by Diane Janes
‘You’ve got an older brother and a younger sister,’ she said. ‘So you’re the middle child, which isn’t an easy thing to be. You like children – in fact you want to work with them. You’d like to be a teacher, but I can’t tell if you will be or not. There’s something in the way – an obstacle of some kind – it’s up to you whether you overcome it or not.’
So much for that, I thought. We had been chatting for hours by then and I’d probably let slip clues about myself and my family and the fact that I was at teacher training college.
‘I expect you want to know about your love life.’ I fancied I detected a trace of mischief in her voice. ‘People always do.’
My hand was warm beneath her touch; the pressure of her finger had become a caress. ‘Danny is the first great love of your life – but it isn’t going to last.’
‘That’s enough,’ I said rather sharply, pulling my hand away.
Trudie didn’t seem offended. She continued to affect a dreamy tone. ‘There was something else there. Something dark which I couldn’t understand.’
My sunburnt flesh was reacting to the cooler air. Goosebumps had broken out on my bare arms. ‘Are you guys going to be much longer?’ I called out.
‘Doing the best we can,’ Simon replied, rather tersely.
A single white star had appeared above the horizon.
‘I think the moon’s fascinating, don’t you?’ asked Trudie. ‘Have you noticed the way, when we’re travelling in the car, it seems to follow us?’
I was just deciding how to answer this, when she started singing softly to herself.
‘I’m being followed by a moonshadow, moonshadow, moonshadow . . .’
FOUR
I’ve been back several times before, but it doesn’t get any easier. I recognize the sickly sensation of panic which arrives just west of Mortimer’s Cross, and know that in another mile or two I’ll be removing my hands from the steering wheel, one at a time, to wipe them on the legs of my jeans. I am travelling in silence, because radio stations cannot be trusted not to play the wrong song at the wrong moment. I also blot out any urge to sing or hum, lest my subconscious similarly betrays me. Instead I concentrate on the visuals. It’s too early for the trees to be in leaf and many wayside fields have yet to turn green. Signposts point the way to villages with half-remembered names: full of ancient churches and half-timbered cottages, oozing olde worlde charm. I’ve driven past before, but until today I’ve never stopped. This afternoon I approach from the south and turn into the new car park at the edge of Bettis Wood, about a quarter of a mile short of the house itself. I am reassured to find that it looks like any other woodland car park. There’s an illustrated noticeboard explaining what sort of things a visitor might hope to encounter – presumably designed by some wildly optimistic council employee, given that it includes deer, foxes and some rare orchids. A separate notice exhorts us to take our litter home, warning of the fine for non-compliance – and yes, there are waymarked trails, colour-coded to make things easier for the littlies. Not a word about murder or the local ghost stories. Both airbrushed out on grounds of poor taste and general unsavouriness, no doubt.
I find it isn’t so bad as I anticipated. I challenge myself to walk as far as a nearby clearing where there are three empty picnic tables. Greatly daring, I sit down at one of them, half expecting something to happen – but of course nothing does.
The woods smell different. Spring dampness with a hint of wild garlic – not the dusty warmth of late summer which we knew; the leaden afternoons which presaged thunder in the evening. The very ground beneath our feet was different – the impatient shuffle of last year’s dried-up leaves, the twigs snapping underfoot, brittle as our nerves in the moments leading up to that never to be forgotten scream. Somewhere behind me a bird flaps away, the sudden sound making me jump and stifle a cry. Time to move on.
Another car pulls into the car park and two women get out. I judge them to be about ten years younger than me, sensibly dressed in jeans and body-warmers, come to walk their dogs. They glance my way, wondering no doubt what this strange woman is doing, sitting all alone at a picnic table in April. I wonder whether they walk in tandem for security. Woods are dangerous places in which to be alone. The dogs tumble out and are allowed to run free, a lead dangling casually from each woman’s hand. They set off along a path which takes them away from the picnic area, their owners following, one of them glancing back at me a couple of times before they go out of sight.
I decide to leave my car where it is and walk up the road to the house. From what I can remember there is nowhere to park, except directly outside the house itself and I don’t want to do that. Once I reach the house I can turn off the road and follow the public footpath, which will bring me back through the woods to the car park. When an inner scream rises at the very thought, I suppress it with the reassurance that I am not fully committed to this plan. I can just as easily retrace my steps down the road if I want to. There will be no loss of face. There is no one to goad me – Go on, Katy – you’re not scared, are you?
The road has grown steeper with the passage of time. There is more traffic, too, and I eat its dust as I walk purposefully up the hill, the surrounding landscape blotted out by high hedgerows. As I ascend the final rise the rooftop comes into sight – just the ridge and chimney pots at first, more of it emerging as I get nearer: then the house itself – closer to the road than I remember – much more visible than when I knew it, now that the overgrown shrubs and rose bushes which screened it from the road have been cut back or cleared away. It’s actually quite hard to believe that it is the same house. The brownish-grey roughcast walls have been rendered gleaming white, while the old-fashioned metal window frames, whose dirty panes we never cleaned, have been replaced by modern double glazing. It is still an ugly house, but at least it’s no longer forlorn and neglected.
There doesn’t appear to be anyone about, so I slow my pace to a dawdle, so as to have a good look. The front garden is full of daffodils and I notice a child’s ball, lying forgotten in some long grass near the front gate. A family home then.
The public footpath still runs along the southeastern edge of the garden, its position indicated by a smart wooden fingerpost. The path looks well trodden but not too muddy. The shrubbery of yore has been replaced by a neat thorn hedge, well established and grown almost to head height. In a year or two this will afford complete privacy, but for the moment I can easily pick out the bedroom window which used to be mine.
The south-eastern side of the house isn’t visible from the road, so this is the first time I’ve looked up at that window in thirty-five years. I am half conscious that I have stopped walking. I stand staring up at the window, as if expecting to see someone there. I remind myself that an unseen occupant of the house may even now be watching me – wondering what I am doing and why I am staring at their house. Maybe they are reaching for the phone – ready to alert the Neighbourhood Watch to the presence of a batty middle-aged woman, lurking on the public footpath with a queer look in her eye.
For all this, I cannot move. They are not real for me, these new occupants. I cannot imagine them. The person I see beyond that window is not a youth of the twenty-first century, equipped with laptop and PlayStation. He is tall and slender, with dark hair falling on to the shoulders of his leather jacket which has creases at the elbows. He moves about the room with confident ease, humming a familiar tune, and when he turns, his face lights up in a smile of recognition, his dark eyes full of mischief and love.
I find that I am crying. Not the delicate romantic crying which makes young men place a protective arm around one’s shoulders. These are large untidy tears, which form undignified drips from my not quite double chin – as embarrassing and inappropriate to my years as dancing on the table, or snogging in public.
Almost without thinking I start to hurry along the path. I can see enough of the house and garden to gather that there is nothing untoward. No one has disturbed the most si
gnificant element in our landscaping. The garden’s secret is safe.
I don’t check my pace until I have got well beyond the point where the garden ends. I am more than halfway across the field and only a matter of yards separates me from the edge of the wood. Now I hesitate. The dog walkers are probably right about safety in numbers. There doesn’t appear to be anyone else about, either to adopt the role of local rapist, or merely to wonder at my abrupt about-face. You’re not scared, are you, Katy?
I try not to stare at the house as I return along the path, lest the occupants really have noticed my interest; but in the end I can’t help myself. I wonder who built it in the first place. It probably dates from the 1920s or ’30s – a big house, intended for someone with enough money to pay for help with cleaning and gardening, and yet so ugly and utilitarian.
I still remember the unspoken disappointment of our first arrival. We travelled by Ford Anglia of course. Simon driving, Danny (navigating after a fashion) and me in the back, surrounded by all the luggage which didn’t fit into the boot. We’d come past all those gorgeous black and white cottages and I had built myself up to expect something equally picturesque, but on a much larger scale. After all, the owner had been described to me as Simon’s rich uncle and Simon’s remit was to assume the role of caretaker–gardener for the summer, which implied grandeur by the bucketload to me.
The reality was a let-down. An angular house in dirty brown pebbledash, whose front door opened on to a dark, fusty interior. Simon’s bachelor uncle had already been away for several weeks and the house had assumed a neglected attitude. Our footsteps echoed on the stone floor of the hall. Dead bluebottles lay on the window sills.
I felt better when we explored the garden, which had a wild beauty in spite of the abundance of weeds. Roses upturned their faces in welcome, clematis trailed artistically from branches and trellis alike, geraniums flopped happily across the path. The lawn was almost knee high.
Simon’s uncle had left him with a plan of work to be accomplished in the garden. He wanted a pool and rock garden built in his absence, and the rest of the garden tidied up and generally maintained. That was the payback for living in his house rent-free for the whole summer. Simon was in charge of the Garden Master Plan and Danny was to help with the labouring. I was along to take care of the cooking and cleaning. Not that I had any great experience in either sphere, but the qualification of being Danny’s girlfriend outweighed any other questions as to my suitability. In truth Simon didn’t know a whole lot about gardening and Danny knew still less – but Simon was his uncle’s nephew, and Danny was Simon’s best friend, and these factors overrode all other considerations.
Now, as I walk alongside the garden again, I find it so neat and manicured as to be all but alien to its former self. As I turn on to the road and head for the car park, I fancy I can hear someone singing – but it’s only the birds, trilling away as they always did. Too easy to imagine things here. Too easy to hear a woman’s cry in the screech of a jackdaw.
I quicken my pace so that by the time I reach the car I’m as breathless as I was going up the hill. The two women are just returning with their dogs. Irrationally frantic lest they wonder what I am still doing here alone, I fumble the operation of opening the car and drop the keys. I grab them up and fling open the door. Suppose they approach, to see if I’m all right. I dive into the driver’s seat and start the engine. Stop – slow down. Just drive slowly and calmly away. Give them a smile. That will allay any suspicions. Suspicions of what, for goodness sake? Anyone can take a walk.
It’s being on my own. People – I need to be with people. I decide to text Hilly and see what she’s doing this evening. Not here. I’ll drive into Kington and get a coffee first. Hilly is the perfect antidote. She understands everything but knows nothing. The ideal friend for me in fact.
When Hilary Bennington and I first struck up a rapport, the college staff were inclined to discourage it. We were subtly propelled into the company of other students, encouraged to mix with girls who had fewer ‘problems’: but ultimately nothing could prevent us being drawn together. You may wonder at the staff’s interest in my personal friendships, which is hardly the norm in an average academic institution – but of course both Hilly and I were watched intensively for any sign that we were cracking up.
This discomfiting level of attention would manifest itself in random, supposedly casual approaches from lecturers – ‘Are you okay, Katy?’ – just like that – stopped in the corridor with the enquiry; not infrequently posed in the Special Voice, the sugary, slightly anxious tone reserved for someone who may not be okay – someone who must be kept an eye on, because they may not be coping. Hilly and I were both in that category – fragile and damaged, girls who had buckled under personal tragedy, then resumed their studies after a year off. This in itself united us. We looked the same as our classmates – but we were different. Hilly had watched her father fall victim to a heart attack, knelt helplessly at his side while they waited for the ambulance – and I too had crumbled in the face of bereavement.
By the time we returned to college the familiar faces from our own year had qualified and moved on. Our new classmates were far too kind. The forced friendliness – half a dozen people making room for you in the coffee lounge, the concerned faces, the careful avoidance of certain topics which invariably led to awkward silences – all of it like the constant application of pressure to a bruise.
Hilly and I shored each other up. We sat up together when sleep wouldn’t come. We never probed, never questioned, never asked if the other was ‘okay’. We were just together and it was enough – a relationship in which each could give and receive what was needful. We saw each other through the final year at college and the probationary year of teaching. We shared a flat for a while – until Hilly got married, in fact. Her husband died three years ago and this has brought us closer together again. We’ve started going on holiday together. Like Marjorie and her friend Pam – except that Marjorie and Pam are both widows – which Hilly and I are not.
In Kington I manage to find a cake shop, where I order tea and a scone – with (what the hell!) jam and cream. I text Hilly and get a message straight back, confirming her availability. Good.
Somehow I feel much better – as if I’ve slammed the door on the untidy muddle of the past. Locked it all away in a dark cupboard to which no one else has a key.
FIVE
Dear Katy,
I am sorry to inconvenience you, but I am afraid I must ask you to come and see me as soon as possible. I am sure neither of us would wish you to leave it too late.
Yours sincerely,
E.J. Ivanisovic
It’s a first-class stamp this time. Same notepaper, same slightly unsteady hand. Tone noticeably different. The first missive was no more than a polite request. This is a command – with a threat thrown in. It is blackmail, pure and simple, this phrase neither of us would wish you to leave it too late.
How long is too late? How fast is as soon as possible? Nor can I put out feelers on the phone, because the damn woman’s deaf, apparently.
I sit staring at the letter. Only one sheet this time. Not wasting words. Logic says she can’t really know anything at all. Then again, when was life ever logical? And there is always Factor X. The one thing you haven’t allowed for, which creeps up from nowhere and catches you unawares. I don’t even bother considering an extension of the Garden Shed Protocol. The letter reads don’t mess with me in every syllable. Loud and clear – Get yourself here, or you are going to regret it. Message received and understood.
Unfortunately ‘here’ is an address in Sedgefield, which happens to be a couple of hundred miles away. When Mr Ivanisovic retired, they moved north to be near her family. That’s where she’s from, Mrs Ivanisovic – not some distant Eastern European shore. She’s a farmer’s daughter from County Durham. It must have been a shock to the system when she became Mrs Ivanisovic. Long before the great Goran made his mark at Wimbledon, she must have
had to spell it out for people a thousand times.
They were an oddly matched couple, the Ivanisovics. She was quiet, reserved, raised no doubt in expectation of marrying into good local stock. Danny’s father was the opposite – dark where she was fair, excitable and slightly exotic – a wild Balkan transplanted into English soil, who arrived here in the thirties on an engineering scholarship, joined forces with us to fight the Germans, found peacetime employment in the Midlands and never went home, having fallen for a Durham lass somewhere along the way. Oddly it was he, not she, whose accent occasionally betrayed their northern connections. Mrs Ivanisovic had perfect BBC diction.
Danny took after his father in looks. He also flirted with his father’s Roman Catholicism, preferring the sensual feast of the Catholic Mass to the earnest Protestant persuasion of his mother – for here too the Ivanisovics stood poles apart: he the bells and smells of Father McMahon’s Roman enclave, she the jam and Jerusalem of the red-brick edifice on the opposite side of the road. Devoted to one another despite their differences, they also doted on their only child. His loss haemorrhaged the happiness from their lives faster than blood from a severed artery.
From a note in one of her Christmas cards I learned that Mr Ivanisovic had died not very long after the move to Sedgefield. I could imagine her, dignified in widowhood, not giving way to a public display of emotion. I am surprised to find that I cannot picture her clearly any more. She was younger than him, I think – possibly by some margin. I was a bit in awe of her, although she was always very nice to me. This second letter seems wrong somehow: out of character. But if anyone was going to remember Trudie and start asking about her, it would be Danny’s mother. She knew Trudie was staying in the house and must have belatedly begun to wonder what had happened to her – which is still a long way from guessing the truth.
