Seeker, The

by Brindle, J. T.

  As it was almost time for lunch, he continued to reel the line in. When he stooped to take up the broken line, he felt as though someone was watching. He looked up, his eyes roving both banks. There was nothing there. No one. ‘You’d better watch it, Dave old son,’ he chuckled, ‘or they’ll be taking you off to the funny farm.’

  Ten minutes later he had packed away his gear. With still some fifteen minutes before Libby came to collect him for lunch, he sat on the wicker basket, his dreamy gaze drawn to the water. Mesmerised by the gentle rippling tide made by a lone mallard which paddled by, he felt immensely content. His eyes followed the mallard’s trail past him, then on to the reeds before it made a gentle swinging turn towards the opposite bank. As it went on its way, its small beady eyes kept vigil on him, wary of his every move, for the man was a stranger here, and strangers meant danger.

  ‘I don’t mean you any harm,’ he murmured, instinctively smiling. ‘Though I mean to do you out of a fish dinner if I have my way.’ The mallard’s eyes glittered in the watery sunshine. It was incredibly beautiful; long proud head, its body sleek with iridescent colours. But it was the eyes that held Dave’s attention; bright and shiny, like two new buttons, they continued to stare at him, seeming to suck him in, draining him of the will to move his gaze away.

  Suddenly he felt an impulse to look up at the opposite bank. And there she was! Curled up on the far bank, she smiled at him, holding his gaze. Like the bird, she was amazingly beautiful, sylph-like, her long hair dripping as though she had been in the water, and in her eyes a dark, pained expression.

  For one inexplicable moment he felt he could reach out and touch her. But she stayed only for a moment and in that moment the breeze carried her voice to him: ‘Help me,’ the words floated towards him. ‘The lane. The old man. The truth is there.’

  The light shifted, causing him to blink. When he could see again, she was gone and he was alone in that desolate place. And the silence was awesome.

  With his mind drifting and his eyes straining to seek her out, he didn’t hear the footsteps. When she called out, his heart lurched. ‘Daddy!’ The silence was broken. All was as before.

  ‘God Almighty!’ White and shocked, he clutched at his throat, the image of the woman burning in his brain.

  Daisy swung herself into his arms. In the distance he could see Libby and his son making their way over. Quickly, he composed himself. ‘Did you see her, Daisy?’ He needed to believe it was not a figment of his imagination. Sitting her beside him on the basket, he put his arm round her shoulders, drawing her gaze to the far side of the river. ‘Just now, the young woman.’ He pointed to the spot where she had been. ‘Did you see her?’ There was panic in his voice.

  Daisy looked across the river, then at her father, a frown creasing her forehead. Slowly shaking her head, she answered, ‘No, Daddy. I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘A woman,’ he insisted. ‘Older than you, younger than Mummy, with long dark hair and…’ he hesitated. What was happening to him? ‘She had the most beautiful, dark eyes,’ he finished lamely. Into his mind came the other young woman, Cliona Martin. Was it her?

  Daisy knew, and her eyes lit up. ‘You mean the lady in the painting,’ she cried. ‘Was she here? Oh, Daddy, was she really here?’

  For a while he couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t even move his mouth to talk. He was so shocked he just froze.

  ‘Daisy?’ Gently turning her round to face him, he asked softly, ‘That night, when we were in the car and you said you were talking to the woman in the painting, did you mean the one you had drawn or was she really there, in the car with us?’ He felt as if he was crazy. What was he doing? What was he thinking of, for Christ’s sake!

  Astonished that he should think anything else, Daisy answered indignantly, ‘Oh, Daddy, I already told you. She was sitting next to me.’

  His mind was spinning. Dropping his head to his hands, he mumbled, ‘She was really there?’ But how could that be? Suddenly he grabbed Daisy by the shoulders. ‘I want you to be sure about this, Daisy,’ he begged. ‘The lady I just described to you, did she really get into our car and sit beside you?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’ Daisy sighed. ‘She’s very pretty.’

  ‘When did she get into the car? How could she do that, without me knowing?’

  ‘You stopped at the junction and had to wait for that slow car to go by. She opened the door and got in. She said she wouldn’t do me any harm.’ Impatient now, Daisy said, ‘I told you, Daddy. You knew she was there.’

  He glanced up. Libby was only a few feet away. ‘Daisy, I want you to keep this a secret between the two of us. Will you do that?’ He loathed putting such a burden on her but he was out of his depth. He needed time to think, to decide what to do.

  It didn’t seem to bother Daisy as much as it bothered him, but then children were so deep, so much more knowledgeable about these things. ‘All right.’ She ran off to meet her mother and seemed to forget all about it.

  As they walked to the car, he looked back to the river bank. She wasn’t there. But she had been there, he was certain of it.

  The Bull Inn was very old, with low ceilings held up by gnarled oak beams, and dressed with brass artefacts which hung like souvenirs of old. Lunch was delicious: baked chicken and fat, crispy French fries, with apple pie and custard for dessert. Afterwards the children had strawberry milkshakes, while Libby and Dave settled for a pot of herb tea, served in front of a huge inglenook fireplace where a cheery wood fire burned in the hearth.

  ‘We’ll have to do this more often.’ Libby had really enjoyed herself, wandering in and out of the shops. Jamie had got his trainers and Daisy a new dress. As for herself, she had indulged in a pair of black, wedge-heeled shoes and a darling cream jacket which would pair with her black trousers and at least half a dozen of her skirts.

  Out of the corner of her eye she looked at Dave. She was concerned, as she had been all through lunch. He was too quiet, too thoughtful, and every now and then he would go into himself, seeming miles away. ‘Why don’t you want to go fishing this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘I thought you planned to make a day of it?’

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No reason.’ Every reason, he thought, only he couldn’t tell.

  ‘You don’t feel ill, do you?’

  He knew she was concerned. The trouble was, Libby knew him too well. In spite of his trying to behave as though nothing had happened, she had seen how on edge he was. ‘I’m perfectly all right,’ he answered with an easy smile. ‘But I didn’t get a bite all morning, and from what you tell me, you’ve finished shopping. So we might as well take a leisurely drive home.’

  Daisy saved the situation with her excited cry of, ‘Can we go back through the park?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Dave was glad of the opportunity to change the subject. ‘As long as that’s OK with Mummy.’ He looked at Libby.

  She nodded. ‘We haven’t gone that way in a long while. And it’s such a lovely drive.’

  A short time later, they all made their way back to the car.

  During the journey home, the children chattered about their day, and Jamie unsuccessfully tried to put on his trainers, getting irate when he didn’t have the room to do it properly. Daisy tried to help and they ended up arguing, until Libby told him to take off the trainers and put his shoes back on. After that, peace reigned again.

  Libby and Dave chatted about this and that, and he tried hard not to think about what he had seen and what Daisy had told him. He found it difficult to believe that he was actually being visited by a ghost. But if she really was a ghost, what was her purpose here? Who was she? And why had she chosen him?

  Mentally he shook himself. There were no such things as ghosts. There was this world and the next; life and death, with nothing between. He was a simple man. He believed what he could see, and he had seen a young woman, beautiful yes, and somehow different from every other woman he had ever encountered, but a ghost? No.

  ‘Look, Dav
e.’ Libby pointed at a notice at the edge of the park. ‘Nineteen deer were killed along this road last year. Drive carefully, sweetheart. They’re all around us.’

  For a moment he took his eyes off the road and looked at the meadows beyond where a herd of deer stood grazing.

  ‘Aren’t they wonderful?’ Libby was like a child.

  Daisy screeched, ‘Look there! Look at its horns.’ The stag was magnificent, with large black eyes and tall twisting horns.

  Jamie took fright. ‘Hurry up, Daddy, in case he charges.’

  Daisy laughed at him, and he started to cry. Like a mother hen, she cuddled him until he dried his eyes. Dave put his foot down. He wanted to get home. He needed some time to himself.

  He thought about Cliona Martin. He didn’t understand. At first he’d imagined that she and the woman in the lane had been one and the same, but how could that be? Especially after what had happened today. Twice he had seen the young woman, and each time she seemed to have vanished into thin air. If she really was a ghost, Cliona Martin couldn’t possibly be the same woman. She was flesh and blood. He had felt the touch of her hand. For God’s sake, she’d even kissed him. Involuntarily he felt his face where her lips had touched him.

  Libby’s voice broke his train of thought. ‘Dave?’

  ‘Hmm?’ He daren’t glance at her in case she saw the truth in his eyes. ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’

  ‘Nothing. You’re just so quiet. I wondered if something was troubling you. Work maybe.’

  ‘Nothing’s troubling me,’ he lied.

  ‘Are you sure? You know what they say, a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’

  Reaching out, he squeezed her hand. ‘I have a bit of a headache,’ he said truthfully. ‘Apart from that, the only thing on my mind is whether I’ve made the right decision over Mandy’s replacement. After all, we don’t know all that much about her.’

  ‘I thought you said Mandy had put her through the test and gave her the thumbs up?’

  ‘Well yes, she did.’

  ‘Mandy is a good judge of character, isn’t she? Besides, you said yourself that this new woman seems right for the job, and after all, it is only temporary.’

  ‘You’re right, and Cliona Martin was by far and away the best candidate.’

  Daisy leaned forward. ‘Cliona? That’s Miss Ledell’s name,’ she squealed. ‘The woman in the painting told me.’

  Dave felt the colour drain from his face.

  ‘Honestly, Daisy,’ Libby laughed, ‘you talk about the woman in the painting as though she was real. She’s only a drawing on a piece of paper.’ She rolled her eyes at Dave. ‘Kids!’ she exclaimed, and it was just as well she couldn’t see his face in the growing darkness.

  In his mind, Dave tried to sort out the jigsaw. Each time he’d seen the young woman, she had pleaded with him. In the rain that night, she had pleaded with her eyes; in bed this morning, she had spoken to him, her voice reaching him as though in a dream. ‘Help me,’ she whispered. ‘Please help me.’ And on the river he had heard the same voice, desperate, immeasurably sad. ‘The lane. The old man. The truth is there.’ And again she had asked for his help. What did it all mean? Was ‘the old man’ the same bedridden old man in the house where Daisy had followed the kitten?

  Daisy was involved. She had seen things too. She knew. If he was going mad, then so was Daisy.

  As he turned into the driveway of the house, Dave was sure of only one thing. He had two choices. Either he had to put the whole thing right out of his mind and pretend it had never happened. Or he must try, by some means, to get to the bottom of it and root it out of his life once and for all.

  He thought of Daisy, and his own sanity, and he realised there was no choice at all.

  Eileen had nursed the old man for so long now, she had come to love him like her own father. ‘He’s sleeping, now,’ she told Ida. ‘Come downstairs with me. I’ll make us a sandwich.’

  Curled in the chair, her bony legs tucked under her and her eyes stricken with tiredness, Ida shook her head. ‘You go down,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll stay here with him.’

  She dared not leave him. All night she’d sat here, forcing herself to stay awake so she could keep a wary eye open. Things were beginning to happen, she knew. She could feel it in her bones. All her well-laid plans were not turning out as she had expected. There was danger all around. She must keep watch or he would win, and that must not be allowed to happen.

  She looked up at Eileen, and as always was struck by the woman’s prettiness. Whatever time of day, and even when she was called out during the night to tend the old man, Eileen was always bright and fresh, with a smile and a word to lift your heart. ‘You’re a good friend,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘You’d probably starve.’

  ‘You go on down. I’ll be all right.’ Eileen’s gaze met hers and there was such kindness in her face that Ida felt close to tears.

  Moving forward, Eileen laid a friendly hand on her shoulders. ‘Oh, Ida. You really shouldn’t punish yourself like this. He’s sleeping peacefully now. Come downstairs with me.’

  Ida shook her head.

  ‘Please, Ida. It’s not good for you to stay in this room all the time.’ She was concerned for Ida’s health; she had noticed these past few days how frail and preoccupied the older woman had been. ‘We’ll have something to eat, then if you like I’ll stay with him while you go to your own room and have a lie-down.’

  Ida hesitated.

  ‘Come on. He’ll be fine, I promise.’

  Ida stared at the old man, at his worn face and the gnarled hands lying over the bedclothes, and for a moment she wanted to hold him, to tell him how utterly lonely and unloved she felt. She wanted to explain again why she must go on hating, and how the hating was draining her, killing her. When he was awake, she would let him know how he had only himself to blame.

  Suddenly she was crying, long, shivering sobs racking her weary body. ‘Oh, Eileen!’ she said brokenly. ‘I can’t let him die.’

  Mistaking revenge for love, Eileen embraced her, like a mother might embrace a child. ‘Ssh now,’ she murmured, raising her gently from the chair. ‘You’re tired, that’s all, and look, Tony is asleep. He wouldn’t want you to spend your days watching him like this. You’ll make yourself ill.’ Tenderly, she propelled Ida across the room.

  ‘You will stay with him, won’t you?’ Ida asked nervously. ‘You’ll let me know if anything happens, if anyone tries to disturb him.’ Her eyes swerved to the window. ‘No one must be allowed in. You do understand?’

  Eileen promised she would come straight back up after they’d eaten. ‘I’ll stay with him until you wake.’

  Ida seemed content. For a time.

  Downstairs, Eileen sat Ida at the table while she busied herself preparing a plate of cheese and pickle sandwiches, and a pot of tea. ‘Here. This will make you feel better.’ Sitting opposite the older woman, she laid out two plates, poured out two mugs of tea and put one before Ida. ‘Drink it while it’s hot,’ she urged. ‘And eat the sandwiches. I want to see you polish off at least two.’ She chose a firm, crusty one, with pickle oozing from the side, and laid it on her plate. ‘Ida?’

  Ida looked up.

  ‘I want you to eat.’

  ‘The voice of authority, eh?’

  ‘Don’t forget I was trained to be tough when the occasion demands.’

  Bending forward, her shoulders hunched, Ida laughed. ‘You couldn’t be tough if you tried.’

  Smiling, Eileen shook her head. ‘You may think I’m an old softie, but for your sake I mean to be firm, and if you can’t think about yourself, then think about me.’

  Serious now, Ida sat back in her chair. ‘What do you mean?’

  Taking a bite of her sandwich, Eileen chewed and quickly swallowed. ‘I mean, if you make yourself ill, I’ll have two to nurse, won’t I?’ She really was worried. The way Ida punished herself, it was beginning to tell. The poor th
ing was near to breaking point, anyone could see that.

  There was a quiet, tense moment, before Ida took a sandwich and began nibbling it. She didn’t speak. Instead she kept glancing at the door, her eyes large and deep, staring but not really seeing. Like the eyes of a mad woman.

  For twenty minutes Eileen kept her there, gently coaxing her to eat and drink. Afterwards she returned to the old man’s room with her. ‘See,’ she pointed to the bed, ‘he’s still fast asleep.’

  Ida nodded, a nervous smile playing round the corners of her mouth. ‘No one’s been in here, have they?’

  Humouring her, Eileen answered patiently, ‘You know they haven’t. We were right downstairs. We would have heard.’ Brushing back a lock of hair from Ida’s face, she said firmly, ‘Now you go and get some sleep.’

  Feeling refreshed after the food and knowing that she must sleep in order to fuel the crucial barrier of hatred that kept him under her control, Ida reluctantly agreed, saying, ‘I can sleep in the chair beside him.’ She moved forward.

  Restraining her with a gentle touch on the arm, Eileen was adamant. ‘No. You can’t sleep doubled up in a chair, Ida. Go to bed. I’ll stay here.’

  Ida smiled. ‘You’re a bully.’

  ‘And you’re the most stubborn woman I’ve ever come across.’ She was relieved that Ida seemed in brighter mood. The refreshment had done her good, but she still needed to sleep. ‘If you like, I’ll wake you in an hour.’

  ‘And you won’t leave him? Not even for a minute?’

  ‘No, I won’t leave him.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  When Ida had departed, Eileen dug deep in her shopping bag and took out a tattered old book entitled Goings On At Pimple Pond. It was a hilarious reflection of life in a village community and, hoping to have a good hour’s reading before being disturbed, she carried it to the bed.

  After checking that the old man was still sleeping, she sat down in the chair and opened the book. After a few minutes she looked up. The old man was still sleeping. For some reason, she felt restless. ‘I can’t settle,’ she sighed. ‘I just want to get home, have a bath, and put my feet up.’