by Laura Elliot
She shines the torch across stone shelves where beef and fowl and other perishable foodstuffs would once have been stored. Most of the shelves are at a uniform height. All are bare, apart from one, which holds a dusty, hard-backed folder. Cobwebs, glutinous and dense, cling to her hand as she pulls it out. An object on the ground makes a clinking noise when her foot kicks against an ice pick. She lifts it up and runs her hand over the smooth wooden handle. The rusting spike at the end is long and slender, the tip still sharp.
She runs through the trees and back to the house where she sets the folder on the kitchen table, wipes away the dust. Opening the metal clip, she sifts through the documents inside it, taking care to replace each one in the order she found it. She studies photographs of Amelia. Even as a small child, she had that short hairstyle, cut below her ears and framing her cheeks. Her parents are with her in some of the photographs but from her fifth year onwards, she has been photographed only with her father or another couple. She recognises Billy Tobin but not the smiling woman beside him.
Amelia had been a skinny child, the solemnity of her expression emphasised by those almond-shaped eyes that would, in time, become one of her most striking features. She was a typical teenager, pulling faces at the camera, often in the company of a second girl. In contrast to her, this girl was taller and thinner with pale-green eyes. Her long blonde hair, almost as white as her skin, gave her a wraithlike appearance. This image was particularly effective in her mid-teens when she and Amelia cultivated goth images. Dark and light – how arresting they looked, with their heavily pencilled eyes and deadpan expressions. Their appearances changed again, became sleeker, more androgynous as they grew older. Elena recognised the coffee shop in Kilfarran and the high clock tower in the village square, where teenagers still hang out together.
Two boys, in particular, feature in many of the photographs. Hard to tell if they were friends or boyfriends. Certainly, the blonde girl and one of the boys, slightly built and gangly, were just friends; the casual drape of their arms over each other’s shoulders and the funny faces they pull at the camera do not suggest romance. His casually tousled hairstyle changes over time: a flamboyant pink Mohican; a sophisticated topknot. She is not so certain about Amelia and the other boy, who was of mixed race, olive-skinned and black-eyed, a wide mouth, always laughing. He disappeared from the photographs after the goth phase. The split between the other three seemed to come in their early twenties. Elena stares at photographs of New York, where Amelia’s friend must have been living. They chart the nightclubs she frequented, her sporting activities, her jogs in Central Park. Her cool green gaze suggests she was as much at home in New York as in the small village of Kilfarran.
Elena looks for photographs of Amelia and Nicholas together and is surprised when she can’t find any. She opens an envelope and removes a document. Red block lettering states that this is the house deed to Woodbine, dated 1935. The owner’s name, Samuel Pierce, is written underneath. She finds birth and baptismal certificates in another envelope; some are yellowed and much-folded and others are more recent. John Pierce, an only child, it would seem, and his daughter, Amelia. She discovers a copy of John’s will and testament. His estate, including Woodbine, had been left to Amelia with a stipulation that Nicholas’s name could not be added to the deed.
She grapples with this new information. Why has Nicholas kept the ownership of Woodbine a secret from her? The realisation that he will harm her if she confronts him with this information settles like lead in her stomach. Had he told her he had bought this house with Amelia or did she simply make that assumption? It was his attitude, Elena realises, his confident, possessive tone whenever he mentions Woodbine, that has convinced her that it belonged to him. She won’t mention her discovery. Why stir dead dust when all that matters is the assuaging of his temper, that tortured fury that overwhelms him so suddenly and swirls her into its vortex?
She will return the folder to its hiding place and forget its existence. But not just yet. Unable to stop rummaging through it, she opens another envelope and spills out the contents. Torn pieces of paper scatter like scraps of confetti across the table. She attempts to join the fragments together and, finally, three frayed edges combine to reveal the word MARRIAGE. She moves with more determination and finds a fragment with the letters IFIC. From then on, the jigsaw visible in her mind takes a physical shape until she is staring at the heading IRISH MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. She pieces together their names. Nicholas Madison and Amelia Pierce. Slivers of information that will disperse if she blows on them. Whose hand tore apart what should have been a cherished document? Amelia’s? The drama queen who was always demanding attention? The diva who was never satisfied? Or the hand of Nicholas, who once shattered the glass of a photograph containing his wife’s image into the same random pieces?
Elena sits stiffly on the kitchen chair. The only sounds she hears are the clock ticking and the rush of her breath. Her hands, she notices, are trembling. This folder has developed fangs, the charged bite of a dog turned savage. What other unsettling information is contained within it? How will she deal with what she has already discovered?
Walking swiftly through the back garden, she returns the folder to its hiding place and closes the door behind her. The branches she hacked with such ferocity are already wilting on the ground and the ice house, stripped of its unruly cover, is as exposed as a hobbit’s lair. If Nicholas comes this way he will know what she has done. Is he aware of its existence? It’s on Billy Tobin’s land, so, perhaps not. The trail leading to it is barely passable; only someone who had known Woodbine since birth would be able to find their way to it.
But she, Elena, has found her way into his wife’s past. Did Amelia guide her there, invisible arms reaching out to entice her to that derelict cranny? Is she watching out for Elena, her spirit rising from the barnacled underworld to warn her? It’s no longer possible to know what is chance and what is guidance in this life of uncertainty that she once embraced so willingly. She presses her face to the raddled bark of a tree. It pains her. Gives her proof that she is not yet a husk, nor lost so deeply within herself that nothing else exists except his will. She shivers, as if the chill from the ice house has entered her bones. She waits until her legs are strong enough to carry her back to the house.
* * *
‘We’re home.’ Yvonne breezes into the kitchen, Joel on one arm, Grace clinging to her hand.
‘Oh dear… oh dear!’ Her appraising gaze sweeps over Elena. ‘You didn’t go to the hairdressers after all.’
‘I couldn’t get an appointment.’ Elena takes Joel from her and sits down in the rocking chair she always uses when feeding him. ‘I spent my time catching up on chores.’
‘You certainly look as if you’ve been exerting yourself.’ Yvonne plucks a twig from Elena’s hair. ‘I’m happy to help out any time but you really should have taken the opportunity to pamper yourself. If we don’t do that, who else will look after our appearance?’
‘I pampered myself with some thought time, which is just as important.’
‘I guess it is.’ Yvonne’s tone suggests otherwise. ‘At least you were out of doors. You need more fresh air to bring some colour back to your cheeks. The children were as good as gold, as they always are when they’re with me. I’ll take them whenever you need a break. Nicholas says you’re exhausted all the time.’
An exhausted drudge, neurotic and incapable of managing her own children: is that how Yvonne sees her? Has she formed that opinion independently, or has it been planted in her mind by Nicholas? Still talking, Yvonne, switches on the kettle and opens the tea caddy, stretches up for the teapot. She takes biscuits from the press, sets cups on the table, her knowledge of the kitchen adding to Elena’s annoyance.
‘You called Amelia a diva once,’ she says when Joel has fallen asleep in her arms. She lowers him into his carrycot and sits down with Yvonne at the kitchen table. ‘Why was that?
‘Did I?’ Yvonne pauses, teapot in hand. ‘I d
on’t recall using that word.’
‘You said she created dramas from nothing.’
‘I admit she was highly strung,’ Yvonne concurs. ‘And she certainly could be a diva when she wanted her own way.’
‘How?’ Elena asks.
‘Oh, you know how it is…’ Tea poured, Yvonne hands a cup across the table to her. ‘The number of times I had to listen to her complaining if Nicholas had to work late or entertain clients, especially if they were female. She was very insecure. I guess that must have added to her possessiveness.’
‘Is that why she haunts this house?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you feel her presence here?’
‘I certainly do not.’
‘Nicholas does.’
‘Nonsense. I worry about you―’
‘She keeps me company when Nicholas is working late. He’s still doing it, you know. Coming home after the children are in bed so he doesn’t have to entertain them.’
‘Being a junior partner brings responsibilities, Elena. Surely you can appreciate the effort he’s putting into his career to provide for you and the children.’
‘All the effort he puts into his career didn’t stop him beggaring me.’
There it is, out in the open at last, and Yvonne draws back, as if from a spray of spittle. Colour mounts her cheeks; but her forehead, which should be furrowed with shock, remains taut and smooth.
‘Beggaring you? What exactly do you mean?’
Elena has never noticed the resemblance between Yvonne and her son until now. The chilling impassivity of their expressions when they are angry.
‘It’s self-explanatory,’ she replies. ‘He invested my inheritance and lost it all. I’m penniless because of him. So, you can imagine why I’m not impressed when he tells me he’s working late.’
‘Elena, relax down. Nicholas hasn’t lost your money. The market rises and falls and, as a fund manager, he understands its volatility. In time, your money will be returned to you with profits. I should know. The investments Nicholas manages for myself and Henry fluctuate regularly but we always earn our dividend. You need to trust him and stop using inflammatory words like “beggaring”.’
‘What should I use instead? Defrauding? Swindling? Fleecing?’ Her anger is reckless, a flare of rage that banishes caution.
‘You’re being extraordinarily rude, Elena. It’s difficult dealing with post-partum depression but that doesn’t give you the right to make such appalling accusations―’
‘Did Amelia ever complain to you about Nicholas’s temper?’
‘She certainly did nothing of the sort.’ Yvonne’s tone is hard, flinty, yet Elena senses there is something else behind it, a guardedness, and it gives her the courage to continue.
‘Did she accuse him of violence against her when―’
‘How dare you. He adored the ground Amelia walked on.’ She stabs her finger at Elena. ‘You can never hope to compete with his memories of her, no matter how hard you try with that ridiculous haircut. You’re the mother of his children and in a position to make new memories for both of you. But you’re certainly not going about it the right way. Work on your relationship, Elena. Pull yourself together and seek help for your depression. I can recommend an excellent psychiatrist—’
‘It’s your son who’s in need of a psychiatrist, not me.’ Elena has gone too far to stop now. ‘You’ve both been undermining me since Grace was born and I’m not prepared to tolerate it any longer.’
‘How dare you interpret my kindness as undermining you? If that’s what you think I’m doing, then Nicholas has every reason to be worried about your mental state.’
‘In future, I want you to phone in advance to let me know you are calling.’
‘How dare you tell me I need to seek permission to see my grandchildren?’ Yvonne pushes the chair back so violently it topples over. Joel jerks at the sound and begins to cry. Grace flings bricks over the side of the playpen and holds up her arms to be lifted out.
‘Don’t touch her,’ Elena says when Yvonne bends to pick her up. ‘I want you to leave my house right now.’
‘Your house.’
‘Are you implying it belongs to Nicholas?’
‘Obviously, it belongs to him!’ Yvonne shrieks. ‘I’ve heard enough of your craziness for one day. You haven’t heard the last of this, young lady.’
The slam of the front door reverberates through Elena. The fury that possessed her is now spent and she will have to cope with the consequences.
Eighteen
The way he brakes, pebbles spraying like a backwash from the wheels as he parks in front of her car, alerts her that Yvonne has already spoken to him. His stride is fast, briefcase swinging, his shoulders squared. The children are sleeping upstairs, the baby monitor on. Candles are ablaze and cast a soft glow over the throws and cushions on the armchairs. This scene of domestic bliss is a stage, set for action, and the ghost of Amelia trembles in every corner.
‘You lying bitch.’ He closes the door softly behind him and lowers his briefcase to the floor. ‘My mother takes the kids for the afternoon to help you get yourself together and you reduce her to tears with your deranged accusations. You called me a crook to her face. Accused me of abusing my dead wife.’ No preamble then. Just a body blow of abuse, which he continues to spew at her.
‘I told Yvonne you had a temper,’ Elena says when he pauses for breath. ‘It’s obvious I was telling the truth. I also accused her of undermining me. Another truth. As is the fact that you’ve beggared me. I don’t have any money, apart from what you condescend to give me – and then you demand a receipt for every penny I spend. I’m sick of living this life, Nicholas―’
‘Ghosts.’ He speaks above her, ignoring the accusations. ‘What the fuck was all that about?’
‘Amelia… she’s always here between us.’ Her cheeks burn, as if his hand has already scorched her skin.
‘You are one crazy bitch.’ He presses his fingertips against his temples. ‘I feel as if there’s a wire being pulled through my head when I try to talk sense to you.’ He starts slapping his hand against his forehead, his movements becoming more rapid, harder.
‘Stop it, Nicholas. You’ll hurt yourself.’ She reaches towards him but teeters back when he lashes out, narrowly missing her face. Before she can recover, she is being walked towards the door. His grip on her arm is light yet firm as they mount the stairs together. The urge to fight back is a fleeting impulse. His strength is contained but capable of being unleashed in an instant.
He unlocks the door of the master bedroom and stands aside for her to enter. The room is exactly the same as she remembers. He locks the door behind them and gestures towards the chair in front of the dressing table. When she is seated, he lifts Amelia’s hairbrush and begins to brush her hair. She holds her head stiffly as she endures the slow, deliberate strokes. Strands of hair spring upwards, as if charged with her terror. Is he angry? Or simply playing with her? Unable to assess his mood, she is afraid to stir from her position. He walks to the wardrobe and removes the silver lamé dress. The fabric shimmers under the light, seeming almost to move, and the dress looks as if it is possessed by the rippling elegance of the woman who once wore it.
‘Put it on.’ He lifts it from the hanger and holds it towards her.
‘It won’t fit me.’
‘Make it fit,’ he replies.
Her breasts feel tight. Joel is due a feed. Soon, he’ll be awake and crying. ‘Why are you doing this to me, Nicholas?’ A futile question, she knows, yet she asks it in the faint hope that he will see reason.
‘You want to be Amelia. I’m giving you the opportunity.’ He hasn’t raised his voice, yet she shrinks back, as if deafened by its force.
‘I have to feed Joel―’
‘Do as I say, bitch.’ He lays the dress across the bed and grabs a handful of the hair he had brushed with such deliberation. When she is standing he encircles her neck with his hands, hi
s touch threatening in its gentleness. ‘You’ve tormented me for long enough with your inane questions about Amelia. Now’s your chance to wear her skin. Put her dress on.’
Her throat tightens, as if her air is already restricted. She removes her jeans, then pulls the sweater over her head, noticing as she does so that briars have snagged some of the threads. Her hands are also scratched and there is a line of dirt under the bitten stubs of her nails. He stands behind her as she slides the dress over her hips. The fabric flattens her breasts but he is able to close the zip before steering her towards the cheval mirror. His head tilts slightly as he studies her from all angles. Perspiration trickles under her arms, beads her forehead. Her stomach strains against the fabric.
The weight she has yet to lose is obvious to both of them. She averts her eyes, unable to look at her reflection.
‘You disgusting, filthy whore. You’ve contaminated her dress. Take it off immediately,’ he breathes into her ear and she, already knowing what she will see, brings her eyes back to the mirror. A damp aureole darkens the fabric and she is shamed by the telltale tingle in her breasts. She covers them with both hands and sways forward, nauseated by his words. Can they hurt more than his fists, she wonders, as he begins to unzip the dress. The zip eases down to her waist before catching on the fabric. Unable to pull it any further, he sits down on the bed and watches her attempts to wriggle the dress down over her hips. In her haste, she breaks the zip and the dress slides to the floor. The energy has gone from the fabric. It looks cheap, gaudy, stained with her secretions. Is it possible to hate herself more than she hates him? Yes, she thinks, as she lifts the dress and flings it at him. It hits his face before he can move and, for an instant, he is contoured in its sheen.
He moves swiftly, a snake uncoiling, and she folds at her stomach before collapsing. When she recovers consciousness, he is kneeling by her side, weeping. All this talk of ghosts had triggered a severe panic attack, he says. What he did was inexcusable. Can she find it in her heart to forgive him? He, too, is haunted by Amelia’s ghost. He senses her reproach, her unspoken accusation that when she needed him, he did not accompany her on that last, fatal journey. Yvonne’s phone call, Elena’s talk of hauntings, triggered his attack of post-traumatic stress. He will seek treatment first thing in the morning.
