by Vicki Delany
Nothing happened.
So she walked on.
Boarded up, overrun by weeds and moss and dappled by sunlight, the cabin in the woods looked nothing but simple, harmless. Elaine couldn’t remember why, on her last visit, she had found this pleasant copse so terrifying.
“Why does your family stay away from this place? If someone fixed it up, it would make a wonderful guest house. You kids would have loved to have your own private quarters when you were younger, wouldn’t you?”
Phoebe’s dark eyebrows were creased in thought, and she stroked her chin absent-mindedly. “No one talks about it. I guess my parents were afraid of what we’d get up to out here. Suspicious bunch. This was one of the servants’ cottages, a long time ago. In the days when the family had so many servants in the summers that they couldn’t all be housed in the main building. Can you imagine?”
Elaine couldn’t imagine having any servants at all.
Phoebe stepped over the crumbling old steps and stretched on tippie-toes in an attempt to peer through one of the wooden slats that separated from the door in a hairline fracture. The cabin might have been falling apart at the seams but the boards nailed to doors and windows held firm.
“We were absolutely forbidden to come here. No reasons given, but the order stood firm. Auntie Moira was adamant, but she would never say why. My cousin Arthur, officious prick, Aunt Alison’s oldest son, ventured in here on a bet once. He’s a lot older than the rest of the cousins. I must have been about twelve at the time. I watched while he pulled the boards off the windows and climbed over the ledge. He had to stay inside all night, that was the bet. Our parents had gone to a party. Aunt Moira wasn’t here; I remember that, although I don’t remember why. Probably the only reason we dared even think about trying it. As children we were terrified of Aunt Moira. We would try all sorts of nonsense on our parents, most children do. But not Aunt Moira.”
“Why?”
“Hard to say. My mom would yell and scream if we did anything wrong; my dad, if he was around, would take his belt to us. But Aunt Moira, she had this way of sighing. And she’d get this look, like she was so terribly disappointed in me. I couldn’t stand it. Still can’t.”
“What happened to Arthur?”
“As soon as he disappeared inside, the rest of us ran back to the cottage as fast as we could. He didn’t last an hour, came running though the library, where we were watching TV, as white as a sheet, and shaking all over. He never said a word to anyone about what happened. I always thought Brad and some of his friends scared him on purpose; they were gone for rather a long time, making popcorn in the kitchen. Arthur’s never been back to the cottage since. Not even once. Always some excuse or another. He’s a big shot corporate lawyer now, for the store.”
From what Elaine had learned, from a brief glance at the newspapers, about the dwindling profitability of the family’s retail business and the dense black cloud of lawsuits brought by suppliers and employees that hung over the company, she guessed that these days Arthur was too busy to be investigating spooky old buildings.
“Something must have happened here, to keep everyone away,” Elaine said.
“Can’t see a blasted thing,” Phoebe said. “Too dark.”
A seaplane flew low above the treetops, beginning its landing.
“If they don’t want it any more, why not sell it? This piece of land is far enough away from the main building to stand on its own. It would fetch a nice price.”
Phoebe shrugged. “No matter. A lovely mystery, that’s all.”
“Have you ever been inside?” The girl’s casual air emboldened Elaine, who had been scared out of her wits the only other time she came here.
“No.” Phoebe held her hand in front of her face, trying to peer though the tiny cracks in the wooden planks. “How about we come down one night and break in? That would be fun. I’ll get Brad; he’ll join us for sure.”
Elaine was tempted. She found something truly fascinating about the old shack. There was a story here, waiting to be told. A family like the Madisons didn’t leave a building on valuable property to collapse into rubble. The family’s ban on the children’s exploration was probably based on nothing more than a desire to protect them from rusty nails and rotting timber. But it wouldn’t be terribly wise to incur Moira’s wrath over a matter so trivial. It seemed to be important to her, that family and staff stayed well away. And Moira was, after all, Elaine’s employer. “Count me out. But I promise I won’t rat on you if you try it.”
Phoebe clambered down from the front step and they turned their backs on the dark clearing.
A finger ran down the length of Elaine’s spine, soft, languorous, lingering, like a lover’s caress or the final stroke of a good masseuse. But unlike that of the lover, or the masseuse, the touch was as cold as ice.
Chapter Twenty-eight
On May 16th the Canadians were committed to the battle for the road to Rome. Moira was seconded to a Field Surgical Unit. A duty highly prized among the nurses who knew that it was there that their skills and nerves would be stretched to the limit. There were four Canadian FSUs in Italy, moving as the front moved, sometimes only shouting distance from enemy guns. So close that at night they could see the flashes of artillery, and both day and night the noise echoed through their heads. They were highly mobile, compact units, able to move at the shortest of notice. It was to the Field Surgical Units that the most seriously wounded soldiers were first sent. Two units operated in “leapfrog” formation, jumping each other as the army moved. The forward unit would hang back to evacuate their patients to a Casualty Clearing Station, while its partner moved forward, prepared to receive the next batch of wounded. Each FSU consisted of a surgeon, an anesthetist, two nursing sisters, and five or six orderlies, as well as service staff.
Moira and her companions worked constantly, stopping only to sleep when their exhausted bodies demanded it. Many long years later, when she had the time, and the courage, to remember, she would think of May and June 1944 as the hardest months of her life.
The hardest, the saddest, certainly the dirtiest, but in many ways the best. The months when Moira Madison, privileged daughter of a privileged family, had been tested and not been found wanting.
August 1944. The battle for Rome itself was over, the Allied armies moving steadily north. Moira was stationed at the Number 4 Casualty Clearing Station, where the highest priority casualties were sent. The heat of the Italian August was relentless. The doctors and nurses lived in clothes soaked with sweat. Thick layers of dust covered everything: doctors, nurses, patients, equipment. They were constantly on the move, and when not moving, surgical teams could be operating for thirty-six hours straight, at night by the shifting light of flashlights and lanterns. Moira came to think of a good day as a mere twenty-four hours in theatre, leaving her with a precious twelve hours to clean up, prepare supplies for the next shift, eat, and, hopefully, sleep.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Elaine froze in her steps, as unable to move as if the ice were on her feet, not her back. Only when the touch had passed did she gasp a half-scream and whirl around.
Long shadows cast by the encircling trees shrouded the cabin in darkness. Nothing moved.
“You okay?” Phoebe’s brows drew together in concern.
Elaine couldn’t speak; she only nodded, swallowing her panic. When her voice had crawled back into her throat and they were walking again, she noticed the scent. That cheap perfume. Sharper than the last time she’d been here. The copse was full of it. When she was a teenager, a friend had picked up a sample bottle of toilet water off the store’s display case to spray on her arm. Instead the lid came off and drenched not only the outstretched arm, but the counter, the floor, and a good deal of her friend’s coat. They escaped from the store, collapsing with laughter, almost gagging under the power of the sickeningly sweet scent, the prune-faced clerks glaring at them with stern disapproval.
This smell was almost as heavy.
Elaine shivered and hurried to catch up with Phoebe.
The place did give her the creeps.
“Do you think someone started the fire on purpose?” Phoebe asked, once they were again on the sunny flagstone path that lined the lakefront. She didn’t seem at all affected by anything that had happened behind the cluster of white pines, and Elaine wondered if she were losing her mind.
“Elaine?”
“Sorry, I was daydreaming. No, I do not. It’s an old building, things happen.” What was more frightening, a midnight arsonist or a family cottage that turned on its owners for no apparent reason?
“That’s what Mr. What’s-his-name, the fat fire investigator said. We all heard him.” Phoebe grimaced and kicked at a stone with her foot. They followed its progress as it bounced down the hill and hit the lake with a tiny splash.
“I don’t know, Phoebe. I still want to go for my run. Then I’d like to get back to the papers and continue where we left off. And I’d like you to help me, if you have the time, that is.”
“I told you, I want to help.”
“Then why don’t we meet in the kitchen in exactly one hour. I’m sure Lizzie’s chomping at the bit for us to get those boxes out of her way. Okay with you?”
“Okay,” Phoebe grinned, cheerful again, another sudden shift in disposition. Elaine’s eldest brother had two teenagers, a boy and a girl, and he was always complaining that he couldn’t keep up with their moods, which shifted like fluff blowing in the wind.
“They were saying last night that it looks like we’ll have to stay on for the rest of the week, at least,” Phoebe said. “What with the fire inspector poking around and Grandpa still in the hospital and all.”
“One hour then.”
Phoebe traced her steps back to the cottage, and Elaine sprinted up the hill towards the driveway and the road beyond. Before she hit her stride, Hamlet and Ophelia were after her, barking and snapping at her heels. Hamlet circled around the front and stood blocking the way; one side of his lip curled up, his no-nonsense teeth bared.
Elaine jogged on the spot, in no mood to be cowed by this animal. “Get out of my way, you stupid thing,” she bellowed. “Bite me and I’ll have you put down, see if I don’t.”
“I don’t think he understands.” Alan stepped out of the woods carrying a wicked sharp-toothed saw. His curly hair was damp with sweat and drops of moisture dripped down the side of his face. He wiped at them with the arm of his shirt. Keeping their eyes on her, the dogs walked over to stand beside him.
“Cutting wood?” she asked inanely.
“Clearing some brush.”
“Nice day for it.”
“Cut Hamlet a bit of slack, please, Elaine. He’s a real pain in the posterior, but he doesn’t mean any harm. He’s confused, they both are. All the fuss around here. People coming and going in the middle of the night, fire trucks, smoke. People yelling. Moira too upset to even play with them. They don’t know what’s happening.”
She forced a smile at the dog. He growled deep in his throat. “I’m going for my run, see you later.” Three pairs of eyes followed her as she trotted down the driveway.
Spurred on by the madness of the last couple of days, Phoebe’s dark musings, the terror of the icy caress, a jolt of adrenaline courtesy of Hamlet—and most of all the sort of highly confusing thoughts that seemed to come over her whenever she found herself in Alan’s company—Elaine chewed up the miles of country road.
She was on her way back, the hour almost over when, rounding a corner at full speed, so deep in thought that she scarcely noticed where she was going, she drifted over to the left side of the road and almost ploughed straight into Greg Josepheson. He was also out running, headed in the opposite direction.
“Whoa,” he cried, “slow down there. Where’s the fire? Oops, bad choice of words. Sorry.”
Elaine skittered to a halt. Bending over she rested her forearms on her thighs, trying to catch her breath. “Sorry,” she panted, “I was lost in thought. Didn’t see you there.”
“No harm done. But you’re lucky I’m not a garbage truck.”
Not sure if she was being mocked, she looked at him. “I do think I would have heard a garbage truck coming.”
He smiled, showing a line of white teeth and dancing gray eyes. His Nike tracksuit was new, but fresh sweat soaked the underarms and chest, and his first-class running shoes were scuffed, caked with dirt, heavily worn. “I meant no offence, I assure you.” He laughed. “The running up here is perfect at this time of year. Not too hot, not too cold, and not too many people and cars to spoil the solitude. I’ve been known to get into a bit of a trance myself, on occasion.”
His relaxed charm was so natural that Elaine lowered her defenses, swallowed a mouthful of indignation, and found herself grinning back. “My fault entirely. I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your run.”
“Not at all. Too bad I didn’t know you were a jogger, I would have suggested we run together. Never mind. I know now. And there was nothing to be ruined, I’ve about finished. Our place is right over there.” He nodded to a discreet paved driveway cutting off from the road and disappearing into the dense bush. There was no handmade wooden sign engraved with the cottage owner’s name, nailed to a tree, as there was on practically every other piece of property in the area. No doubt those who came to visit the Josephesons were expected to know the way.
“Would you like to come up and see the place?” Greg asked. “With your interest in the history of the old cottages, you’ll like it.” He laughed again, a deep laugh, like his voice, full of warmth and good humour. “Or maybe not. Unlike the Madisons’ cottage, which I much prefer, my mother wanted everything to be modern. So she ripped out all the charm and character and stuffed in what she saw in magazines. But perhaps I’m prejudicing you. Why don’t you come and see for yourself?”
“Thank you, I’d like that.”
They walked up the driveway, enjoying the opportunity to cool down from the exercise. The wind felt wonderful nipping at Elaine’s overheated face. She unzipped her tracksuit top to let in the fresh air, and simply enjoyed the peace of the woods and the beauty of the day.
The first sight of the Josepheson cottage brought her to an abrupt halt. Huge and multi-faceted, it had been built directly into the rocky hillside in layers of fine old timber and beautifully carved stone, faded dark with time.
“The view first,” Greg said, leading her around to the front. It stood high up over the lake, and offered a breathtaking panorama of blue water, brown and green islands, and the vista of the last of the autumn hues dotting the forest beyond. A large boathouse, identical in materials, design, and color to the main building, squatted at the water’s edge.
“Beautiful,” Elaine said.
He escorted her inside, and the contrast was breathtaking.
Not good, but breathtaking none the less.
“Uh,” she said. A writer, she wasn’t often at a loss for words. “It’s very…interesting.”
“Interesting is what Canadians say when they can’t think of anything polite to say. You can use the word ‘awful’ if you like. I hate it. I’ve seen pictures of how it looked when my father first bought it. Ancient wood paneling, stone and wood floors, classic colors, white wicker table and chairs in the sun room.”
“What happened?”
“My mother started by making a few changes. And every year there were a few more. Until we ended up with this. But she’s proud of it. Fancies herself as quite the decorator.”
“A small price to pay, if it makes her happy.”
Greg smiled. “It’s nice of you to say so. My sister and I agree. I need a drink after that run. Let’s go to the kitchen. It’s perhaps the least offensive room in the cottage.”
“Do you come up here often?” Elaine asked a few minutes later as she sipped at a welcome bottle of icy Gatorade.
“Not much. When we were children we spent all of our summers and most holidays here. But my sister lives in Texas, her hu
sband’s job transferred them there, and I don’t seem to find the time. I miss it.” His voice dropped to a whisper and he leaned across the Formica table. “I’ll tell you a deep dark secret, if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
Instinctively, or maybe it was the twinkle in his eyes that gave it away, Elaine knew this was a game. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” she breathed, matching his solemnity.
“I’ve always envied the Madisons. When we were kids, there was only Rosemary and me up here for the summer; we weren’t often allowed to invite friends. Bad for Mother’s nerves,” he drew quotation marks in the air with his fingers, “we were told. So we’d go over to the Madisons’ and there would be all these children. A pack of cousins and their friends, in the water and out on the boats, having such a grand time. Both of my parents are only children, so there were no cousins, just me and Rosemary. When they, the Madison children, grew up there were piles of nieces and nephews, and assorted relatives and who-knows-who-else, parties and picnics and fun. While over here we sat around the big formal dining room table, suitably dressed for dinner, the four of us lost in that huge room with nothing to say to each other.”
Elaine threw back her head and laughed. “Are you expecting me to be sorry for you, Greg Josepheson? Poor lonely little rich boy. Well, when I was a kid there were a few—and highly obnoxious they were, let me tell you—cousins, but there sure weren’t any parties or boating or swimming in the lake. We lived in an apartment in Mimico and in the summer we went to the community pool, along with nine hundred other kids, for our regular dose of chlorine. And a picnic was a broken table in the city park on a lawn covered with goose droppings.”
“Well you have me there, Ms. Benson. My childhood wasn’t quite the disaster I’ve always wanted to believe.”
