Stillwater

by Maynard Sims

  Latham disappeared into the kitchen, and returned seconds later with a tray laden with bottles of mineral water, and one of orange squash. “I could have done wine, but what with Gwen’s medication, and the possibility of a dash to the hospital in the car, we prefer not to indulge.”

  “It’s fine, honestly. I’m driving.” Beth chose a sparkling mineral water, and a glass from the tray.

  Gwen suddenly threw her hand up to cover her mouth, “Oh, my God, I forgot to mention the lamb shanks.”

  Beth stared at her, puzzled. What was there to mention?

  “You’re not a vegetarian are you?” Gwen said.

  Beth smiled, and shook her head. “No, I eat meat…and lamb shanks are a favorite.”

  “Thank heavens for that. Stupid of me. I should have got Arthur to ask you when he invited you for dinner, and then it just slipped my mind. It’s the drugs they’ve given me. I used to have a memory like an elephant, now I don’t seem to retain any information. A new bit comes in and an old bit drops out. It’s a trade-off.”

  “It’s good of you to invite me like this. Otherwise it would have been frozen lasagna and TV for me tonight.”

  “Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” Latham said.

  The dinner, when it finally arrived, was superb. Gwen was a great cook. The meat fell away from the bone as soon as the knife touched it, and the carrots and broccoli were crisp and tasted fresh, unlike vegetables Beth had bought in the past from supermarkets.

  “You can thank Arthur for those,” Gwen said, when Beth commented on them. “He’s been blessed with green fingers. Our garden is like an allotment.”

  Sitting opposite Arthur Latham Beth watched his face flush with embarrassment, and not a little pride. The pair of them seemed well suited to each other. Beth felt a twinge of envy.

  “Tell me,” Beth said. “Have you ever met the owner of my house?”

  “Bernard Franklin? No, I’ve never seen him,” Gwen said. “Arthur has though.”

  “Only very briefly,” Latham said. “I saw him around town from time to time, and bumped into him once or twice at the post office. I tried to make conversation with him, but he didn’t want to know. I thought he was a surly devil.”

  “Really?” Beth said. “Why was that?”

  “Well, this is a fairly friendly community. I wouldn’t say we’re in each other’s pockets, but we all pass the time of day, and if push comes to shove we all look out for each other. Franklin on the other hand wouldn’t have anything to do with us; kept very much to himself. And his daughter wasn’t much better. Jessica, her name was. She’d walk around the village with her nose in the air, and wouldn’t really talk to anyone, not even the people her own age. I don’t think she was deliberately rude. Mr. Samuels who runs the grocer’s told me she was always very pleasant to him. I put it down to the way she’d been brought up. Thought we were too normal, too boring.”

  “It was very sad what happened to her,” Gwen said.

  “What was that?” Beth asked.

  “She died…drowned…a few days after her seventeenth birthday.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “An accident,” Latham said. “So the inquest found. She’d gone for a swim in the lake, and got entangled in some weeds. At least, that was the theory.”

  “You sound skeptical,” Beth said.

  “I was then. I am now,” Latham said. “She was a pupil at Greysmeade, the local high school, for the short time she was living here. I was a teacher there before I retired, and I remember that Jessica Franklin was in the school swimming team. She wasn’t a popular member but they tolerated her because she was such a strong swimmer. She helped the school bring home a number of county trophies. It seemed unlikely to me a girl like that would have become victim to some pondweed.”

  “Did you give evidence at the inquest?” Beth asked.

  “Oh yes, I gave my opinion, but it didn’t count for much. The postmortem also found a high level of alcohol in Jessica’s blood. Given those details the verdict was a foregone conclusion. Poor girl.”

  “That’s very sad,” Beth said.

  “I think it broke her father. From what I could tell he doted on his daughter once his wife left him. I think that when Jessica died it finished him. He moved away…abroad…Malta, I think…but kept the house on. He returned to England after a while, but settled near Cambridge. He never came back to live at Stillwater, and it’s been a rental property ever since.”

  “How long ago did all this happen?”

  “About fifteen years now,” Gwen Latham said.

  “And the house has been let out ever since?”

  “Yes, but only sporadically,” Latham said. “You’re the first tenant in about four years. The place was standing empty before you came along. I must say, it was a relief to many of us in the village when we heard that Stillwater was going to be occupied again.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “What is it they say?” Latham said. “Nature abhors a vacuum? Just six months ago you wouldn’t have recognized the place. The garden was completely overgrown. The rhododendrons were rampant, and so many plants had been strangled by the bindweed.”

  “The house was in a shocking state of disrepair. Houses die if they’re not occupied, and Stillwater was well on the way.” Gwen continued. “Many of the windows were broken and at least three of the shutters had gone. The gutters were down, and the paths were cracked and broken. It was a vandals’ paradise.” She paused, noticing the look of surprise on Beth’s face. “Oh yes, even here in the back of beyond we still fall foul of many of society’s ills. Luckily Falmer’s are a fairly conscientious company. They put the place straight. I think the only part of the estate that wasn’t refurbished was the lake. No one touched that.”

  “Which is just as well,” Latham said. “Considering that Jessica met her end there. In my opinion, to tart it up would, I don’t know…tarnish her memory.”

  Gwen Latham laughed sharply. “You sentimental old fool,” she said tartly, and then, to Beth, “You listen to him and you’d think the whole village was in mourning for her.”

  “And that wasn’t the case?”

  “Well, I didn’t shed any tears for her, and I can think of many who shared my view of her. Good riddance, I said at the time.”

  “Gwen!” Latham said. “That’s not very charitable.”

  “Maybe, but I still think the girl was a troublemaker.”

  “You’ve no evidence for that. Just local gossip.”

  “Well, as they say, there’s no smoke…”

  “Enough!” Latham said. He turned to Beth. “What must you think of us, Beth? Honestly, we’re not small-minded people. Would you like a coffee?”

  “I’d love one, but decaf if you have it, otherwise I’ll spend the night bouncing off the walls.”

  “No problem,” Latham said, and left the room.

  Beth glanced across at Gwen, who was grinning mischievously. She caught Beth’s questioning look.

  “Oh, take no notice of us. Arthur’s a lovely man and I care for him deeply. He just has blind spots in certain areas. He’s far too trusting. He tries to see the good in everyone. But sometimes there’s no good to be found.”

  “And that applied to Jessica Franklin?”

  “In my opinion, and that of many others in the village.”

  Chapter Six

  It was long past midnight when Beth started the drive home. The Lathams were convivial company, especially Gwen, who had an anarchic sense of humor that belied her ‘twinset and pearls’ image.

  While Arthur did the washing up, leaving Beth and Gwen alone in the lounge, Beth touched on the subject of the pain associated with Gwen’s condition. “How do you cope with it?” she asked her.

  “I smoke dope,” Gwen Latham said candidly. “Marijuana. It helps.”

 
“So I’ve heard.”

  “And I get a little high…which is nice,” she added with a knowing smile.

  “I’m just amazed you can get the stuff out here in the sticks.”

  Gwen laughed. “You’re right. It’s not commonplace. Luckily I have my own supplier.”

  Beth raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

  “It’s Arthur actually. He has contacts. One of the benefits of working in the state school system.”

  Beth smiled to herself as she drove the short distance home. She was so immersed in the memories of the evening she almost hit the young woman, who broke from the trees and dashed across the road. Beth was suddenly aware of a white shift dress flapping in the breeze, a pale, almost white face with large frightened eyes, and long flowing hair that trailed behind her like a black cape.

  “Shit!” she shouted, and pressed on the brake. The car lurched to a halt and she was thrown forward, her momentum halted by the seat belt, which slammed her back against the headrest.

  But there was no impact. Thankfully, miraculously, she hadn’t hit the woman: the road ahead was clear.

  Beth took a moment to compose herself, and then checked her wing mirrors. The road behind her was clear as well. There was no sign of anyone.

  She sat in her seat and looked at the trees to the left, the direction the young woman was running.

  Through the gaps between the trees she could see the Stillwater Lake, seemingly weed free now; the black mirrored surface reflected the round disc of a silvery full moon. As her panicked breathing returned to normal she thought she saw movement out there—something white, flitting from tree to tree. Now you see her, now you don’t, Beth thought.

  This was when her disability frustrated her most. A few short months ago she would have been out of the car and dashing through the trees to catch up with whoever was out there. Even if all she did was remonstrate with her about her reckless behavior. Instead she was virtually trapped in the car. She could struggle out of her seat and get into her wheelchair, but she could see from the uneven nature of the landscape it would be foolhardy, and possibly dangerous. Instead she just sat there and fumed.

  The incident brought back every memory of the accident that had robbed her of her legs.

  After a few more minutes the young woman appeared at the edge of the lake. Beth had her finger poised above the electric window button. She was about to wind down the window and shout out, but what happened next dried the words in her throat.

  The young woman glanced about her furtively, and then, with a movement that looked well practiced yet at the same time perfectly natural, she slipped into the waters of the lake and disappeared from view, leaving only a silvery wake as she glided through the water. Beth watched, mesmerized. Only when the wake smoothed out did she start the car again, and ease forward.

  She thought about the girl she had nearly run down for the rest of the short time home, but when she reached the house she was just as puzzled as when she started. Puzzled…and curious.

  Who was she? And why would she be running in the dark, through the woods at nearly one o’clock in the morning?

  Beth pulled up at the rear of the house, disembarked and wheeled herself up the ramp to the back door. The night was dark; unlike the city nights, out here there were no streetlamps, and no house lights to make even night seem bright.

  As she went to put her key in the lock she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She drew back her hand as if it had been stung. She was almost positive she had closed and locked the door when she left the house earlier. But almost wasn’t a certainty. Get a grip, she told herself. Think. She tried to retrace her steps in her mind, but while the memory of hauling herself behind the wheel was clear, the actions leading up to that were foggy.

  Shaking her head, and angry with herself, she pushed open the door and wheeled herself inside, closing the door, double locking it behind her.

  As she made herself a cup of warm milk to take to bed with her, her mind went back to the young woman in the woods, and the questions in her head started again.

  She took her milk and the questions to bed with her, and it was nearly three when her eyes finally closed, and she drifted into a fitful sleep.

  She awoke to something scratching persistently at the door. Blearily she turned her head to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The green digits read 3:35. You have to be kidding, she thought sleepily. As she gradually came to, her mind tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Finally she heard a low moan, slowly rising in pitch until it became a full-throated meow. “Teddy! Give it a rest!”

  The cat appeared not to have heard her. Either that or he was willfully ignoring her. The meowing and scratching continued and, if anything, increased. Hanging from the ceiling above her head was a stout iron chain attached to an inverted D-shaped handle. She reached up with both hands, wrapped her fingers around the porcelain grip covering the straight edge of the D, and hauled herself into a sitting position. She let go of the handle and, using her hands, moved her legs to the edge of the bed. And then she reached across and pulled her chair closer. The side of the chair was hinged and the seat was level with the bed, so all she had to do was to ease herself into the wheelchair, and return its armrest to the upright position.

  On paper it was a simple maneuver, in practice it took her fifteen minutes and by the time she adjusted the armrest she was sweating profusely, and all the time her cat was yowling outside the door.

  “All right, all right, I’m coming.”

  She wheeled herself across to the door, and opened it a crack.

  Teddy forced himself through the gap, and sped into the room. In a couple of strides the cat leapt onto the bed, and burrowed down underneath the duvet.

  “Great,” Beth muttered. It looked like she had company for the rest of the night. She shut the door, and rolled back to the bed.

  Once she was settled again she reached under the duvet, and laid her hand on the cat’s back, ruffling the fur, at the same time mumbling words of reassurance. Teddy was trembling.

  “What scared you?” she said quietly. “Silly boy, there’s nothing to be scared of.”

  And then the scratching at the door started again.

  The reassuring words dried in her throat, and she stared at the door. The scratching continued. Under her fingers the cat’s body stiffened, fur bristling. Beth’s mind went back to the open back door. It was obvious to her what had happened. Another cat must have come through it earlier in the evening. It would account for Teddy’s erratic behavior. He was never a sociable cat. He hated other cats since a run-in with a neutered tom in London had left him with a torn ear and numerous scratches and bites. The incident had left her out of pocket in vet’s fees. She didn’t want a repeat of that.

  She was too exhausted by the lateness of the hour to attempt getting out of bed again. Instead she reached for the thick Jilly Cooper paperback on her bedside table, and hurled it at the bedroom door. It hit the door with a best-selling thud, and slid down to the floor, landing open and facedown, cracking the book’s spine. The scratching stopped instantly.

  She lay there, half expecting it to resume, but after five minutes or so she started to believe she had scared the interloper away. “Thank God for that. I’ll deal with it in the morning,” she muttered, and closed her eyes. Within seconds she had drifted back to sleep.

  Beth awoke the next morning to glorious summer sunshine that poured through the bedroom window like warm honey, bathing the bed in a golden, warming light. Through the window she could see trees, and hear birdsong. There was something to be said for country life.

  Beside her Teddy slept, his body rising and falling as he breathed. She poked him, but he slept on.

  “Okay,” she said to him. “Stay there, but it’s a lovely day. You could be basking in the sunshine.” And then she remembered the scratching in the night. “Ac
tually, you’re probably better where you are. Let me deal with the other moggy first. I’ll come and get you when the coast is clear.”

  She wheeled herself from the bedroom, closing the door behind her, switched on the coffee maker on the kitchen counter and searched as much of the house as she could. She stopped by the bottom of the stairs, and stared up into the gloom. The cat was probably up there somewhere, sleeping off the night’s adventure. Beth shrugged. There was nothing she could do about it so she went to the back door, unlocked it and opened it wide, giving the cat a way out of the house. Then she went back to the kitchen, and poured herself a large mug of strong Columbian. She took the coffee through to her office, and woke up her computer.

  Reading through the work she’d completed the day before she found herself pleasantly surprised; not satisfied—never satisfied, but it was better than she’d expected, considering her long layoff.

  When a voice called, “Hello!” she glanced at the computer’s clock, and was amazed to see she had been sitting in front of the screen for the best part of three hours.

  “Through here!” she called back. “In the office.”

  “I hope I’m not disturbing the creative flow,” James Bartlett said, as he sauntered into her office. Casually professional.

  “No, you’re fine,” Beth said. “I was just revising and editing.”

  “That’s good. I just thought I’d pop by to see that you were settling in okay and…” He hesitated. “And to see if you’d like to come for a picnic.”

  Beth stared him, surprised. Today he was dressed in jeans and a tight and faded Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt. Timberland boots and an unshaven chin completed the look. He stared back at her, a mixture of uncertainty and hopefulness in his smoky gray eyes.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Never more.”

  “Well it’s very kind of you but…”

  “Come on,” he said. “Where’s the harm? It’s a glorious day. The sun is shining, the—”