Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  She set the piece aside and looked again. Another book emerged from the ashes, this one still mostly intact, enough for Eliza to recognise it immediately. Rebecca’s Bible – the child’s Bible Father gave her the day prior to their evacuation. Its once white cover was now black and grey, the gold cross on the cover turned brown. She opened the first page, which, protected by the heavy leather, still had Rebecca’s name written in Father’s familiar scrawl.

  Rebecca surely would have taken this with her, Eliza thought, if she was sent to hospital. Unless Eliza overlooked it when cleaning Rebecca’s room, and Mrs Pollard decided to dispose of it.

  A dog barked.

  It could be any dog, a stray from the village. Any dog at all.

  Mr Drewry shouted. ‘Kasey! Stay!’

  The dog fell silent.

  The Bible trembled in Eliza’s hands. If Kasey was alive, who was buried in the new grave? Eliza looked from the charred Bible to Pip’s journal. Pip, whose belongings were burnt in this same furnace. Pip, who was dead. Rebecca, who was . . .

  ‘No!’ Eliza dropped the Bible and candle to the ground. The flame went out, leaving only the light on the stair. She ran up the cellar steps and banged on the trapdoor.

  ‘No! No, she’s not! She’s not!’ Eliza screamed, pounding her fists on the rough wood. Rebecca wasn’t. She couldn’t be. Eliza threw all her weight into the door again and again. It jerked then snapped back down. Eliza launched herself at it again, feeling no pain.

  A crack of light. She shoved her hands into it. Something sat on top of the door but it was moving, sliding. Eliza shouted as she pushed. Whatever was holding her down fell over, and the door flung itself back under her force. She climbed up the last few stairs, shoving aside the overturned crate of potatoes which had been her barricade. She went to the garden shed and grabbed the shovel then ran for the little cemetery.

  Kasey was lying alongside the garden wall, panting happily. He saw Eliza and wagged his tail. As she ran for the cemetery, he followed at a trot by her side. Her nausea increased the closer she came to the grave. Behind the cemetery, the silent wood watched her approach. She wiped the sticky blood from her forehead.

  The freshly turned ground was easy to spot. It was just below Victoria’s grave. Eliza began digging. Kasey sat across from her, watching. The ground, still loose, moved easily but was heavy from the constant rain. She kept going, down and down. The sun moved in the sky, but Eliza did not look at it. She only knew by the changing shadows. The ground rose above her as she sank into her self-made pit. How deep would it have to be? How far into the earth would he have buried her? Her muscles ached. Sweat dripped from her forehead, mingling with the blood from her cut. The mixture dripped into her eyes. She felt nauseous, but she would not stop. She must be close now.

  Kasey began to bark. Someone was approaching. She did not stop. Let it be Mrs Pollard. Let it be Mr Drewry. She did not care, not about any of them. She kept digging.

  ‘Eliza?’ A woman’s voice. ‘Eliza, what are you doing?’ Ruth’s shadow fell across the grave.

  ‘You see him, don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘See who?’

  ‘The dog.’

  ‘Kasey? Of course. He’s right here.’

  Eliza spared a brief glance upwards. Ruth stood beside Kasey, her hand stroking his head. She looked back at her work.

  ‘Mrs Pollard said he died. I saw Mr Drewry digging a grave and she said it was for the dog, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been.’ She kept digging.

  ‘Oh, Eliza, you don’t think . . .’ Ruth could not complete her sentence, and Eliza would not finish it for her. Her shovel hit something soft.

  ‘Eliza, stop.’

  She tossed the shovel aside and brushed the dirt away to reveal a large canvas sack.

  ‘Eliza, please.’

  As she already felt sick, the smell from the sack made her no worse. She tore it open with her hands and staggered back against the grave’s dirt wall. Eliza looked away, taking in the dirt and blood covering her clothes, legs and arms, her chapped and bleeding palms, the grey sky so far above her, and she laughed.

  The sack was filled with dead foxes and the maggots which crawled through their eyes.

  *

  It took Eliza longer to run her bath than it did for her to bathe. She let the water reach above the five-inch line, let it go all the way to the brim, then scrubbed herself clean. After she pulled the plug, she watched the muddy, warm water spin down the drain.

  Ruth waited for her in the kitchen with two cups of tea. Eliza ignored them and walked straight into Mrs Pollard’s office.

  ‘Eliza, you must sit down a moment. You’ve exhausted yourself,’ Ruth urged, following her to the office doorway.

  ‘There’s no time for that.’ Eliza kicked a potato away and rummaged through Mrs Pollard’s desk.

  ‘There is. The entrance to one of the mines has collapsed. Mrs Pollard and Ben will be there the rest of the day, possibly most of the night, trying to clear it.’

  ‘Why would Mrs Pollard care?’ Eliza said, remembering the housekeeper’s frantic response. ‘And who is Ben?’

  Ruth looked away. ‘It’s Mr Drewry’s Christian name.’

  ‘Murderers aren’t Christian.’

  ‘You mean the foxes? They’re vermin.’

  Eliza opened a drawer and pulled out a blank piece of heavy grey stationery. ‘My aunt had a letter written on this.’ She set it aside. ‘And it’s not the foxes that worry me. Don’t you ever wonder why he’s here?’

  ‘He’s the caretaker.’

  ‘Some job of it he’s doing. The lawns, the gardens, even the cemetery. It’s all a mess. So what is he taking care of except Victoria’s dirty work? If she’s stealing their souls, that would still leave the body behind, wouldn’t it?’

  She dug deeper into the drawer and pulled out a small, well-worn Moleskine notebook.

  ‘Leave him alone. You shouldn’t judge people you don’t know.’

  The book’s pages were filled with names and addresses. Those towards the front had faded, but those at the back were not. Some were crossed out in a single line of red ink. Others were left alone.

  Ruth peered over Eliza’s shoulder. ‘Is that your great discovery? An address book?’

  ‘But how did she get my address?’ Eliza pointed to the last page. Aunt Bess’s name was written in a neat, slanting hand along with the address of their Whitechapel Road flat. A line of red ink ran through it. Eliza turned to the page before. ‘And why is Pip’s name here?’

  Pip Vlasto’s name also had a red line through it.

  ‘Do you recognise anyone?’ Eliza handed the book to Ruth. Ruth scanned through it, shaking her head.

  ‘No. No, I don’t . . . Wait. Here.’ She pointed to a name above Pip’s. ‘Hawthorne. I don’t know an Eric, but Jane, her surname was Hawthorne, I think. And this one – Marsh. When I first came to Plentynunig there was a Marsh girl. I remember now, her talking in the pub about wanting to join the Land Girls but not being permitted to quit the manor. Molly, I think. Where do these names come from?’

  Eliza took the book back and slipped it into her trouser pocket. ‘Knowing her, probably the Devil himself. Do you still think Rebecca’s at Cefn Coed?’

  ‘Cefn Coed?’

  ‘The hospital in Swansea. Where Mrs Pollard says she sent her.’

  Ruth placed her hand on Eliza’s arm. ‘No children with polio would be sent there. Cefn Coed is a mental hospital.’

  A mental hospital. Rebecca’s worst fear.

  ‘She gave me that address as a joke.’ As if her family was a joke. Rebecca’s condition, a joke. Their entire lives, a joke. She took a glass paperweight and threw it against the wall.

  ‘Why don’t you lie down . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘You’ve had a shock, Eliza. If you don’t allow your body to rest . . .’

  ‘Just because your father is a doctor doesn’t mean you are.’ Eliza paced. ‘M
aybe Victoria doesn’t have her. Not yet. Maybe that’s what she’s been trying to tell me. The handkerchief. Rebecca was locked in that room until someone moved her. And why would Mrs Pollard care so much about the mine collapse unless . . . Do you know what a cware is?’

  ‘Cware? It’s Welsh. The Welsh word for quarry.’

  ‘When she heard about the collapse, Mrs Pollard was upset. Worried. I’ve never known that woman to be worried about anything.’ Eliza pulled Ruth along.

  ‘And you think . . .’

  ‘I think that’s where she’s hidden Rebecca.’

  *

  The ground was bumpy and wet, making it difficult for Eliza to balance on the frame while Ruth pedalled. She would have preferred to walk, but Ruth’s old bicycle was the fastest way. After nearly twenty minutes, they reached the top of a hill, where they dismounted.

  ‘There.’ Ruth pointed to the west. The red pit head stood out from the green hills while smoke stacks puffed more grey into the air. The shouts of the men below echoed, bouncing off the landscape. A few old horse carts were parked haphazardly on the main gravel drive, but the view of the mine’s entrance was blocked by a brick outbuilding where Thornecroft’s familiar carriage waited. The mare stood patiently, oblivious to all the activity. Beside them, the gaping wound of the quarry rested. Without fog, Eliza could see the treeline on the opposite side, and the narrow shelf path that led to the unseen bottom.

  ‘Where is Mrs Pollard?’ Eliza asked.

  ‘I can’t see her.’

  ‘We must get closer.’

  Ruth held her back. ‘We can’t go down there.’

  ‘I’m not here to admire the view.’ Eliza started down the hill. She heard Ruth following.

  ‘If the mine’s shut, there’s no getting any of the men out, let alone your sister. They could be trapped there for hours. Days, even, if they’re alive at all.’

  ‘They’ll get through eventually, and I’ll be there when it happens. I’ll be there for her.’

  ‘But she mightn’t be there, Eliza.’ Ruth ran in front of her. ‘Your sister could already be dead.’

  The smell of coal dust grew stronger as they came closer to the mine. Eliza tasted it on her tongue. The shouts of the men were clearer, a mix of English and Welsh. An explosion shook the ground. Eliza struggled to stay on her feet as a great puff of black smoke flew into the air.

  A brief cheer went up amongst the men, who began clearing more debris. Eliza continued to feel the vibrations as she and Ruth made their way to the outbuilding. The mare looked at them, disinterested, then lowered its head and returned to sleep. They hid around the corner of the outbuilding and tried to watch the rescue. More men were disappearing into the mine. No survivor had yet come out. Mr Drewry directed the proceedings, wearing the army trench coat Eliza had seen hanging in the carriage house.

  Mrs Pollard stood beside him, eyes fixed on the men running back and forth. There was an uneasy calm about her. Whatever was being done at the mine entrance did not concern her. It was the movement of the men. She stood as if guarding something.

  Eliza continued to watch, unnoticed amongst all the activity. One miner hurried from the wreckage carrying what appeared to be a bundle of fabric. Mrs Pollard stopped him. Eliza’s mind transformed the bundle into a child. She could see its lifeless arms and legs, a shock of curly blonde hair. Maybe Ruth was right. Maybe Rebecca . . .

  Mrs Pollard grabbed the bundle from the man. It was only a mass of canvas. It contained nothing. Mrs Pollard threw it aside then dusted off her hands.

  ‘Ruth!’

  A large man, face black with dust, stood behind them with a pickaxe.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ he asked Ruth, throwing Eliza a glance.

  ‘We heard about the collapse. Thought we could help.’

  ‘Nothing you can do here.’

  ‘Davey!’ Another man whistled at them and the miner hurried off. ‘Best get yourselves home ’fore you get in the way,’ he called over his shoulder. Eliza watched as he ran past Mrs Pollard. Mrs Pollard, who thought Eliza was still trapped in the cellar. Mrs Pollard, who stared directly at her.

  Eliza saw the anger blooming on her face for only a moment before Ruth had her by the hand, pulling her up the hill. She wanted to look back, see if the housekeeper was following, if she had sent anyone after them, but as soon as she turned her head she stumbled. Her body hit the damp ground and began rolling down the hill. Ruth caught her and yanked her to her feet. They reached the bicycle, and Eliza was barely seated before Ruth was pedalling off.

  She struggled to maintain her balance as Ruth sped away. She clung to the frame, but her arms were weak from the digging and threatened to lose their hold. She gritted her teeth and gripped tighter, using her pain as a focal point. They could do this. They could get away. They could.

  All she noticed in the crossroads was the presence of something large. Then she was on the ground, tumbling towards a ravine.

  28

  Harsh winds blew in from the Bristol Channel, battering Peter as he walked down Stryd Fawr. Glass crunched beneath his feet. London had been hit badly by the Blitz, but Swansea was devastated. Building after building was completely razed. Others were mere shells – smoke-stained façades hollowed out by fire and bomb blasts. Their charred skeletons towered either side of him as he battled against the heavy incoming winds. When he reached Castle Street, there were no buildings at all, only piles of rubble, the ruined remains of homes and businesses. He caught the glowing eyes of stray dogs keeping warm in dens of crumbled brick and mortar, their faces hungry and pleading.

  Peter had no room, no map and little money. Adelaide Street could be beside him or on the other side of the city. He opened the address book, but there was no new information to guide him. He passed the ruins of a castle that now matched the city it called home. Maybe no one would notice if he spent the night there. Castles were strong, defensible.

  Just beyond stood one surviving building, the words Castle Cinema gleaming from the red brick. Peter sheltered in its doorway, though there was no escaping wind which seemed to blow in every direction. If only Eliza knew he was here. If only she could guide him the rest of the way.

  Voices carried on the wind. A group of girls hurried past the closed cinema. Their smiles vanished as soon as he stopped them.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies, I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m afraid I’m a bit lost.’

  ‘Long way from home, are you, English boy?’ A girl in a peacock-blue coat stepped forward and took the book from his hand. Her boldness faded as she read the address. She shoved the book into his hands and stepped back into the safety of her companions.

  ‘Why would you want to go there?’ she asked. Her friends whispered questions, and she responded in a low Welsh burr.

  ‘So you know it?’ Peter asked. He couldn’t hide his excitement. Eliza was getting closer with every passing second.

  The girl on the right spoke. ‘Everyone knows Tŷ Marwolaeth.’

  Peacock Blue nudged her in the arm, urging her to remain silent.

  ‘I’m sorry. Tie––’

  ‘Looking for work or what?’ Peacock Blue asked.

  ‘No. No, I’m looking for my girlfriend.’

  The third, silent girl’s face softened though the two others remained sceptical.

  ‘Likely story. Come on, girls.’ They changed direction and started walking back the way they came. They couldn’t leave him. Not now. Not when he was so close.

  ‘Wait, please! Her name’s Eliza. Eliza Haverford. She and her little sister, Rebecca, they were sent here. I need to find them. Please.’

  At the mention of a little sister, the quiet one detached herself from the group and came forward.

  ‘Anwen, wait,’ her friends urged, but she ignored them. From her pocket she withdrew a small notebook and began scribbling in it.

  ‘Here,’ she whispered, tearing out the page and pressing it into his hand. Directions.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pet
er said. ‘Thank you. Wait. What does it mean? Tŷ . . .’ He pointed to the words she wrote at the top.

  ‘Death House,’ she said, and was gone. They were all gone.

  Peter stood alone on the pavement, receiving no shelter from the brick cinema as the winds threatened to steal the paper from his grip.

  Death House. Superstition, he told himself. All the people out here were superstitious. The name had to do with the war. Perhaps the place was used to house those wounded in the Blitz, many of whom later died. They probably thought the place was haunted.

  The heavy rain fell straight down despite the wind, but he had no umbrella or even change of clothes. If he were home now, he’d be settling down for dinner inside his warm, dry house, eating hot food and drinking hot tea. He could almost hear the whine of the wireless, the crackle of a fire, could smell the scent of a freshly cooked meal.

  He passed another gutted building, its façade completely torn away and only some of the inner dividing walls standing, like a mews for giants’ horses.

  Beside it was Tŷ Marwolaeth. It was three storeys tall and all the windows were boarded up, like a body with its eyes glued shut by the undertaker, a body void of life. It reached out to Peter and, like a vacuum, drew him close while stealing what little feeling he had left.

  The door stuck but eventually yielded. The house wanted him, Peter knew. It would not bar him entry for long.

  Inside it was silent except for the rain outside and, although it was dry, it was cold. His damp clothes clung to his skin, and he shivered as he inched his way into the foyer. The girl called this Death House, and there was a smell about the place, a kind of musty coldness he remembered from his grandfather’s wake. Peter breathed deeply though it felt as if he weren’t breathing at all. He could feel the air, yet couldn’t, as if his body were a ghost. There was only one certainty – Eliza was not here.

  As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out the walls and doorways, the stairway before him, but there was no furniture, not so much as a coat stand. This house was empty. Eliza had never come to work here.

  Peter fell forward into the banister and lowered himself onto a step. It was lost. She was lost. There was nothing he could do for her, no way he could find her. And what would he do? Return to London, where thugs wanted to kill him? To parents who were ashamed of him? He had forfeited his apprenticeship by coming here. The firm would find another man to replace him, a trustworthy man, a reliable man. He had nothing. He should have left it alone.