As she turned and looked around the cave, some graffiti painted on the back wall attracted Sadie’s attention. Among the telephone numbers and promises of oral sex were the words, in red paint: Pearl Tatlow deserved to die. Shocked, Sadie stepped closer to the damp cave wall to read the words again. The paintwork looked fresh but that could be because it was near the roof where it was relatively dry and protected. A large huntsman spider perched nearby deterred her from examining it too closely. If she got one of those in her hair it would be the end of her. She flicked her new short hair; well, that was something – there wasn’t enough left for a spider to hide in.
But who could have written such a thing? She turned around slowly, feeling somehow threatened by the message. The rest of the graffiti was obviously older, with some words worn away; this sentence in red looked much more recent and there was something in it that felt deliberate, even threatening. Was it a coincidence that it had been written recently, perhaps in the time since Sadie and Betty had moved into Poet’s Cottage? Could it even be intended for her?
The sound of laughter from the beach alerted her to people approaching over the rocks. As she left the cave, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the sentence was somehow a warning, meant for her. Outside, the low tide shimmered like a steel-blue ribbon on the horizon. Picking her way through the blackberry bushes, she had a strange feeling that someone was watching her and glanced about; other than a family clambering on the rocks nearby, there was no-one to be seen. Rebuking herself for letting her imagination run riot, Sadie nodded a greeting to the family and headed back down the beach. Walking up the grassy bank to Poet’s Cottage, on an impulse she entered the large graveyard. Generations of Pencubitt’s residents were buried there side by side, the gothic graves and monuments set against spectacular coastal views. Many graves were crumbling and had fences placed around them for protection purposes.
Sadie found Maxwell’s monument quickly, more by chance than logic. It was adorned with a black stone pair of doves, and at its base lay a small bouquet of colourful roses. From Birdie’s garden, she guessed. The other side of the monument was reserved – for Birdie? Sadie wondered what it must be like to be at an age when people expected you to die. What went through Birdie’s mind when she visited Maxwell’s grave? Did she long for death’s peace? To rest beside her great love for eternity? Or did she resist – even at her advanced age – that great unknown crossing?
Still keeping an eye out for snakes, Sadie continued her exploration. There were so many stories behind each worn headstone. Babies in their tiny plots represented an entire lifetime of mourning and grief for their parents. Husbands and wives lay near their children, while unmarked headstones wordlessly reflected an unimagined tableau of grief and loss. The spectrum of human drama lay before her in lives only recorded in the few words on their headstones. A couple of rabbits bounded between the headstones, and a few sheep calmly grazed.
She knew what she was looking for but failed to spot it straightaway. It was the flowers below the headstone that eventually drew her – the same roses as the ones that lay on Maxwell’s grave. Pearl. She had stumbled across – or been drawn to – Pearl’s final resting spot.
Sadie stood before the grave of her grandmother, resisting the urge to bow her head and pray. Enclosed within a book, Pearl seemed as remote as any fictional character. But here in this wild, seaside graveyard were her earthly remains. It made her more real. Sadie had expected a huge monument – a stone Bindi-eye Man, a marble huntsman or magpie – but Pearl’s grave was marked by a grey stone cross with a pair of angels on either side, their hands raised in prayer. It seemed too traditional, too discreet for the woman she had read about. The words etched on the headstone were stark:
Pearl Tatlow
Wife and Mother
Who was living in this parish
and was found dead
with marks of violence upon her person
on Sunday the twelfth of July 1936
THE CRY OF BLOOD
will pursue him
to terrible but righteous
JUDGMENT
The cry of blood will pursue him? Sadie shivered. It had felt to her in the last eighteen months that life’s normal boundaries had disappeared. After Marguerite’s death, and with her emotions still raw from her marriage break-up, Sadie’s life had become a twilight dream where anything and everything was possible. It was still difficult to think about the night of her mother’s passing. Organising the funeral, responding to Marguerite’s friends and relatives who cared enough to attend or send condolences had left her little time to reflect. The memory was locked away in her mind until a time she felt balanced enough to evaluate it. Although they were separated, Jack had spoken to her with his usual customary frankness; he believed she was having a mental breakdown, and pointed out that there was a history of mental illness in her family. She needed to take better care of herself for Betty’s sake. Although Sadie resented Jack’s brutal honesty, she knew he meant well and that he did worry about his family. Jack had his faults, but his interfering manner masked a tender heart. She should never have confided in him, but he had been her best friend for so long. In a short space of time she had lost her best friend and her mother. To discover today that Betty was also ready to abandon her was almost too much to bear.
Sadie didn’t know how long she stood at her grandmother’s grave but when she finally roused herself the sunshine had vanished, replaced by ominous grey clouds. With one of the dramatic turns of weather Tasmania was famous for, a shower of rain began to fall. As Sadie turned to go she saw a figure standing between two graves. It was a woman wearing a long black cloak. Below the hood her face was a blur of white mangled flesh. She had the face of a monster. Sadie felt her heart jump painfully in her chest. ‘Hello?’ she called out.
A cry came from the veiled woman, an animalistic, anguished noise. Sadie stood fixed to the spot. The woman held up a warning hand, repeating her cry before retreating through the graveyard, her cloak flying behind her. She was heading towards the beach, Sadie realised, and that thought propelled her into action. She ran after her. ‘Wait! Please stop!’ The fleeing figure vanished behind a tall gravestone.
There was no sign of the woman. The beach was abandoned. She had disappeared into the sea and sky.
Sadie stood staring. ‘What is happening to me?’ she whispered. She looked around again for the cloaked woman, but she had vanished. Was Sadie’s mind cracking? She could imagine Jack’s scorn. Another one? One ghost I could maybe understand – but two ghosts in six months is an epidemic. Are you sure you’re not losing your marbles, old girl?
‘Madness runs in families,’ she spoke aloud.
‘Are you alright?’ A voice behind her made her jump. She turned to see a tall man, his black hair tinged with grey. He was accompanied by a fair-haired boy of around seven. Unlike Sadie, they were dressed for the weather in heavy jackets and scarves.
‘Oh! You startled me!’
‘Sorry, but you seemed a bit upset. I’m Simon Parish; this is my son, Liam. I’m the headmaster at the local school.’ His voice was crisp and his manner abrupt. Sadie could imagine how she looked to him – a wide-eyed, semi-hysterical woman (with bizarrely cropped hair) talking to herself in a cemetery. His eyes flickered over her inappropriate footwear and clothing, no doubt dismissing her as a foolish out-of-towner.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘I’m Sadie Jeffreys. I’ve moved into Poet’s Cottage. My mother . . .’ She couldn’t finish the sentence. If she did, she would break down in front of this severe-looking man.
‘Yes. I know who you are. Everybody knows everything in this town. Well, if you’re alright, we’ll get on with our walk. Good day.’ He nodded and the pair continued their stroll down onto the beach, seemingly oblivious to the elements. The boy looked back at her, no doubt wondering if she was some sort of crazy woman. Sadie was mortified at being caught talking to herself by such a grim-looking man. The local headmaster looked as if he’d
never had a fanciful thought in his life. Thank heavens Betty was attending school at Burnie and didn’t have to deal with him.
At the thought of Betty she checked her watch in horror. She should have collected her daughter from the bus stop half an hour ago! Betty would be put out at having to walk, even though it was only twenty minutes. She was always on about getting exercise, but she never sought it out.
Arriving back at Poet’s Cottage, Sadie walked into the kitchen to see Jack, Jackie and Betty sharing a pot of tea and some muffins. Betty’s initial look of guilt was replaced with astonishment as she took in Sadie’s appearance. ‘Mum! What have you done to your hair? It’s awful! You look like a punk! Why did you chop it off?’
‘That’s enough, Betty,’ Jack said. ‘It’s no way to talk to your mother. It does look awful, Sadie,’ he agreed, cheerfully helping himself to a muffin. ‘I think it suited you longer.’
‘And what makes you think I want your opinion?’ Sadie retorted. ‘Do you see me advising you on toupees?’
‘Perhaps you should have shaved it all off?’ Jackie contributed chirpily. ‘It’s incredibly cleansing and spiritual to rid yourself of hair.’
‘Is that why people do it just before they go out and kill a hundred people in a shopping mall?’ Sadie said.
Jack clumsily tried to change the subject, speaking with his mouth full. ‘These are damn good. Have one?’ He offered the plate to Sadie. ‘Your new mate Maria baked them for us. She’s quite a dish, isn’t she? And she can cook!’ He looked pointedly at Jackie, who screwed up her face at him.
Sadie looked at them bantering with each other around her kitchen table. How had her life come to this? She missed the family times with Jack, Betty and Marguerite. She had taken so much for granted, believing her family would last forever. It was easy to picture a similar scene in this same kitchen with Pearl, Maxwell and Birdie. They too would have believed themselves to be indestructible, their friendship, health and families taken for granted. Now two of them were in the cemetery and the other was alone with her memories.
‘The cellar has a rotten old smell,’ Jack was saying. ‘It might be a dead rat. You really should get it cleared out, Sadie. It mightn’t be safe. You can also smell it in other parts of the house, haven’t you noticed?’
Shaking with rage, Sadie ignored him, heading upstairs to her bedroom for some peace and quiet. She lay on the bed and closed her eyes, willing herself into a more relaxed state.
‘Mum?’ Betty came into the room and sat down beside her on the bed. ‘Mum, are you okay?’
Sadie rolled over and held out her arms to her daughter. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said. ‘Why write to your father first? Am I so impossible to speak to?’
‘He shouldn’t have shown you the email!’ Betty said defensively. ‘That was a private message between me and him. I’ll never trust him with anything like that again. I can’t trust anybody! I hate being treated like a child!’
She flounced out of the room and Sadie let out a groan. It was all too much: the terrible new haircut, the humiliating encounter with that disapproving man, and Jack and Jackie coming here to take her daughter away.
Then there was the smell in the cellar. And Jack was right – she too had noticed a faint rotten smell in other rooms. She had put it down to a dead animal under the floorboards and had childishly attempted to ignore it, not wanting any aspect of her new start in Pencubitt to be flawed. Trust Jack to bring it up.
At least he didn’t know about the bad dreams she was having every night. Though she could barely remember them in the light of day, the menacing feeling that accompanied her nightmares was overwhelming. Since they had begun, Sadie felt as if they had seeped through into her waking life, making her slightly anxious and paranoid. As if she was under threat. A few times she had felt she was being watched – as if the walls had eyes.
She lay face down on the bed, wishing she could turn back the clock to a time when she had felt happy and cared for. The words from Pearl’s headstone echoed in her mind: The cry of blood will pursue him to terrible but righteous judgment. Could this be the reason for her nightmares and why she felt so unsettled? Was Pearl’s spirit seeking vengeance? If there was any place that could be haunted, it was the cellar in Poet’s Cottage. Oblivious of her guests downstairs, Sadie lay absorbed in the past.
Darkness gathered around the cottage. Lights were switched on and the trio in the kitchen made stilted conversation. Jackie in particular kept glancing at the cellar. With night’s advance, it was as if a great stain had fallen over the house. The inhabitants dimly sensed they may not be as welcome there as they supposed. Every so often soft sounds came from the cellar, which made Jack shake his head in irritation.
‘Bloody rats. I’ll have to set traps for them. I should go down and have a look.’
They all knew that he wouldn’t venture down that long flight of wooden steps until morning. It was as if a presence now had claimed the house fully for its own. Every creak, bird call, tapping on the roof and rattling of the old shuttered windows was a warning against being too complacent or comfortable. Even Jack, who openly scoffed at the idea of spirits, was relieved when it was finally time to depart for the night to Maria’s warm and cosy guesthouse.
After her uninvited guests had departed, Sadie summoned the energy to go to Betty’s room. If Betty was awake she didn’t respond to her mother’s voice and Sadie had to give up. Returning to her bedroom she shivered – the house felt freezing every night no matter how hot the day had been. Little wonder Thomasina refused to live in it.
‘That place needs a good space clearing,’ Jackie said as soon as they shut the front door. ‘I’ll ask Sadie if she minds if I do one tomorrow. I was getting the horrors sitting there. That smell! And I had goosebumps on my arms! Lazariel was even blowing on my neck – when he blows like that it’s a sure sign that there’s a lot of activity in the immediate area!’
For once Jack didn’t make his usual scoffing comment about Lazariel, Jackie’s spirit guide, or the thought of energetically clearing spaces – but he did wonder privately if space clearing and Lazariel would be enough. He still felt tainted by the oppressive and clammy feeling in the kitchen. He was sure he’d seen a shadow coming up the cellar steps; thankfully he’d managed to restrain himself from crying out. Jackie was still prattling on about taking her Tibetan bells and oils around in the morning. Jack could imagine Sadie’s disgust if Jackie started on that nonsense. Jackie was a beautiful girl with a sunny and open heart. He was crazy about her, but she was rather too open-minded about spiritual matters for his liking. So open-minded she was in danger of losing her brain at times. There seemed to be nothing she didn’t believe in: sugar left out for the fairies at full moon, chants to ancient deities for blessings, motivational experts who looked like car salesmen. Jack believed in three things: you were born alone, you died alone and you had to make the best of the time in between. He was not a believer in mumbo jumbo in any shape or form and felt unsettled at his reactions to the house.
When they exited the gate, Jack turned to look at Poet’s Cottage. Even from this distance he felt uneasy. He felt protective towards Betty and Sadie. They both seemed oblivious to the strange atmosphere of the house. A figure looked out from the upstairs bedroom – Betty or Sadie? Whoever it was seemed to be studying them. The silhouetted figure didn’t resemble his ex-wife or daughter. He was trying to work out who it was when Jackie interrupted his thoughts, telling him to hurry up – she was freezing. When he looked again, the figure was gone.
Space clearing
Sadie woke the next morning irritable after a poor night’s sleep. In her dreams whispers had seemed to emanate from the house. She heard what sounded like footsteps and a tap being turned on, followed by strange dragging, dripping sounds. In one of her dreams, she had found herself standing in a long tunnel; she looked down at her hands and saw they were smeared with blood. Whose blood was it? Then she was in the graveyard, the sea pounding behind her. Th
e cloaked figure she had observed the previous day stood with her back to her. Sadie tried to run towards her, certain it was her mother. She had to reach Marguerite, hold her. But the ground fixed her to the spot and the woman strode away. Sadie tried to scream, but no sound came. Looking down, she saw she was standing on Pearl Tatlow’s grave. As she attempted to move, she was slowly sinking into the ground. The name on the headstone was now her own. She was being sucked into her own grave!
When Sadie finally ventured downstairs, she was in no mood to see Jack and Jackie breakfasting with Betty. ‘Doesn’t Maria put on breakfast at the Pirates Nest?’ she snapped, looking for some lemons to juice.
Jackie, who was wearing a free-flowing white kaftan with several enormous quartz and amethyst crystals around her neck, smiled her usual calm smile, touching one of the crystals as if to deflect Sadie’s negative energy. ‘Jack was worried about how you two got on last night,’ she said. ‘And I need to start my space clearing.’
‘Jackie, I know you mean well but I don’t believe in any of that metaphysical babble. You’re wasting your time and I need to work here today.’ Aware that Betty was following the exchange with interest, Sadie did her best to keep her tone measured.
‘Sadie, please give it a chance. I understand you’ve closed your mind to the practice but it’s just an offshoot of feng shui.’
‘Oh, well, thanks for clarifying,’ Sadie snapped.
Jackie lowered the pitch of her voice as she tried to pacify Sadie. ‘Sadie, feng shui has been used in China for around three thousand years.’ As Jackie continued to babble about feng shui and space clearing in her gentle, persuasive voice, Sadie felt herself beginning to weaken. Clearly sensing a chink in Sadie’s armour, Jackie pressed on. ‘Your house is the outward manifestation of what is happening in your life, Sadie. I can help you to balance that.’
Poet's Cottage Page 13
