by Maynard Sims
She sipped it and murmured appreciatively. “In what way was she evil?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say for sure. Dolores was fond of putting hexes on people—cursing them if they upset her. Total bollocks of course, but I think some people—those with limited intellect—and there’s more that a few of them around here—took her rants seriously, and let them affect the way they lived their lives.”
“But not Gwen, surely?”
“You say that, but for all her intelligence, and believe me, Gwen is ferociously intelligent—puts me to shame—but for all that, I think Gwen is still susceptible to superstition. I think a part of it is connected with her illness. She took the news that she has MS particularly badly. She first suffered symptoms of it a few days after a run-in with Dolores Franklin, and I think part of her is still convinced the illness was caused by a curse. A hex.”
“Really?” Beth said. She failed to keep the disbelief out of her voice. “Is Gwen really that credulous?”
“I don’t know,” Latham said. “Being diagnosed with a condition like that can mess with your mind. It certainly messed with Gwen’s. She was looking for something—someone—to blame. I’m afraid Dolores Franklin presented herself as a rather easy target.”
“So you don’t share Gwen’s conviction?” Beth was thinking about how her own mind might have been messed by being chained to her chair.
Latham swallowed the last of his tea, and switched the kettle on again to make himself another. “I’m afraid I’m too much of a realist,” he said. “I think that’s why I’m so passionate about gardening. I plant a seed, water it, tend the shoot, nurture it until it buds and blooms. It could be seen as a miracle, a supernatural event, but it’s just nature.”
“Gwen said you had green fingers.”
“I delude myself that without me the garden would wither and die. Again total bollocks. No. All I have is patience. It’s just nature’s way, a totally natural cycle of life that would continue with or without my input. Some things are immutable, like Gwen’s illness. Blaming Dolores Franklin, and the supposed hex the woman put on her, is just Gwen’s way of dealing with the lousy hand she’s been dealt. The MS was always going to get her. It lay dormant for years in her DNA and then, when it was ready, it woke up, burst out and clobbered her. Dolores Franklin had nothing to do with it.” He glanced pointedly at the wheelchair. “You’ve been through some difficult changes in your life, too.”
“So if I told you that Dolores Franklin…and her daughter Jessica…were haunting Stillwater, you’d tell me I was imagining it.” She looked challengingly at him. “Or would you blame my disability?”
Latham’s eyes narrowed. He dropped a fresh tea bag into his mug and splashed on some boiling water. “I’d be interested to hear what led you to that conclusion before I commented one way or another.”
“Fair enough,” she said, and proceeded to tell Latham everything she had experienced since moving into Stillwater.
“I’m sorry to hear about your cat,” Latham said, as she wound up her summary. “Very sad. It probably left you devastated.”
“It left me feeling guilty. Teddy never asked to come up here. I dragged him along regardless of his feelings.”
Latham nodded slowly in agreement.
“So what do you think?” She pressed him. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she needed him to see things from her point of view; needed affirmation.
“I think an awful lot has happened in a very short space of time. It’s as if you’re being battered into submission by the house. I think the incident in the bathroom is particularly disturbing. The woman you saw when you were drowning…submerged, can you describe her?”
“Mid-forties, long dark hair, refined, almost regal features, attractive; some would call her beautiful…”
Latham stood abruptly and left the room, leaving her side of the conversation hanging in the air. When he returned he was grasping a creased color photograph in his grubby hand. He laid the photo on the table in front of her. “I thought Gwen had got rid of this years ago, but she’s a bit of a hoarder.”
Beth leaned forward, and studied the curled and tatty photograph. The orange cast that leached the colors from the paper betrayed the age of the photo, as did the clothes and hairstyles of the group of women captured in it.
Beth stared at it, studying the faces. Gwen was unmistakable, even though she was standing at the back of the group and weighed at least fifty pounds lighter. But it was the woman standing slightly to the side of the group who commanded her attention. Tall and slender, with a mane of wild, dark hair and almost aristocratic features, lips clamped shut, making no attempt at a smile. If anything, the eyes in the beautiful face looked positively hostile, as if the photographer were an unwelcome intruder, invading her own, personal space.
Beth lifted her hand, and pointed at her with a slightly shaky index finger. “That’s her. The woman in my bathroom.”
Latham sighed. “Yes, I thought it might be from the way you described her. That’s Dolores Franklin at the last WI meeting she attended. She was expelled the day after this photo was taken.” He paused and sipped his tea. “Well, the good news, Beth, is that she can’t be haunting Stillwater.”
“Why not?”
“Because to the best of my knowledge, Dolores Franklin is still alive. Living people don’t haunt houses.”
“But didn’t she disappear?”
“She left her husband and daughter. I know because I drove her to the station the day she left.”
“You drove her?”
“I gave her a lift, yes. She was waiting at the bus stop, with her suitcase. It had just started to rain and the bus wasn’t due for another forty minutes. She would have got soaked. I just happened to be driving past so I pulled in and offered her a ride.” He lowered his voice. “I never told Gwen. I’d appreciate it if that piece of information remained between the two of us.”
“Of course,” Beth said. “Where was she headed?”
“Devon. She told me she was born just outside Totnes, and she’d decided to go back there.”
“Did she say why she was leaving?”
“She didn’t volunteer the information and I didn’t pry. I dropped her off at the station and went home. That was the last I saw of her.”
“So what did I see in my bathroom?”
“Ah,” he said. “That’s a tricky one. For all my realism I do believe that houses can absorb atmospheres, that the memories of dramatic and traumatic events can soak into the fabric, the bricks and mortar, of a place. Sounds fanciful, but there you are.”
“What, and the house stores them like a computer hard drive?”
“Essentially yes; that’s a good analogy. And I think that certain people, people like you with open and unguarded minds—free thinkers—can sometimes access that hard drive and catch a glimpse of what’s stored on there.”
“So instead of seeing ghosts, what I’m actually seeing are memories?”
Latham shrugged. “It’s a theory,” he said. “And not in any way a scientific one. Gwen would have it that it’s just the ramblings of a deluded old fool.” He laughed suddenly. “She may be right.”
She had been unconscious in hospital for two days. Not in a coma; the doctors explained the technical difference between being comatose and not, but she wasn’t in any frame of mind to absorb the information.
When she awoke there were so many faces peering down at her that for a moment she thought she must be lying on the road, and everyone was pushing to get a look at the accident that had just happened. The accident that was her.
She could remember every second of the car crash; it had all been in slow motion. The red light at the junction that she didn’t see. The truck that didn’t see her in time. She could see her car being lifted into the air as if it were playing out in a movie. There was a violent smashing noise, followed
by silence as if she were holding her breath. Then the almighty roller coaster as the car somersaulted and turned. The impact of hitting the lamppost was like falling into a deep dark abyss where she was weightless.
She saw bright white lights like people said they had when they experienced near death, but they told her later that was the doctors shining light into her eyes to find eye movement.
She begged the nurses to let her get out of bed, but they just looked at her with the awful awareness of someone who knows a secret they mustn’t share.
It was left to the consultant to whisper the secret, and when he did she wished she had stayed ignorant. He was a kindly man, Indian by birth, and he had a daughter about Beth’s age. Tears welled in his eyes even though he spoke the words professionally. Beth could imagine he felt as if someone was telling his own daughter what he had to explain to her, and he wasn’t fining it easy. Well, neither was she.
He didn’t say she would never walk again, but it was highly unlikely. She would have no feeling below the waist, and that was almost certainly permanent, although he couldn’t rule out the return of some sensation. He explained the physical reasons for what had happened, but by then she had zoned out his voice and all she could see was the small dark mole on his cheek.
The next few months consisted of painful rehabilitation, as they worked her muscles to retain some semblance of normality. They made her get up every day. She had to hold her own weight with her arms, and the exercises they made her do were exhausting.
There was so much she had always taken for granted. Simple things she could no longer do with ease; personal tasks that now needed planning and some effort.
Getting the wheelchair, sitting in it, was the worst day of her life.
Her confinement had begun.
Chapter Fifteen
From Peck’s Cottage she turned right, and headed into town. It was midafternoon, and traffic was light. She found a parking space in the center of town, using her blue Disabled Parking pass to avoid the unwelcome attention of the two traffic wardens who patrolled the area.
The pass was one of the few benefits of her condition, easily outweighed by the sheer inconvenience of the tiring and painful shift from car to wheelchair. Once she was settled she turned west, and wheeled herself along the street. Even now, after what sometimes felt like a lifetime, the simple act of using her arms to propel the wheels seemed like it was being performed by someone else and not her.
Falmer’s was a good two hundred yards along on the same side she was travelling. “Thank heavens for small mercies,” she muttered, as she passed the Victorian storefront. In between the photos and descriptions of properties for sale or rent she could see a middle-aged woman sitting at a desk, and an older man, probably in his early sixties, standing at a filing cabinet, rummaging through the files as an anxious-looking young couple watched. Of James Bartlett there was no sign. Damn! she thought.
She carried on along the street, deciding to turn around, when she ran out of shops and headed on back to her car.
The final shop in the parade was a bookmaker; the signs in the window offered generous odds on the next Ipswich Town football match. She spun the wheelchair round and started to retrace her path.
She nearly ran him down.
James Bartlett stepped out from a trendy-looking barber’s shop, brushing invisible hair clippings from his suit jacket, and nearly collided with her as she passed.
“Watch where…oh, it’s you,” she said, and blushed furiously.
“Beth,” he said, the delight in his voice obvious. “What are you doing in town?”
“A few errands to run, that’s all,” she said hurriedly; too hurriedly. She could see his gaze searching for evidence of shopping bags and finding none. “Haven’t done them yet,” she said, compounding the lie. “Shouldn’t you be in the office?”
“I had a viewing the other side of town, but it was a no-show. I thought I’d make the most of the free time.” He jerked his thumb back at the barber’s.
“Nice haircut,” she said. “Very smart. I suppose you’re going back to work now.”
He checked his watch. “I’ve a little while yet.”
“Then let me buy you coffee…to repay you for the picnic.”
A slow smile spread over his face. “Sounds good to me. There’s a Starbucks up the road. You must have passed it.”
“I did,” she said. “But I was thinking of something a little less…corporate. Is there somewhere else you can recommend?”
“I know just the place, but it’s in the next street. Are you up for it?”
“Lead the way.”
“I can push you.”
“You try and it’ll be you in a wheelchair. I can manage,” she said, aware of the irritation in her voice.
He shrugged. “Follow me.”
“I’m surprised you don’t get a motorized one,” he said, as they turned into the next street. It was on a fairly steep incline, and he could see Beth’s biceps bulging as she wheeled herself along.
“I looked at electric powered wheelchairs before I bought this one, and decided they weren’t for me. Too easy. I’d end up getting fat. Wheeling this thing around saves me a fortune in gym memberships.” It was a rehearsed response. There was a deeper reason than that.
Getting a motorized wheelchair would be an acceptance of her condition, an admission that this was her situation, now and forever, and she refused to believe that. Her doctor had said that there was a chance, slim perhaps, that the feeling would return to her legs. She clung to that assertion tenaciously. One day, she was sure, she would walk again.
Ye Olde Suffolk Tea Rooms was a double-fronted shop, set between a stationer’s and a building society. There was a low step up to the door. James took hold of the handles of the chair and eased her inside. This time she didn’t reject his help.
They found a table near the door. James removed a chair, and pushed her into the space, taking the seat opposite her, and passing her a laminated card menu.
“Hungry?” he said.
She studied the menu. The smell of toasted teacakes was wafting out from the kitchen. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and her stomach was rumbling. “Now you come to mention it, yes. A sandwich maybe?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Me too. I recommend the tuna mayonnaise panini.”
“Sounds good.”
A freshly scrubbed waitress arrived at their table, pen poised above her pad, ready to take their order.
“Two tuna panini and two coffees. I take mine black, no sugar.” He looked across at her. “How do you take yours?”
“Skinny latte,” she said. “And I’m paying.”
He opened his mouth to protest.
“No arguments,” she said.
“She’s paying, Lucy,” he said to the waitress.
“Not on your tab then, Mr. Bartlett?”
“You heard the lady,” he said with a smile.
“It’ll be five minutes or so.”
When the waitress left, Beth sat forward, and said in a low voice, “You run a tab here?”
“Falmer’s does. It’s a useful place to bring prospective buyers. Relaxes them; makes them feel they’re in safe hands.”
“And of course they are.”
“I like to think so,” he said.
She studied his face hard, looking for the slightest sign that he was anything other than sincere. But his open, candid expression betrayed no cynicism, no exploitative agent talking about an easy mark.
“You’re an unusual man, James,” she said.
“In a good way, I hope.”
“We’ll see.”
“I ran into Derek earlier. He told me that he’d sorted out your plumbing problems.”
“Yes, he did. After a fashion.”
“Yeah, he told me about Teddy. Beth, I’m so so
rry.”
She stared down at the table, unshed tears pricking at her eyes. It often took someone’s genuine sympathy to break the resolve, and James’s words were getting close to it. “I’d rather not talk about it,” she said.
After a brief, uncomfortable silence he said, “So, are you enjoying Stillwater?”
“The writing’s going well,” she said, deflecting.
“Great,” he said. “A new best seller on the way?”
“Hope so,” she said, and went on to tell him about Mirror Ball and the American TV adaptation. “Of course they’ll probably balls it up as most TV companies do.”
“I bet you’re still excited about it though,” he said.
She gave a shy smile. “Over the moon, truth be told. It will raise my profile in the States.”
“That’s no bad thing. Huge market.”
The waitress arrived with the panini and coffees, set them down on the table, and slid the bill discreetly under Beth’s plate. “Anything else I can get you?” she said.
“No, that’s fine,” Beth said.
“Enjoy your meal,” the waitress said by rote, and slipped away to another table to serve two elderly women taking a respite from their shopping trip.
“Did you ever get to meet Dolores Franklin, Jessica’s mother?” Beth said, taking advantage of the waitress’s interruption to radically change the subject of their conversation.
If James was shocked by the sudden switch in direction then he didn’t show it. “Yes,” he answered smoothly. “A number of times.”
“Were you surprised when she left Stillwater?”
“No, I can’t say I was. Her relationship with her husband, and with Jessica, was volatile to say the least. To be quite honest, the atmosphere in the house lightened considerably once she’d gone. Jessica in particular seemed happier. I can’t make a judgment on her father though; he never seemed happy, whatever his situation.”
“Arthur Latham described him as a surly devil.”
“Yeah,” James said. “That’s just about right. Anyway, what’s with the third degree?”
