She put her hands to her cheeks, letting the iciness of her fingers cool the burn. God only knew where he was tonight. Not with Grace Holland, though, because according to the local paper she was singing at Ludsmoor chapel this evening. So maybe it wasn’t her, after all? Maybe he had another one? Maybe he had a string of women? What did she know, now she came to think of it? He was supposed to have been in Manchester talking to potential investors today, but in reality… well, in reality he could be bloody anywhere.
The point was that someone had to do something. No doubt Max was content to play the wealthy businessman and carry on as he pleased with scant regard for her happiness? So then, it would be up to her. If she didn’t save herself now while she was young enough she would die. Of misery, of neglect, of pills… So when he came home, and please God don’t let her sob all the way through telling him this, she would ask for a divorce.
Her handkerchief was soaked and she screwed it up to throw in the laundry basket, just as the phone in the hall downstairs began to ring.
Motionless, she waited in the darkness for the insistent trill to stop.
On and on it went. Echoing around the house.
In the dressing table mirror a pale, make-up smeared face beneath a cropped peroxide mop of hair, stared back at her. What if that was Max? She’d been thinking all of these terrible thoughts about him when maybe the truth was as he said – her own paranoia? Her own mental instability because she could not have children? Her own…
The phone stopped ringing.
And then into the static that sang in her ears like a tuning fork, it began to ring once more.
She stood up, swaying on legs stiff with cold. And then hurried downstairs to answer it.
***
Chapter Five
Grytton Forest
Rosa and Marion Danby
The moment sisters Marion and Rosa stepped into the frozen silence of Grytton Forest, the wind dropped. They stopped to rest for a minute. The long walk across Hilltop Road from Ludsmoor had left them exhausted.
“I feel like I’ve been put through the wringer,” Marion said. “My face has frozen, and I can’t feel my fingers anymore.”
“I know, and my ears are killing me.” Rosa jammed her hat down by the brim, making it look like a cloche. “Ooh, the pain – it’s excruciating.”
“I’ve never known anything like it.”
“It seemed to come out of nowhere, didn’t it - half way through the Service? I don’t remember this being forecast, either.” She pushed back her coat sleeve to look at her watch. Half past eight. It had taken more than two hours to walk across the moor – a trip that would normally take forty minutes or less. They hadn’t dressed nearly warmly enough, in just ordinary overcoats with woollen mittens and neck scarves. “Still, never mind, we’ll soon be home.”
“My hat’s ruined,” said Marion. “Do you know, I can’t talk properly - I think my jaw’s seized up.”
Blinking away a flurry of snowflakes, Rosa linked arms again with her sister. Soaked and frozen, fatigue weighed heavily. “Same here. Come on, we’re nearly there. Do you think Mother will have had the wherewithal to light a fire and get Lana something to eat?”
“I just hope she hasn’t fallen asleep and let her go wandering off again. Can you imagine? In this?”
“Hmmm…” They quickened the pace.
The path through the forest to the house was normally well defined and despite the covering of snow making it less so, they hurried along with confidence. They knew it well, having had the woods as a personal playground all their lives and using it as a shortcut to the village school. The forest was their backyard, their friend and protector. Where many would have hesitated to vanish into its black depths on a winter’s night, they did not. But tonight the overhead canopy was a dripping cobweb of blackened spikes – an ineffective roof against a heavy sky awash with snow. Flakes dropped from bare branches and plopped onto the path, and even in the thick of the woods it was quickly beginning to layer.
Behind them the roar of the storm rolling over the moors became more muted with every step and they were grateful the sharp-toothed wind no longer cut into their faces. For a while the two women walked in companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts, looking forward to a warm fire and mulling over the Service that evening; the only sound that of freshly fallen snow crunching beneath boots, and their breath expelled on the air.
Suddenly Marion ground to a halt. “Stop!” She turned to face Rosa. “Listen! Did you hear that?”
Rosa, with little choice, stood perfectly still.
Drip-drip-drip from the trees.
She shook her head. “No, nothing.”
Marion frowned.
“Come on, Sis, we have to keep moving.”
Marion stood fast. “Are you sure this is the right way?”
“What? Yes, I think so. We’re trekking downhill, so—”
“It’s just that I don’t recognise the path anymore.”
“That’s because it’s covered in snow. And it’s dark. Come on.”
Marion wouldn’t budge. “No, it’s not that. This just isn’t right. It doesn’t feel right.”
Rosa sighed audibly. “As long as we’re going downhill it doesn’t really matter where we come out, does it? We can find our way home from anywhere along the lake, and we sure as hell won’t miss the ruddy, great big thing built in front of it.”
Marion nodded. “Okay, yes, I expect you’re right.” Seemingly reassured, she resumed walking; but after a few more yards slowed down yet again, dragging back. “No, I’m sorry – this definitely isn’t right, Rosa. Doesn’t it feel odd to you? Really odd?”
Rosa gripped her sister’s arm. “Come on, Marion, dear. Now really isn’t the time for a funny turn. Let’s just get home.”
Grytton Forest was not a place to linger, even for those who knew it well. And if she was honest with herself she had to admit to a feeling of increasing unease too. Actually it was the strangest thing, but it looked as though the beam from the torch was being consumed by a blackness that was getting denser by the minute. In fact, it was hardly shedding any light at all now. When they had first entered the woods, the torch had easily picked out individual tree trunks, darkly wet against the brilliant whiteness of the snow. But now the whole of their surroundings were totally, suffocatingly black. And maybe it was her imagination but weren’t the trees packed closer together? And the canopy overhead seemed to be thicker too, closing off any loopholes to the sky. No longer the drip-drip-drip of icy water tipping off branches – there was a total absence of either light or sound.
Switching off the torch made little difference.
“Focus on the path, on the white of the snow, Sis,” she said. “We’re still tipping downhill.”
“Not as steeply as we should.”
The anxiety in Marion’s voice resonated in her gut, tugging at her instincts. She had to keep her head, though. One of them had to. “Marion, it’s okay. Hold on to me and just keep walking. We’ll be out the other side in no time.”
Although they both walked through the forest regularly and had both played here as children, her sister in particular knew it in intimate detail: Marion spent a good deal of time in the woods painting, collecting wild flowers and meditating. And if Marion said they were on the wrong path, then they probably were. Certainly the going underfoot was becoming more prominently veined with tree roots; twigs sprang back in their faces as the path narrowed further; and the boundaries now appeared to be hedged with holly bushes.
This was some kind of labyrinth or tunnel…
She stopped dead. “Actually, I think you’re right. We’re going to have to backtrack.”
Marion’s grip tightened on her arm. “Rosa, I’m scared.”
“There’s no need to be scared. We’re just a bit lost, a bit off track—”
“No. You don’t understand. Rosa, I don’t recognise this part of the woods at all. There’s something creepy about it – I
’ve got a really bad feeling. Seriously.”
“It’s just dark,” she replied, already turning round. “Come on, we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere. We’ll have to retrace our steps. It was easily done.”
She’d spoken with gusto but as the two women hurried back the way they’d come, a sense of dark oppression fell upon them both – as if something or someone was behind them.
“We have to get home urgently,” Marion said, panting now as she speeded up. “I’ve got this awful, awful feeling.”
Rosa did not reply, but the blood vessels in her throat constricted and something close to panic bolted into her stomach as they tripped over bulging tree roots camouflaged by the snow, and pushed away wet, snappy branches. Marion’s fear was contagious. It was the family curse – a kind of heightened awareness or ‘knowing’ that they all seemed to possess except for herself, and she knew not to question it – the gift or curse of second sight, that was. If Marion was feeling fear that meant there was a good reason; although she’d never confess to believing in any of that nonsense herself.
What was truly alarming in this instance, however, was that none of them except Ellen had ever been afraid of the forest before, despite the rumours of dark rituals and witchcraft. They were nothing more than muttered tales told over too much ale in The Quarryman, said Marion - old women’s gossip to keep them all from going insane with boredom. The forest itself, she had always insisted, was a beautiful, magical place alive with a powerful energy that culminated in a holy well. They called it the magic pool as children – a swirling pond fed by sparkling, fresh water gushing off the moors. And Lana clearly felt the magic too, spending hours here, worrying them all half to death until they realised it was probably where she felt safest. She was watched over by the angels and guardians of the forest, she told them. And for some reason they all believed her. Who knew what went on in that girl’s head? Or Marion’s.
“Grace was in fine form tonight?” Rosa said, in an effort to relieve the tension.
“Yes, she’s got the most beautiful voice. I have to say it was really very moving.”
“I did think her dress was a little bit too low-cut, though. I mean, for Chapel.”
“Well, that’s just the way she is.”
“I know, but I mean, for Chapel.”
“Maybe,” said Marion, almost breaking into a run. “Hurry, Rosa. We really do have to hurry.”
“Or what, for goodness’ sake? Slow down or you’ll have us fall.”
“There’s this buzzing in my head - we have to get out.”
They were racing along now, out of breath.
“I did expect to see Agnes there. I think it’s a disgrace she doesn’t go to Chapel.”
“She won’t go and you shouldn’t expect her to.”
“I’d expect her to go and see her daughter perform. That’s the only reason Grace bothers.”
“Grace puts on a front for the rest of them.”
“You’re too charitable.”
“No such thing.” Marion swung out an arm to bar Rosa from walking on any further. “Look, Rosa, where the bloody hell are we now? This isn’t even leading back to where we came in.”
They stood panting for breath, confused. The night was blacker than ever.
Rosa flicked on the torch but the beam was so weak as to be almost useless. A shiver of cold fear chased up her back, “You’re right. I’ve never seen this place before either. But how on earth…?”
Unable to see her face, Rosa reached for Marion’s hand. This must be the very core of the forest, where it was at its most oppressive and silent. The ground beneath was running wet, dipping into puddles, the trees choked with brambles and creepers, the path densely guarded with holly. Repeatedly she flicked on the torch until a faintly discernible shaft of light as thin as that of a spider’s thread, created a shadow more menacing than any natural darkness.
“I’m getting a horrible, bad feeling here,” said Marion. “I don’t feel well. I don’t feel at all well.”
“Don’t say that. We’re just lost. There’ll be an explanation.”
“Can’t you hear it, though?” Marion hissed. “It’s so much louder now. I thought we were moving away from it. But–”
“What?”
“There’s a baby crying.”
“No, no I can’t hear anything.” She whirled around, the light from the torch misting into an ineffective, foggy halo. “Honestly, I can’t hear a thing.”
They stood as statues, each straining to see, to hear.
“Marion, we have to think rationally. From here on the ground slopes down again so that’s all we have to do – keep walking downhill. Come on.”
Her sister’s face bobbed in an eerie orb above the torch. As motionless as a hunted wild animal she was listening intently to something Rosa couldn’t hear, her gaze focused on something far away.
“No listen, there’s a baby crying somewhere… No, it’s stopped again… and there’s whispering. Can’t you hear it? People whispering? It’s getting louder. Rosa, there’s something terribly wrong here. I don’t think this is real. I don’t think any of this is real. Maybe it happened before or…” She shook her head, confused. “Like some kind of imprint. But we’re trapped in it.”
“What do you mean? You’re spooking me now. Is someone here or not?”
Marion shook her head in that vague, disconcerting way Snow did when she tapped into things other people couldn’t see or understand. “No, there’s no one actually here. Quite the opposite, in fact. There is nothing here… absolutely nothing. It’s more like a void, a total absence of life. Oh God, all the energy’s draining out of me.”
She began to crumple to her knees like a rag doll, eyelids closing. “We’re trapped in the middle of it.”
Rosa struggled to hold onto her sister. “What do you mean we’re trapped in it? Trapped in what?”
Marion collapsed against her, slumping to the ground. “Rosa, hold me up. I think I’m going to pass out…”
***
Chapter Six
Louise. The same night.
On the night of the blizzard I woke up suddenly and with a bump to the heart, breathing heavily in the bluish hush of an early dawn. For several moments I lay there completely disorientated, the remains of a dream rapidly dissolving; although I don’t think and never did, that it was a dream. The same one that often came, it invariably left its mark – an indelible imprint on my mind for days after. And as always, I had been convinced beyond any doubt that the shouts and cries outside my window were real, and were I to open the curtains there would be men on horseback charging at each other with swords and muskets; the surrounding fields a bloody battleground booming with cannon fire; the sickening stench of charred flesh and gun powder choking the air.
With my pulse still galloping wildly, I lay under the covers next to Arthur’s pyjama-clad back, waiting for it to steady, afraid to make a sound, when a remnant of the dream flashed back without warning. I’d been picking through the mud in drizzly rain, kneeling amongst dismembered bodies to remove rings and valuables, when a decapitated head rolled towards me and lodged in a puddle. No, I don’t want to see this, stop it, stop it… I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing the image away because it was not real, it was definitely not real. Make it go… make it go… Stop it. Go away!
Miraculously, when I opened my eyes again the dream had dissipated completely and all that remained was a memory of the fear itself. It was just the old battle dream, and that was all. Thank goodness I hadn’t screamed or cried out this time – at least I’d learned not to do that; had taught myself how to deal with it and think of other things.
As my heart rate steadied I became aware of the silky silence in the room, and remembered the storm from the night before – the power of it battering the windows as we drifted to sleep, whining down the chimney, clattering the roof tiles. Now though, all was quiet… apart from a low murmur of voices coming from the room next door. The parents were talking…oh, and my
bladder was full. You never wet the bed in our house or you’d be tanned good and proper.
Slipping out of bed onto the freezing linoleum, I dragged the chamber pot from under the bed. It was a hateful thing to have to use, and impossible not to think about all the mice scuttling around at night with their waxy, rubbery pink tails. What if they slithered over your toes while you were sitting on it? But it was better than going downstairs in the dark to the outhouse. Our stairs were perilously steep, the stairwell black as a coalhouse, and every single step creaked loudly. My God, if you woke my mother up! And then you had to put on wellies, take a torch and let yourself out into the yard no matter what the weather. At the bottom of the yard stood the outside lav – a damp, unlit shed with cobwebs spanning the windows, the doorway, the corners - everywhere. Spiders could drop into your hair at any moment while you peed fast as a jet spray. Anyway, like I said - the chamber pot was better.
After I used it, I pushed it back under the bed and padded over to the window. I wanted to check the soldiers really weren’t there – just to be sure – and then I could go back to sleep. The flowery cotton curtains did little to shield us from either the light or the cold, but when I put my head between the gap there was a marked increase in iciness. And what I saw made me gasp. Far from the blood-spattered fields I’d imagined, what faced me was a total white-out such as I had never seen.
Our house was in the middle of a row of terraces with a cobbled street between us and those facing. If you didn’t have nets you could see straight into the house opposite we were that close (we all had nets). But that night the street was totally transformed. Snow had been whisked into huge meringues that blocked doors, cut off roads and banked high up against the houses. There were no kerbs visible on Moody Street that night, and no front doorsteps – the snow had piled half way up people’s front windows. Overhead, a galaxy of stars glittered in an inky sky – the contrast startling against the blinding white of the scene below. Not a breath of air disturbed the fresh snowfall, but something amazing had happened and my young eyes widened with the brilliance of it: millions and millions of sparkles caught and glittered in the moonlight everywhere you looked, as if a fairy godmother had sprinkled it with her magic wand.
The Soprano Page 4