Black Waters (Strong Winds Series Book 5)

by Julia Jones

  Mrs Farran’s voice was without emotion. Xanthe couldn’t work her out at all: one moment she was calling her ‘girl’ and explaining that she must put the milk in the teacup before she poured the tea – or was it after? One was ‘drawing- room’ and the other was ‘nursery’, apparently. Then, moments later, she’d be treating her like some sort of freak.

  Xanthe was doing her best to get across that she was a volunteer sailing instructor with an interest in local history. She was asking the easiest, most obvious, questions.

  “How old were you when your father died?”

  “I was ten. Eleven a few weeks later. That was when my mother wrote to Mrs Farran.”

  “But you’re Mrs Farran…”

  “Old Mrs Farran was my nanny. Her husband was a fisherman and there were the three boys. But then she discovered there would be only two of them left and her husband was dead and the Igraine had sunk so I suppose she needed money.”

  Xanthe wasn’t quite sure she was following all this.

  “What happened to them – any of them?”

  The old lady shrugged. “The Igraine hit a mine off Flinthammock pier. They’d been to try and help with the evacuation but they weren’t needed. That was when Fisherman Farran died. I expect they would have carried on fishing otherwise. Eli was there but he didn’t drown.”

  The word ‘unfortunately’ seemed to hover in the dim air as Mrs Farran returned to her own story.

  “It was Nanny Farran who told me that my father had died. She was crying when she told me. It was either because she loved him or she was worried about her wages.”

  Mrs Farran’s voice was horribly snobbish but her blue eyes were wide and frightened and her thin chest was heaving like a trapped bird.

  “Mother’s letter explained that they’d gone to live in Scotland and it wasn’t convenient to have me with them.” Her fingers convulsed as she gripped her honeycomb rug but her voice stayed as steady as if she was reciting. “She didn’t expect to be returning to Flinthammock so she offered to carry on paying Nanny Farran to look after me. People were making all sorts of private arrangements for their children then. Though it was usually to get them away from the danger zones, not leave them there.”

  OMG! How could her mother do that? Xanthe didn’t know what to say. She’d best stick with the history questions.

  “Um, so, was Flinthammock a danger zone?”

  “That was why the army had taken over our big house. The Navy were on Oversee – my father’s island. They didn’t seem to mind who they dispossessed.”

  Mrs Farran was bitter, she was angry and abandoned but this was genuine World War Two reminiscence. It was exactly what Xanthe wanted. She wished she could run and fetch her dictaphone but that didn’t seem appropriate.

  “Did you go back when the war was over?”

  “To our house? No. Mother had sold it as soon as she could.”

  Xanthe didn’t really want to follow up on that one either so she asked Mrs Farran what she could remember about local defences.

  “There were the minefields and then they built the watchtower. They had a big gun down by the pier. Eli used to go there selling fish. He said he was watching the grave.”

  Xanthe didn’t understand what this meant but it could be a clue that Mrs Farran needed to talk about her dead husband. Xanthe hoped the old lady wasn’t going to cry. Maybe they’d been childhood sweethearts.

  “Was Mr Farran quite young then?” she asked, as gently as she could.

  “Eli never seemed young to me. He was the oldest and he was already a bully. I kept out of his way as much as I could.”

  Oh.

  “He was exactly like his father. I was glad when the Igraine took Fisherman Farran and so was Nanny. Though we still had Eli. Then I had to marry him so he could salvage that boat and go fishing again. Until she took Joe too. Then they drowned the Igraine and I thought I’d be burdened with Eli for the rest of my life. Until you came.”

  She grabbed Xanthe’s dark hand in both of her own and kissed it. There were tears pouring down her face now – liberation tears.

  “When you showed me that you had summoned the Igraine

  I knew that I would soon be free!”

  “Mrs Farran!”

  “Surely I can be Iris now?”

  “Mrs Farran…Iris…you have to be more careful what you say. Your husband’s death was unexpected so the police are investigating. They could think that you wanted him dead. You know there’s going to be an inquest.”

  The old lady put Xanthe’s hand down carefully and sat up. She dabbed her cheeks with her lacy handkerchief and stared at her wide-eyed.

  “But it was you who revealed the death-ship to me. And you who locked the doors of the house and loosed the poltergeist. Everything has happened has been caused by your dark power.”

  “Iris! You must listen! What I showed you was a mirage, an atmospheric illusion – layers of warm air over layers of cold – or something. I was on the river. There was a boat out to sea. I saw it. I took some photos. THAT WAS ALL! It was you who told me to lock the doors because you and your husband had had an argument and you said you were afraid. And it was your cat that smashed the teapot. NOT ME!”

  Xanthe was completely shaking. As soon as Iris had gone to bed she would be ringing Dominic Gold. His aunt. His problem.

  Something she had said had made the old lady listen. Iris was visibly switching back into drawing-room mode. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands in her lap and arranged her lips into a smile. Then the cat padded in to join them.

  “Puss, puss, puddums,” said Iris and he jumped into her lap and perched there kneading her leg with his front paws. “His name is Joe. I called him after Eli’s youngest brother. It’s a reminder of the things that he might have wanted to forget.”

  Was Iris completely mental?

  “You didn’t think that could have been unfair on the cat?” Xanthe asked. “If Mr Farran didn’t like him, mightn’t he have, um, neglected him?”

  She meant kicked him but she still couldn’t say it. With her cat sitting purring on her lap Mrs Farran looked like such a sweet old lady.

  “I told Eli that there would be Consequences if anything ever happened to Joe. We’ve always had a Joe since Joe died. I forget how many now.”

  She offered Xanthe another cup of pale, cold tea.

  “You say that you’re interested in the war. Joe was the only one of them who crossed to Dunkirk and returned. He went seven times! And he was the third son. He should have been lucky.”

  Xanthe breathed again. “Please do carry on about Dunkirk,” she said. World War Two felt like a good safe subject. “Did many people set off from here?”

  “Most of the fishermen had already left the village. The yachts were laid up and the yacht crews had gone. The bargemen went. Of course my father was already there.”

  She’d revealed earlier that her father had died, so Xanthe decided to stay away from that one.

  “And did you say that Mr Farran and his father went as well?”

  “Only as far as Ramsgate. The Igraine was too small.” She sounded contemptuous.

  “Oh,” said Xanthe, “I had thought that was the point of Dunkirk – Operation Dynamo – using lots of little ships?”

  “Little ships with engines. Igraine was a sailing smack. They wanted motorboats to ferry soldiers off the beaches and out to the bigger ships in the deeper water. Joe explained it to me later. Joe and I were always friends. Until that boat and Eli killed him.”

  Had she heard right? Xanthe asked the first alternative question that came into her head.

  “Did Joe see your father at Dunkirk?”

  That was a dumb-ass one. She’d studied photos of Dunkirk, columns of black smoke, ships burning, buildings burning, continuous hail of bombs and shelling, air attack, fires, men packed
together, machine guns and drownings. It wasn’t exactly Friends Reunited.

  Mrs Farran stared at Xanthe. Crossed herself.

  “Joe didn’t see my father. There was only him and the cook on board a paddle steamer. After the first boatload came alongside he never left the galley. The paddle steamer made seven crossings with a thousand men each time. The cook made stew and Joe made tea and sandwiches. And most of the men were sick and some were wounded and all of them were filthy and they smoked everywhere and dropped their cigarette butts. So by the time Joe and the cook had cleared up and got fresh stores they were on their way back to collect another thousand men. Joe couldn’t have seen anyone.”

  Xanthe nodded. “Sounds tough.”

  “Artie saw…”

  “Artie?”

  Mrs Farran didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak?

  “Where was Artie?”

  Xanthe had meant to ask who was Artie but it came out wrong. There was such a weird atmosphere in Rebow Cottage. It was as if she’d lost control of her questions.

  “Artie was in the middle, with the light.”

  Iris stopped stroking the cat and he stopped purring. She’d shut her eyes. Her face had gone grey. Xanthe’s heart went out to her. She must be way into her eighties. Her husband had died. Of course she was upset.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked all that. You need to get some rest. Joe looks like a nice puss. I’ll feed him if you like. I don’t suppose he’ll want tea and sandwiches!”

  Iris got slowly out of the chair and onto her feet. Xanthe ought to fetch her back her walking stick, though the way she was looking, she’d be better with one of those frames.

  “You’ll find his dinner in a single portion sachet near the sink.”

  Xanthe helped the old lady up the stairs and into her bedroom. She fetched a hot water bottle from the kitchen without being asked and breathed a sigh of relief when she found that Iris was already in bed when she returned. She was wearing a brushed pink nightdress with a high lacy collar and small pearl buttons. Some sort of knitted pink bed jacket with broad satin ribbons and a hairnet to keep her white curls smooth. There was a box of tissues by the bed in a quilted floral cover and Xanthe could see the edge of another embroidered hanky peeping from Iris’s long sleeve. You would expect that the first night alone after your husband had died would be seriously upsetting.

  “Do you want to speak to your nephew before you go to sleep? He left me his mobile number and I could bring my phone in to you.”

  “There’s no need for that. Perhaps you’d like to telephone him yourself? You can tell him that I’m perfectly alright – as far as is possible. I must get accustomed to my new situation.”

  Iris gave a brave little smile and pulled out the hanky to dab at her eyes. Maggi would have managed so much better but Maggi was revising for her GCSEs and they’d agreed that they weren’t going to phone or text except at weekends. Dominic had told her he had sedatives if his aunt became distressed. There wasn’t much sign of that.

  Xanthe glanced around the pretty room. The chintz curtains were already shut, though it would be hours before it was properly dark. The bedside lamp was in the shape of a china shepherdess and there was a china pony and trap that held Iris’s flesh-pink hearing aids. It was a completely feminine space, girly even. There was no feeling of loss in the room because there was no evidence Mr Farran had ever lived in it.

  “Do close the door. I could ring a little bell if I need you.”

  Like heck you could, thought Xanthe, feeling annoyed all over again that she’d been pushed into this situation. That dinghy Dominic’s cousin was going to lend her; all those free afternoons – they’d better be good.

  She fed Joe the cat and left a message on Dominic’s voicemail, then she stood around in the kitchen wondering what to do next. She washed and dried the supper plates while Joe ate hungrily. She should have been hungry herself but her stomach was clenched tight and she knew that if she ate she’d be sick.

  She watched the cat as he sat and cleaned his whiskers before hopping neatly into the back garden. She’d released the catch that morning so the flap swung easily to and fro. Then, just because she’d nothing else to do, she bent down and relocked it so that the flap would only open from the inside. She tried to prise it open it from the outside but it was tight-fitting and magnetised. Must have been expensive. Even when she took out her rigging knife and wiggled it into the cracks, she couldn’t make it flip. Not even the cat could have got back indoors once everything had been locked last night.

  There was a bamboo pole propped outside the door. It had a piece of wire reinforcing the top and a large removable screw inserted down into the hollow centre. The wood was dark with age. Xanthe ran her fingers up and down its smooth, weathered surface. It reminded her of something. Lots of people used bamboo in their gardens, for stakes and things. She knew that. But why the groove and screw and that twist of tarnished wire? What was it saying to her?

  Objects didn’t speak. And she didn’t believe in poltergeists. This atmosphere was beginning to make her paranoid. There had been no one apart from herself and Mrs Farran in Rebow Cottage last night. The cat had broken the rosebud teapot and the pole was just a pole.

  Xanthe didn’t want to go back indoors. There were summer evening noises and the smell of barbecues in the air. This garden was a hidden space squeezed between dark hedges. There was a paved path running down the centre and there should have been flowerbeds except that the hedges had blocked the light and were leaching the goodness from the ground.

  The cat flattened himself onto his stomach and disappeared beneath the evergreens. Xanthe walked along the path. She could see the dry remains of shrubs and roses that had suffocated. If there had been flowers they were long gone. The hedges seemed to close behind her until she could no longer see the house.

  Soon she found herself in a wider space where there’d been a bit of kitchen garden with clippings and a compost heap and a small stable. Both the top and bottom halves of the door were closed and there were no windows. She noticed a boot-scraper and a tap, a metal bucket and a brush. Was this where Eli Farran had been made to leave his ‘filth’, she wondered?

  Xanthe tried the stable door and was glad that it was locked. She wasn’t even tempted to look for the key. She was certain that she didn’t want to know Mr Farran’s secrets. There was a gate beside the stable that led out into an empty field.

  She opened the gate with a feeling of relief and potential escape. She could see that it ran all along the backs of the Flinthammock houses and there was a track straight across which would take her to the tangle of bushes that lay inland of the river wall.

  Yes! She stepped out. And then she stopped. She had

  been about to tread on splinters and icicles of glass, edges of wood, bent nails and a picture, smashed and trampled on the ground.

  She felt sudden goose-bumps as she bent down to look.

  The picture was a sampler – a careful type of sewing that olden days children did to practise different stitches. Or maybe a loving adult would make one as a gift for a baby. Then they would be framed and hung above the mantelpiece. Had she noticed it even?

  This sampler had been thrown face down and stamped on – heavily, repeatedly, until it was ground into the earth and pierced through and through with broken glass.

  Xanthe found some old newspaper beside the compost heap and took her time pincering up the shards of glass with a handy couple of twigs until she’d removed as much as she could. She’d found herself getting rather fond of Joe the cat. She wouldn’t want him getting splinters in his paws. Then, finally, she managed to spread out the sampler and read what it said.

  IRIS AUGUSTINE GOLD

  BROAD MARSH HALL & OVESEYE

  June 19th 1929

  from Abraham & Ann Farran

  Elijah, Arthur & Joseph

  with our respects
/>
  It must have been a present from ‘Nanny’ Farran to the little Iris. There was an embroidered rainbow, which was the meaning of Iris’s name, and other small, personal decorations. Even in its ripped and dirtied state it was obvious that the stitching had been exquisite.

  Xanthe was going to have to start believing in poltergeists because the alternative message of this destruction was terrible human violence and anger. And grief. She was certain that there was grief in here.

  She put all the remains in the metal bucket by the boot-scraper and spread a thick layer of compost over the place where the violence had occurred. It was the best she could do to protect any small creature from the last crumbs of glass. Then she turned back towards Rebow Cottage.

  The light was fading and when she walked through the kitchen she noticed that the hallway was almost completely dark. She hesitated by the door to the sitting room and then made herself go in.

  Just as she’d thought. There was an empty space above the mantelpiece and even in the gloom she could see the rectangular mark where a picture had been covering the wallpaper. There was a small hole in the plaster where a picture hook had been wrenched out.

  Xanthe stood and thought about the family who’d lived here long ago: Abraham – that was ‘Fisherman Farran’ and his wife, Ann, was ‘Nanny’. Then there had been three boys. Had one of them died, or something? Something Iris had said about the family after Dunkirk…

  Rebow Cottage was quiet but not silent now. There were breathings in the thick air that could almost have grown into voices.

  “My name means rainbow.” The child was speaking clearly, confident in her right to be heard. “Mother says I must be careful that I’m not too pretty for my own good but Father says it means that I’m his e-lu-sive treasure.”

  “It’s from a story.” This speaker was an older boy, pleasant enough but patronising. “First you have to catch yourself a leprechaun.”

  “Little Miss Oy-ris,” said a much older, heavier voice as threatening as distant thunder. “Our own personal Crock of Gold. I hope you’re a-listenin, Eli, me boy.”