The Lost Child

by Ann Troup

  *

  Miriam made her way back to her own cottage, carrying in her arms the linen from Elaine’s bed and trailing the dirty linen of the past in her wake. The girl’s questions had stirred old and painful memories. It had never been Miriam’s fault that lads had preferred her to Esther, and it hadn’t been her fault that she’d failed to grasp the facts of life. Even at the age she was now she had never quite grasped what birds and bees had to with it and why no one had told her at sixteen that babies didn’t come by stork. They came by fear, pain and shame. She didn’t want to dwell on that, there were some rocks that were better never turned, and what crawled beneath that one didn’t bear thinking about.

  The pain of Peter’s rejection had never left her but had become a familiar ache. Sometimes it was almost comforting, an indication that she had once been loved. Esther had said that she did what she did as an act of love, that truth was love. Miriam had never quite believed it. Esther’s idea of love had always been such a strident thing and too black and white for the real world. Miriam had often wondered if Esther’s sensibilities were founded more in jealousy and possession than in love.

  Esther could never have married; she would have seen the expectation of intimacy, the mutual need, as an affront. Even now, trapped in her dysfunctional body, she resented need. Miriam could see it and feel it, coming off her sister in waves of discontent. Esther had always done the right thing, as she saw it, and was bitter that God had seen fit to reward her by incarcerating her in a flesh and bone prison. She had never said that, but it was what Miriam saw every time she looked into Esther’s eyes – fear and resentment.

  When she looked back, Miriam was sure that’s what had made Esther send Peter away, that and an over-entitled sense of morality. Fear that she would have to relinquish control over her sister in favour of a man, and resentment that she would never have a similar choice. Miriam had enduring faith in the premise that the mills of God would grind slow, but they would grind sure. There was no room for bitterness, only duty. Miriam’s duty to care for her sister was a cold dish, served with every bit of sisterly love she could muster. It was Miriam’s pleasure to offer her care, and Esther’s detestation to receive it.

  *

  At six o’clock Elaine heard a noise outside the door, a slight shuffling as if someone was hovering and hesitating. Knowing it couldn’t be Brodie or Miriam – who would both have just knocked and walked in – she waited a moment, reluctant to open the door to someone unknown. When she was certain that no one was lurking, she opened the door and discovered to her revulsion that her stealthy visitor had left a dead rabbit on her doorstep. Had Jean’s ashes not accompanied the corpse she would have felt deeply afraid. An anonymous gift of carrion was hardly likely to be a good thing, but the presence of the urn reassured her that this was Derry’s idea of a favour.

  ‘The gift of death’ she said aloud as she put Jean on a shelf in the porch.

  Using a carrier bag turned inside out as a glove, she bent to retrieve the rabbit. Her lip curled at the feel of its cold flesh through the plastic and with a shudder of revulsion she picked it up. Holding it before her, the bag swinging from the very tips of her fingers, she walked over to Miriam’s cottage and knocked on the kitchen door. Miriam struck her as a woman who would know exactly what to do with the thing.

  *

  Miriam seemed pleased with the donation, even offering to demonstrate how the animal could be skinned and prepared for cooking. An offer which Elaine emphatically declined on the grounds that it would be knowledge that she would never use. She much preferred to receive her meat already butchered into nice, neat anonymous chunks. While Miriam busied herself hanging the rabbit in the shed ready for the next day, Elaine was left alone in the quiet, cluttered kitchen.

  It was a room that told its history in the paraphernalia which it held. Copper jelly moulds adorned the walls and heavy pans hung on butcher’s hooks from a rickety laundry rack suspended from the ceiling by a system of ropes and pulleys.

  Miriam had left her sitting at a scrubbed pine table from which a faint tang of carbolic soap rose to tingle in her nose. It was a smell that conjured images of childhood and Jean’s obsession that cleanliness was next to Godliness; it wasn’t an aroma which brokered happy memories for Elaine. The kitchen formed a tableau that interior designers would have died for and purveyors of retro chic would have drooled over – it was a haven of vintage style that had cost Miriam nothing but a lifetime of utility and frugality. Yet it resonated the warmth of her personality in a way that no designer could replicate and no money could buy. Everything about the room smacked of Miriam’s matronly country charm, with just enough chaos to make it interesting. Elaine tried to picture a black clad, brooding Brodie at the table and had to smile at the incongruity of the image. She was still smiling when Miriam returned.

  ‘Well, that’s that then.’ Miriam said wiping her hands on her ever-present apron. ‘Would you like a cuppa now that you’re here? I’ve just made one.’

  ‘Thanks, that would be lovely. Where’s Brodie? I thought she would have been round this afternoon.’ Elaine watched Miriam wield the enormous brown teapot in one capable hand whilst balancing a delicate silver tea strainer in the other.

  ‘Oh she took herself off a couple of hours ago, said she had something she wanted to look at. As long as she’s out from under my feet and not causing any trouble!’ Miriam said with a laugh. ‘Come on through, you can meet Esther, she likes a bit of company.’

  Elaine followed her through towards the lounge, hovering in the doorway whilst Miriam prepared Esther for company.

  ‘We’ve got a visitor.’ Miriam plumped cushions behind the figure of Esther who Elaine was unable to see, obscured as she was by her sister’s bulk. ‘It’s Elaine. You know, I told you about her, she’s staying in the rental cottage for a couple of weeks.’

  Elaine could hear a guttural, grunting sound emanating from the chair; it felt like her cue to enter. ‘Hello Esther, it’s very nice to meet you at last.’ She said it with a pleasantry that she didn’t quite feel. With all that she had heard about Esther this wasn’t a meeting she’d been relishing. As Miriam moved away she got her first look at the woman in the chair. With a fixed smile she took in the spare, pinched features of the woman whose eyes bore into her with malignant curiosity. Esther’s one good hand clenched briefly then resumed poking and scratching at the arm of her chair as she looked away from her visitor.

  Elaine suppressed a shudder and swallowed down the rising anxiety that was threatening to make her flee from the room. There was a terrifying familiarity about Esther’s demeanour, which was reminiscent of a hundred childish nightmares. The sensation of fear forced her to look away and focus on the rest of the room, as if by doing so she could pretend that the hostile, ravaged presence wasn’t there. Despite her best efforts to make small talk about the lovely painting above the mantel, or the charming Staffordshire dogs that adorned the hearth, she couldn’t escape her reaction to the old woman. The need to get out of the room became more pronounced with every minute.

  Mutual dislike crackled through the air in the room completely escaping Miriam, who chattered on, oblivious to the sidelong glances which Elaine was compelled to give to the crone in the corner just to be sure. Sure of what she didn’t know, perhaps to check that the woman really wasn’t capable of independent movement and could not get out of the chair. The mounting anxiety made her feel like a child full of ridiculous worries about monsters under the bed and bogey men in the wardrobe. She was forced to abandon her tea, lest the cup should rattle in the saucer and betray her nerves. The visceral response bore no relation to reason and Elaine felt hard pressed to make sense of it.

  The ordeal was ended by the arrival of another visitor, to whom Elaine couldn’t have been more grateful as his unexpected visit gave her the perfect excuse to escape. The appearance of the tall, impeccably dressed and handsome man at the cottage door caused both Miriam and Esther to cry out in surprise and deligh
t. From Esther there was a tortured, keening squeal followed by her raddled face breaking out into a rapture of delight and longing. An image that was almost as frightening to Elaine as the tortuous brooding that had gone before.

  From Miriam there was an explosion of pleasure as she cried ‘Alex! Where did you spring from, we weren’t expecting you!’

  Elaine couldn’t help but feel wryly amused by the Austen-esque mood that had taken over the women. She rose to her feet and watched as Miriam fluttered and flustered over the visitor while Esther grimaced and fawned.

  Alex lapped it up like the prodigal son, ‘Just a flying visit I’m afraid, popping in on my way back to London. Thought I’d better call in and see my two favourite ladies.’ He oozed charm as he bent to kiss the now effervescent Esther.

  ‘Where are my manners?’ Miriam gushed with a flap of her apron. ‘Alex, this is Elaine, she’s staying next door for a while. Elaine, I’d like you to meet Alex Gardiner-Hallow.’ Her face beamed with pride as she made the introductions.

  Alex extended his hand while making a long lingering appraisal of Elaine, which made her feel as though he was imagining her naked. ‘Elaine, pleased to make your acquaintance.’ A lascivious smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  Elaine took his hand and received a warm, dry squeezing of her fingers. The gesture was undertaken with the use of both hands. He let his touch linger a fraction too long and she was forced to extract herself.

  ‘You’re the aspiring MP, aren’t you? Are you home for a bit of impromptu campaigning?’ She was fighting the urge to wipe her hand on her jeans, uninvited intimacy had never made her comfortable.

  Alex guffawed, the sound as fake as his snake oil charm. ‘Quite! Though I’m sure I can count on the votes of these two lovely ladies. They brought me up you know, I would be nothing without these two, would I – Esther, Miriam?’ He beamed at the adoring women.

  Miriam blushed and flapped her hand at him, while Esther’s lip trembled with pride. Her prior menace completely replaced by humble, sycophantic devotion.

  For Elaine this was equally creepy. ‘Well, it’s very nice to meet you, but I ought to be going. Thank you for the tea Miriam, tell Brodie I said hello,’ she said, her words barely registering with the giddy Miriam.

  At the door Alex took her hand again, ‘I hope we meet again, Elaine.’ He appraised her once more. There was a shard of menace in the glimmer of his eye, which she took to denote his hard-nosed political acumen. He struck her as a man in no doubt of his own appeal. He was appealing, in a purely physical sense, and represented an almost perfect specimen of manliness. She found him both extremely attractive and quite unnerving. She had never been comfortable around attractive men and always searched for flaws that would match her own. In Alex she could find none.

  Extracting herself, she gave him a tight smile. ‘I’m sure you’ll be far too busy.’ She hastily made her escape, beginning to wish she had just buried that damned rabbit. The whole visit had left her feeling quite unsettled. She was aware of Alex watching her as she made her way down the path. ‘Weird’ she muttered under her breath as she reached the gate. Pausing, she smiled, entertained by the thought of what Brodie would make of the visitor. She doubted that the abrasive girl would have much time for Alex’s charm. Satisfied that he would soon be introduced to the tiny teenaged nemesis, she opened her own door and once inside shut it gratefully on the strange and unpleasant evening.

  The draught from the closing of the door disturbed the plastic that enclosed Jean’s urn. It shifted and shed a little of the fine dust that still clung to its interior. An evening breeze picked up the specks and sent them whirling and reeling across the gardens and in through the open window of Miriam’s cottage. Alex had been laughing but was interrupted by an unanticipated sneeze, caused unbeknownst to him, by his sudden introduction to Jean.

  Chapter Five

  Brodie stood in the entrance to the ruined chapel. It looked baleful and forbidding in the low afternoon sun, which cast creeping shadows within its crumbling walls. Inside it was dank and silent, the smell of sweating, musty stone assaulted her senses and she struggled to see clearly into the gloom. She had brought a torch, which she checked for the second time, making sure that the batteries were functioning. Then she checked her pocket for the spares, her hand closing over them in quiet relief. Steeling herself, she made to venture further but was startled by a voice behind her.

  ‘Hard to believe that this hasn’t been like this for hundreds of years, isn’t it?’

  Reeling round, torch gripped in her hand like a baton she came face to face with a plump, ruddy-faced man dressed in black. Unlike her he was wearing a dog collar. ‘Oh, did I startle you? I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘S’all right’ Brodie relaxed her grip on the torch and wondered what the protocol was for talking to vicars.

  He placed his hands behind his back and looked up, squinting at the remains of the squat tower. ‘Yes, a hundred years ago this was still a functioning church, maintained by the Gardiner-Hallows. Mostly for family use I should imagine. But neglect takes its toll and now we’re left with just this ruin. Did you know that the land was given to the family by William the Conqueror and that they have owned it ever since? The current house doesn’t date back that far, most of it is Georgian, but the chapel has to be hundreds of years old. Fascinating isn’t it?’ he mused.

  Brodie climbed down from the fallen lintel she had been standing on and stood beside him, following his gaze, ‘Why do you think they let it fall down?’

  ‘Oh, lack of interest and lack of money I should think. These places aren’t cheap to look after. I should know, I’ve been fighting the locals for years to raise money for a new roof on the village church,’ he said, laughing. ‘Besides I don’t think the current incumbents are a terribly faithful lot,’ he added with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Anyway, nice to have met you – do be careful if you’re going to explore won’t you?’ he nodded at the torch.

  Brodie watched him wander off, hands still behind his back. Her prior experience of men of the cloth had been the occasional tussle with the hospital chaplain who frequently made it his business to advise her mother of the error of her ways. Shirley had constant battles with God, railing against him for her misfortunes one day and seeking his forgiveness the next. It hadn’t exactly given Brodie an enthusiasm for faith, or those who brokered it. Yet she had felt quite comfortable with this brief meeting, the vicar’s appearance having served to buoy her up for the task ahead. Taking her torch she re-entered the chapel and made her way to what she assumed had once been the front of the church. She was pretty sure it was called the chancel, and the side bits that formed the cross were the transepts. The part where people sat was the nave. Two minutes on Google and she was an expert in ecclesiastical architecture, or enough of one to work out what she was looking for anyway. She had spotted it the day before and had intended to explore it then, if she hadn’t had to deal with Elaine freaking out over a dumb bird.

  Picking her way over the rubble she went back to where she had spied an opening the day before. It was overgrown and half hidden, but it was there nonetheless. A rotting, woodlouse-ridden trapdoor lay over it, slimy with lichen. She managed to find a stick and used it to lever up the cover, revealing in its totality what she had glimpsed through the missing lathes in the door. A staircase of roughhewn stone led down into the darkness of what she was sure had to be a crypt. Switching on the torch she shone it down, leaning back lest a flurry of bats should emerge in a furious glut to tangle her hair and scare her witless. Just to be sure, she banged the stick on the stonework hoping to disturb anything that might be lurking. Years of watching horror films had made her cautious (and people said you didn’t learn anything from TV) and even though she knew it would take little effort to break through the rotten wood of the door, she wedged a stone against the hinge just in case. Ready to face whatever was below, she began to descend, one slippery step at a time – the stick held in one hand, the torc
h in the other.

  At the bottom of the steps she played the beam of her torch across the walls, gratified to find that she was indeed in a small crypt. A room of about twenty feet square with a low vaulted ceiling. She was disappointed to find a distinct lack of sarcophagi, and even more dismayed to find that she was not the first to have discovered the hidden chamber.

  Several beer cans lay around her feet, and someone had spray painted a crude pentagram on the floor. The room had a distinctive smell of stale urine mingled with mould; an acrid combination, which stung her nose and made her want to sneeze. Pulling her T-shirt up to cover the lower part of her face, so that the smell of washing powder would mask the other stench, she explored further, quickly realising that there were bodies in the walls.

  Heart beating with excitement, she moved closer and tried to read the inscriptions. Various dead Gardiner-Hallows had been entombed beneath the chapel, the duration of their often brief lives had been engraved on slabs of marble which were mortared into place.

  ‘Cool,’ she whispered. The sound set off an eerie echo around the room, as if the dead were mimicking her voice. Her fascination with the deceased gentry was brought to an abrupt end when she heard something above.

  Whirling round, torch beam swinging wildly and her heart seeming to leap into her throat, she screamed, just as a torrent of small stones tumbled down the steps. A moment later she got a grip, there was no way she was getting stuck in that place without a fight.

  With arms that shook like branches in a high wind, she took a better grip on the stick and raised the torch to illuminate the steps. ‘Who’s there?’ she yelled, ‘you’d better get back because I’m coming up swinging!’ She thwacked the stick against the stonework for good measure. Mustering up her battle cry she flung herself at the steps, howling and yelling like a thing demented. Taking them two at a time, she leaped out at the top like a demonic jack-in-the-box, whirling the stick above her head in a dervish-like frenzy. It met nothing, and her arm sagged as the movement ebbed away along with her adrenaline.