Blackened Cottage

by A. E. Richards

  The carriage slows.

  “Are we here already?” I gasp.

  The Reverend smiles, “You see. We shall have all the time in the world.”

  I am not so sure about that, but my chest relaxes a little as I step down from the carriage and go to help Jojo feed Adam and Eve.

  “Are you certain Gregory will not mind our unexpected visit?” I say, turning from Adam to look up at the Reverend.

  “Not a jot! You shall soon see, dear Lisbeth, Gregory is one of the friendliest souls you could ever meet!” he chuckles, pats Jojo on the shoulder and beckons us to follow him.

  We walk up a short flight of brick steps to a blue front door. I stand back to look at the house. It is the last on the street and slightly larger than its companions. The yellow walls smell of fresh paint as if they were only painted yesterday. The doormat says: WELCOME. Number 68 is announced on the door frame in brass blocks. Nailed to the wall beside the number, is a silver plaque engraved with the words: Dr Gregory Beard, Registered Psychiatrist.

  The Reverend seizes the knocker, knocks twice. We wait. Jojo approaches and stands by my side. He smells of horses and sweat. I wonder if I too carry the same potent scent. I long for a bath and food, but there is no time for such luxuries.

  No-one answers. Reverend Pettigrew knocks again and an elderly lady with wiry white hair and steely eyes jerks the door inward. She looks about as welcoming as a pregnant swan.

  “Yes?” she snaps.

  “Margaret Turner, what a pleasure to see your beautiful face again!” booms the Reverend.

  Margaret’s face immediately dissolves into a delighted smile and her face flushes bright pink, “Reverend Pettigrew! Well I never! Come in, come in!”

  We follow her into a narrow hallway lined with faded tapestries of African wildlife.

  “Foreign culture is a great passion of Gregory’s,” the Reverend says.

  Margaret leads us into a vast living room. I am shocked by the exotic décor of the room. More tapestries of lions, rhinoceroses and flamingos grace the deep orange walls. On the floor lies a circular, multi-coloured rug, woven into complex, beautiful patterns. Strange objects fill the room; a metal topped spear, brightly coloured collections of beads, carved statues of elephants and giraffes. There hovers a strong odour of lemons. I sniff one of the candles on the fireplace, confirming my suspicion that they are the source.

  Margaret looks at me sympathetically, “He is an eccentric man is Gregory, but he is also brilliant.”

  I am speechless. Jojo settles down into a brown leather armchair and smiles at me. He seems very relaxed. The Reverend takes the two-seater and beckons me to join him.

  “I shall fetch you some tea and cake,” chirps Margaret, “Gregory will be finished with his patient shortly.”

  I get up, move to the bay window and carefully pick up a wooden carving of an elephant. It is incredibly lifelike.

  Margaret hurries back in, busily sets about laying up the coffee table with the elements for afternoon tea.

  She stands back, hands on hips, inspects her work, steps forward and nudges a teaspoon a half inch to the left, “Please, dig in.”

  “We shall indeed! Thank you very much Margaret, will you join us?”

  She begins to shake her head but is interrupted by an even louder voice than the Reverend’s, “Matthew! How wonderful – you have come again at last! And dear Jojo! And – who is this fine specimen of the female species?”

  I blush and hide behind my tea cup.

  Gregory Beard is a tall, thick-set gentleman with a looping brown moustache and a jowly face; the sort of man who could never walk into a room unnoticed.

  “This is my lovely friend Lisbeth Cutteridge, and she is in need of your help,” supplies the Reverend.

  “Squidge up then old fellow,” Gregory booms, “of course, anything for a pal. How may I assist you Lisbeth?”

  I quickly swallow a piece of apricot tart. It gets stuck in my throat and I hastily sip tea to release it.

  I am pleased that he is willing to help.

  “I need to find my brother. I believe he is boarding at St Peter’s Boarding School, but none of us have the slightest idea of the school’s location. It is of utmost importance that I get to him as quickly as possible.”

  “Ah, I see,” he says, smoothing his moustache slowly, “well, I have a boy who runs errands for me. The sort who can find out just about anything for the right price, if you know what I mean?”

  He winks and shovels a whole piece of tart into his mouth. Reverend Pettigrew chuckles.

  Hope inflates in my chest.

  Gregory asks Margaret to find the boy as quickly as she can. She hurries out of the room cramming cake down her throat.

  “I have a favour too,” says Reverend Pettigrew.

  “Ask away Matthew, ask away!”

  “Would you be able to try your suggestive technique on Lisbeth? She has lost some of her memory and is desirous, as you would imagine, of getting it back.”

  Gregory does not even hesitate, “Why yes of course! Let us finish our tea and then we shall begin.”

  His eyes search mine. For the first time I sense the serious side in him, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” he says gently, “You see, forgotten memories are often forgotten for a reason.”

  I look down at my hands, realise I am tearing the napkin to shreds, “I am aware of that, but I think I need to remember. If I cannot remember, how will I ever be me again?”

  He smiles, “Good answer.”

  Margaret rushes back into the room. Crumbs are stuck to her white pinafore.

  “Jimmy is gone. He assures me he will be back within the hour with the information you need.”

  “Excellent. Thank you Margaret, you really are a darling. How would I ever get by without you?”

  Margaret blushes scarlet.

  “Finished?” he says standing and extending his hand to me.

  I drain my cup of its dregs and stand, look at the Reverend and Jojo. Their confident smiles urge me on.

  As the Psychiatrist and I leave the room, Margaret begins to chatter and laugh with my friends. I wish I could stay in the living room and join in, but I know I must grit my teeth and do this, if not for myself then for Eddie.

  *

  I follow Gregory up a steep staircase onto the first floor. To the left is a room labelled ‘The Green Room’.

  “Ladies first,” Gregory says, opening the door for me.

  It is obvious why the room is called The Green Room. Every single object in the room, except for the mahogany desk and chair, is a shade of green and each corner of the room is inhabited by a small shrub. The décor lends tranquillity to the space and a subtle scent of pine needles evokes a sense of nature.

  “Please,” he says, indicating the sage-coloured chaise lounge, “make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

  “Shall I sit or lie down?”

  “Lying is preferable. It will help you relax. You can arrange the cushions beneath your head,” he smiles warmly and in one enormous step he is at his desk, where he sits and leans back, hands clasped casually underneath his chin.

  I await instruction. Lying there makes me feel vulnerable and silly, but if the Reverend trusts Gregory, I know I can too.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Comfortable?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good, then we shall begin. Now, the first thing I want you to do is to close your eyes. This may feel a little strange at first, but I promise you I shall not move from this desk, and you shall be left well alone.”

  “Alright,” I say, closing my eyes.

  “Next, I want you to focus on your breathing. The key is to make each in breath and each out breath last for an equal amount of time. Aim for three whole seconds for each breath.”

  In: one…two…three.

  Out: one…two…three.

  For a minute or so, Gregory says nothing. I focus
on my breathing, noticing how my aching body feels better with each breath. My head feels light and dreamy, my eyelids heavy, mind drowsy.

  In: one…two…three.

  Out: one…two…three.

  “Good. Now I am going to deliver a sequence of suggestions to you. All I want you to do is to listen.”

  I am halfway between being asleep and awake. His voice is monotonous, but penetrating, almost as if he is speaking inside my head.

  “You are taking steps to improve your life. You are taking a key and you are unlocking your past. You are searching for what you have lost. You come across an album of photographs. Each photograph shows you something about the time before, the lost time, the time when you were younger. You are starting to remember things. You are starting to remember people and events. You are remembering good times. You are remembering bad times. You are remembering what made you forget. You are remembering…”

  I wake up screaming and sobbing, trembling, drenched in perspiration. Gregory stands above me, face scrunched with concern.

  He kneels down, grasps my hands and helps me sit up.

  “It is over now,” he murmurs, “it is all over.”

  “What happened?”

  “Do you recall anything, anything at all?”

  “No,” I say, “just a terrible sensation. A terrible sensation of helplessness and terror.”

  He sighs, “I fear this technique has done nothing but upset you. I am sorry.”

  I look up into his sad eyes, “Thank you for trying.”

  Disappointment thumps down upon my shoulders but I try to hide it.

  We go downstairs. A scrawny boy is standing in the middle of the living room gobbling a piece of cake almost as big as his head.

  “Any luck?” says Reverend Pettigrew standing up, “good grief Lisbeth, you look ever so worn out.”

  “And I suspect that is a generous way of wording it,” I say.

  Jojo rushes to my side, squeezes my arm gently, guides me to sit down. I hastily wipe the sweat from my face.

  “She shall be okay,” Gregory says, “however, she cannot recall anything. Matthew, may I have a quick word with you in my study?”

  “Yes of course,” says the Reverend.

  They exit the room. The little boy turns his crumb-covered face to mine. He has quick, mischievous eyes, eyes that have witnessed too much too soon. His shirt is stained, trousers ripped around the ankles.

  “You the lady who wants to know where that school is, right?”

  I nod.

  “Well I got yer information for ya right, but it gotta be worth sumfin right, so cough up now or I ain’t tellin ya diddly squat!”

  I glance at Jojo, “What does he mean?”

  Jojo plucks a coin out of his pocket and flicks it in the air. The boy catches and pockets the coin with unbelievable speed.

  Palming a large piece of the tart he snaps, “Near Big Ben, Centre London, right. Good enuff for ya?”

  Before I can answer, the boy leaps over the coffee table and hurtles out of the room.

  CHAPTER 22

  TRUTH

  After two arduous hours of traversing the London streets, Jojo tugs on the reins bringing Adam and Eve to a well-deserved halt.

  Speechless, the Reverend and I stare up at the immense building. Drizzle patters upon our heads casting the structure in a dull gloom, but nothing can dim the school’s magnificence.

  In every way, the building is more like a castle than a school. With sandstone walls and charcoal tiles, five floors as wide as they are tall with hundreds of paired, lance-shaped windows and strong, stark lines, the building is a remarkable blend of Gothic and Romanesque architecture.

  The doorway, a huge pointed arch, is supported by two pillars that soar upwards to form impressive turrets with crenelated walls. As I stare at the building, I imagine knights or crossbowmen poised atop these turrets spying upon us, weapons drawn, hunger for battle simmering in their eyes.

  My heart is racing, palms clammy. This is it. We have made it. I will see Eddie.

  But now, as we three stand upon the threshold, I begin to fear that he will not be in residence at all. Perhaps Jean-Bernard lied to me. Perhaps Father sent him to a different place. Perhaps we have come all this way for nothing.

  Jojo clamps a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I inhale, exhale, attempt to calm down.

  With the Reverend and Jojo at my side, I walk towards the pointed arch.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  We are at the school. Jean-Bernard has just called to say he has seen them! It seems luck is on our side at last. Next time I write, we shall have her.

  C.C

  *

  “I am afraid we have no record of an Edward Cutteridge madam,” drones a bored-looking young man.

  “Are you certain?” I say, “Please, look again. He is here. I know he is. He has to be here.”

  Reverend Pettigrew gently wraps his arm around my shoulders, “He is not here, Lisbeth. You must accept this. I am quite sure that he has not been sent here or anywhere else for that matter.”

  Jerking out from under his arm, I turn, wild-eyed, “What do you mean?”

  The Reverend steps forward, “Gregory told me something. Something that he heard you say when you were in a hypnotic state. Think back. Try to remember.”

  I shake my head, “I tried. My memories are gone.”

  Reverend Pettigrew says nothing. Taking my arm he guides me through the pointed arch towards the carriage.

  Confusion pulls me down. I collapse on a wooden bench, head in my hands. Tears plop onto my knees. The tepid rain falls heavier, mimicking my tears. I look up, blinking away droplets, tasting salt on my tongue, caring not that I shall soon be soaked to the bone. The sky is bruised, swollen like my heart. Thunder rumbles, shaking the ground. Humid air, toxic with sulphur, saturates the land.

  “Come. Come and dry yourself in the carriage. There is nothing for you here,” says the Reverend quietly.

  His voice is but a distant echo. I know he and Jojo watch me, concern creasing their brows, but I care not.

  I look down at the pebbles. Some white as pearls, some soot black. A single droplet of blood splashes onto a white pebble. My brain traces back to my lip and I realise it is stinging from where I have bitten it.

  “Please come,” says the Reverend.

  I shake my head. Lightning cracks the sky, making me jump. Jojo walks forward, gently uncurls my fingers and places a piece of parchment into my hand.

  Confused, I slowly unfold the cream paper. I stare at the portrait and my mouth falls open in horror. It is me. The real me. Like the cogs of a clock brought back to life, my mind whirs, images rotate and I cling onto them, tug them into view. I almost have them…it is like pulling forward the vague idea of a dream, seizing hold, developing it and remembering.

  Suddenly, memories, startlingly vivid memories, surge and overwhelm my mind: roaring flames - a house on fire - my house - watching the flames, knowing they are inside - screaming, rushing forward, held back by him, held back, held back from getting to my babies.

  “BETHAN! EDDIE!” I scream.

  I open my eyes, look around. I am on the floor. Wet through. Shivering. Thunder. Lightning splitting the sky. The storm is upon us.

  At last, I know the truth. I know where Eddie is. Where Bethan is. I know who I am.

  Angry shouts pull my attention towards the carriage. Father and Jean-Bernard are wrestling Jojo and the Reverend.

  “Stop! There is no need to fight!” I shout, but my voice is drowned by rain.

  I step forward and a hot, wet hand stamps down on my lips, snaps my head back.

  “You are coming with me,” a voice growls in my ear.

  No! I recognise this gravelly voice, cabbage stench.

  I scream and lash out, kicking, punching, struggling, thrashing as he lifts me over his shoulder and starts to run, carrying me round the side of the school out of sight. But he is so strong; my thrashing affects nothing.<
br />
  Father - I mean Charles, Jean-Bernard – I need to speak to them! I need to tell them that I know. I need to tell them that I remember the truth.

  Throwing me on the ground beside a horse and carriage, he straddles me, sits on my ribcage, grabs my wrists and hastily wraps a length of rope around them then seizes my ankles and ties them together too. His movements suggest urgency but not panic. I can see him now: the man with grey hair, the man with soulless eyes boring into mine with terrifying delight.

  The rain is too loud, too heavy; I scream but the storm swallows my terror. Mud sloshes around my body and face getting in my eyes, up my nose. I scream again. He grins and plunges his tongue deep into my mouth. He tastes revolting. I whip my head from side to side, but he is too strong.

  Finally, he pulls away, yanks me up and pushes me inside the carriage, slamming the door shut. I fall onto the floor, bash my knees. Swivelling onto my bottom, I lean against the seat and pull my knees up to my chest. Anger and frustration are my friends against black fear; I was so close to resolving everything. So close.

  My only hope is that Jojo, Reverend Pettigrew, Charles and Jean-Bernard realise I am gone before it is too late.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  In the midst of the fighting the black youth, whose name I now know – Jojo – abruptly tore away from me and started running. I jumped to my feet intending to haul him back and saw a man tearing away through the storm with Lisbeth, kicking and screaming, upon his shoulder!

  Calling to Jean-Bernard, I chased after Jojo as he pursued the man, who I quickly recognised as Richard Cordwell, the strange person to whom we gave a lift some time ago, for his masses of grey hair could not conceal his identity for long. Horrified, knowing that this Cordwell character possessed dark intentions towards Lisbeth, I ran as hard as I could, but even Jojo could not reach the carriage before it took off into the night.