Summer Secrets at Streamside Cottage

by Samantha Tonge

  ‘Now try to look natural… just gaze ahead across the water… relax your brow. No… don’t smile, not unless that’s your natural resting face…’

  My eyebrows shot up as I tried to master the natural look.

  ‘Is this okay?’ I asked.

  He’d laughed. ‘Lizzie, you shouldn’t even be thinking about what you look like. How about… let your mind wander… what are you having for dinner tonight? That’s better…’ He’d taken a few snaps. ‘You look so serene… content…’

  ‘Sticky pork ribs. Spring rolls… I’m in my happy place, right now.’

  We’d both laughed. And later we did get a Chinese takeaway and shared stories about our childhoods and over sweet and sour chicken Ben opened up about his ex-fiancée.

  ‘I think that was the problem with my ex – she believed I’d change. I was never ambitious enough for her.’ He’d stopped chewing for a moment. ‘It would have been kinder, in the end, to tell her I wasn’t bothered about a fancy house or big salary.’

  I thought back to Ash and me. At the end our story wasn’t so different.

  As I’d waved Ben off, I’d had more thoughts, like when Jill visited, about what it would be like to live permanently here. Perhaps Jill, Tim, Neve, even Trish, perhaps they’d all become my good friends. And Leafton could do with a tattoo parlour. I couldn’t help grinning at that thought. It excited me, though, the idea of setting up my own business, and appearances were deceptive – I knew that from all my customers over the years. Just because Leafton looked conservative didn’t mean there weren’t locals who’d love to be inked.

  And if, in this imaginary world, I became a local myself would Ben and I…?

  But this was all a fantasy.

  My life was in London. When the month was up, I’d be going back.

  And then it struck me – for some reason I never called the capital home and already felt a stronger sense of belonging to this village cottage than my London flat, with its lush lawn, the stream, the weeping willow with the odd carving, with Ben and the kitten.

  ‘Today I’m meeting Neve for lunch in The Tipsy Duck,’ I said to Taz. ‘I called by the supermarket on Monday and she agreed to tell me everything she knows about Leafton and this place.’

  Having enjoyed half a sachet of chicken-flavoured food, Taz padded over to the corner of the kitchen. I’d tried to make that area more comfortable for him by putting an old tartan blanket underneath the bed. Day by day he became more alert and often sat by the French patio doors. This morning he’d meowed at a sparrow using its beak as a pickaxe on the other side of the glass.

  Jill said the best way to trap mice and birds, that cats brought in, was to throw a tea towel on top and scoop them up. That idea would have frightened me a week ago but now I realised the line between humans and animals wasn’t as wide as I’d been brought up to believe. I’d based Taz in the room where I prepared food and I’d eaten after handling him without washing my hands. I’d emptied the litter tray and if he peed on the floor, I’d cleared it up. Yet I hadn’t fallen ill.

  And he was proving to be a brilliant sounding board. He didn’t offer advice but provided cuddles on tap.

  As I headed into town, I even stroked a neighbour’s cat. With care I’d applied sun cream to my skin as tattoos faded under strong rays. Clients needed to look after their art work. People often asked me if I was worried how they’d look as I aged, with the changing texture of skin and body shape. For me a tattoo was like a photograph – a snapshot of time that told a tale. Each one meant something important when it was taken but that meaning might alter or diminish over time. And likewise, I didn’t expect the tattoo to stay the same. A photo might brown or curl, like my waist might fill out or my face line. Joints could swell, hair would grey and tattoos would wear as well and in doing so would match the whole.

  I turned into the high street and crossed the road. Neve was talking to Tim who stood outside his café. She came over to me. He gave me a quick wave and Neve and I walked the rest of the way together, facing the blinding sun. We entered the pub and sat down after buying our drinks, near the front window. Today the roses in the vases were a lovely terracotta colour. I took a swig from my cider bottle. The same men were playing dominoes who’d been here on the night of Jill’s party. They both looked up and gave me a smile of recognition before returning to their tiles. I must have looked surprised as Neve grinned.

  ‘We may seem out of touch here but Leafton always welcomes new blood.’

  ‘That sounds as if I’m going to be served up as part of some sacrificial ritual,’ I replied.

  Neve gave a tinkling laugh. ‘The elders have clearly decided you’re here to stay.’

  Her eyes twinkled and for some reason I felt a warm glow inside.

  ‘Thanks for agreeing to meet. I’ve searched online myself but haven’t come up with much concrete about Streamside Cottage.’

  ‘What have you learnt?’

  ‘Ben’s told me about the bombings during the war and how Streamside cottage was the only one in the road left standing. As I told you on Monday, Jill filled me in on the past residents, including the author who believes in ghosts, but on the internet all I could find out was more general, about Leafton. I found it awfully fascinating.’

  Awfully. Sometimes Ash teased me about the way I spoke. A private education left a mark as permanent as an inking.

  ‘It’s like people – everyone has a story, and it’s just as true of places,’ said Neve. ‘That’s why I wanted to study history. Some say it’s irrelevant but it helps you understand why the world is like it is and that’s a comfort. It gives a sense of order to confusing times.’

  Neve went on to explain about Leafton’s farming background that made it even more difficult to understand why my cosmopolitan parents had ever bought a property here. Their other two investments were far more sophisticated – the luxury townhouse in Bournemouth, overlooking the sea, and with its terrace and orange tree garden, a modern villa outside Seville. A friend at junior school once holidayed in a remote Yorkshire village. Her parents loved hiking and birdwatching and she even slept outside one night and watched the stars. I’d asked if we could go there for our next break. Vigorously Mum shook her head and Dad told me off; said I should be more grateful for our five-star trips abroad and that the countryside was made up of nothing but dangers and filth.

  Our food arrived and I ordered more drinks whilst Neve asked me about my time at university.

  ‘Opal’s such a beautiful stone,’ I said later, over coffee, admiring Neve’s ring finger.

  ‘Alan wanted a diamond as it’s traditional but I managed to talk him around. This is my birthstone and in Ancient Roman times Opal symbolised love and hope.’ She took it off and showed me the inner rim of the gold band. Alan 4 Neve was inscribed inside. ‘He’s quite a romantic on the quiet.’

  ‘Will you still further your education? I believe you took a gap year because your dad lost his job and you wanted to help out.’

  ‘That’s a generous version. The truth is, money was tight because Dad got sent to prison for six months. I was a bit of a mess to be honest. He got sentenced just as I was to leave for Freshers’ week. Me taking a gap year eased a difficult situation.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Sooner or later Leafton finds a way of passing secrets on. Dad was done for careless driving. He’s an HGV driver and was running late. Overtired, he didn’t attach both the supporting legs of a crane properly. One of them swung out and seriously injured a cyclist.’

  ‘How terrible.’

  ‘No one felt more sorry than Dad, even though the cyclist made a full recovery. Dad works as a hospital porter now. Alan came into my life at a time when nothing seemed certain. I don’t mind working at the supermarket.’ She twisted her ring. ‘The history society satisfies my cravings for knowledge.’

  ‘But why does being with Alan rule out getting a degree? You could easily commute to London from he
re or—’

  ‘He’s ready to settle down and has started jogging. Turning thirty has – prematurely, some might say – made him aware of his mortality, and we do both want kids…’

  ‘It would only mean waiting a few more years.’

  ‘Yes, but I see Alan’s point. Why rack up a huge student loan when he’s almost saved enough to put a deposit down on our own place? Financially we’re in a good position to really start planning for our future. Alan’s right, with the current state of the job market I could end up with no better position than I’ve got at the moment. He’s always being sent CVs from newly graduated students for cashier positions and—’

  ‘But the loan gets written off after a certain number of years and who’s to say you won’t get some amazing position curating a museum or—’

  Her cheeks pinked up. ‘I don’t want to lose him. I really feel as if I’m beginning to know who I am. He’s sent me on training courses and my job has given me such confidence for dealing with confrontation and troubleshooting… I feel as if I’ve grown up…. as if I’m on a trajectory now. Before him life didn’t make as much sense.’

  ‘Did it need to at eighteen?’

  ‘Didn’t yours?’

  I hesitated. ‘No. But it did soon after. And I met someone too, who helped me feel more grounded – but he encouraged me to follow my passion, not give it up.’

  ‘Are you still together?’

  ‘We split up about six months ago.’ I’d often heard clients talk about losing loved ones and how it had unexpected knock-on effects. When I found out Mum and Dad had died, the last thing I’d expected was it would cause real problems between me and Ash.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said as the barman took our empty plates. ‘I didn’t mean to push, it’s just that I came so close to never following the career of my dreams. It’s great that you and Alan are so happy together. Life often has a way of taking us down a path we’d never anticipated.’

  ‘Like living in a haunted cottage?’

  I smiled. ‘So this author, Frederick, you said you didn’t blame him for leaving Streamside Cottage so quickly. Do you believe he had real grounds for his ghostly belief?’

  ‘Let’s just say I can see how someone of a sensitive disposition might be convinced. We need to go back to the early seventeenth century. There was something of a witch-hunt hysteria across England – in fact the whole of Europe. Hundreds of trials took place. Women especially were found guilty and executed.’ Neve’s eyes shone. ‘The course I’d wanted to study at university had a module in witchcraft… Anyway, Leafton was largely farmland. New workers came from further north. Two of them were a mother and son. He had a large port wine stain birthmark on his face which immediately aroused suspicion. Witchcraft was believed to run in families so the mother would have also been suspected.’ Neve hardly noticed our coffees arrive. ‘She fell in love with one of the farm workers who caught her sketching one evening, with her finger in the dust. The woman confided that she saw dead people – ghostly manifestations. She drew a man with a beard and told her beau it was his granddad.’

  ‘How did he react?’

  ‘You have to remember there were no cameras back then and peasants couldn’t afford painted portraits of their relatives. They had to rely on memories that became hazier over the years. Her drawing wouldn’t have had to be detailed. It wouldn’t have taken much for him to believe it was his grandfather. Despite their relationship he was a God-fearing man and reported her. The son’s birthmark was called the mark of the devil, plus that summer the cows’ yield of milk had been low and crops had failed – this was blamed all on him and his mother. They were both ducked in the deep part of the stream alongside your back garden.’

  ‘They drowned?’

  ‘Of course. Their right thumb was tied to their left big toe. Drowning proved their innocence. If they’d lived it was seen as proof of guilt. They probably suffered the better option. The water was seen as baptismal and related to God, so their survival would have been seen as a holy rejection of their bodies, and therefore evidence that they were doing the work of the devil.’ Neve’s ears reddened. ‘Sorry, I’m going on a bit.’

  ‘Please, don’t stop, it’s so interesting… so Frederick believed the cottage has always been haunted by this so-called witch and her son?’

  ‘Yes. That might be one reason the property remained on its own – no one wanted to build near it. On the other side of the river, opposite the weeping willow, there’s a big boulder with an apotropaic symbol etched on to it. Frederick walked around, through the forest, to find it.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A protective symbol, to keep witches at bay. No doubt it deterred builders as well. That patch of land and the cottage were deemed cursed and dangerous for children and anyone with artistic leanings.’ Neve smiled. ‘I hope, as a tattoo artist, you aren’t superstitious. That’s the bit that got writer Frederick really worried.’

  ‘My dad drilled into me at an early age that ghosts and witches were make-believe and nothing to be scared of.’ And I was glad. It meant I could enjoy trick-or-treating at Halloween with him. Mum never got involved. She didn’t like horror films, preferring to keep things cheerful. I outgrew enjoying her favourite musical DVDs. If I wanted to watch scary movies when I was finally allowed in the Sixth Form, she made sure she was in a different room away from the suspenseful sounds.

  ‘The curse was specific in another way. Before being ducked, another form of torture was tried – sleep deprivation. It didn’t extract a confession from the woman or her child. The first owner of Streamside Cottage had a friend to stay – a poet who faced hard times and couldn’t afford a place of his own. He complained he couldn’t sleep at night; that thudding noises, like footsteps, kept him awake. People said it was the vengeful spirits of the mother and her son. One day he said he couldn’t stand the effects of his insomnia anymore and threw himself out of the top window.’

  We sat in silence for a moment. ‘Well, I’ve slept like a log, apart from odd dreams. Sure there are creaks and unexplained noises but it’s an old cottage.’

  ‘And these days we can see the whole story in context. The accused parent and child died because their lungs filled with water. That poet who ended his own life was probably suffering from mental illness… Frederick – he was quite a dramatic character. Mind you, he did like a drink.’ Neve drained her cup and put on a bright smile. ‘We all know how the world seems like a different place if you’ve had too much wine.’

  ‘How did you find out so much detail about what happened?’ I asked and leant forwards.

  ‘Frederick told me about the book he’d used to choose where to stay whilst writing his novel. It’s brilliant.’ Her eyes shone. ‘I read the whole thing in three hours. That gave me the specifics of the case, and over the years, since doing History at GCSE level, I’ve collated a list of really useful websites, like one that logs newspaper articles from sixteen hundred. I could chat to you all day about the witchfinders.’

  ‘Does the name Earl mean anything to you?’ I asked as we left the pub. ‘It’s carved into a weeping willow by the stream, in the cottage’s garden, with a number by the side of it.’

  ‘No. Aristocracy haven’t lived in this vicinity and I’ve never heard of a local called that.’

  My forehead relaxed as sun rays hit. Neve said goodbye. I made a note to buy her a small thank you gift.

  ‘Oh, I almost forgot… I found an old photo in one of the bedrooms…’ I pulled it out of my rucksack. ‘It was taken in the seventies by the looks of people’s clothing. I searched online for any information. Apparently, The Best Inn restaurant chain was really popular until the end of the eighties when more cosmopolitan food took over. It went bankrupt. I can’t find anything at all about the building next to it, owned by G & B – those letters are written on the gold plaque by the door. It’s a long shot but does the picture mean anything to you? I don’t even know if it’s local.’

  Neve studied the photo. ‘No�
�� can’t say it does.’ Her face lit up. ‘But I love a challenge. Do you mind if I take this home and see what I can find out? Maybe one of these buildings was haunted too.’ She grinned.

  ‘So Frederick is the only one who believes in the witch haunting?’

  ‘I think so, we’re a pretty down-to-earth bunch around here! Although… Trish… it’s all a bit odd… she’s one of the most sensible people I know. She babysat for my parents often enough and told me once that Disney happy-ever-afters didn’t really exist. Mum and Dad were quite cross and just said she was probably cynical because of what happened to her marriage. But she sells stationery, she’s a practical woman. Even with her beliefs in Buddhism – she’s always saying that’s more of a way of life than a religion revering some mythical god. So when Frederick left suddenly, with all this talk of a strange goings-on at the cottage, when I saw the change in her, how scared and unsure about everything she became… Well…’ Neve shrugged. ‘It seemed most out of character.’

  We parted company and I walked up the high street. Worried about Taz, I glanced at my watch. For one second, I questioned whether he was safe, alone, at the cottage.

  This was new, being responsible for something other than myself. I stepped up my speed and smelt joss sticks as I almost bumped into Trish who was coming out of The Pen Pusher.

  15

  Six years ago – the party

  Early tattoo removal methods included scrubbing the skin with a sandpaper-like tool

  I stood on the doorstep of our South Kensington terraced home, in between white Roman columns. Ash gawped at the building. I wore tight leather trousers and Doc Marten boots. October had felt more like winter than autumn. I huddled in my grey duffle coat. Underneath was a snakeskin print long-sleeved top I’d bought especially for tonight. A healing crystal necklace hung around my neck.