Stillwater

by Maynard Sims

  “Someone?” Beth tried not to feel concerned. In London someone at the back door wasn’t usually good news.

  “Well, movement really. I thought I caught a glimpse of someone moving behind the laurel hedge that runs down the side of the house.”

  “Someone? Who?”

  “Not sure. I only sensed movement. It felt as if there was someone there. It could have been an animal. I just felt sure there was something moving beyond the hedge. Your cat maybe?”

  “Teddy is small and ginger, and he’s asleep on my bed. He’s made himself at home already.”

  “Could have been a fox then. I bet you get a lot of them around here, looking for food.”

  “I thought you said it was a person.”

  “I wasn’t sure. I just thought I saw someone, but it was like catching something out of the corner of your eye. Blink, and they’re gone. Anyway, by the time I got to the back of the house there was no one there. No big deal.” She moved through to the kitchen, and set the carrier bag down, rummaging through it and producing a bottle of wine. “Every comfort. Châteauneuf-du-Pape. It should go well with the risotto.”

  “Headache in a glass,” Beth said.

  “But what a delicious way to get one. Do you have a corkscrew?”

  “Try the drawer. I haven’t had time to check the inventory list yet.”

  Miranda opened and searched three of the kitchen drawers, before she found what she was looking for: a silver waiter’s friend that she held aloft with a cry of triumph. “We shall have wine!” she said.

  Beth gave Miranda a long-suffering look. Sometimes it was comforting to know that some things never changed.

  Change had put her into a wheelchair. She wanted some stability in her life.

  Chapter Four

  They sat and slowly got drunk together, talking, planning, embracing new enthusiasms and burying old ones. They polished off the first bottle of red wine before the end of the meal. The second bottle of Châteauneuf that Miranda produced from the Fortnum’s carrier bag was an indulgence.

  At the end of the evening they meandered their way to the bedrooms, and were both asleep within minutes.

  Beth could always walk in her dreams, as if in dreamland the accident hadn’t happened.

  She walked through a dark and forbidding forest, where all the trees were twisted and leaning toward her. The path crunched under her feet and when she looked down she realized she was walking over a carpet of dark, glistening beetles; some dead, just hollow carapaces, some still alive, scurrying away from her, antennae waving. She fought down a wave of revulsion as some of the beetles crawled over her trainers, some of them venturing up the white soft skin of her ankles. Ahead of her was a lake and she pressed on.

  By the time she reached the circular body of water the beetles had gone, to be replaced by dried, compacted mud. The weeds on this lake were thin and brown, and moved sluggishly aside as something swam through them. Pale and sleek, it barely broke the surface, but it left a deep, vee-shaped wake. She watched as it glided silently in the water, partly submerged, crisscrossing the lake purposefully, effortlessly. She strained to get a better view but, as soon as she focused on it, it ducked beneath the surface, out of sight.

  And then she heard the scream. Without thinking she started to run, back along the path toward the house.

  She awoke suddenly, and lay still, trying to gather her thoughts, wondering if the scream was real or merely a part of her dream. She listened to the silence of the night. She wasn’t used to it.

  In London the nights were filled with sound, even at three o’clock in the morning. Traffic, pedestrian noise, rogue alarms ringing and squealing, the occasional siren of the emergency services, they all combined to create a dense soundtrack that colored the nights in London. Here in rural Suffolk there was nothing, just a silence that was more oppressive than street noise. It was so peaceful it was intrusive.

  She thought about the veracity of the scream. She was tempted to get out of bed to check that Miranda, in the next room, was okay, but as she listened to the night she could hear her friend’s gentle snoring coming through the wall. The idea of having to haul her paralyzed body from the bed and position it in the wheelchair was less than appealing.

  Instead she lay there and tried to force herself back to sleep.

  She found herself drifting in and out of consciousness, her thoughts mingling with her dreams until they were indistinguishable from each other. It was almost as if she couldn’t tell what was real and what was her dream.

  Eventually, as daylight edged away the night, she heard noises coming from beyond her door: the hiss of water as it filled the kettle, cupboard doors opening and closing, and the chinking of china. Ten minutes later there was a soft tapping at her door, and Miranda’s voice called, “Are you awake, Beth? I’ve made tea.”

  “I’m awake,” she called back.

  The bedroom door opened, and Miranda came into the room clutching a tray containing two steaming mugs.

  To Beth’s surprise Miranda was fully dressed; makeup had been applied and her friend’s hair was styled and sprayed.

  “What time did you get up?” Beth said.

  “A while ago. I want to make an early start. You know what the traffic can be like this time of the morning, and I have a meeting in Battersea scheduled for ten thirty.”

  “What time is it anyway?” Beth twisted her head to read the display on the clock radio, but the sun was pouring in through the window, reflecting off the clock’s screen and making it indecipherable.

  “It’s a quarter past seven. Sorry if it’s too early for you.” She set the tray down on the cabinet beside Beth’s bed, and took her own mug from it. “No biscuits I’m afraid.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll do myself some toast later. How did you sleep?”

  “Like the dead. I think I passed out before my head hit the pillow. You?”

  “Like I always do. Pretty rubbish.”

  “You do look a little peaky. Don’t overdo it while I’m in London.”

  “You plan on coming back then?”

  Miranda smiled. “Oh yes, I’ll be back in a week or so. If only to see how the book’s progressing.”

  “One minute you’re telling me to take it easy, the next… Slave driver.”

  Miranda stood and walked to the door. “I’m going for my last cigarette before I hit the road. Unless you need some help getting out of bed.”

  Beth scowled at her. Even Miranda considered her helpless, somehow diminished because of her disability. “And how do you think I’ve managed up until now?”

  “It was just a thought,” Miranda said airily. “I’ll pop back to say goodbye. Stay there if you want to.”

  Buggered if I will, Beth thought, and threw the covers back.

  When Miranda came back, Beth was in the kitchen buttering toast. “Do you want some breakfast?” Beth said.

  “I’ll pass,” Miranda said. “I’m going to hit the road. I’ll call when I reach London.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  Beth followed Miranda to the door, and watched as her friend climbed in behind the wheel of her car, started the engine and drove away.

  The feeling of loneliness was only fleeting. Behind her Teddy meowed, demanding food. Beth smiled, and wheeled herself back to the kitchen, produced a tin of cat food from a cupboard and emptied it into a bowl.

  The cat ate hungrily, stopping every now and then to stare up at her as she spread honey on her cold toast. “We’re going to be fine here, aren’t we?” she said to the cat. Teddy licked the last of the food from the bowl, glanced up at her briefly and trotted across to the front door meowing loudly.

  “Okay, I get the message. I wonder if they’ll let me put in a cat flap?” She followed the cat to the door and pulled it open.

  The man standing on the other side of the d
oor seemed as surprised to see her as she was to see him. She eased the wheelchair back a few inches. “Can I help you?” she said. The cat squeezed through the gap between the man’s legs and the doorframe and disappeared from view.

  The man looked to be in his sixties, with white hair swept away from a craggy face. He was dressed in green corduroy trousers, worn at the knees, and a blue and white checked shirt partly covered by a maroon cardigan, topped off by a dark green waxed jacket.

  “Handsome cat,” he said. “What’s her name?”

  “Teddy and she’s a he.”

  “Whoops. No brownie points won there then. I apologize.”

  “It’s all right. I don’t think he heard you,” Beth said with a faint smile. Uninvited guests.

  “Latham. Arthur Latham,” he said. “I’m your neighbor. I live just the other side of the wood. Peck’s Cottage,” he added, as if it should mean something to her.

  Beth looked at him blankly to show that it didn’t. “Beth Alvarini,” she said, and stuck out her hand.

  “Otherwise known as Beth Trantor, the novelist.”

  “Wow,” Beth said. “Word gets around.”

  ‘Forgive me,” Latham said. “Barbara Tipple, the librarian, was the first one to hear you were moving down here, and she can’t keep anything to herself. I’m in the library about twice a week, so I was one of the earliest to know. Of course I was very excited. I’m a bit of a scribbler myself. Nothing like you, of course. The odd poem, the occasional short story.”

  “Anything published?”

  “Once. I won a poetry competition run by the Bury St Edmunds Echo. They published it and gave me a tenner. Mind you, it was some years back now.”

  “So,” Beth said, anxious to draw the encounter to a close. “How can I help you?”

  “Oh,” he said. “I don’t want anything really. I just came across to welcome you to the area, and to say that if there’s anything you need, please don’t hesitate to drop in. Peck’s Cottage, just the other side of the wood.”

  “Yes,” Beth said. “You mentioned it.”

  “Did I?” he stood there as seconds ticked by, looking every bit the small boy waiting outside the headmaster’s study.

  “Was there anything else?” Beth asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Well thanks for coming over, and the very thoughtful offer, but I’m afraid I must get on.”

  “Yes, yes of course. I’ll let you go,” he said, but showed no sign of moving away.

  “Bye.” Beth sketched a wave, and reversed back into the house, reaching out and pushing the door closed. A necessary rudeness.

  “Come to dinner,” he blurted out.

  Beth halted the progress of the closing door, and pulled it open again. “Sorry?”

  “There. I’ve asked you. My wife bet me that I wouldn’t have the courage.”

  “Courage to do what?” Beth said.

  “The courage to ask you to come to dinner with us.”

  “I’m afraid…”

  “Before you refuse—and I wouldn’t blame you if you did—I should explain. Gwen, my wife, is a huge fan of yours. She’s read all your books…got them from the library. It would mean a lot to her if you came.”

  She could ask me herself, Beth thought, instead of sending her lapdog to do the deed.

  “When were you thinking?” she said. “Only I have an awful lot on; deadlines to meet, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh, no pressure. An evening of your choosing. How about tomorrow?”

  “I’m afraid that’s…”

  “It really would mean a lot to Gwen. It would make her day, if not her year. She doesn’t get out much.”

  “Okay,” Beth said with a sigh. If she didn’t agree she’d be there all day. And the invitation would hang over her like an unwelcome smell. “I’d be delighted to come.”

  She was lying through her teeth. The last thing she wanted was to socialize with complete strangers on what would be only her third evening here. But she couldn’t find it in her to refuse. For one thing it would offend the Lathams. More importantly, tongues would wag in the area, and she’d become a pariah within a week of arriving there. She might not want to socialize much but she didn’t want to cut herself off either.

  Latham looked genuinely surprised. “You would, really? Well, that’s marvelous. Gwen will be so pleased. Would you like me to come and pick you up?”

  Beth shook her head. “No, that’s fine. I can make my own way. I drive.”

  “Yes?” he said, and then, “Yes, of course you do. Right then, shall we say seven thirty?”

  “Fine.”

  “Peck’s Cottage,” he said, yet again, and then described how to find it.

  When he had finally gone Beth went back inside. Teddy was curled up asleep on the sofa. She stared at the cat, puzzled for a moment. She hadn’t seen him come back in.

  Wheeling herself through to the office, she switched on the computer and surfed the net for an hour or so. She checked her emails, perused the three social networking sites she belonged to, and finally called up Chapter One of her new novel.

  She’d begun the book before she left London, and the chapter contained one short paragraph and nothing more. She read the paragraph, spent a few moments digesting what she’d written, and then she deleted it. “A fresh start,” she said aloud. “A new beginning.”

  A few seconds later she was stroking her fingers across the keyboard, and by lunchtime she had two pages written, and she was reasonably pleased with what she’d done. She read the pages on the screen. “Not bad,” she said to herself. Miranda is a witch, she thought. Well, maybe not an actual witch, but her friend and agent certainly knew how to force the best work out of her.

  The crash from upstairs shook her out of her reverie. It sounded like something breakable had fallen over in the room directly above her; something like china or glass.

  She wheeled herself from the room in time to see an orange shape come hurtling down the stairs. The cat skidded on the bare boards of the lounge floor, found purchase, and disappeared in the direction of the back door.

  “Teddy!” but she was talking to the memory of the cat instead of the cat itself. She stared up at the stairs. God knew what mischief he’d been up to and what damage he’d done. There was no way she could attempt the stairs. Whatever it was would have to wait until she had another visitor, and then she would ask them to go up there and check it out. Dismissing the incident from her thoughts, she went back to her computer, and continued to write for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Five

  Latham’s directions to Peck’s Cottage were accurate and easy to follow. It probably would have been quicker to walk, possibly through the woods, but for Beth that wasn’t an option.

  At seven twenty-five the following evening she pulled up outside the picturesque building set in its own grounds, and standing about a quarter of a mile from the road. With walls studded with knapped flint and a newly thatched roof, the cottage could have been lifted from any illustrated Suffolk guidebook.

  She began the arduous procedure of extracting herself from her specially adapted Ford Focus, and got settled in her wheelchair. Surprisingly Peck’s Cottage was wheelchair friendly, with a slowly graduating ramp covering the front step. She wheeled herself up to the front door, and reached up to ring the doorbell. It was so unusual for a residential house to have a ramp that she almost went back down so she could come back up again.

  The door was opened almost immediately by Arthur Latham, who welcomed her effusively, and stood back to allow her to wheel herself inside.

  “Gwen’s in the kitchen,” he said. “She’s very excited by the prospect of meeting you. So much so she’s paying special attention to the meal tonight.”

  “She really didn’t need to go to any trouble,” Beth said.

  “Non
sense. We don’t entertain very often, and celebrities tend not to find their way to this neck of the woods.”

  “I’d hardly call myself a celebrity.”

  “Well, in our eyes you are, so indulge us. This way.” He led her through an uncluttered corridor to a room at the far end.

  “She’s here, Gwen,” he said, as he entered the kitchen.

  Beth pushed herself though the doorway, and stopped, mildly shocked at the sight of an elderly woman sitting at an oak refectory table in another wheelchair. Gwen Latham looked up from the peas she was shelling, and beamed a smile at Beth. “Hello,” she said brightly. “I couldn’t believe it when Arthur said you were coming. I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to ask you.” She backed away from the table, and pushed herself across to where Beth had stopped.

  She looked to be in her early seventies, but pretty enough to lead Beth to think she’d been quite a beauty in her day.

  Beth was staring at the chair.

  “Didn’t he tell you I was in this thing? Huh, typical male,” Gwen said. “MS. Multiple sclerosis. It’s a bugger. I’m not always confined to the chair, but sometimes…”

  “You don’t have to explain,” Beth said. “Actually, it’s quite nice to talk to someone without craning my neck.”

  Gwen Latham chuckled. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.”

  Beth flushed, realizing her last comment may have seemed insensitive. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause any offense.”

  Gwen reached out, and laid a slightly damp hand on hers. “None taken.” she said. “And I agree with you.” She turned to her husband. “You see, Arthur? I knew Beth would have a positive outlook on life.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Beth said.

  “But you have, my dear. It’s obvious from what you write. Optimism sings out from the pages. Like me you’re a lover of happy endings. It’s probably why I’m hooked on your books. Would you like a drink? Arthur, fetch Beth a drink.”

  “What can I get you, Beth?”

  “Squash or water will be fine. My days of getting legless are over.” It was an old joke, and as usual the bitterness of the message prevented laughter.