“Where are we?”
“Little Mersham. And just in time for luncheon. Mrs Sprig and her daughters always lay out a sumptuous meal for us.”
“Reverend, may I ask you something before we go?”
“Of course. You may ask me anything.”
I hesitate, unsure how to phrase my question. “I have never heard Jojo speak. I am curious. Has he always been mute?”
His smile pinches, “Yes. Something quite terrible happened to him as a baby. When I found him on that fortuitous night, there was a substantial quantity of blood covering his face and chest and he was in a great deal of pain. I took him straight to my doctor and we discovered that Jojo's tongue was missing. It had been cut out. Doctor Parsons said it was a wonder that Jojo did not die from shock. It is a miracle he survived.”
“How dreadful. Poor, poor Jojo.”
“Yes, and no. Jojo has found other ways to express himself, one of which is through his drawings. Have you seen one yet?”
I nod, “He has a remarkable gift.”
The Reverend beams, “He does, does he not?”
“I saw his drawing of you and I could not believe my eyes; it was so good.”
“Jojo is shy about his talent. Indeed, it surprises me that he has shared his work with you. He does not trust people easily. He must truly feel comfortable around you, and why should he not? You are a very special person.”
I look away, struggling to control my emotions.
“You are too generous,” I murmur, “I am not a good person. If I were good, Father would not spurn me so.”
He reaches out and clasps my hand, “Do you sincerely believe that this is why your Father behaves in this way? Could there be no other reason? A reason that is not of your own doing?”
I look down at the brown lace up boots that Mary gave me. I contemplate Reverend Pettigrew's questions. Could Father's distance be caused by something else? Something that I have not yet considered? I think back, back to before we moved to Blackened Cottage. What was our relationship like before? But my mind is like a black tunnel full of doors that are locked, doors that I cannot enter. I cannot even picture our old house.
“I cannot recall anything prior to the last few months. When I try to remember nothing comes. Nothing but blackness. I keep having fleeting visions. Moments when I think I am experiencing a memory, but things do not quite make sense.”
The Reverend's eyes narrow, “Really? Well, there is little wonder that you are never at ease. Memory loss? How peculiar. Do you know what causes one to lose one's memory Lisbeth?”
“I must confess I have given it very little thought. Perhaps a serious bang to the head? An accident of some kind which nudges the brain in one direction?”
He nods, “Yes. That is one cause I believe. Another of which I have heard is memory loss caused by a terrible incident. Something that the mind simply cannot cope with.”
“But I am fine. My body is fine.” I do not mention the pain in my throat nor the pounding headache that I am presently suffering.
“Your body may be fine, but your mind is not. Vital elements are missing. Memories give us stability, an idea of our identity, they make us who we are. Without them, we our mere shadows.”
“But what can I do? Is there anything I can do to regain these memories? And indeed, should I be keen to regain them in the first place? Perhaps they are too awful. Perhaps it is better if they are left well alone. What if I was to dredge them up, and then things took a turn for the worse?”
Reverend Pettigrew pinches the skin between his eyes, “This is certainly a predicament and I am no expert to advise you. But I have an idea. There is a man, a very great friend of mine who lives in London. His name is Gregory Beard and he is a Psychiatrist. Recently, Gregory has been delving into the art of hypnotherapy, the art of putting the mind into a relaxed state so that the subconscious may be accessed. It may be worth a try. Oh, do not look so worried! I shall not insist upon a decision from you now. I only ask that you take some time to meditate upon the idea.”
I nod, my mind awash with uncertainty. Confronting the truth - that my mind is damaged - paints an acerbic taste on my tongue.
I wrap the shawl around myself. I feel ill, but do not say anything.
The good Reverend helps me down from the carriage, smiles reassuringly, “Give yourself time. All will unravel in the end.”
Jojo jumps down from his seat and smiles at me. I want to tell him I am sorry about what happened to him, but cannot find the right words. Jojo places an apple in my hand and beckons me over to Adam and Eve. He feeds an apple to Eve and gestures for me to do the same to Adam. He demonstrates how to hold the apple; keeping his palm flat with the apple sat upon it.
I am nervous at first. Adam gobbles the apple immediately and Jojo hands me a carrot. This time, feeling braver, I pat the side of Adam's enormous, long face. I realise I am smiling. Something about feeding the graceful creature feels familiar. I cling to the feeling, claw at memories that will not come.
The pain in my throat is growing worse and swallowing is difficult. My head feels like a brick and my neck aches terribly. I hope I am not falling ill. That is the last thing I need.
I attempt to recall the last time I was struck with sickness and cannot recall that either. My mind is a black well sucked dry.
Feeling frustrated and exhausted, I walk with the Reverend and Jojo towards Mrs Sprig's cottage.
*
“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been two days since my last confession.
I have committed the sin of theft. The two men with whom I travelled abandoned me at Lower Bridgeton and so, with no means by which to pursue her, I stole a horse and carriage. I also stole food and blankets.
I have followed Cutteridge and the French man to this village and have thus been able to discover her next destination. Unfortunately, I had to commit the sin of violence upon an elderly lady named Mary Hopkins in order to obtain this information. It was a necessary evil; necessary because I cannot seem to stop myself from pursuing my own interests rather than the interests of Christ. The old woman shall live, I think.
I shall leave Old Firsden shortly in the hope of apprehending Lisbeth at the next village.
Alas, I know I do wrong but something inside me compels me to go to her. She and I must be together. Forever. There really can be no other way.
I am sorry for this and all the sins of my past life, especially for all of my sins against decency.”
*
Dear Diary,
We will have her soon. Very soon indeed.
Our journey to Little Mersham has begun. Jean-Bernard says we are making excellent progress.
The sun is out and my hope is rising. Soon this ridiculous chase will be over. She will be on her way to Hertfordshire with Jean-Bernard and I shall be back at the cottage, alone yet free of the constant reminder of my inability to make her happy.
Of course, I shall not be happy when I return. I will never be happy again, but at least she will stand a chance. A chance to rediscover herself, and maybe even a chance at happiness. She thinks me cruel, but I do this for her own good. Perhaps, one day far in the future, she will realise this. If that day ever comes (and I still live), perhaps there is a chance that we could once again be reunited.
I have not spoken of this hope to Jean-Bernard. I fear he may be angry with me for such an idea. As far as I am aware, he wishes to keep her with him forever more. He believes she will require constant attention for the rest of her days if she is to regain any semblance of her former self. And such is this favour that he performs for me, that I dare not question his beliefs. But there is nothing to prevent me from clinging to this one tiny hope.
I doubt my positive mind-set shall last for long. Indeed, if we do not find her tomorrow in Little Mersham, I know that my next entry shall read very differently.
For now, at least, I leave in lighter spirits.
Charles
CHAPTER 18
DISEASED
Mrs Sprig, a petite, mouse-like lady, prepares sandwiches in the kitchen whilst her high-spirited daughters, Grace and Joy, entertain us in the front room with chatter about Little Mersham and its residents.
I try to listen as Grace describes the drama of Mr Hogg’s escapee piglets, but something is happening to me. Something strange. Something alarming.
“I, I must get some fresh air,” I stammer.
No-one seems to hear me. I stand up, look down. My hands are moist, shaking.
The front room is a small, plain affair. I reach the front door in four wobbly steps, stumble outside, suck at the crisp air.
Adam and Eve are with the carriage which is secured to the gate in front of the white church. An old lady walks by nattering to herself. A boy and girl race past squabbling and prodding one another. In the yard next door, a goat munches dirt. Each home in Little Mersham is a little white cottage just like Mrs Sprig's. It all seems so normal, so right, so calm.
Finding it difficult to hold myself up, I slump down onto the damp front lawn. Water soaks through my skirts. Wets my skin. But I care not. The pounding in my head is intensifying with every breath. It is as though a hammer strikes my forehead in a steady, relentless rhythm, directed by the Reaper's merciless hand. My head burns. It is the sun; a ball of fire, burning, burning, burning, humming with inexorable heat. My throat feels thick and torn; as if someone has shoved a branch of thorns inside, scrubbed it around and left it there to rot.
I turn, try to watch the goat, think about its movements, but tears of pain mist my vision. An invisible foe is attacking my body from the inside out and this time I am utterly powerless. Fleeing is not an option. No-one can flee from disease.
My gorge rises, chest tightens; I cannot afford to be ill. Not now, not when so much is at stake. Not now, when Father and Jean-Bernard pursue me. Not now, when Eddie needs me. I try to picture my brother, but his face will not come. How long is it since I last laid eyes on him? I try for Bethan. Again, there is no image, nothing. My mind is playing dumb. The sensation of Villette's dandelion fur is all I can muster. Even Mama's face is a mystery.
My chin drops. I attempt to raise my head, cannot, fight to keep my eyes open, but even that is an effort. Shadows close in upon my line of sight like black curtains around two coffins. I try to stand, but my legs are as heavy as boulders. My body is a limp, lifeless rag doll with nothing to revive it.
Someone appears. Someone with black skin, dark eyes: Jojo.
Gentle hands scoop under my back and knees, lift me into the air. Fingers dig into my sensitive skin like knives into butter. I wince, moan. Tears slip down my cheeks. Even my tears are hot. Why is this happening now?
I try to say thank you, but nothing will come. My tongue will not move at my command. I cannot swallow. I cannot speak. I cannot move. I cannot think. I can scarcely draw breath.
All I want to do is to lie down in a bed.
All I want is to lie down.
All I want is to sleep.
All I want...
*
A soft, motherly voice says, “Lisbeth dear, you are too ill to travel. I have sent Grace and Joy to fetch the nearest doctor. If all goes well, he should arrive by nightfall.”
I look up into Mrs Sprig's tiny face. Her eyes are hazel flecked with black. Her nose is small and pointed, her face narrow. Concern furrows her brow. She mops my brow with a cold, damp cloth and helps me sip water from a white tea cup.
Swallowing one sip requires an immense effort. Pain sears my throat. I try to sit up, but there is no strength in my body.
“Where am I? Where is Reverend Pettigrew? Where is Father?” I croak.
The act of speaking fires up such intense pain that my body begins to tremble.
“There there, dear,” Mrs Sprig pats my face with the cloth, “the good Reverend will be back shortly. In the meantime, you must not worry. You must rest. Content yourself in the knowledge that the doctor will be here shortly.”
“But...Father!” I say, but she is already scurrying away.
The notion of lying here doing nothing while Father and Jean-Bernard are out there is too much to bear.
I attempt to drag myself into a sitting position, using my hands to push me up. Inch by inch I manage to edge upwards until I am slouching against the wall. The action leaves me breathless. My head throbs, my body aches. I wait, gathering strength.
The room is dark, lit only by two church candles in silver holders that stand on the two bedside tables. Opposite, the navy curtains are drawn, concealing the outside world. A sour, sweaty odour permeates the small room. It probably comes from me.
A big-bodied spider the size of my palm crawls across the beige carpet towards the foot of the bed. It pauses as if contemplating where to go next, then darts up the wall, up to the corner of the ceiling to its web. I envy the ease with which it moves. It is strange to think that this little creature possesses more life than me.
Trembling, I force my legs to swing over the edge of the bed. The blanket falls onto the floor. Using my hands, I push myself onto my feet and fall against the bedside table, accidentally knocking the candle onto the carpet. The flame lands on the blanket near my feet and catches fire.
Immediately I grab the white tea cup and tip its contents onto the blanket but it is not enough. Already, part of the carpet is alight with flickering yellow flames. There is not a moment to spare.
Falling onto my hands and knees, I crawl towards the closed bedroom door. Glancing back, I see the flames clamouring to get up the wooden feet of the bed. Acrid smoke invades the room; the stench of burnt wool hits my nose, my tongue, my eyes; the crackling laughter of fire burns my eardrums. The heat is growing too much. The door seems so far away, and it is closed.
There is no time to think. If I want to live I need to get out of this room, but my muscles are rendered lazy by disease and the smoke is unravelling at a startling pace. I am beginning to suffocate.
Lying close to the ground, I claw forward, bit by bit. The windows shatter, spraying lethal shards of glistening glass onto my arms and legs. Flames lick lustfully at the sudden increase in oxygen.
My feet are burning; the flames have not yet reached them, but their power is vast, their speed incredible.
I reach the door, haul myself up onto my knees, grab the door knob, turn it, push it, pull. Finally it swings inward, but I need to back up in order to slither between the door and the door frame. I glance round: the room is lost to the flames, and they are racing towards my feet. I cough up black slime. Sweat coats my skin. My limbs throb and rage against the demands being asked of them. My mind wants one thing and my body wants another. Thankfully, my mind is prevailing – for now.
Somehow, I drag my body through the doorway, turn, kick it closed. Digging my nails into the carpet, I pull myself across the landing. Turning, I see that the bedroom door is already on fire. Smoke also pursues me; it is as relentless as its master and just as dangerous. It is the Reaper's finest poison.
I reach the top of the stairs, peer down. Hear voices; angry, frightened screams. See Jojo pounding up the stairs towards me. Feel the terrible heat ravishing my flesh. Feel once more Jojo's strong arms scoop me up as if I were a small child.
Wrapping my arms about his hot neck, I cling to him as the flames chase after us down the stairs. My head lolls like a baby's. I am instantly reminded of Eddie when he was just born. A stabbing pain erupts in my heart.
Jojo kicks open the front door and sprints out into the fresh air. Night has come. The air is a wonderfully cold balm calming my pulsating nerves.
Jojo does not stop running. He weaves between the stunned bodies of horrified neighbours and sprints towards the church.
Once inside, he carries me up the aisle, turns right and enters the prayer room. He lies me down gently upon a stone bench and strokes my cheek. Then he leaves.
A moment later, Reverend Pettigrew and Mrs Sprig rush into the room.
I am shivering; one moment hot, the next cold. They wh
isper something, then Mrs Sprig hurries out of the room. The good Reverend perches on the bench and moves hair out of my eyes. Voices urge me to close my eyes, to go to sleep, but I cling to consciousness, aware that Father and Jean-Bernard are after me, aware that I am a sitting target.
*
I wake to discover that I am lying in a soft bed in a large, grand bedroom, and that the doctor, a stout man who has no time for this sort of inconvenience, has arrived.
“Well, let me see her then,” he snaps.
Pushing spectacles up his bulbous nose, he grunts, “Ah, I see. Rather a state is she not?”
Reverend Pettigrew stands beside him, arms folded, foot tapping. Jojo stands behind the doctor, frowning heavily.
“Open your mouth,” he barks.
I obey, wincing as I do so.
Roughly, he prods a wooden spatula onto the back of my tongue, causing me to gag.
“Please, doctor, be careful. She is in a terrible amount of pain,” says Reverend Pettigrew. His voice stills booms, but it is raw.
“I can see that Reverend,” the doctor retorts sourly.
The good Reverend looks at me as if to say sorry. I try to smile, but it will not come.
The doctor clamps a rough hand down over my forehead, “Just as I thought. Difficulty breathing, chills, fever, a grey, fibre-like covering of the throat: Diphtheria. Fatal in most cases. Make sure she gets a plentiful amount of rest and drinks as much water as possible. Keep her cool. She is not too old so she may stand a chance. Only time will tell.”
He leaves without another word. Reverend Pettigrew hurries after him. Mrs Sprig dashes to my side, gently presses a cold towel to my forehead.
“You poor dear,” she murmurs.
Jojo, looking furious, marches out of the room.
Diphtheria.
Fatal.
The words reverberate in my mind, green and menacing, until they finally lose their meaning and become nothing more than strange, empty sounds.
Blackened Cottage Page 13
