“I thought you would be happy?” Daniel takes a sip of his drink, rests the cup against his lips.
“I thought I would be too.” I sigh and pick up the top photograph in the folder. On the back in neat black letters is written ‘Berlin, Germany, 25/08’. There’s a neat little house with a neatly trimmed lawn. There’s a fancy car parked in the driveway.
“Everything you wanted is in the folder, Mel. Telephone number, postal address, email…”
“Thank you, Daniel.” The cream has curdled in my stomach. I look away from the folder and its contents, try to focus on the price of a tiny cupcake in the glass cabinet. It is crowned in bright pink icing.
“What are you going to do?” He finishes up his drink and replaces his cup on the saucer with a tiny clack. I sit there for a few moments, chewing over things in my head. I have a job and a house, found love. Everything is stable in its own way and did I really want to upset that stability by going out to Berlin and confronting my birth parents?
“I don’t know Daniel. I’ll think it over.” I tuck the manila folder into my bag and finish off my hot chocolate in a few scalding gulps.
“Mel, if you need anything, you know where I am.” He stands up, knees clicking, and leaves some small change on the table. He leaves without another word and I’m left in my own coffee-tinted daydreams.
*
It’s approximately five-hundred and seventy-seven miles to Berlin from London as the crow flies. On a whim I go to Gatwick airport and purchase a ticket to Berlin. Just like that. Is this how they felt when they left me? Just turned up and got on a plane?
I don’t have much luggage with me, just a small suitcase with a few days’ worth of clothes and a wash-bag. The manila folder that Daniel has given me is nestled under it all, heavy at the bottom of my suitcase. I am surprised when the scales at check-in said that it only weighs five whole kilograms.
As I sit on the plane waiting for take-off, reality begins to catch up with me. What on earth am I doing? I haven’t told anybody where I’m going, haven’t notified work or my partner of my intentions. I look about the cabin of the aircraft, look at the happy families ready for a holiday and feel a stab of envy through my gut. I busy myself with my seat belt, let out a deep breath as we begin to taxi out and the cabin crew begin to go through the motions of the safety demonstration.
As we coast up through clouds to a comfortable cruising height, I begin to wish that I had taken the manila folder out of my suitcase and brought it onboard with me. It would have given me something to do, given me time to learn who was who and maybe plan on what I was going to say.
Was I really going to go through with this?
I turn to stare out of the window at the cloud-scape and am blinded. My heart is tripping with anxiety and I can’t believe that everybody else around me is calm and happy. How could they be? I suck in a few deep breaths, take the complimentary magazine from its pouch in front of me and begin to flick through it. Expensive tat to buy, an article on wine in France, ten things you must do in Germany, all mundane, unimportant things.
*
I put my hands on my hips and tip my head to one side. The rose bush is all stems and dry, brittle sap. With a heavy sigh I heft up the spade and begin to attack the roots of the bush. It is a sickly-sweet death.
A car pulls up out front but I pay it no mind. People are always pulling up outside the house and then moving on. I pause in my work as the car-door slams. I look up and freeze. My heart seems to pause in wonder for a few seconds.
She is holding a brown manila folder between her fingers, spectacles pushed up her nose. Hair is pinned in place just-so on the back of her head and her eyes are full of venom that scares me. I put the spade down and take off my gloves, leave them on the path by the rosebush. I want to say “hello” and wave, but my body betrays me and leaves me mute and numb.
She begins the conversation.
“Excuse me, are you Mrs. Woods?” She is angry, her knuckles are white where she is stopping her hands from shaking and her tone is controlled, too controlled, for somebody here just for a chat.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.” My mouth speaks, but my brain isn’t engaged. I stare at this young woman with her big coat and her smart shoes. Lying comes so easy still, but how can I lie to this woman?
I know who she is and the knowledge is seeping through my veins, crawling its way to my heart. Perhaps it will poison me and I will drop dead before too long.
“I have here a folder from a good friend of mine and he assures me that you are, in fact, Mrs Woods.” She takes a couple of steps closer and I see that she is a few inches taller than me.
She inherited that from her father.
“Excuse me?” I try to look offended but fail. My words come out limp and pathetic.
“You speak very good English, by the way. I’m afraid my German is very rusty, haven’t had to use it since secondary school.”
That’s when my heart stops again. The poison has reached it and is squeezing it to a stop.
“Melly, I don’t know what to say.” I wish that he was here to back me up; it was his idea after all.
“I want to know why.” Melly clenches her teeth together, grinds them, and she’s taking big breaths, trying to force down her anger.
“It wasn’t my idea,” I begin but that line of thought dies as soon as it leaves my mouth. Why did we leave her? I’m not sure. I can’t remember: it’s been too long.
“I don’t care whose idea it was, I care about why you did this. Why would you leave me? Did you get bored of me, is that it? Raised a child for eighteen years and then poof, disappear without a word.” Her rage is impressive and terrible. Her face is blotchy with it, but her hair stays in place as do her glasses. Beneath them her eyes glitter with hurt and anger and all I can do is sink to my knees and whisper, “we are such monsters.”
Familiar
Mary had been wrapped in dreams of glorious sunshine when the tap-tap-tapping came to her door. She opened her eyes, took stock of her limbs and the ache of her shoulders before throwing back her blankets. Groping for her plain kirtle and her fur lined cap, she kept an ear out for the tapping at her door again. In the dark of her sleeping-cupboard, she prayed under her breath that this was a visitation from the living. She didn’t have the energy to speak to anything else.
On her front step she found Elizabeth Thatcher holding a wicker basket to her chest. She had her long woolen cloak and hood covering her hair and some of her face. She looked more wraith than human woman in the cloud-smothered moonlight and Mary wondered if she were still dreaming.
“Elizabeth!” she hissed, “You can’t come tapping on my door at this hour!”
“Please, I wouldn’t put you in danger unless it was urgent.” Elizabeth took a hurried look about her, but the world was in silent sleep. “It’s Pickle. He hasn’t eaten in two days and won’t leave his basket.” She hoisted the basket up and a soft mew raised the hairs on the back of Mary’s neck. For all they would face if they were caught on her doorstep in the dead of night, Mary could not help the small smile on her lips.
“Pickle? Is this another of your beloved Shakespeare’s creations?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. Please, will you see what’s wrong with him?”
Mary opened the door a little wider and let Elizabeth pass into her cramped cottage, scanning the moon-pierced dark before shutting the door against would-be spies.
Pickle was a puddle of skinny shadow on Mary’s pock-marked table. He curled up tight as possible, wrapping his tail about his paws and staring at Mary with his round yellow eyes.
“I didn’t think you were the black cat type, Liz. What does your father say?”
“My father can go boil his head for all I care.”
Elizabeth took a stool and drew it up to the table. She was wearing her green dress with the long sleeves and black fur around the neck. It complimented her brown eyes and always reminded Mary of her beloved forest.<
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“Such fire in you, Liz. Not an example to make to the likes of me, I’d say.”
“Well, you’re not a good example for me to follow either so I guess we’re even. A woman living by herself? No male relative to take her into hand? The shame of it all!”
Mary laughed and began stoking up the fire, setting pottage to warm through for her visitor and gathered more light in the form of tallow candles for her table.
“Hello Pickle,” she cooed to the cat and offered her hand to him to sniff. I am a friend, let me help you, her scent would say. Pickle took a small sniff.
“Has he been to toilet while in his basket?”
“No, he neither eats nor drinks. Just stays like this.” Elizabeth took her rosary from within the folds of her dress and began to fuss with the beads, well-worn but still scented.
Mary ran her hands over Pickle, felt his bones beneath her fingertips, noted the way his fur was dull, the little resistance he put up against her. He started to growl when she tried to open his mouth, though, and Mary frowned at his voice.
“Come along now,” she muttered under her breath and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck. Pickle went limp, confused by the kitten-familiar of when his biological mother would move him from place to place.
“Don’t hurt him!” Elizabeth’s voice rang out, her eyes going wide in panic. Mary slipped her fingers into Pickle’s mouth and opened it wide enough to peer in. She frowned at the smell, at the thin blood pooling under his tongue.
“Okay poor thing, here we go. This’ll hurt.” She dipped her fingers into Pickles maw and plucked the lodged twig that had been caught in the roof of his mouth. Pickle yowled then, a wide thin noise that to Mary’s ears was an echoing scream of pain, humiliation but also relief.
“Elizabeth, will you fetch a little milk for your wee beastie. It’s in a crock in the stream. Pickle will need something to help get his strength back.”
“Was only a twig?”
“Yes, just a twig to you and me perhaps, but it could have been his death.”
As Elizabeth slipped out to retrieve some milk, Mary frowned at Pickle.
“What mischief was this?” she hissed. Pickle shot her a look of disdain, but it softened into fear.
“Elizabeth’s tutor works against you, Blessed. She knows about my…disposition.” Pickle flicked his tongue out and licked his nose.
“Lady Gris? But she-”
“She is beholden to the witchfinders, Mary. God this mouth of mine hurts.”
“I won’t have that blasphemy under my roof, thank you.”
“It’s not your roof, young lady. You only rent this hovel. You would need a miracle to actually possess property. But heed me, Blessed. The Lady Gris knows of your skills and would root them out. Tread carefully.”
“Then who would deliver their babes and treat their sick?” Mary took up the offending twig from the table and examined it closely.
“They don’t see it like that, Blessed.”
They didn’t see a lot beyond their own noses, interests or desire for power, wealth and absolute control. Mary let out a frustrated puff of air and threw the twig into the fire.
“Tell me of Elizabeth’s days. Is she happy?”
“Ah, Blessed. Your heart would burst with joy at her happiness. Her lord father indulges her musical talents and she is encouraged to ride and go shooting through the woods. She spends her days in sunshine and comfort. Only her nights leave something to be desired. She would have you for warmth, to whisper to in the dark. She misses you deeply.”
“She will be married soon, I suppose?”
“Yes, Blessed. Please indulge me this one question: Do you love her?”
Pickle, like the majority of cats, was patient. He didn’t blink as Mary stared into the fire. It was only a few moments before Mary breathed her answer, nodded.
A whisper of footsteps on the grass outside gave away Elizabeth’s return. She placed the still-dripping crock of milk on the table and took her stool again.
“He’s like a different cat!” Elizabeth’s smile filled Mary with bliss, would have brought tears to her eyes if she hadn’t turned away to fuss the fire. She placed a little milk in a bowl to warm through for Pickle, served pottage and some day-old bread to Elizabeth. Mary picked at some bread, her appetite ruined by the painful through that Elizabeth would soon be married and taken away. Away from her.
“I hear you have a new tutor.”
“Yes! Lady Gris is very clever and patient. With my mother gone, God rest her soul, she is teaching me the expectations of running a household for when I have my own husband. I… This isn’t ladylike at all but I do hope we may grow into love. But enough of my future, Mary, will you ever be wed?”
Pickle gave a little hiccup - some may have called it a laugh - which drew Elizabeth’s fawning attentions onto him. Mary avoided the question for as long as it took to retrieve the steaming bowl of milk from the fireside. Pickle purred loud and long as he lapped up his milk, he could have nearly fooled Mary into thinking he was a normal cat.
“I doubt it. I have my herbs, my purpose. I am content as I am, Liz. I’m sure you will be very happy.” Just not with her, with Mary on the edge of the forest who would protect her and love her. Who would make her happy, who would treat her with the utmost respect as she deserved.
The two young women sat in a companionable silence, watching Pickle drink down a second helping of milk and then set about washing his paws and face.
“It’ll be dawn soon. I need to leave.” Elizabeth ran her fingertips across the marks of the table.
“I’ll look after Pickle for a few days, fatten him up a little before I send him back to you.”
“Thank you, Mary. Here, I brought payment with me.” From her belt she took a small leather pouch and tipped its contents onto the table, bronze pennies and a few silver coins. Mary took twelve pennies and pushed the rest back to Elizabeth.
“Will you put the crock back in the stream, please?”
“Of course, it’s the least I could do.” Elizabeth rose from the table, pulling her cloak close around her, tucking the crock into the crook of her elbow.
“Thank you, Mary. Really, truly. Your patience must be sent by God to put up with my visit at such an hour.”
“Just stay safe. Watch Lady Gris and be careful.” Mary pinched candles dead and cracked the door open a little to check nobody was watching them before letting Elizabeth out. Elizabeth paused on the threshold before leaving, looking into Mary’s green eyes.
“Thank you again,” she whispered and placed a quick kiss on Mary’s cheek before disappearing into the night.
Mary shut the door and lay her forehead against it, shutting her eyes. Her cheek was alight in joy and yet her heart felt like it would break. Tears welled up in heartbreak and love. She clenched her hands into fists and stood like that for a very long time. Long enough to allow Pickle to finish his bath.
“Blessed?” he whispered.
“You listen to me. I am counting on you to keep her safe.” Mary turned around, a fire in her eyes that was nothing to do with the banking light in the hearth.
“So am I sworn, Blessed.”
“You keep an eye on this Lady Gris and report to me anything suspicious.”
“Yes, Blessed.”
“I will keep Elizabeth safe and happy, witchfinders or no.”
“Yes, Blessed. By the oath I took, Elizabeth will be safe and happy. Now, not to be rude, but could I have some more milk?”
The Joys Of A New Pet
“When you said he’d had a wee behind the sofa I thought it was a little sprinkle, not a full on lake.”
“I know, love, and I’m sorry. I think he’s still settling in and adjusting.”
“Don’t be sorry. It can be sorted.” Tim placed a feather-light kiss on George’s nose. “I’ll sort it if you make breakfast?”
“Okay.”
Tim had never owned a cat before, he’d had the occasional firework-bright gold
fish and a hamster when he was a child, but cats were new to him. He had now learnt that cat wee stank to high heaven through first-hand experience, and the internet was telling him that normal carpet cleaner wasn’t going to hack it because if the smell molecules weren’t broken down properly then this accident could become a repeat performance.
Tim also read that a black light could show up cat pee marks, especially dried patches that might not smell to weak human noses. So, he left a pile of crumpled paper towel soaking up the crime scene to find his old black light somewhere in the spare room.
“Do you want one egg or two?” George called from the kitchen.
“Two, please,” he replied, double-timing back down the stairs.
“What’s this for?” George poked his head around the door, mouth-breathing against the ammonia stink.
“Apparently, this will show up cat pee stains. Thought we could tackle any others we may have missed.”
“I dread to think what Mrs. Hooper got up to before selling this place. What if the walls are soaked with… fluids?”
“Grim.”
“Just remember that what future-you sees cannot be unseen.” George disappeared back into the kitchen to carry on with their midweek breakfast treat. Tim, meanwhile, had gone a little cold at George’s comment about Mrs. Hooper’s clandestine activities. Her whole reason for selling the house, and a little under the market value to boot, was because her husband had disappeared without a trace. The memories held in the brick and mortar were too much for her to handle any more so she moved to the coast to start over.
Tim shook himself and pushed his glasses back up his nose. He had been watching too many true crime programmes again, the kind that made him sleep with a ladle under his pillow to beat off would-be burglars, kidnappers or serial killers.
“Idiot,” he whispered and switched on the black light. It’s funny how something as little-thought of as flicking a switch can change a life. Tim stared at the black-matt stains that clawed their way up the wall and started to wish he had left well enough alone.
“George,” he whispered, hoarse. He cleared his throat once, twice, but found he could not speak. Instead, he followed the void-dark marks across the wall, down onto the carpet. Here they metamorphosed from oblong smears to handprints. Tim’s stomach was filled with a fizzing heat as he watched the handprints crawl towards the kitchen door, but they stopped short in an explosion of violence, a wide, spreading patch that chilled Tim to his very heart.
The Duck Pond Incident Page 9