by Jody Medland
Amanda took the keys, numbered 1-5, and studied them as Margaret walked out of the room.
‘Wait! Did you say all their rooms have locks?’ she asked, as though the words had only just sunk in.
Amanda was about to follow her when Christian entered dressed in hunting gear.
‘Did you say something?’ he questioned.
‘Oh! I was just talking to your mother.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, as he opened the fridge and glanced through its contents, pulling out a carton of orange juice. ‘It means I don’t have to!’ he joked.
So far, his boyish, banterish nature did not match Amanda’s perception of the man who had sounded so serious during their telephone interview. He even looked serious most of the time, making everything that came out of his mouth seem slightly ironic. It was a quirkiness that firmly held Amanda’s attention.
‘You’re a hunter?’
‘What gave it away?’ he replied, shooting her a handsome grin as he poured himself a glass of juice and tipped it back his throat.
At that moment, Amanda noticed he wore a necklace with a large claw tied to the end of it.
‘Ah… I have keen powers of observation,’ she said. ‘I guess the question should be, what do you hunt?’
‘Oh! Just… predatory animals, you know,’ he shrugged. ‘Foxes scare the kids and crows are never good news.’
‘So you shoot them?’ she asked, a wrinkle of amusement appearing at the corner of her mouth.
‘Don’t think badly of me. It’s better that I scare these animals away,’ he assured her.
‘And the necklace?’ Amanda pressed, her eyes falling back to look at it.
Christian instinctively caressed the claw in his hand.
‘Stupid novelty gift from my mother!’ he replied. ‘If I didn’t put it on when I hunted, I’d never hear the end of it!’
‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a mamma’s boy,’ said Amanda, light-heartedly, as Christian slid the necklace back under his top and out of sight.
‘Oh really? What would you have me down for?’ he asked, his eyes meeting Amanda’s amidst a glimmer of suggestion.
Margaret swirled into the room like a human tornado, carrying a basket full of laundry.
‘Christian! Stop distracting the help, love. We’re incredibly busy!’ she said.
Christian smiled at Amanda in secret.
‘And on that note, I’ll see you later,’ he said, raising his eyebrows before slinking out of the room.
Amanda followed Margaret out into the garden. On a wooden table, Gordon played chess with Georgina under Walter’s supervision. Walter peered up from a newspaper in which he seemed deeply absorbed and smiled at the women as they approached. Amanda hesitated slightly when she saw a whole stack of papers on the floor beside him and felt flustered when he caught her staring at them.
‘You must really like the news!’ she blurted, feeling the need to justify her clear interest in the tabloids.
‘I do-I do. And I’m always interested in how many ways the same story can be told.’
Try as she did, Amanda was unable to pry her eyes away from the pile, wondering if The Times lay within the collection. He seemed to have everything else. It dawned on her that an article she’d recently written – a scathing feature on Prime Minister, Edward Heath, and his vocal support of America’s all-out bombing of North Vietnam – was still pending its print date. If it did come out during her stay, she would very much like to see it for reading her work when the content was so significant never failed to make her feel good.
She looked at the paper currently in his hands – a local tabloid named the Great Western News. The front cover was riddled with further column inches about the “Exmoor Beast.”
Suddenly, half way down the pile, she saw it. The Times! She cleared her throat.
‘Might I read them when you’re done?’ asked Amanda, thinking on her feet.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
She turned her attention towards the chess board where the children sat in total silence – Gordon moving his head back and forth between two particular positions.
‘Would you mind helping me hang the washing up, dear?’ asked Margaret, ever so politely.
‘Of course!’ Amanda agreed, before Margaret noticed her interest in the young boy.
‘Oh, where are my manners? This is Gordon,’ she said, believing the pair hadn’t yet met.
‘Gordon, huh? Another great name!’
Again, he didn’t respond. Amanda leaned towards Margaret and whispered in her ear.
‘What exactly is wrong with him?’ she asked.
‘There’s nothing wrong with him, dear,’ said Margaret who, for the first time, seemed a little incensed.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,’ reeled Amanda.
‘It’s okay,’ Margaret relented. ‘Gordon’s heavily autistic. You met anyone with autism before?’ she asked.
Amanda shook her head.
‘Well… it’s a peculiar thing, but once you get your head around it, you’ll love him. He’s a proper little chatter-box. Doesn’t always make a lot of sense, mind you. Isn’t that right, Gord?’ she asked, suddenly speaking up.
‘Yah!’ he replied, instinctively.
Amanda studied the board, noticing that the children had yet to make a move. She approached the table and spoke gently.
‘Hello, Gordon. I’m Amanda.’
‘Naked lady. Yah! Gordon. My name’s Gordon Jones. But naked lady can call me Gord.’
With Amanda’s cheeks becoming pink and warm, she felt the need to explain.
‘We… overlapped in the bathroom this morning,’ she clarified, bringing a smile to Walter’s face.
‘Oh…’ Margaret chuckled.
At least the fleeting embarrassment marked progress compared to the failed conversation she’d attempted with Gordon earlier that morning.
‘Who’s winning?’ asked Amanda.
‘It’s a draw. Georgina’s move,’ answered Gordon, speaking at the rather manic pace he always seemed to adopt. ‘She hasn’t moved yet, so no-one’s winning. It’s a draw!’
Amanda had read about autism. Doctors had described it as a fascinating mental disease that lasted the duration of one’s life and directly affected the sufferer’s relationships with people – as well as the practicalities of the world – around them. Quite often, what an autistic brain lacked in social development, it more than made up for with strong short and long term memory traits, leading those who were diagnosed with it to become obsessed with numbers, patterns, statistics and routines.
‘How long have you been playing?’ Amanda delved.
‘273 days,’ he replied, instantly
‘I’m sorry. I meant this game,’ Amanda clarified.
‘Yah, 273 days. Started 15th May, 1971,’ he confirmed.
‘You started this game last May?’ repeated Amanda.
‘Yah. 15th May, 1971: 273 days. Georgina’s turn,’ he said.
Amanda’s focus shifted to the girl.
‘Are you going to make a move today, Georgina?’ she asked.
Georgina didn’t reply, which led Walter to glare disapprovingly over the top of his paper.
‘Georgina?’ he said, slowly, menacingly.
Walter lowered his paper entirely and leant forward in his chair, making the old wood creek as he did so.
‘Answer,’ he said, through gritted teeth.
It was the first time Amanda had seen Walter irked and suddenly he gave off the energy of someone who could have a temper.
‘I’m thinking!’ Georgina snapped.
In a slow, calculated manner, Walter leant back in his chair with his eyes still locked on her. His nose twitched before he returned to his paper.
‘H-m,’ he grunted, and that was that.
Margaret nodded further down the garden where a washing line hung across the lawn and together, the women walked away.
‘Sorry, dear. She has good day
s and bad, that one,’ confirmed Margaret. ‘Yesterday was a particularly good day.’
‘They play chess?’
‘Well “play” is a bit of a loose term for it! You know, it’s the strangest thing. The chess board lay under the stairs and hadn’t been touched for years. One day, out of the blue, they both asked to play it in the garden and they’ve insisted on doing it ever since. I don’t know where they got the idea from. Can’t think they’d even know how to play. I don’t even know! They seem to enjoy it, though. Whatever you do, you mustn’t touch the pieces. I learnt that the hard way!’ she said, rolling her eyes.
As Margaret picked up speed, Amanda glanced back towards the children.
Interesting!
Amanda couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was yet, but something was most definitely amiss. She looked forward to the end of the day, by which time she would have visited each room of the house and stared into the eyes of every child. Once this was done, she would be able to do what she did best – get to the bottom of the story, and generate some theories on what it was that made the residents act so utterly peculiar.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Secret Garden
Saturday 12th February, 1972
Further along the garden was the clothes line, stretched between two poles that lay a considerable distance apart. As the women got closer, Amanda could hear the slow and constant squeak of an old rusty swing-set coming from a secluded garden. Sat on the swing was a tall, gaunt boy named Malcolm Keane.
‘What’s he doing out here alone?’ complained Margaret as she dropped the basket and headed towards him.
Amanda followed.
Even with both women there, Malcolm didn’t stir. Instead, he gazed motionlessly into space as he swung somewhat hypnotically, not even sparing the energy to blink. Beside him was an old wheelchair that Amanda guessed was used for his transportation.
‘Amanda, this is Malcolm. What you see is what you get. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never shown much sign of progression. If anything, he’s gotten worse. It’s as if he simply doesn’t even know he’s alive,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, he’s been here for six years and he hasn’t acknowledged anything around him for four of them. The doctors think he may have been the victim of severe abuse as a child and it made him create his own world that he doesn’t wanna come out of,’ said Margaret.
Amanda couldn’t help but feel saddened.
‘What happened to his parents?’ she asked.
‘What happened to all of their parents?’ Margaret shrugged. ‘We just don’t know. All our residents were either neglected or abandoned because their conditions were deemed too demanding.’
‘Do they ever get visitors?’ Amanda probed.
‘No. The cold hard fact is nobody cares about them. They were too much to care for and nobody’s interested in fostering a child that requires so much attention. That’s where we come in,’ said Margaret, revealing elements of both pride and resolve. ‘We’re their family now.’
As Amanda looked back at Malcom, she was caught by an unexpected wave of emotion.
How badly must someone have been abused to completely give up? She pondered. A storm of emotions built in her heart and tears began to form in her eyes.
‘Any parent who stands by and just…’
Amanda fell into an outraged silence.
‘I know, dear,’ whispered Margaret, ever so gently, as she patted her on the back. ‘I know.’
Emotionally, it appeared that Margaret and Amanda were kindred spirits and for both women, just knowing that somebody shared their own grief proved some form of consolation. They both kept an eye on Malcolm as they clipped the washing to the line. The sky was an odd combination of purple and grey, yet it was warm. Indeed, Exmoor seemed to make up its own rules when it came to the climate. Now that Amanda was stood there, she noticed an outhouse partially hidden behind a row of hedges at the foot of the hill.
‘Does that belong to the home?’ she asked.
‘Sure does,’ Margaret confirmed.
‘What’s in there?’ Amanda snooped.
‘Well, most of the building’s used for storage, but it’s also where our groundskeeper lives.’
‘Groundskeeper? I haven’t seen him,’ said Amanda.
‘Oh, he’s a very private man. Goes about his business quietly,’ Margaret informed her.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Arthur. You’ll see him around from time to time, I’m sure. Try not to disturb him though, eh? He doesn’t much like conversation.’
Amanda nodded and proceeded to hang up the washing. Indeed, it was Margaret that seemed to linger on the topic.
‘He’s a lovely man. Lonely, but lovely,’ she added.
*
The morning had enhanced Amanda’s knowledge of the home considerably, but not until Margaret led her beyond the car park and through a flowery archway towards a very subtle outdoor enclosure did she experience genuine surprise. The land was so beautifully preserved that the last thing she expected to see was the home’s very own graveyard, where scores of headstones stood in pristine condition.
‘What is this?’ gasped Amanda, clearly shaken.
‘Where’d you think they went once they’d passed on, dear?’ asked Margaret, as though it was the most logical conclusion in the world.
‘In a graveyard!’ replied Amanda, passionately.
‘This is a graveyard,’ stated Margaret.
‘Who sanctioned this?’ Amanda continued, sounding far more aggravated than she had intended.
‘What does that matter, lovely?’ asked Margaret.
‘It’s… not right!’
‘What? Burying them with the only people who ever really cared about them? I can’t think of anything more fitting,’ she countered, looking over the headstones as though reliving fond memories of the deceased.
Amanda took a moment to absorb the information. Something about the situation didn’t sit well with her at all, but then, as she saw Margaret’s reaction – the way the yard seemed to bring her peace – she wondered if she should be more liberal. She took a deep breath and attempted to remain neutral, but she needed to know more.
‘How did they die?’ she eventually asked, in a more relaxed manner.
‘Well, when we first established the home we housed terminally ill children, but it just got too much. Losing people you love on what was nearly a monthly basis was… very tough,’ she sighed.
‘I’ve never heard of a home that does this,’ interjected Amanda, unable to conceal her shock.
‘Well, they should,’ said Margaret, adamantly. ‘We’re the only people to care for these children in life, so it’s only right we do the same in death. I’m sorry if you find it strange, my love.’
Margaret was a clear advocate of keeping the bodies within the grounds and Amanda could tell she had offended Margaret by her reaction. Now that she had explained things from her point-of-view, though, Amanda could understand her opinion. The question of where the bodies should have been laid to rest, if not there, wasn’t an easy one to answer. Amanda wondered what it was about Margaret that made even the most bizarre of situations understandable. She looked to the ground and shifted on her feet, feeling bad for upsetting a woman who was so loving and caring.
‘It just took me by surprise, that’s all,’ Amanda admitted, offering some form of apology.
Margaret being Margaret immediately found a way to forgive her.
‘I guess that’s understandable, love… but Christian used to be in the funeral business, see?’
This was news to Amanda.
‘Really?’ she remarked, flippantly, but deeply interested.
‘Yeah. My husband was an undertaker and, years ago, he began his own funeral business. It was successful, too! When Christian left school, he wanted nothing more than to work with his dad. It wasn’t long before they were partners and the business grew like wild fire. He has t
he gift of the gab, does Christian. People just seem to warm to him. They trust him. They worked together for years and made a lot of money. A lot of money!’
‘What was your husband’s name?’ asked Amanda, curiously.
Stanley Prince was his name. It said so on his headstone, and if his doting wife was happy to bury her husband in the yard then maybe it wasn’t such a twisted idea after all.
STANLEY PRINCE
A LOYAL HUSBAND AND LOVING FATHER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
1902–1967
‘He died of a heart attack, bless him,’ revealed Margaret.
Amanda rubbed her back with affection.
‘Where did you meet?’ asked Amanda, hoping to provoke a fond memory.
‘I was working as a carer in Kent, looking after kids who’d been affected by violence in a place called Saint Matthews.’
Hearing the name aloud sent a shudder down Amanda’s spine. Saint Matthews is where she had been sent immediately after her mother overdosed on pills, a suspected suicide that had left her all alone. It was the beginning of several lonely years for Amanda, during which the one person she remembered fondly was stood before her, engrossed in telling her story.
‘I went into town one day for lunch and this man rode his pushbike right into a lamppost. I, of course, rushed over to help. Turns out he hit the lamppost because he was looking at me!’ she chuckled.
Amanda smiled along.
‘Oh! He was a fool!’ continued Margaret. ‘But he was my fool. And the bond he had with Christian was unbreakable.’
After another short moment of gazing at her husband’s grave, Margaret dusted herself down and took a deep breath.
‘Anyway… I’d better show you the rest of the house.’
Amanda observed Margaret closely as she explained certain homely routines. Her sadness soon subsided and she seemed to have an extra spring in her step. Thinking about it, Margaret must have been over the moon to have somebody to talk to given the rest of the characters that ordinarily surrounded her. Amanda knew their growing friendship was a real asset but didn’t feel good about exploiting such an affectionate source for the sake of a story. If she had a choice, she would find the information through other means.
