came out here,” she lied.

  It seemed to satisfy the old woman and she carried on with her own ritual, stirring the cup loudly for what seemed like an eternity and then setting the spoon down. Her hands returned to her lap.

  “I was in hospital because I was assaulted,” she said, pronouncing the word assaulted as though it were a new one that she had just learned. “At Eyrie Farm, in fact.”

  Martha was gripped. Another bad thing happening at that place. It must be cursed, she thought, to ruin so many lives.

  “Tell me,” said Lil. “Is there any sign of my boy up there like all those stories say?”

  Martha couldn’t have been more stunned. Her boy? Lil Flynn was Henry’s mother? “What do you mean, Lil?” she asked nervously.

  Lil continued to stare at her, her eyes watery but fixed, the rant about the Mountfords completely forgotten.

  “My boy,” said Lil, her face growing suddenly soft at a memory. “My little Henry.”

  Martha leaned forward in her seat toward Lil, studying her face. “Henry was your son?” she whispered. Then what had she meant when she had told her “the mother did it”? Was Lil Flynn admitting to murdering her own son?

  The old woman didn’t respond immediately. She looked alert all of a sudden, as if coming to after being temporarily stunned. She turned in her chair and scanned the room, her eyes eventually settling on the dresser. With great difficulty she stood, pausing again to let the pain subside, and shuffling unsteadily she went to the dresser and began to rummage in one of the boxes over there. She withdrew a bundle of envelopes and shuffled back slowly to the table.

  Martha had remained silent, unsure what to say. To let on that she knew about Henry’s existence? To tell her that that very morning Henry’s spirit had nestled into her legs? Who then was this Mannion woman? Martha was even more confused than ever. She watched the old woman sit down, waiting patiently for her to continue with what she was about to tell her, at the same time fearful that none of it would make any sense.

  Lil tossed the bundle of envelopes over to Martha. They weren’t bound in any way and the top few slid off the sides. “Tie them up with a bit of string when you can,” said Lil, matter of factly. “And when you read them, make sure you read th
em in order.”

  The first thing that Martha noticed was that the letters weren’t addressed to Lil herself and they were unstamped, with no postmark on them. Instead they were all addressed to a Sr M Agnes Devlin at the Brigidine Convent, Marino, Dublin.

  Lil saw Martha reading the envelopes. “They’re all to my friend Caroline,” she said, pointing a bony finger at the pile.

  Martha was struck by how thin the hand was, with protruding veins and liver spots. The hand, more than anything, made her wonder what sort of life this woman had.

  “She joined a convent the same year I came here to Shipton Abbey – we were pals though she was a year older than me and in a class ahead of me at school. She got the calling from God and I got sent here to look after my sister. At first I used to address them to her as Caroline Devlin but they started to come back to me. I realised that the Mother Superior wouldn’t give them to her with her ‘maiden’ name on them as it were, so I changed it to Sr Agnes – that was the name she chose when she went in there, after St Agnes. Eventually she wrote to me and asked me to stop sending them to her. I guessed that her superiors had instructed her to do that. In any case, I stopped. Didn’t stop writing the oul’ things though. ’Twas lonely up at the farm, with Marion out gallivanting and sure I’d not much else to do.”

  Lil stared again into space, her tea untouched. Martha wondered why she’d asked her to make it if she wasn’t going to taste it.

  “I can’t drink it any more,” said Lil, noticing the direction of Martha’s gaze. “But I love the smell of it.” She smiled faintly. “I had Henry for company though. He was the light of my life, that boy. I loved him like he was my own, and God above knows he needed someone to love him like a mother should because Marion surely didn’t. I’d spend every hour that God sent with him if I could. He was only just four the last time I saw him. Small for his age . . .”