Whispers Through the Pines

by Lynne Wilding

‘Please, just give him another chance, for both your sakes.’

  Jessica sighed loudly on purpose. ‘Look, will you go? I don’t want to slam the door in your face, but you leave me no choice.’

  Sue stepped back a pace, surprised by Jessica’s coldness. If she gauged her tone correctly, this woman wasn’t wringing her hands together over her husband’s indiscretion, and she hadn’t become an emotional wreck because of it. Oh, no! Jessica Pearce was, in her opinion, exhibiting a clear indication that she didn’t particularly care whether her husband strayed, or whether he bothered to come home at night. Interesting. Very!

  Her heart leapt with happiness. Jessica didn’t care for Simon, not in the way she should. The marriage was on the rocks. She only just managed to stop herself from smiling. Her mission in deciding to front up to Jessica had been more successful than she’d hoped for. She’d come to Cassell’s Cottage’s front door to convince Simon’s wife that everything was over between her and Simon, to allay whatever fears she might have, and had learned that Simon’s wife didn’t care one way or another. The only problem was, and her spirits suddenly plummeted, if Jessica thought that way, how long would it be before Simon got his marching papers? But then, so what? The only thing keeping Simon at Cassell’s Cottage was her money. Perhaps, if they put their heads together, they could devise a way of wresting most of it from her.

  ‘Well, I’ll go then,’ Sue said in her haughtiest tone, and turned on her heel.

  Jessica watched the dark-haired, petite woman until she’d got in her car and driven away. Shaking her head, she asked herself, what had that been all about? Why had Sue felt the need to impress upon her that her relationship with Simon was over? Because it was or…because, in truth, it probably wasn’t.

  Her concentration ruined, Jessica went to sit on the living room sofa. She rested her head back against the padding and closed her eyes. What was she going to do? Theoretically, if she were a client with her problem and, knowing how she felt about the situation, how would she advise that client?

  It seemed pointless to go on prolonging the agony, living a lie, pretending their marriage was worth saving when, if she were brutally honest with herself, it wasn’t.

  But…what about the good times? Their many years of marriage, together, about the life they’d shared with Damian? Memories…

  Could one indiscretion bring a marriage to an end? Or had the affair been the culminating point, the final straw, as the cliché went. And now, what did it really matter? She felt emotionally dead inside, drained, emptied of all feeling for Simon. How, in God’s name, could she resurrect that when there wasn’t even a tiny ember left to work with?

  Jessica had no idea how long she sat there ruminating, but when she finally pulled herself together and stood up, her decision had been made.

  Jessica slumbered, alone in the wide bed, tossing as the dream became more vivid.

  …Four uniformed men clustered close in the twilight, hidden by a thick stand of low-growing bushes.

  ‘I tell yer I’ve bin watchin’ her, just about every night fer a week. She plays with the kid fer a while, then says it’s time fer bed an’ takes her inside,’ Dowd told the others. ‘Afterwards she takes a mug o’tea and drinks it out on that paved area near the veggie garden, afore it gets dark. I tell yer, she’s as regular as a damned clock.’

  ‘I…I agree,’ Timothy Cavanagh said hesitantly, ‘M-Maude s-says she has her patterns and rarely strays from them.’

  ‘Aye, that’s good,’ Elijah, eyes narrowed, murmured low. ‘There’s lot’s of shadowy places around the back of the cottage, where yers can lie in wait.’ He rubbed his left sleeve for, under the material, his arm was thickly bandaged and beginning to itch. He’d faked a wound by self-mutilation while at the timber camp, so that the sergeant had no choice but to send him back to Kingston to the infirmary, and later, he’d scarpered out without being seen because the doctor’s assistant, overworked and sullen, had consumed a bottle of rum, enough to render him insensible.

  ‘Elijah,’ said Timothy, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his slim throat, ‘I’m not sure I can d-do it.’

  Elijah fixed him with a belligerant stare. ‘By God, what are yer sayin’, Tim, me boy? The plan’s fixed, ’tis arranged. Tonight’s got to be the night, yer know it has. Have yer not heard that a ship’s been sighted? It’ll probably lay anchor in the next day or so, and I’ll be shipped aboard and back to Sydney Town.’

  Rupert McLean, who’d been silent, dug the youth in the ribs. ‘What’s the matter with yer, lad? It’s only a bit of fun we’re after.’

  ‘But, but…’

  Elijah grabbed the front of Timothy’s tunic with one hand, while his other hand flew to the youth’s neck and squeezed until his accomplice’s eyes bulged with fear. ‘Don’t go gettin’ lilly-livered on me now, me boy. Yer an essential part of the plan, yer know.’ And he increased the pressure on his skinny neck until Timothy nodded his compliance.

  ‘Right.’ Elijah nodded approvingly. He glanced away to the Captain’s cottage and saw that the lamps were being lit, and then he looked at the others one by one. ‘Yer all know what yer have to do. Get to it.’

  Meggie was unusually fretful and took some time to settle into a deep sleep. For several moments, Sarah stood by the open doorway looking at the sleeping child in the cot beside her own narrow pallet. So peaceful, so innocent was her babe, and so very beautiful. Her heart swelled with pride and, for a moment, she wished that Will was standing beside her to share the joy of observing what they had created together. Meggie, sweet, lovable Meggie. Her fingers rose to touch the pearl brooch, her mother’s, fixed at the vee of her bodice. She had forgotten to take it off and put it in her special tin, after she’d served afternoon tea for Mrs Stewart and Doctor Bruce.

  Sarah wandered out of the cottage to the kitchen which, with the washhouse and stable, was separated from the cottage by a covered walkway. Maude was already asleep in her cot by the window, so she crossed to the fire to pour a cup of tea from the crockery pot, knowing it would still be hot and strong, as she liked it. In the silence she could hear the faint murmur of the Stewarts talking as they shared a glass of port in the barely adequate drawing room, prior to taking to their bed. Mrs Stewart, four months with child, was doing well, which was a relief to the Captain’s small household.

  With night a coolness settled over the darkening island and, holding her mug in both hands, Sarah stood on the new brick paving Frederick had finished last week, illuminated by the glow of the kitchen lamp. She inhaled deeply, for breathing in the fresh night air gave her a sense of renewal. Springtime had always been her favourite season and, while life on Norfolk Island was in no way similar to how her life in Dublin had been, the season of renewal on the other side of the world was pleasantly familiar. Spring flowers were bursting into life in the front garden and there was new growth on the shrubs and trees. Unfortunately, the dismal fact of the cruelty, the privations, the lack of human dignity on the island remained the same, no matter what the season.

  She thought about the sailor from a whaler who’d docked to take on fresh water. He had relayed news to the settlement that a barque’s sails had been spotted on the horizon yesterday. No doubt, the supply ship, which was due any day now. Sarah heaved a relieved sigh as she sipped her tea. Soon she would be rid of the menace of Elijah Waugh’s presence, and it wouldn’t come a moment too soon. Knowing he was on the island, even though the Captain kept him on duties away from Kingston, kept her in a highly fearful state.

  She heard footsteps crunching around the side gravel path and looked towards it, guessing who it might be. Young Cavanagh, most likely, for if he could sneak out of the barracks as he occasionally did, he would come a’seeking Maude.

  ‘Aahh, Mrs Sarah,’ Timothy greeted, as he came around the corner of the cottage and saw her, ‘a good evening to you.’

  ‘And ta you, Timothy. But I fear that young Maude has already taken ta her cot.’

  ‘Oh.’ His
disappointment sounded genuine, but then his face brightened. ‘Then I shall pass a moment or two with you, Mrs Sarah, if that be agreeable to you.’

  Sarah smiled. A pleasant young man he was, barely eighteen, she thought. And different from the other soldiers, who were for the most part a rough, tough lot. She sat on the retaining wall the trustee convict had built during the winter months in preparation to completing the vegetable garden Mrs Stewart was eager to establish.

  ‘I-it is cool, but a pleasant enough evening, is it not?’ Timothy stated hesitantly.

  ‘It is, Timothy. Most welcome after the cold of winter.’ Winters on Norfolk were actually mild, compared to how she remembered Dublin, but it made conversation to agree with him.

  Cloth tied about the soles of their boots to muffle any noise, Dowd and McLean crouched in the shadows of the thick shrubs, their implements, a sacking bag, a cloth gag and a length of rope at the ready. With a nod from McLean, they made their move…

  Sarah barely had time to turn her head at an unfamiliar sound and they were upon her.

  First, the gag was thrust into her mouth so she could not scream. Then the rope was looped around her upper arms, tying them to her body. Sarah struggled and hit out with her feet at whoever was behind her, her gaze fixed in horror on Cavanagh. Open-mouthed and failing to come to her assistance, he watched what was occuring. He was party to it, she had time to realise, but then, in seconds, a sack was thrust roughly over her body and she was thrown over one man’s shoulder.

  ‘Quick, man, let’s go. You too, Timothy, an’ shut the kitchen door.’

  Sarah stiffened as she recognised the voice. Thomas Dowd. The snivelling snake. What were these men up to? Her heart panicked in her breast as her captor, carrying her like a sack of flour, made his way down the steps which ran at the side of the cottage. Dear God in heaven, what were their intentions? She wriggled in an effort to upset the balance of the man carrying her.

  ‘Be still, bitch.’

  Something hard, a fist, hit her on the side of the head, momentarily stunning her. When her head cleared, she began to scream and scream, but barely a sound came through the stifling, stinking gag.

  Jessica woke with a start, trembling all over. She saw Simon’s prone body and wondered indifferently when he’d climbed into bed. Taking care not to wake him, she slid out of bed, found her slippers and padded out to the kitchen.

  God, what an awful dream! Like the others, it had been so vivid, so real. Waugh, Dowd, McLean and now she knew for certain who the fourth man was, whose features remained unfinished on the painting. Sarah had mentioned his name in the hypnotism tape: Timothy Cavanagh. Something, an unconscious need, took her to the back verandah and, taking the work she’d been doing off the easel, she replaced it with the other painting. A shaft of moonlight lit the faces of the men with an eerie glow and, her heartbeat still pumping wildly in her chest due to the dream, she sat opposite the easel and studied each man’s face individually.

  Waugh’s toughness, his rat-like cunning and ‘go-to-the-devil’ expression had been masterfully captured by Sarah, who knew the man well. Dowd, on the other hand, gave the appearance of a follower, but something in the eyes, a glint of recklessness, hinted at an unstable nature…And there was McLean. Under other circumstances, with his unruly mane of hair coiffed and himself clean-shaven and dressed in fine cloth, she could picture him in a London gaming house. But the cynical twist to his mouth, the ‘deadness’ in his eyes, proclaimed him as a man whose lack of scruples rendered him devoid of feeling and compassion. And the fourth face, Timothy, unfinished yet, she now knew was very different from the other men.

  Oh, Sarah, what did they do to you? It was a question she was almost afraid to ask herself. She already sensed the answer…something immensely evil.

  Jessica shivered as a cool breeze wafted about her. She stiffened in the chair, aware of the signs. Sarah was close, very close. She should be afraid, she had been before but, strangely, now she wasn’t. It was almost as if they were friends, of a sort! She waited…

  Hovering in the shadows of the verandah, Sarah watched Jessica as she studied the painting. The woman’s features clearly expressed her thoughts. She sensed that this time Jessica might be ready to accept what, months ago, she would have found totally unacceptable.

  ‘Hello, Jessica.’

  Jessica stiffened in the chair, but otherwise did not move. ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was no sound in the room other than that of her own breathing, yet she had heard the woman’s answer, somehow, in her mind. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Beside the table.’

  Jessica turned her head, strained her eyes trying to see, what? Slowly, a vertical mist began to form at the left of the table. The vaporous cloud swayed and pulsated until a representation of a woman in a full-length gown, with long sleeves, became visible.

  For a moment Jessica dared not breathe. She recognised her features, her hair, the way she stood, proud, confident. It was Sarah, the woman who’d haunted her, confused her, frightened her. But not any more. Right now she wasn’t afraid, but she was awed into silence by what she was being privileged to see: an entity from beyond this life revealing itself to her.

  ‘It is you,’ Jessica whispered almost reverently.

  ‘Oh, aye,’ Sarah said, and then she laughed. ‘I’ll not bite you, my dear, do not be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid, this time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah nodded, ‘I do believe you are not.’

  ‘How? Why?’ So many questions. Where to start?

  ‘It all began a long time ago, Jessica, as you have come ta know. I found myself trapped here, neither in one place or the other…Until you came along, I had no hope. I have felt your pain over your child, Damian…’

  ‘You know about Damian?’ Jessica asked in an incredulous tone, a rush of pain ripping through her as she spoke her son’s name.

  Sarah nodded. ‘I know many things. And I, too, feel sympathy for your loss. Ta lose a child is as heart-rendin’ as ta lose a husband. My Meggie was lost ta me, too, as well as Will. So often I have wondered what became of the dear child.’

  ‘She lived a good life, Sarah. Marcus,’ Jessica paused for a moment to lower her voice in case she woke Simon, ‘found out about her. The Stewarts adopted her, and she married a man named Hunter. He brought her to this island as Margaret Hunter, they had six children and she lived a long, productive life. Her grave is at the southern end of the cemetery.’

  ‘This is the truth?’ Sarah queried in a half-strangled tone. ‘My Meggie lived here, on Norfolk, and I knew it not. She was well looked after, you say? Happy?’

  ‘I believe so. Marcus’ investigations uncovered a surprising link between himself and you. Margaret was his great-great-grandmother, which makes Marcus kin to you.’

  ‘Oohh!’ There was a sense of wonder in Sarah’s Irish accent. ‘You know, the first time I laid eyes on your Marcus, he reminded me of my Will. Somethin’ in the way he stands, how he speaks.’

  Jessica smiled, pleased that she could relieve Sarah’s concern over her child. Had she been concentrating better, she would have been capable of analysing the strangeness of speaking out loud and hearing Sarah’s answers only in her head, but she was too caught up in what was unfolding between them. Why, they were speaking naturally, as if they were old friends! Which…in some ways they were or had become.

  ‘Why me, Sarah?’

  Sarah did not speak for several seconds. ‘Try ta understand, my dear. I have been here, trapped, for so long.’ She shrugged her shoulders eloquently and gave Jessica a sad smile. ‘Perhaps it was part of my punishment for the things I did, ta them. I do not know. When you came I sensed the chance ta…ta be set free, that I could use you and, by tellin’ you my story, you would be sympathetic ta my cause.’

  Jessica frowned. ‘But how, how can I help you? What is your cause, Sarah?’

  ‘There is a…place.’ Her image began to weaken, to fade. H
er energy was dissipating incredibly fast, draining her. ‘The time will…be…soon.’

  ‘Don’t go, please.’

  ‘I…must…renew…’

  Jessica sat staring at the table, at nothingness. Sarah had gone as swiftly as she had materialised. Exhaling a loud sigh, she rubbed her hand across her forehead. ‘Pheww—’ She thought about what she was feeling, right at that moment: exhilaration, exhaustion, wonder, disbelief, all rolled into one. Who would believe it? Her glance flicked towards the bedroom. Certainly not Simon. But Marcus and Nan would. She looked about for her pad and pencil. She had to write everything down, before the memories, acute now, began to fade.

  When Jessica woke, after having drifted into a dreamless sleep, the sun was well up and streaming through the verandah windows. As she walked through the kitchen, she noted plates and cups in the sink and deduced that Simon had made his own breakfast. The bed was a crumpled mess. She made it automatically, then dressed and went back to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee.

  She felt strangely energised, as if Sarah’s visit had imbued her with a rare physical energy. Her senses, too, felt sensitised, as if she were acutely aware of everything. Breathing deeply, walking, colours, texture. Her hands rubbed against her thigh-covered jeans, experiencing the slightly coarse material, then comparing it with the thin cotton of her T-shirt. Walking back onto the verandah, she knew what she had to do. It wasn’t even a conscious thought, but something beyond her control was compelling her to do it.

  She picked up the palette, squeezed a tube of paint onto it, then another, then picking up the camel-hair brush, she began to mix a skinlike tone…

  Three hours later, she stepped back from the easel to study her handiwork. Not bad! She had filled in the fourth face, that of Timothy Cavanagh. A soft, ruddy-complexioned youth stared back at her with long-lashed baby blue eyes. Blonde hair fell in a fringe across his forehead, and his sideburns were wispy because he hadn’t much of a beard. His chin was decidedly weak, lacking in character, and in his eyes she had managed to capture a certain emotional vulnerability. Yes, not bad at all. Of course she hadn’t Sarah’s purity of brush-strokes, her subtle technique of tone upon tone to create shadow and light but, all up, it was a fair likeness of the man she remembered from her dream.