His love of gardening after that was not totally tainted but there was always more shadow during the day than could normally be expected. More occasions when the wind blew against his neck as he bent to dig a new hole for a plant. And few, precious few, nights when he did not think about that false haven of a garden before he fell asleep.
MATTIE
Emma wanted the old woman out of her home.
It had all started with an argument one Sunday afternoon between Emma and her husband Mark. Perhaps argument was too strong a word, but the conversation had become increasingly heated, and left both feeling dissatisfied. Emma had been packing her suitcase when Mark came into the bedroom. He had been pottering in the garden and was hot, possibly tired. Packing wasn't really urgent, Emma knew that, the baby wasn't due for another fortnight, but she had set aside the afternoon to get the job done, just in case the baby decided to make a surprise appearance. It was her plan to pack this afternoon and the interruption was irritating, so she was possibly on the defensive.
Emma could feel her shoulders tense as Mark sat on the edge of the bed.
"What are you doing?" he asked, although it was quite obvious.
Resisting the temptation of a sarcastic reply Emma said, "Just packing a few things for when the time comes."
Mark made an exaggerated play of looking at the date on his watch. "Surely you've got ages yet."
"Yes I know," she snapped, immediately sorry her temper was getting frayed so quickly. "But my sister was three weeks premature with the twins so I want to be ready."
Mark was aware that the last few weeks had been a strain for both of them. All pregnancies can be difficult but Emma's had been so from the beginning, and about four weeks ago she had threatened to lose the baby. It had frightened both of them although they hadn't really talked it through. Emma didn't want to discuss it because she was still fearful damage may have been caused to the unborn child, even though the doctor reassured her there was no chance of that. Mark hadn't said anything because he didn't want to worry Emma by talking about it. It had left them feeling a bit wary.
When Mark didn't respond Emma felt she had to speak. "There's no harm in being prepared surely?"
"No, no of course not. It's just..."
"Just what?"
"It's only that I want you to relax." He hesitated before continuing. "It scared both of us the other week, I just want everything to be all right."
Emma misunderstood what he meant. "The baby will be fine I'm sure."
"It's not only the baby I worry about. You come first. I worry about you too you know." He said it quietly but it was enough. Emma's eyes filled with tears and she turned away. The next thing she knew Mark was holding her in his arms and they were both crying.
"It will be okay," Emma said after a while. She was so glad they were back to normal.
Mark nodded. "I still think it would be better if you had someone here until the labour starts."
Emma stiffened. "I'm not having your mother moving in." Her own mother had died two years ago.
"I know it wouldn't be ideal but with me at work every day, and with my current case load meaning long hours, I don't like to think of you on your own."
"Look," Emma said gently but firmly. "I had a scare, a bad one, but the baby is all right, I'm all right. I know you mean well, and I'm grateful, but I don't need anyone to be here with me. When the baby arrives my time won't be my own, so I quite like the peace and quiet of the cottage to myself."
Mark kissed her, pleased they had finally talked about it. If Emma was adamant she didn't want anyone else in the house he wouldn't argue. Not for now at least, but he might call his mother just in case.
The following day was Monday and Mark went to work. Emma spent the day cleaning, before starting to get some vegetables out for dinner. The sound of the doorbell interrupted her.
The old woman who stood on the front step seemed surprised when Emma opened the door, as if she was expecting someone else. The initial smile slid from her face leaving a look of bewilderment.
"Hello," Emma said. "Can I help you?"
The old woman hesitated for a moment, looking first one way down the lane, then the other. "This is Belvedere Cottage, isn't it?" she said abruptly. She rubbed her chin and answered herself. "It must be, it's the only house for miles." Lines of puzzlement were etched across the old woman's already much lined face.
She wore an ancient overcoat buttoned up to the neck despite the heat, and held a battered holdall. On her feet was a pair of brown brogues, and a plastic rain hat was pulled down over her grey hair. A fine network of broken blood vessels criss-crossed her cheeks, and complemented a nose that had been turned shiny red by the sun.
"Yes, this is Belvedere," Emma said. She thought the woman was harmless but eccentric. It was a mistake anyone could have made.
"Then this is the right place. For a moment I thought this old mind was playing tricks on me." She chuckled throatily, making herself cough. "Thought I might be going senile."
She smiled and for the first time Emma noticed the woman's eyes. They seemed not to be the eyes of an old person at all, deep blue and clear. They held Emma's attention, drawing her in, and when she felt herself staring she had to jerk her gaze away for fear of seeming rude.
It was a moment before she realised the woman was still talking to her. "...then the Lewis's don't live here any more...no, wait, you're not their daughter, Kate, are you, dear?"
"No, I'm not, and no they don't. They moved three years ago. We've been here ever since."
The woman looked downcast and shook her head slowly. "I've been away...out of circulation for a few years. Now I'm back and I've been trying to find some of my old friends. This is the second disappointment this week. When you get to my age it seems that your friends get fewer and fewer. You go away but time doesn't wait for you to return. It ploughs on regardless, sweeping away friendships. Old Father Time and his scythe, reaping his harvest, scything away, swish, swish..." As she spoke she made scything movements with her arm and Emma shivered. Because of the sudden breeze, or the woman she couldn't be sure.
"My name is Holt, dear, Matilda Holt," the old woman said, brightening suddenly. "Friends usually call me Mattie." She held out a leathery hand for Emma to shake. "Very pleased to meet you, Emma. Ah, I remember this cottage so well. I spent so many happy times here when I was younger. I wonder, dear, would you think me really rude if I invited myself in for a moment? I would so like to see inside again. It would bring back so many happy memories for me."
Emma looked into the woman's eyes, and found herself stepping aside to let Mattie enter, words of polite refusal trapped behind lips that seemed incapable of movement. She wanted to say no but the words didn't come.
"When is the baby due?" Mattie said, as she entered the sitting room. "Not long I should guess."
"No, about two weeks, at least that's what my doctor says."
Mattie gave a snort of derision. "Doctors, what do they know? And I suppose you'll be having the child in hospital...the modern way?"
Emma wasn’t at all sure what Mattie meant by, "the modern way", but she nodded anyway. "I'm booked in to the Montague hospital. The facilities there are marvellous."
Mattie didn't appear to be listening to her. She'd taken off her rain-hat and was bending to peer at the horse brasses that hung from the oak surround of the fireplace. "Children are happier born at home...ties...a bond. I love this cottage, I was born here, you know."
Emma was thrown for a moment. "Pardon?" was all she could manage.
"Yes, I thought that would surprise you. My father had this cottage built and I was born the day after he and my mother moved into it."
Emma shook her head, the old woman was mistaken, the cottage was built in 1850, it said so there, the date carved into the hearthstone.
"Do you like horse-brasses, Emma?" Mattie said, turning suddenly and fixing her with those piercing blue eyes.
Emma swayed for a moment, reaching out behi
nd her to grasp the arm of a chair, sinking slowly down into it as a wave of nausea swept over her, leaving her feeling sick and dizzy.
"Personally I think they are all right in their place, but sometimes they can look so...what's the word you young people use today...tacky? Don't you think so?"
Emma loosened the top two buttons of her blouse and began to take deep breaths. She hadn't felt as awful as this since the early days of her pregnancy. A sudden fear about losing the baby gripped her. A look of concern spread over Mattie's face. "Not feeling so good, dear? I understand, all part of being a woman...curse though it is. If only men knew what we had to go through. Sit there and close your eyes for a while. You might feel better for a nap."
Emma tried to gather herself but it felt like someone had replaced her brain with a ball of cotton wool. "I think it would be best if you were to leave now," she said. "I'm not feeling very...” She couldn't finish the sentence, someone had turned her tongue into a sponge. "I wouldn't want to delay you. There's a bus...” she managed then gagged.
"Hush now," Mattie said. "I've no need of buses. These two old legs brought me here and these two old legs will take me back, when I'm ready. You just sit there and rest and I'll take a look round the cottage by myself."
Emma wanted to say, "No," or "I'd rather you didn't," but the words wouldn't come. Instead she found herself yawning, although it didn't feel like tiredness, it felt like something else. Her eyelids were getting heavy, lead weights were pulling them down. The room seemed to fall away from her until it was as if she was observing everything from the wrong end of a telescope. Slowly it all grew hazy and dark.
Her last conscious thought before sleep claimed her was that she wanted the old woman out of her home.
She awoke feeling better. Light was slipping from the room and the clock on the mantelpiece told her it was five thirty. Mark would be home soon, she needed to fix the dinner. How could she let herself fall asleep like that? She got up and switched on the light and only then did she catch the aroma of cooking. In the kitchen Mattie stood at the sink scraping carrots. She turned as Emma entered the room and smiled.
"My word, I thought you were going to sleep forever." She was wearing Emma's apron, the one Mark had given her as a joke for her birthday, the plastic one decorated with the torso and thighs of a shapely female body clad only in a skimpy bikini. It looked so ridiculous on the old woman that at first Emma smiled, then the smile faded, it wasn't ridiculous, it was sick. An old woman like her, pretending to have a young attractive body.
"I hope I've done this right,” Mattie said. "I saw all the food laid out ready."
"Yes, yes you have," Emma said. A knot of anger was beginning to form in the pit of her stomach. "But really you shouldn't have."
"It was no trouble, dear. I timed it for six. I hope that's all right?"
The anger boiled over. "Look, Mrs Holt..."
"Mattie, dear, call me Mattie."
"Mrs Holt, I appreciate you cooking the dinner. I was tired, I fell asleep. I shouldn't have done, but cooking meals in this house is my responsibility. It's mine because this is my house, do you understand that? It may have been yours once, but it's mine now. Do you understand that, Mrs Holt?"
Mattie smiled benignly. "Of course I do, dear. There's no need to work yourself up so. You probably feel a little guilty for nodding off like that. I'm just glad I was here to help you out. Are you sure you're feeling better? You still look a little pale."
"I feel fine thank you. Look, I'm sorry if you think me rude but I'll have to ask you to leave now. My husband will be home soon."
"I'd like to meet him, I saw the photograph of him upstairs. A very good looking young man."
Emma kept Mark's photo in the drawer of her dressing table upstairs in the bedroom. The old woman had all but searched the cottage. Emma took Mattie by the arm and started to propel her towards the door. "Mrs Holt, you've done what you came to do, you've seen round the house, in great detail it seems, now I'm afraid it's time for you to go. You've missed the last bus into town but as you said earlier you walked here, you can walk back."
"Nonsense, I wouldn't hear of such a thing."
Mark's voice behind her startled Emma and she spun round to see her husband leaning against the doorframe. "Mark, you're early."
"I don't think so." He looked at his watch. "But you're forgetting your manners, Emma. You haven't introduced me to your guest."
Emma stared at him disbelievingly but he wasn't even looking at her. He was staring at Mattie, and she was staring back at him, those blue eyes seeming to glow from within.
"Matilda Holt, Mark Peterson, my husband," Emma heard herself say. She couldn't understand why Mark wasn't helping her to get rid of Mattie.
"As I told your lovely wife, Mark, everyone calls me Mattie. I was born in this cottage."
"Were you?" Mark said with a smile. "Then you must know an awful lot about its history."
"There's lots to tell," Mattie said, then giggled, almost girlishly. "Some of it not for the ears of babes."
Emma couldn't help but notice the wink of the eye and the slight indication of Mattie's head in her direction.
Mark laughed. "Perhaps you'd like a drink. Come into the sitting room and I'll pour you one. Sherry?"
"Mrs Holt was just about to leave," Emma said quickly, almost desperately. Mark was behaving so falsely, not like her Mark at all. He was all false humour and civility, much as he behaved when he was entertaining clients that he wanted to impress. Why would he want to impress this horrible old woman?
"And you were going to have her walk back to town. Whatever were you thinking about, Emma? You'll have to forgive my wife, Mattie. She's a little overwrought at the moment...her condition,” he added as if this were explanation enough.
"A small sherry would be quite delightful," Mattie said.
Mark took Mattie by the arm and led her out of the kitchen. "There will be enough dinner for three, won't there, Emma?" he said, glancing back at her. Silently he mouthed, "What on earth's the matter with you?"
Emma stood in the kitchen dumbfounded. Never in eight years of marriage had Mark ever treated her like that. Imperious, condescending, referring to `her condition'. And then to suggest that something was the matter with her behaviour. Something was the matter with her but it was easily remedied.
She wanted the old woman out of her home.
Emma sat at the dressing table, pulling a brush through her hair. Mark came into the room from the bathroom, dressed in his robe, towelling his hair dry. He leant forward and kissed her shoulder, but she flinched away from his touch.
"Are you going to act like a child all night?"
Her eyes met his in the mirror. His face was lean and strong, black eyebrows arched high over deep brown eyes. It was the same handsome face of the man she loved, but tonight he was a stranger to her. There was something in that face, something behind those dark brown eyes she didn't recognise, something she did not like at all.
"How could you ask her to stay the night?" She asked.
"Not again." He sat down on the bed with a sigh and rubbed his hair. "How many more times are we going to go over this? The last train leaves at eight thirty. The clock in the living room was slow so we missed it. What else could I do? Drive her to the station and leave her there perhaps? Let her bed down in the waiting room, a frail old woman, is that what you really wanted me to do?"
"It would have been better than letting her stay here." Emma said quietly, knowing it sounded uncharitable.
"I'll pretend you didn't say that."
"All right, but what was wrong with taking her to an hotel?"
"When we have a perfectly good spare bedroom? Oh yes, very hospitable."
"It wasn't only the clock in the living room that was slow. All the clocks in the house were slow, all half an hour slow to be exact. That's why I thought you'd come in early."
"So what about it? What do you think she did, went around the house putting all the clocks back th
irty minutes?"
Emma got to her feet angrily. "Yes! Yes, that's exactly what she did!"
"Now you're getting paranoid." Mark got into bed and pulled the covers up to his chin. "Why on earth would she want to do such a thing, for what purpose?"
"Oh, Mark, open your eyes! Why do you think? So we'd be forced to let her stay here the night." Her voice rose to a shout.
"Ssh, keep your voice down, she'll hear."
"Good," Emma said loudly. "I want her to hear, I want her to realise that she's not welcome here. I don't want her in my home, I don't want her going through my personal belongings. I don't want her making cow-eyes at my husband, acting like a flirtatious schoolgirl. I don't like her, I don't like her at all."
Mark laughed. "Cow-eyes? By Christ, you sound jealous. You're not jealous of a sweet little old woman." His voice was gentle, reassuring, but he shook his head. "Come to bed, Emma, it's late, I've had a pig of a day and I'm shattered. You'll wake up in the morning and realise just how foolishly you're behaving."
"Damn you! I know what this is all about. You've wanted me to have someone in the cottage until the baby is born, and if I won't have your mother you'll settle for this old woman we've never met. Perhaps if I make enough fuss about her you'll throw her out so long as you can move your mother in."
"Suit yourself!" He reached up and tugged the light switch above the bed, plunging the room into darkness.
Emma sat at the dressing table for a long while in the dark, wondering what had happened to them. When Mark had left for work that morning he'd been so sweet, so gentle, stroking her hair as he kissed her goodbye. The tension of the past few weeks had gone once they had told each other how they felt. What had happened to change things? Mattie Holt had happened, or more to the point Emma's reaction to Mattie had changed things. Why was her attitude to the old woman so hostile? And then she knew.
"She scares me, Mark. She really scares me. Can you understand that? There's something not right about her...something that makes me feel she's planned all this. That she didn't come here to visit the Lewises, but to see us, and somehow worm her way in here. And now she's here I get the feeling that she's never going to go away again, and that slowly she's going to drive a wedge between us. Perhaps it is unreasonable...okay irrational, but that's how I feel and I just can't help it."
Echoes of Darkness Page 19
