The next batch is a correspondence between Thora and her father, Russell. He spent time training in London and Belfast. Thora’s schoolgirl writing is precise, in the way a child tries to impress its father.
The last batch is different. Lavender envelopes tied with lavender ribbon. They must be love letters. Should I read them? Why not? Thora’s dead and her friend, probably, also. Glancing through the first, I skip to the signature. Frankie. Thora’s in love with a man called Frankie. How odd. That’s a chilling similarity between us. Did this man let her down? Was the animosity she had towards my Frankie based on her relationship with this Frankie? The envelopes have not gone through the mail. No clues as to who this man is.
‘We can still meet Wednesdays my love. Do not think I will desert you or betray you. You are the love of my life.’
I read the next one, also dated November 1962.
‘I thank you for your kindness. It will be hard for everyone in these early days. Without your love, my life would be worthless. Our love will fortify us and keep us strong. I thank God for you. Without you, I would not exist, but you know that. You saved me. Your ministrations keep me from Hell.’
Ah, a patient! That’s why they were hand-delivered. Should I destroy them? They could tarnish Thora’s good name. They must burn, so I take them to the fireplace.
The struck match bursts into flame. It seems too final, too harsh, as though I’m killing a living thing. Best put them in my handbag, along with Thora's diaries.
The room is almost clear, just a few newspapers left. I gather them up and drop them in front of the fire. Why keep all these? The adverts are nostalgic and funny. One was from late 1950. Frankie was born in February 1950. There’s a piece about Professor Frederick Dewberry, Frankie’s adoptive father. He was a lead clinician at Maytree Hospital and was taking a post in London to head a new initiative. A research unit was looking into ways to cure mental health conditions without drugs.
The next newspaper carries a short report on Perry’s brother Simon’s death. He fell in while fishing on Chewton Lake and his brother was unable to pull him out. It had been a sunny day that had unexpectedly turned to heavy rain. They had taken their bikes unbeknown to their parents. A tragic accident. October thirty-first 1962. Halloween. It says Simon was thirteen and Perry was ten. I can’t burn these, so I place them in my bag and throw the rest into the fire.
Chapter 51
Tuesday, 8 March 2016
As soon as Perry leaves for work I make my way back home. The heavy frost is blasted by freezing rain that threatens to annihilate me. Having access to the house for only a few more weeks is like walking towards a cliff edge. There’s nothing to do but stumble on to meet the day when barbed wire fences will restrain me. Perry had threatened to send a couple of men to load everything and take it to the storage unit. He backed down at my fury. His predisposition to take control and decide what my best interests are unnerves me. Telling him not to do that is tiresome and leaves me uneasy. Homelessness and marriage loom before me like devilish teases about unknown tortures to come. He will choose his battles strategically in our war. He is learning which battles to don his armour for, and which he will win bare-handed. Already there is a shift between us that allows his armour to become increasingly redundant.
As I cut across the lane, a Peugeot with French number plates approaches and stops next to me. A man winds down the window, letting in the rain. His weathered skin is tanned deep into its pores. Thick, short-cut grey hair lies silkily above a lean face. The foreigner looks at me, searching my face. I turn away at the intimacy, but recognition dawns. A strange shaking goes through me. It’s Matthew. He’s grinning as he motions me to him.
‘Hi, Raven. Is it you? Except Raven is not … um ... Long time, no see. Where are you heading? I’ll give you a lift.’
‘No … thanks. I’m going to Oaktree.’
He gets out of the car and embraces me, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘Good to see you. How are you, Carol?’ He touches the damp hair curling on my shoulder.
‘Fine. I’m fine …’ The nearness of him unnerves me, so I step back. He appraises my silver hair with fascination.
‘Good. How are things? What’ve you been up to?’
‘Nothing. Still here, still …’ I shrug my shoulders. What to say to this stranger who meant so much to me a lifetime ago; who still invades my dreams uninvited? Worlds slide apart and I’m falling into a dark crevasse without handholds. ‘I’m in the middle of moving.’
‘Moving?’
‘Yes, Oaktree House is being demolished. It’s being stripped out as we speak.’
‘Demolished? Oh, is that because of the ring road? It’s a nightmare driving through town at the moment. Can’t believe it, after all those years of them threatening to build it.’ A shadow crosses his face as he looks towards my home. ‘So they’re coming all the way up here? When will they start?’
‘May, at the earliest, but we’ll see.’
‘Oh.’ His eyes fix towards Oaktree. ‘Will it affect much of your land?
‘The house and all the land to Dawnview Lane … and the orchard … but not Dawnview Wood, where Sarah …’ I study his profile then fixate on his shoulders. Their shape stirs my belly.
‘Where will you go?’
He doesn’t look at me, and his voice carries a lack of interest: something distracts him. ‘I’m building a replacement house the other side of Cleave Farm.’
‘Oh? Near Perry’s place?’
‘We’re getting married.’ The words tumble out and surprise me as if I’d not thought to speak of it. Matthew turns, his attention caught.
‘You’re marrying Perry?’ His confusion verges on distress. He lifts his arm to reach out to me, then lets it fall back to his side. ‘Why?’
‘Why not?’ How dare he jolt back into my life and question me.
‘Sorry, that’s rude. I didn’t mean it like that. I meant … well … congratulations. When’s the happy day?’ His eyes have left me again and are scanning around, seeking something he fails to find.
‘Nineteenth of April at the registry office. You can’t come. Just two witnesses and us.’
He turns back, registering my curtness.
‘I won’t be here anyway. I’m only staying a few days. Chrissie’s sold our old house. She inherited it from Mum, oh, must be twenty years ago. She’s moving to Chewton Magna. We’ve been clearing the place out. Not had time to sort it all, so I’ve got a car-ful to take back.’ He walks toward the hedgerow and looks again towards Oaktree. His focus on it is unnerving unless he’s searching for Sarah’s oak tree and has forgotten where it is.
‘Perry said you’d moved to France after Sarah … You didn’t stay in Ireland.’
‘Ireland? No. Much too bleak and cut-off. But the hotel did well as an artists’ retreat so I made quite a bit when I sold it. I went to France on holiday and met up with that friend of Frankie’s … Ben something … He invited me to his château. Turned out that the campsite next door was for sale, so I bought it. Done well for myself. It’s a goldmine. Best place in the world – and I’ve been around a bit. Made enough to travel all over, but nothing beats home. France, I mean, not here. Going back tomorrow. Was at a loose end and thought I’d drive around our old stomping ground. It’s been years.’ His words trail off as he turns back to me. We stand apart, the past filling the gulf between us. ‘Sorry to hear about Sammy’s passing.’
‘Oh, how did you know?’
‘Julie told Chrissie. She’s doing well. Partner in a law firm, and four children.’
‘You have four grandchildren?’
‘Not Chrissie – your niece, Julie.’ His thinks I’m ignorant, which I am. My whole family are unknown.
‘I didn’t know they kept in touch.’
‘I think everyone does, on Facebook and whatever. Chrissie signed me up and I looked at it for all of one day.’ He chuckles.
A car engine sounds along the lane. I struggle to take my eyes away from Mathew�
��s smile and the engorged vein in his still-youthful neck. He still has a slim, muscular frame and looks as strong as ever. Deep inside my Matthew must lurk ready for me to release him. As he talks, he communicates invisible channels of energy, igniting long-forgotten yearnings. Places exist beyond my present confinement that are preferable.
The engine slows and stops a short distance behind me. Matthew stares intently at it. ‘I recognise that guy from somewhere.’
‘Who?’ Turning, I see that it’s Schmidt’s car. ‘Oh, God!’
‘What’s wrong? Here let me ...’ He takes my elbow to steady me, and we both look at Schmidt as he stares back at us. ‘Is that the teacher … the paedo, Schmidt?’
Matthew runs towards the car. Schmidt jumps, recognition dawning. He guns the engine and heads towards us along the narrow lane. Matthew pulls at the car door.
‘Matthew!’ I run towards him as he falls. Schmidt races away.
‘When did that bastard get out. Ow, my knees …’ He stands and rubs at the wet earth on his trousers.
‘Not long ago. Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse.’
‘Does he still have that house?’ Matthew rubs the outside of his thighs and grimaces in pain.
‘Don’t know.’ The thought that he could be living not far from the end of the lane is nauseating.
‘Could go along and check. Smack him in the face as a welcome home present.’
‘Matthew you can’t, you –’
‘Why not?’
‘But why would you? He never did anything to you, did he?’
The look in Matthew’s eyes speaks of more than a passing interest in thumping a paedophile. ‘I could hit him for you.’
‘For me? Why would you do that?’
‘So I’m right then? He did something to you?’
‘No, he didn’t … so don’t. I’d better go.’ My fingers press against my temples to keep out unwanted images.
‘I’ll give you a lift. Don’t say no, because you’re too shaken up. Get in.’ He opens the passenger door and stands erect, waiting for me to acquiescence.
Here’s another man telling me what I should do with the absolute conviction that he knows best. He’s like Perry. The illusion that something was simmering between us ceases. I hesitate to think that I should obey him; that I should allow some primaeval conditioning to dictate to me. Pushing through the hedgerow, I walk away. Matthew’s eyes bore into my back the whole walk home.
Chapter 52
Tuesday, 19 April 2016
Rays from low sunshine illuminate my shaking hands, as the list of things to do trembles in them. The restless night vanishes into the cold morning as my pen flows across the paper. Our wedding day is here. The air tastes different, and sunbeams wave through the sky on a jagged course. They sense they may be shining on a travesty: a quiet, registry-office event with two witnesses, Louise and Hamilton. Noting my thoughts in my diary, I ignore the girl inside who whispers at me to run away.
Perry’s son Philip won’t be returning from the Philippines. His wife and children don’t want to travel. I haven’t told Denny and Rosemary, or Gerry. They live in Manchester and have made a fortune from their car repair franchise business. Valerie, Samuel’s widow, is in a nursing home. I’ve no idea where any of my nephews and nieces live. They’ve all abandoned me. I ponder joining Facebook but can’t see the point. They’re not part of my life. Their occasional visits to Oaktree had arisen from a sense of duty rather than kinship. Relatives are names and dates in my birthday book. Reminders to post obligatory cards with obligatory cheques.
Thoughts of Matthew continue to disturb. He has metamorphosed back from an irritating stranger to a lost lover. His eyes are at my back constantly since I walked away from him. Reminders of our past, of Sarah, of Frankie, that whole other world, consume my daydreams. The timing of his return is causing no end of confusion. Two souls meeting again doesn’t happen without reason; the stars map our destinies. Why was he driving along at the very time I was crossing the road? His face muddles with Sarah’s. The past threatens the peace of this day and casts shadows over any happiness my medication has induced.
My low-heeled shoes remind me that I mustn’t stand taller than Perry. He has mentioned several times about me not wearing heels. I rarely do anyway; they’re not conducive to farm life, or any other comfortable life. My dress, of pale rose-pink satin and lace, hangs on the full-length mirror. This afternoon it will turn me into a bride. An innocent, who in times gone by would have subjected herself to her husband's demands. There will be none of that in our marriage. Perry will adjust to my behaviour; he has no choice. We’ve been sleeping together since the day I bumped into Matthew. It’s been an unsatisfying yet compulsive experience. Unable to reject him, I allow him to use me. He fails to recognise my lack of interest, continuing through the motions in spite of me. Thoughts of Laura distract me during sex. She must have been very undemanding, for Perry knows nothing of the female form. He avoids touching any flesh that’s not directly required in the process. Should I blame her for not teaching him, or is there a reason why she didn’t? I didn’t have to tell Frankie, or Matthew, how to make love.
The sense of unease settles and won’t go even though I resolve to be positive, at least for today. Perry is short-tempered, demanding to have his way over the simplest of things. Frankie may have been a philanderer, but he was never vicious or nasty. Frankie teased but backed down to keep the peace. That was his seduction technique, but at least he acknowledged my place in our relationship.
Perry has spent years looking after me, and I, a prisoner of my own making, have been extremely grateful to him. He professes to have loved me all this time and yet sabotages his altruism. He reacts with frustration and impatience to any different viewpoints. Trusting him is the only way for our relationship to develop so I accede, to avoid confrontation. It seems to work. Tempering my views to fit with his is the least a wife can do. Today we join in matrimony, and that commitment has a fatal quality to it. Divorce is a possibility should our marriage fail, but I am not a quitter anymore. My resolve to greet the world head-on will not allow for escape plans that are not conducive to a happy-ever-after. I check that I have taken my pills.
If Perry doesn’t settle, a failed marriage will be better than life with a turbulent child. I’ve lived alone for ages and can do so again, as the girl reminds me. Perhaps he resents that I hold the key to his freedom. For years he held the key to mine as I languished on the edge of sanity in Oaktree House. The discovery of Frankie’s body slips ever nearer, sealing our fate. Insisting that he killed Frankie is an option for me; after all, I was heavily pregnant at the time. It’s pre-wedding nerves, although I didn’t have any nerves when marrying Frankie.
My disposition toward Frankie is changing. Moving house, away from him and his imminent discovery, has affected my emotions. Reading my recent notes, I have compartmentalised him in a way I had not done before. Frankie fits into boxes, he’s this, and he’s that. He’s no longer all-consuming. Is that because I have slept with Perry? Or because I’m forcing him away in preparation for when they find him? Am I distancing myself from him to avoid pain? Ruby Silver does not answer. I already know that one should not trust such a transitory emotion as desire. It puffs up big and then disappears like smoke on the wind.
Maybe I don’t have a sixth sense and don’t understand men, but positive choices are the way forward. Being in love and building a home together is my uppermost desire. Visualise it, and it will come true.
My dress slips over my head, but the vision is of someone unrecognisable – a strange creature wrapped in finery concealing a sham of a woman. The heavens shift and the earth spins on its axis as if the end of my life nears. Alarmed, I pull off the dress and hang it back on the mirror to obscure my reflection. Its purpose will last long enough this afternoon when we will stand before witnesses and declare our love aloud. It’s such an indecent act.
***
Moving here, to Perry’s farm, with t
he ghosts of his mother, father, and drowned brother is repulsive. A condition of our marriage was that we would move into the newly built Oaktree House before the ceremony. Perry has overruled that, but I will not live here any longer than necessary. He was not pleased but relented when I became hysterical. Hysteria is the one weapon he is unable to compete with, although I fear he will act against me if I continue to use it. Now that we’re married, he may plan to have me committed. A madwoman’s testimony against her husband will be questionable. Hamilton will keep a close eye on any attempt to have me sectioned. Although once found guilty of my sins, he will have little cause to help me as the trust becomes invalid. Better not dwell on this, though, as my plan to end my life will rise to the surface. I’m trying to live outside those negative thoughts.
Living with all these people milling about is loathsome. They’re meant to keep away from the farmhouse and stay near the converted barn, but they wander everywhere. Perry can’t ensure they keep away, because they are working. Agitation forces me downstairs to look out of the window for him. He’s talking to the woman, Emily, who manages the lavender production, which is moving along the ridge to make way for our house. She’s an expert on the growing and selling of lavender and Perry speaks her name in reverent tones. She stands too close and giggles, touching her hair. Willing a stray lock into place behind a little ear, she tips her grinning face to one side. Her flirtatiousness is not surprising. He’s a catch, and the thought that he might leave me for her is uncomfortable. She should dress in a more feminine way, though, if she wishes to entice him.
At last he walks away, but she stops him and says something, then awkwardly kisses his cheek. Perhaps she’ll take her shirt off in case he’s in any doubt of her intentions towards him. I should take a diazepam. I need all the help I can get to become Mrs Cutler later today.
Killing The Girl Page 19
