Time's Echo

by Pamela Hartshorne

  It was very quiet in the chapel. I sat heavily in one of the pews and stared unseeingly at the window above the altar, admitting to myself that I was scared. My heart was lurching unevenly along like an old Labrador and the breath seemed to be stuck in my throat.

  My worst fear, being trapped, unable to outrun whatever was coming for me. I hadn’t been able to outrun the tsunami, and I couldn’t run away from this.

  Hawise was stronger than I was, I had to accept that, too. I was stuck here in York until she chose to let me go. If she chose to let me go. Too late, I remembered Lucy. Had she been sucked into Hawise’s story as I had been, only to find that she couldn’t get out? Was that why she had been down by the Ouse that night? A coldness stole over me at the thought. Had she re-died Hawise’s death, just as she had relived her life? Would I end up in the river, drowning again? I covered my face with my hands.

  I am in church, my hands over my face. I am supposed to be thanking God for our deliverance from the pestilence, but I am not praying. God has taken Ned. He has taken my friends and my little maids, and He has spared Francis Bewley. I cannot thank Him for that.

  Where my heart used to be, there is a stone: hard, cold, heavy. The sickness has swooped and now, sated, it has moved on, leaving me stranded in a wasteland. Only now do I truly realize what I have lost, and how safe Ned made me feel. The thought of never holding him again is like a great hand reaching inside me, twisting, wrenching, until I want to double over in pain. Sometimes I put my hand under my breast and flinch at the crack of my heart breaking again and again.

  Gradually we crept out of our houses and looked around, dazed at the suddenness and savagery with which the sickness attacked. Incredibly, it is still summer. The birds are still singing, the trees are still green. The houses still stand, the dogs still scuffle in the gutters, but in the street are terrible gaps in the air where people used to be.

  But I have Bess. I can thank God for that, at least. So I murmur along with the prayers and hold onto the knowledge that she is safe.

  For Bess, I straighten my back and go on. She is too small to understand what has happened, but she knows enough to insist on staying with me now. She won’t be left with Agnes any more, and I wonder what went on in that room when I was nursing Francis. So I take her with me when I go to market, balancing her on my hip as I go through the motions of inspecting grain or smelling fish. I have no heart for it, but we must eat.

  Bess struggles to get down, and I set her on unsteady feet. Oblivious to the fact that we are all reeling still at finding ourselves in a strange, empty new world, she clings onto my skirts for balance and peeps a smile at the countrywomen, whose grim faces soften at the sight of her.

  Bess staggers away as I buy butter. I am watching her out of the corner of my eye, but I am digging in my purse for a coin and wondering what I will do for money when the purse is empty, when there is rumbling and shouting behind me. The countrywoman’s eyes widen in horror, and I swing round to see a cart bearing down on Bess, who is hunkered in its way, absorbed in picking up a pebble with precise fingers and examining it with wonder.

  ‘No!’ the word bursts from me. I am too far from her. Everything is happening in slow motion. The open mouth of the carter, the wild eyes of the horse, the creak of the wheels, Bess looking up.

  And then at the last moment before the cart would have been upon her, she is snatched up out of the way. She screams in fright and protest, arching back furiously from the grip of a small, dirty girl.

  ‘Bess!’ I reach them seconds later and grab my daughter, holding her to me and patting her all over to reassure myself that she is safe. My heart is pounding with shock and fear, and my expression must be wild, because when I turn to her saviour, the girl flinches away.

  That stops me in my tracks and I force myself to be calm. ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I say. ‘I want only to thank you.’

  Thank you. The words are pitifully inadequate for what I feel.

  ‘Didn’t do nothing,’ she mutters.

  She is not a well-favoured child, and one foot is twisted and crooked, but her eyes are bright with a mixture of wariness and intelligence. She reminds me of Hap. She is painfully thin and she smells disgusting.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Jane.’

  I see the way her eyes fix on the food in my basket. ‘How long is it since you have eaten, Jane?’

  Jane, it turns out, is fifteen, although she is so thin and small that she seems much younger. She is the only survivor of a tanner’s family, which explains the smell. Their street is a poor one, and it has suffered even more than most. There are no neighbours left to take Jane in, and she has no kin that she knows of. They had little enough to begin with, and since the sickness she has been scavenging as best she can.

  ‘I can take care of meself,’ she says defiantly when I ask who is looking after her.

  ‘Come,’ I say, ‘let us find you a pie.’ The cookshops are open again, and when Bess sees Jane devouring her pie, she clamours for one too. I’m about to buy her one when, starving as she is, Jane breaks off a crust and gives it to my daughter, whose crying instantly subsides.

  ‘Jane,’ I say, ‘Bess needs a nursemaid. Would you like to come and live with us?’

  So now I have two children to care for, and where there are children there can never be utter despair. Francis and Agnes shrink back in disgust when I lead Jane into the house.

  ‘What are you thinking of, Hawise? She is flthy!’ Agnes’s voice rises shrilly. ‘What if she brings the sickness back?’

  ‘She will not be dirty when she has had a chance to clean herself,’ I say, holding firmly to Jane’s hand. ‘She has survived the sickness, just as we have. Besides, this is my house now, and if I choose to offer her charity, that is my choice, is it not? I do not ask you to take Jane into your own house.’

  ‘We have been discussing that,’ says Francis smoothly. ‘You are a widow now, and Agnes and I are all you have. I am head of the family, and I think we should all stay together, Sister, and support each other. It is only right.’

  I stare at them. I had not thought anything else would have the power to horrify me after the pestilence, but so it is. I have been too leaden with grief to think about getting through more than one day at a time, but I should have been on my guard. Francis has always coveted Ned’s wealth, I know. He yearns for the fine hangings, the wine and the plate. He covets me.

  He will not have me. I swear it to myself.

  ‘I am not well,’ Agnes said. ‘You know I am not strong. We cannot go home. Our servants have fled or are dead!’

  ‘My servants have died too, Agnes.’

  ‘But you can afford to replace them.’

  I look at my sister in disbelief. Margery and little Joan. Alison and Isobel. They were not things to be replaced. I cannot go to the market and get some more Joan, a new Margery.

  ‘And if we are under one roof, I can offer you protection and a godly example,’ says Francis. Francis who slobbered his mouth across mine while his wife cowered in another room, frantic for his safety. Francis whose thing rose as I bathed him.

  ‘I need no example from you,’ I say stonily, ‘nor do I need protection.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Sister? I think you would be wise to reconsider.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Already there are rumours. They’re saying you are a witch.’

  ‘What!’ I glance down at Jane, still by my side, expecting to see her recoil, but she is watching Francis with a narrowed expression. ‘That is nonsense, and you know it,’ I tell him.

  ‘Is it? I know you went out to that old witch in the crofts, and came back with a magic “remedy”.’ He hooks his fingers in the air to add sarcastic emphasis to the word. ‘The next thing, your husband is dead and you are a wealthy widow. You cannot deny it is convenient, hmm?’

  Convenient? My heart cracks at the thought of Ned, my dearest dear. It is only now that I realize he really
is dead. He has not gone to Antwerp or London. He will not be back in a few weeks. He is dead and I will never see him again.

  ‘Get out,’ I say to Francis through numb lips.

  ‘Hawise!’ Agnes protests.

  I round on her. ‘You know how much I loved Ned, Agnes. How can you stand there and listen to him tell me that my husband’s death was convenient?’ I practically spit out the word and she bridles.

  ‘Francis is only warning you what people are saying. It’s for your own good.’

  ‘I don’t need warning. I can look out for myself.’ My cold gaze swings back to Francis. ‘I think you should leave now.’

  He hesitates, calculates. I am only a woman, with a girl and a babe, and I cannot force him out physically, but my will is stronger than his. I face him down, and in the end they do go.

  ‘On your own head be it,’ says Francis, and he moistens his mouth with his tongue very deliberately as he passes me.

  The moment they have gone I start to shake. I miss Ned. I ache for him, and I cover my face with my hands.

  ‘Mistress?’ Jane tugs at my skirt.

  ‘I cannot bear it, Jane. I cannot do it on my own.’

  ‘You en’t on your own,’ she says stoutly. ‘You’ve got Bess. And me.’

  I lower my hands and muster a smile. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was that man?’

  My face darkens at the thought of Francis. ‘My sister’s husband.’

  ‘He’s a wrong ’un, I reckon,’ says Jane, and I nod slowly.

  ‘Yes,’ I say again. ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ The touch on my arm was very gentle.

  I lowered my hands to see a chaplain sitting beside me. Above her dog collar, her expression was compassionate. A woman priest? I recoiled in shock at the strangeness of it before I remembered who I was, when I was.

  ‘I’m frightened.’ The words blurted out of me.

  ‘Then you’ve come to the right place,’ she said calmly. ‘You don’t need to fear when you’re with God.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you want to tell me your name?’

  ‘Grace. I’m Grace.’ I said it with emphasis, as if to prove to myself that it was true. I was Grace, not Hawise. ‘Grace Trewe.’

  ‘I’m Penny. What are you afraid of, Grace?’

  How much could I tell her? How much would she believe? ‘Do you believe in reincarnation?’ I asked, and she smiled.

  ‘I believe in life after death,’ she said. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I don’t. I don’t believe in God,’ I said defiantly.

  ‘And yet you’ve come here when you are afraid,’ she observed. ‘You may just have a grain of faith, but a grain is all you need. God’s love is infinite, Grace. If you believe in that, you will find peace.’

  ‘It’s not me that needs peace,’ I said, and when she raised her brows, I opened my mouth and the whole story came tumbling out. I didn’t mean to tell her everything, and I’m still not sure why I did. Perhaps it was something to do with the quietness of the chapel, and her calm certainty that both reassured and irritated me.

  ‘I thought Hawise had gone,’ I finished at last. ‘I thought I’d beaten her, but she’s taking over my mind again. I can’t go on like this.’ I’d been staring ahead at the altar, twisting my hands together, but at that I turned to look directly at Penny. I’d like to think I didn’t look pathetically pleading, but I probably did. It felt like a betrayal of Hawise, but I didn’t see any alternative, if I was to leave York and get on with my life. ‘Can you exorcize her?’

  Penny looked at me thoughtfully. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Grace. I think you should talk to Richard Makepeace. He’s the Archbishop’s advisor for the Ministry of Deliverance.’

  Deliverance? I immediately thought of twanging banjos. She must have seen my look because she smiled. ‘We don’t talk about exorcism any more. He will listen to what you have to say, and you can talk together. And then, if needs be, he can perform a service of deliverance and help Hawise to find rest. And in the meantime, we can pray.’

  I left the Minster feeling much calmer, but I was still walking tentatively, still caught between two worlds. The air was shifty, treacherous. One moment the tourists gawping up at the tower roof or clustered on the steps of the south transept looked blessedly normal, the next they were grotesque creatures from another world, horrifying in their casual demeanour and their obscene display of flesh.

  Averting my eyes, I tested each step. The ground felt fragile, as if it might shimmer and dissolve at any moment, and I was concentrating so fiercely on placing one foot in front of another that I walked right into Ash.

  ‘I’m so sorry – oh.’ I broke off as I realized who it was.

  ‘It’s Grace, isn’t it?’ He studied me with the intense, shiny gaze that reminded me so horribly of Francis. ‘Sophie’s neighbour.’

  ‘Sophie’s friend,’ I said.

  He acknowledged the point with a faint courteous dip of his head, but there was something else there too, something condescending, as if he had taken my insistence on Sophie’s friendship as a pathetic challenge.

  ‘Are you unwell? You look pale.’ Oh, he sounded solicitous enough, but I sensed the malice rippling beneath the surface, like the buboes under Ned’s skin. I slammed a mental door on the image.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said shortly.

  ‘I saw you come out of the Minster,’ said Ash.

  ‘I was looking at the carvings in the chapter house,’ I lied. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

  ‘I sense a lot of hostility in you, Grace,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘I don’t like what you’re doing to Sophie.’

  Ash spread his hands in a gesture of innocence as phoney as the rest of him. ‘Doing to her?’ he echoed. ‘I’m not doing anything. Sophie comes to our gatherings of her own free will. We do not force her.’

  ‘She’s only fifteen,’ I said angrily. ‘You’re brainwashing her with all that mumbo-jumbo.’

  ‘“Mumbo-jumbo”?’ Ash repeated. ‘Ah, yes, I can just hear Dr Dyer saying that.’ His voice was light, but I saw the flare of dislike in his eyes. ‘He’s the type who dismisses as nonsense anything he can’t understand. Luckily Sophie has a more open mind than her father.’

  I was beginning to wish I hadn’t got involved in this conversation. ‘Is that what this is about? Drew?’

  ‘Drew?’ he mocked. ‘Yes, I gathered that you’re more than just a neighbour to the great Dr Dyer, too.’

  My fingers were clenched around the strap of my bag. ‘If you’ve got a problem with him, deal with him. Don’t take it out on his daughter.’

  ‘I am a mere servant of the gods,’ said Ash, something vicious clinging to the edges of his smile. ‘Sophie has opened herself to the power of the universe, and I cannot stand in her way.’

  ‘She’ll grow out of it,’ I said, shaking with loathing. I couldn’t disentangle him from Francis in my mind. ‘And you,’ I added.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Sophie’s an intelligent girl. Sooner or later she’s going to see through you, the way the rest of us do,’ I said, probably unwisely, but I couldn’t stand being with him any longer. I saw a flash of something unpleasant in his eyes as I pushed past him and I knew that I had made an enemy, but I dismissed Ash from my mind. I had other things to worry about.

  ‘I didn’t go,’ I told Drew when he asked me how Edinburgh had been. ‘I didn’t feel well.’

  I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t been able to cross Lendal Bridge. I didn’t tell him why. Drew was uncomfortable with anything other than the rational. He would have come up with any number of scientific explanations rather than accept the fact that I had been possessed by the ghost of a desperate woman four hundred years dead. At the very least, he would have said that I had been imagining things.

  When I found myself sitting in an airy house in the Minster Close the following Monday, I began to wonder, too, if I had imagined it all.
In that tranquil room with the light pouring through the Georgian windows it was hard to explain the sense of horror I had felt. My story sounded more and more absurd, even to my own ears: I couldn’t walk across a bridge, I couldn’t get on a bus. I kept stumbling in embarrassment, sure it must look as if I was making it all up for the sake of getting attention.

  Richard Makepeace listened carefully, not saying much at first, but I noticed his questions were designed to find out what else might be at work. In some ways his questions were not unlike Sarah’s. I answered half-impatiently. I had been there. I wasn’t mentally ill or unstable or screwed up. I was possessed.

  There, I had said it.

  ‘I need help,’ I said, as I had to Sarah, and to Vivien.

  ‘And God will help you,’ he said. ‘Come, let us pray together.’

  I felt foolish, mouthing ‘Amen’. How had I come to this, sitting with a bowed head and praying? I didn’t do God. But I had tried science and I had tried magic, and the Church was all that was left. Besides, I was impressed by Richard Makepeace’s quiet belief.

  ‘We can help this lost soul to find peace,’ he said with certainty.

  I hoped he was right, but I wasn’t sure that mouthing a prayer would be enough, so I was relieved when he said that he would come to the house and hold a service of deliverance.

  I chewed my thumb. ‘What if it doesn’t work?’ I asked.

  ‘It will work,’ said Richard Makepeace simply.

  ‘Do I need to prepare, or anything?’ I had visions of spinning heads and projectile vomiting. At the very least I could have a bucket and some cloths ready to clear up the mess.

  He smiled as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. ‘Just be ready to pray,’ he said.

  The stench of rotting apples was very strong when I opened the door to him the next day. He had brought the vicar from the parish church of St Maurice with him. James Sanders was young and fit-looking, and wore trendy glasses that sat oddly with his dog collar, but when I asked him if he could smell the apples, he nodded.