And how wrong I was about that.
Shelagh was sitting up when, armed with paperbacks and anemones, I hurried to her bedside. As the nurse took away the flowers to put them in water Shelagh asked, “What happened—did you run out of roses?”
“I thought anemones were more original . . .” I’d give her no more roses—not while we were based at the cottage; not while they were a symbol of Helen’s love for me, and of her hatred for Shelagh. I thought again of the girl in the painting—the girl who had become Shelagh, with the magpie hovering above her head. Where I was concerned Helen’s lingering presence showed only tenderness and caring. Not so with Shelagh. With Shelagh it was another story entirely.
I wanted so much to share my knowledge. I could make a joke of it, perhaps. What would you say if I told you the cottage was haunted—by Helen . . . ? But it wasn’t a joke. Unless the joke was on me and I was going round the bend. No. I knew it was all real. Too real . . .
“When you come out,” I said, “we’ll go away somewhere. After our wedding. We’ll go away. Anywhere you like . . .”
She looked puzzled, then amused. “You mean for a honeymoon or something?”
“. . . Call it that if you like. Yes, why not.”
“Oh, no . . .” she shook her head, “I’d like to stay at the cottage till we have to go back to New York. I mean, we haven’t been there five minutes. I love it. Why should we want to move?”
I shrugged. “It’s—it’s not really so—ideal. I’m thinking of selling it.”
“Are you serious? Sell our beautiful cottage?”
I could understand her surprise; I’d done nothing but eulogise about it till now.
“It’s just a thought,” I mumbled. “Just an idea. We can talk about it later.”
She gave a wry little smile. “Some idea. Are all your ideas that good?”
At the cottage on my return I found Jean Timpson there. She was preparing my lunch. She told me she had brought back Helen’s clothes, that she’d hung them up in the bedroom. I stayed for a few minutes chatting to her—or trying to; chatting, in the constrained atmosphere that was there between us, was hardly what we did. I was relieved when enough time had passed to enable me to make my escape to another part of the house. After what had passed between us over the past couple of days I somehow doubted that we could ever really be at ease in one another’s company.
In the hospital ward that evening I made no further mention of selling up and leaving the cottage. Shelagh didn’t bring up the subject either. We talked of other things, general things, our voices soft in the hush that always seems to go with hospitals. The atmosphere there was one that spoke of practicality, rationality and method, and it didn’t prepare me for the atmosphere that greeted me when I returned to the cottage. There it was—even stronger by contrast with what I had left behind—that powerful, soft, insinuating warmth. It was everywhere . . .
But now, now, I could arm myself against it. In the past I had allowed myself to be taken in, to be seduced by its cloying sweetness. But now I knew that it didn’t come from the house itself but from that unseen occupant within, and I could, I felt, be on my guard. And I would be.
I stood in the living-room while Girlie wove between my ankles, and I could feel my heartbeat almost quicken as if I were preparing for some physical onslaught where I would need all my wits and my strength. I heard relief in the sigh I gave and the hollow bravery in my whistling as I prepared for myself a scotch-and-water.
Jean Timpson had left for the day. There was a note from her on the kitchen-table, telling me that my dinner was in the oven. I opened it and saw the casserole she had put there. Perhaps I would eat some of it later on. In the meantime I carried my drink into the living-room and sat there with Miss Merridew smiling her vacant smile upon me and the light of the low sun glowing on Sad Margaret’s sad sampler.
I did eat later; with a tray on my knees, gawking at the television screen while John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara yelled at each other in glorious Technicolor. I couldn’t concentrate on the film, though, and in the end I switched off and went upstairs.
It was into Colin and Helen’s room that I went.
Everything seemed to be just as I had left it. My eyes flicked at once to the paintings on the wall—and there was Shelagh—so clearly, so definitely Shelagh—all smilingly unaware while the magpie fluttered above her head.
I said suddenly, loudly into the stillness, riding on a flood of bravery:
“We’re leaving.” Then louder: “You hear that? We’re leaving.”
And I heard the sounds of the words going on in my head like a stuck needle on a gramophone record: leaving, leaving, leaving, leaving—loud against the silence that was suddenly deeper.
“We’re leaving,” I said again. “We’re going, Shelagh and I. We’re going and we’re not coming back.”
And I felt the silence closing in. The air in the room became cool, cooler, icy cool. For long, long seconds I stood still in the cool quiet, and nothing moved. And then, as when the sun appears from behind a cloud, the coldness passed and I was bathed in warmth. And the warmth grew, and grew. Outside in the night air I saw bats wheeling against the moonlit sky, an owl hooted, crickets chirped. I stood there while the warmth drew nearer; felt it wrapping me, holding, pressing. I felt the caress of fingers against my hot skin; fingers touching my clothes, running over my body, gentle but aggressive, exploring me with an intimacy I had never before experienced.
I could do nothing but submit. I was powerless to stop it. Through my veins the blood surged with such pressure that my cheeks felt as if they were on fire. I was bathed in a hot glow, and my inner heat reached out and responded, hypersensitive, to the touch on my skin. My head swam. I felt as if I was being undressed. There was the softness of lips against my mouth, kisses soft, all-possessive on my cheek, my forehead, my throat and on my bare chest. Reaching up one drugged hand I realised that my shirt was open to my navel; and all the time my heart beat faster, faster, the blood racing frantic through my veins. Dimly I was aware that I had an erection, but I was unsurprised by it; I was just accepting, accepting it all. No, not accepting; wanting . . .
Sweat ran down from my armpits and I felt its wetness on my hands. The thought came to me through the fog of my ecstasy that perhaps I was going mad; what was happening to me couldn’t be happening. None of it, nothing, not one thing could possibly be anything but the product of my mind!—and still the touching, the caressing continued. The thought wavered through my brain that if I was not mad that I was being driven to that state, and I made a last desperate clutch for rationality, a final desperate attempt to hang on to reality, and I flung out my arms, wide, and shouted with all my force into the sweet-fogged-rose-scented room:
“No . . . !”
And with the sound the heat retreated, from within me and from without. I shouted again:
“I’m going, Helen! I’m leaving! I’m leaving!”
The sound of my voice, so brave in the face of that unseen, adoring spirit, restored me, and I felt my body begin to relax again.
Until I heard the sound.
Her laugh. I heard her laugh.
It was not the laughter I had heard in those movie bloodcurdlers—that maniacal sound that wells up, product of engineering married to an actress’s vocal prowess. No. This was a gentle little sound, almost childlike, little more than a giggle; rippling, breaking on its treble note. And it was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard.
My feet might have been nailed to the floor. I saw my hand, fixed in the act of reaching out for the light-switch. I was frozen with fear.
I gasped for breath. I was afraid now for myself.
And then with a rush the warmth came back. And this time I had no defence. The blood surged to my loins and to my head, swift, tidal, engulfing me like some great voracious mouth. All the red through my clenched eyelids became just black. There was a moment of total blackness. And then there was nothing at all.<
br />
What was I doing lying on the carpet?
Something nudged me in the quiet room and my hand came up and touched the silkiness of Girlie’s fur. I pushed her away.
The smell of roses was so strong.
I got to my feet—like watching the actions of someone else; ran my fingers over my body, tentative, touching briefly and flinching away, away from the wetness of my orgasm.
I picked up the roses that lay strewn around my feet and threw them through the wide-opened window into the night.
23
“Are you all right?”
Shelagh’s question, even coming after the rather searching look she gave me, still took me by surprise; I had thought my cover-up job was working pretty well.
“Yes. Why—don’t I look it?”
“You look tired. And a bit—strained.”
“I’m okay. Anyway, you’re the one who’s in hospital.”
“Only till tomorrow morning, though.” The doctor had given her the good news. Now she grinned. “My God, you can’t imagine how relieved I am.” Her expression gave way to a more serious one. I felt her contemplating me again.
“All right,” I said, “what is it now?”
“. . . I’ve been thinking.”
I waited. “Is that it? Or is there more to come?”
“About your father.”
“What about him?”
“Why don’t you ask him to the wedding?”
I shook my head.
“Why not?” she said.
I shrugged. “I could ask him—if you really want me to.”
“Don’t you want to?”
No, I didn’t. Why? Was I afraid? Did I fear his possible (likely?) refusal? Or was I afraid, if he did come, that he would somehow disapprove—and show that disapproval? But what could he disapprove of?—Shelagh? No one could disapprove of Shelagh. Disapprove of me? I was used to that.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Which means you hate the idea.”
“Why do you want him there?”
“Well—he will be my father-in-law, and we’ve never met . . .”
I might have added to that that he was my father—which relationship hadn’t done anything to foster any closeness between us. I nodded. “All right. I’ll try to get in touch with him. Maybe I’ll go and see him.”
“Good.” Her eyes were steady on mine. She smiled and handed me a piece of paper with a list of items pencilled on it. Her “coming-out” clothes and things, she told me; if I’d pack them into her red overnight case and bring it in with me when I visited her that evening . . . I put the list in my pocket.
“You won’t forget, will you?” she said.
“As if I would.”
“As if.” She smiled again, eyed me through lowered lashes. “It’s just that you seem rather—preoccupied. And that was before I ever mentioned your father.”
She was right. Of course I was preoccupied. And it had nothing to do with my father. All through my waking hours I was plagued with questions. And not only during the days; even my nights now were not free from the needle-pointed fantasies that insinuated themselves into my dreams. My mind was in a constant turmoil as I wrestled to accept, and come to terms with what I found to be so totally unacceptable. But I had no choice. Even now, sitting at Shelagh’s bedside, half my brain seemed bent on reliving and examining the incredible events that had taken place since my arrival in Hillingham. No, no past tense; those events were happening still, now. Even now as I held Shelagh’s hand and looked into her blue eyes I knew that someone else was waiting for me. Helen . . . Her name kept going through my head as I recalled the power of her presence there in the cottage. Yes . . . last night had proved to me just how powerful she could be, and how warm her embrace and how tenacious her loving . . .
Other hospital visitors were moving past us, away, out of the ward. My time had come to an end again. I kissed Shelagh softly on the lips, then said: “I’ll be back later on.”
“All of you?” She was holding on to my sleeve.
“Mm?”
“Like I said, you’ve only been half here this morning.”
I was apprehensive about returning to the cottage—until I remembered that Jean Timpson would be there. And I was so glad when I went in and saw her there, standing over the stove. Poor lost, insecure Jean Timpson; with her there I felt safer; she was a shield between us, me and the other one.
Recalling my promise to Shelagh I telephoned my father and said I’d be coming up to see him. When he asked me “What about?” I just hedged and said it would wait till I got there.
In the polished, clean-dusted living-room I sat down and lit a cigarette, noticing how the sun glanced off Margaret Lane’s sampler, blotting out her embroidered sadness. It was difficult to believe, in this time of bright day, what dark spirit crept within these comfortable walls; a spirit that seemed to grow stronger with each passing night. Here, in the sunlight though, nothing seemed to be amiss; Miss Merridew still sat, happily surrounded by her cats, and Temple and his pretty wife still gazed out into the room, she with her gentle, self-conscious smile and he stern-faced—no doubt dreaming of the dairymaid and far away places. Everything was as it should be, it seemed—yet I knew that nothing was.
After lunch I went to get Shelagh’s overnight case from the cellar, but the light still wasn’t working. “Can you manage with a torch?” Jean Timpson asked me.
“That’s not working either.”
“I got new bulbs and batteries . . .”
While she fiddled with the torch and screwed in a new bulb the telephone began to ring.
“Oh,” she said as I moved towards it, “there was a phone call while you were out.”
I stopped, about to lift the receiver. “Who was it?”
“I don’t know. When I answered they hung up.”
I lifted the phone and gave the cottage number. The voice on the other end—the same voice as before—said: “So you’re back.”
“Who’s speaking?” I said.
“You know bloody well who it is, Warwick, so don’t play the innocent with me.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“It’ll come to you in time. And I’ll keep this up till you remember. Until you crack.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m going to make your life a bloody misery. Just as you made hers.”
That’s when I hung up.
I wiped my sweating palms on my trousers and, without looking at Jean Timpson, took the torch she held out to me. I could sense the puzzled look on her face, but I wasn’t about to enlighten her. At the bottom of the cellar steps I located Shelagh’s cases. My torch also lit up Bronwen’s Welsh dresser. It was such a beautiful, impressive piece. In a way I could understand Pitkin coveting it.
Over to my right above the level of my shoulders the torch beam lit up a stack of canvases leaning against the wall. I hadn’t looked closely at them before. I moved nearer, squeezing between the junk and the old bits of furniture and shone my light directly on them. The back of the nearest canvas seemed to be covered with dark marks, like splashes of black paint, but peering closer I saw that the marks were not marks; they were slashes in the fabric. The canvas had been rent almost from corner to corner, not just once, but several times.
I took hold of the wooden stretcher and turned the canvas around to face me.
It was a portrait of Helen. Or, rather, it had been a portrait of Helen.
A self-portrait. She had painted herself standing at her easel, a paintbrush in her hand. Whoever had mutilated the painting had been thorough and in no two minds. The slashes went right across her chest, neck and head, almost obliterating the look of steady concentration on her face. One eye had been totally wiped out, but the other one survived and peacefully returned a gaze of calm in return for my own staring shocked horror.
I turned towards me the second canvas, then the third. They were also of He
len. And both self-portraits, and both of them as badly disfigured as the first.
Quickly I pushed them back to face the wall again. I couldn’t look at them. But the ruined paintings started me off on a search, and I didn’t stop until I’d found what I was looking for. In the old carved-wood chest I found a large envelope. I opened it, shook out its contents.
And there they were. Helen’s photographs.
I stared down at them as they lay spread out before me on the old books and clothes. Each photograph had been treated in the same vicious manner as had her self-portraits; there wasn’t one that hadn’t been defaced.
Had Colin done this? But why? Why had he abused her image—painted and photographed—in such a way? And what could have made him carry out such a terrible act? I could only wonder at the passion that must have driven him. And wonder what Helen had done to him that he should set out to destroy, to totally abscind her image and her memory in such a way . . . Had the anonymous caller been speaking the truth? Had Colin killed Helen? It might be as simple as that . . . I had always thought of Colin as a kind, caring person. Had I been wrong? Had he killed her? And what about his own death? Remorse? Perhaps I had never known him at all.
But my mind refused to accept such an answer. There were still many things I didn’t know; there was a possibility that a little more knowledge might lead me to a new conclusion.
I switched on the torch and made my way back up the steps. I’d set about finding the answer to one question right now. It was time. And I wouldn’t be fazed, even should the answer I received be one I didn’t want. I had to have the truth now. I had reached the point where too much had happened, where I had learned far too much for any degree of peace of mind. If Colin had killed, then I must know it. I had to know too the reason for Helen’s unhappiness. The man on the phone said Colin had made her life a bloody misery. Was it true? And what kind of woman, living, had Helen been, that even in death she would not rest but seemed bent on destroying?—destroying Shelagh . . . Did she, Helen, really love me?—or was it because I was so like Colin and she was seeking revenge through me . . . ?
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