Poet's Cottage

by Josephine Pennicott

  ‘My husband’s out the back,’ Pearl said hurriedly. ‘Wait! Where are you going?’

  Thomasina, wondering why her mother was lying about Daddy, froze with horror. She heard the sounds of footsteps going down the cellar steps, her mother still speaking in that false way, as if to herself. Should she warn her mother the devil had slipped his leash?

  Trying to decide, she tiptoed nearer to the cellar door and heard her mother laugh. Thomasina felt a wave of relief. If she was laughing, perhaps it would be alright. Perhaps the devil hadn’t escaped. She heard Mother say, ‘So, it’s that you want, is it? Well, do it quickly and leave. Go on! Don’t mark me or rip my stockings!’ Listening hard, Thomasina heard something dropping to the floor and a zip being unfastened. ‘Do you like what you see?’ her mother said in a teasing voice that Thomasina had heard her use before. It was a disgusting, foul voice which always made men look at her in a different way. Mother had even used the yucky voice to Violet when Daddy wasn’t around.

  ‘Whore.’ Thomasina strained her ears. That hadn’t sounded like Mother’s voice. Was somebody else down there or was her mother putting on one of her funny voices that she sometimes used when she was working on a character? But why was she calling herself a whore? What did it mean?

  Then her mother screamed, a piercing sound which made Thomasina jump. The devil must be loose! The scream was quickly cut off but next came horrible, grunting, squelching sounds. Fear flooded every cell of Thomasina’s body but she had to know what the devil had done to her mother. Slowly, holding the rail, she descended the stairs into the gloomy room, following the snarling, bestial sounds. She moved towards them, her heart pounding. One step at a time, ready to flee if anything came out at her. Unlike Marguerite, cowering under her bedclothes at night, Thomasina wasn’t a sissy. Another step. She had to see. She had to know.

  In the gloomy light near the bottom step she could discern dim rows of stored wine bottles, large packing crates and gardening supplies. Her mother lay on a wooden table at a funny angle, arms over her head, legs spread. The devil was hunched above her. There was the smell of blood and in the half-darkness Thomasina could make out the devil pulling long strands of something terrible from her mother’s stomach. The devil’s grunts were unearthly: a satisfied, wrong sound. Mother’s body was twitching, making small noises that made no sense to her daughter. And then, low down on the wall behind the devil, Thomasina glimpsed another face in the darkness. Small, pale and terrified, in Thomasina’s confused vision the face could have belonged to an animal or even a Bindi-eye Wife.

  Shock propelled Thomasina and she slowly began to back away up the stairs, one step at a time. She reached the light, the pantry, the kitchen, the back door.

  Outside in the yard, Thomasina urinated behind a bush. If Marguerite had seen her she would have threatened to tell Mother, but it was too late for her tattletale sister, still playing her babyish games in the yard, oblivious to Mother’s fate. Thomasina wondered what she should do about the devil eating her mother in the cellar. What could she do? Marguerite was useless, a pathetic cry-baby who screamed over ants and skinks. Thomasina knew her mother was dead. In place of grief, she just felt as if a big cloud was inside her. As if the heavy fog that blanketed the town had somehow crept through her bones and brain. A part of her knew she should be more upset, but all she could think of was Mother’s mockery, the numerous taunts and beatings she had endured while Marguerite was always so cosseted. No! She wouldn’t weep any tears for someone who had sent Angel away and made Daddy so sad. Now he wouldn’t have to leave. I don’t care at all. I can do whatever I like now. I’ll live in the house by myself and cook for Daddy. Thomasina had often wished her mother dead and now she was. She wouldn’t be bullied anymore; she wouldn’t have to listen to the clattering of that typewriter. The house would be quiet without her mother’s violent mood swings and Thomasina would be able to hear her own thoughts, tell her own stories.

  Then she froze with terror. The ghost she had seen on the night of the party was standing in the backyard, looking at her. Somehow he had appeared from nowhere through the fog. He stared directly into her eyes; she took a step backwards. He was as pale as she remembered, with dark hair and eyes. He smiled at Thomasina like a dog showing its teeth. Marguerite, so close, was totally unaware of the ghost’s presence. Frantically, Thomasina shut her eyes, trying to tell herself that if she couldn’t see him, he mustn’t be there. Lovely Angel had taught her that trick before she ran away. Beautiful Angel with her golden hair and kind voice, who had bought them gobstoppers and Slippery Sammys whenever she took them down the street to the store. Not like Mother, who only ever nagged about her teeth and had brought that awful dentist who nearly killed her. Thomasina hummed a tune to show the ghost she wasn’t afraid, that she didn’t believe in him.

  Petrified, she opened her eyes and saw that the ghost had vanished. He’s not real. Mother said he isn’t real. I made him up, because I’m a bad and wicked girl. He’s made out of fog and dreams and he isn’t real.

  A knock at the door startled Thomasina back to the present. She was no longer a terrified little girl in a freezing backyard, unable to comprehend what she’d seen. Instead she was a bitter, lonely old woman, who – far too long after the event – was beginning to put together the fog-coloured shapes of a macabre jigsaw puzzle. Like a disturbing, vague dream, the fragments made no sense – until viewed in a certain way. And then the picture made perfect, terrible sense.

  Betty stood at the door and the acidic greeting Thomasina had intended to launch into faded stillborn. It was strange how Marguerite’s granddaughter had managed to touch her heart. With her vulnerability and innocence, Betty represented the youth Thomasina felt she’d never had.

  ‘Now what?’ Thomasina grumbled instead.

  ‘Mum thought you might like to try some of her chicken curry.’ Betty held out a red ramekin dish from which wafted a delicious spicy aroma.

  The simple act of kindness caught Thomasina off guard. She couldn’t remember when somebody had cooked a meal for her that she hadn’t had to pay for. Motioning the girl inside, Thomasina felt a frantic clawing in her stomach, a scratching as if some sleeping giant’s hand had awoken and was raking at her flesh, trying to escape.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Betty was staring at her.

  Thomasina swallowed and thought hard. Tell or not tell? Her mother was long dead: there was nothing Pearl could now do to hurt her. Had she seen a ghost? Or had the ghost really been a man of flesh and blood?

  She began to speak. The scent of spices permeated the kitchen, mingling with words and memories long locked away. Father, normally so gentle and loving, yelling as he slammed the door. Wee on her new shoes, the bloodied cotton pad in her mouth, the taste of her own blood from the fresh hole in her gum. The ghost’s strange smile; his pale, pale skin. Marguerite’s screams when she was told her mother was dead. The fear Thomasina had carried for months that the ghost would return, the recurring dreams in which she heard the horrible sounds and saw the gruesome shape feasting on her mother. Thomasina had heard tales of the hellish noises devils made as they devoured carcases, and Mother had enjoyed telling them stories of the devils’ spinechilling howls and snarls as they bit through bone and flesh. Thomasina had believed that those were the sounds she had heard in that cellar: a devil in a feeding frenzy. Now she knew there was no devil in the cellar that day, but her ghost. The realisation, the secret truth she had always suppressed: it wasn’t a ghost at all, but a man.

  The words tumbled out as Betty listened, nodding at times but not interrupting. Thomasina had woken screaming from her frequent nightmares, sensing the ghost in the room, smiling at her, or waking in terror, feeling the weight of a stocky devil on her chest. But everyone put the dreams down to the trauma of losing her mother. Father had taken them overseas to escape the gossip and memories, and that was when the ghost began to fade. As the months turned into years he’d slowly lost his power.

  She didn’t cry as
she spoke, but stared into space as old rages and humiliations spiked her memories. Betty sat and listened, absorbing the torrent of words.

  A perfect web

  Pencubitt, Christmas morning, present day

  Sadie woke in the darkened room, just beating the alarm. Her heart was still pounding from the nightmare. It took her several minutes to adjust to the fact that she was not back in 1936. Thankfully, the dreams had eased in the last couple of weeks, but she still found herself crying out in the night, waking in terror from a Bindi-eye Man rushing towards her with a twisted face and gnashing teeth. Other times, Sadie would be descending the cellar steps, listening to the devil’s snarls as it ripped at flesh and bone below.

  Sadie believed that today was vital in releasing herself from the trauma of the last couple of years. Jackie may have carried out a space clearing on Poet’s Cottage, but this was a chance for Sadie to clear, balance and heal herself.

  At the foot of the bed, she could just make out the pile of gifts she’d been wrapping till late last night. Next to them was her laptop with the new book she had just begun; as yet untitled, it was the story of Poet’s Cottage. It was time for the truth to be told – and Sadie knew she was the perfect channel. The words had been pouring out of her. And she already had an idea for another book, a novel this time. A mystery/love story set in a Tasmanian fishing village. She hadn’t felt this inspired for years, and she felt the house humming with happiness that creativity was again flourishing inside its stone walls.

  Crossing to the window, she pulled back the lace curtain and looked at the sea, barely visible in the pre-dawn. Stars still flecked the sky, lending a magical effect to the scene Sadie loved so much.

  As she listened to the humming wind and crash of the waves, sounds she had always found soothing, she reminisced on past Christmases. Marguerite had loved Christmas and when Sadie was a child she had always worked hard to ensure the day was as enchanting as possible. Sadie had carried on many of her mother’s traditions. This was her and Betty’s first Christmas in Poet’s Cottage and it was going to be as magical as any Sadie had experienced when she was little. Maria had invited them for lunch at the Pirates Nest, along with Simon, Liam and Birdie. There were presents to unwrap and exclaim over, nutmeg, lemongrass and frankincense candles to burn, telephone calls to the mainland, piles of delicious food to be eaten. Sadie felt a rush of excitement when she thought of her brand-new crimson dress hanging in the wardrobe and the matching red lingerie she had bought to wear later that day. But first there was another date Sadie had planned. She knew today was perfect for the ceremony she was about to perform.

  She dressed quickly, in a floral maxi-dress Marguerite had always loved on her. Over it she arranged a duck-egg-blue shawl to protect her from the chill early morning air. From her wardrobe, she removed the box that had been waiting for this special day.

  Betty was already downstairs drinking coffee, dressed in a black and white polka-spot fifties-style dress. Some things never changed over the years; Betty was always excited at Christmas and rarely slept for more than a few hours the night before. Sadie smiled to see her daughter had also worn an outfit Marguerite would have loved.

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling.’ She kissed her daughter. ‘We’d best leave. They’ll be waiting for us.’

  And they were. Walking along the beach, Sadie could see Birdie and Violet standing together near Bradley’s Cave. Violet’s sheep grazed on the grassy bank above the sand.

  ‘I’m still reeling over Dad’s news!’ Betty said as they walked towards the women.

  ‘Which bit? The baby? Or the Jean and Louis bit?’

  ‘Both.’ Betty grinned. ‘I’m going to have a little brother or sister!’

  ‘That will keep your father busy,’ Sadie said. ‘He loves children. He adored you as a baby – and still does, of course.’ She linked her arm through Betty’s, thinking with amusement of Jack having to go back to interrupted sleep and a pram blocking the hallway.

  ‘It’ll be good for Jackie,’ Betty continued. ‘It might bring her back to earth a bit.’

  ‘Not too much down to earth, I hope,’ Sadie protested. ‘Her kookiness has grown on me.’ She remembered with affection all the help Jackie’s phone calls and emails had been to her in preparing this Christmas ritual.

  ‘I still can’t stop thinking about what Dad dug up about that revolting medium,’ said Betty. ‘Do you really think that she and her brother were killed in that train accident, or do you think they faked their own deaths and got away?’

  ‘I think it must be true,’ said Sadie, laughing. Betty and her TV shows! ‘It all adds up. There was a Jean and Louis Brown listed among the victims. If they were fleeing to Melbourne, they were probably planning to catch the Taroona at the Burnie ferry terminal. But nobody ever linked the name “Jean Brown” with the medium at Pearl’s party.’

  ‘Awful about that young boy whose mother was killed.’

  ‘Yes, the only survivor. And what a freak accident! It made news all around Australia. But Pearl’s death was by far the bigger shock in Pencubitt, probably because no local families lost anyone on the train.’

  ‘It’s sad that the other people were killed,’ Betty said, ‘but if Jean and Louis were some kind of evil team then it was probably a lucky escape for any future victims. They might have kept on killing until they were caught.’

  Sadie sighed, thinking of the crime shows her daughter was obsessed by. What a shame that such a vicious act had to touch their family rather than be a second-hand experience, cocooned in the safety of a television show or book. Real life was so much harder and more complex. Broken people took a long time to heal from the trauma of violent death. You only had to look at Thomasina and Marguerite to see how Pearl’s death had changed their lives irrevocably, let alone people like Violet who had suffered so terribly from the pain of losing a loved one to violent trauma. Even generations later, family members could suffer from the ripple effect of a crime without being aware of it.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sadie said. ‘Let’s talk about this later. For now, I’d like to focus on Marguerite and Pearl.’ She walked towards Birdie and Violet. ‘Thank you both so much for coming,’ she said. ‘I know it’s an early start but it means a lot to me for you to be here. I invited Thomasina too, but you can imagine her reaction.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting us, my dear,’ Birdie replied. She carried a bouquet of roses from her garden. ‘It’s an honour to be a part of your ceremony. And I’ve always been an early riser. It’s the best part of the day.’

  Standing next to Birdie, Violet watched with great interest as Sadie took a few steps towards the water. The tide was well up the beach. Replaying Jackie’s instructions in her mind, Sadie inhaled deeply and looked out at the horizon. Out of the box she’d been carrying she took the urn that held her mother’s ashes and held them up in a silent blessing. Birdie gave some of her roses to Betty, and the pair stepped forward and threw a few blooms into the tide.

  Feeling self-conscious but determined to see it through, Sadie began to recite the blessing she had memorised. ‘We are present on this Christmas morning to scatter the ashes of my mother, Marguerite. In a sacred and loving manner we release her to the ocean near the home and land that she grew up in and loved so much. Mum always loved to be near the sea. Like water, she was a healer and filled with great depth and mystery.’

  Birdie’s shocked exclamation interrupted Sadie. Surprised, she watched as Thomasina stalked up to them, dressed in an old jumper and what looked like men’s trousers, with a scarf tied around her head.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Birdie whispered. ‘She changed her mind.’ Thomasina resembled a wary animal, set to flee at the slightest movement.

  ‘Thank you,’ Sadie said, a lump in her throat at her aunt’s unexpected appearance.

  Thomasina took her place next to Betty. ‘Damn stupid to hold it at the crack of dawn,’ she said, ‘but I figured blood is blood and I couldn’t just leave the show to Birdie
Pinkerton.’ She glared at Birdie, who turned away, pretending to adjust her shawl, so that Thomasina couldn’t see her smile.

  Sadie began to throw the ashes from the urn into the sea. ‘I ask those present to pray for my mother, and for her mother, Pearl, as I scatter Mum’s ashes. We are all linked, across time and space. And in the predawn of this Christmas Day – a holy day that Mum always loved – we return Marguerite to the sea she adored. Mum is now at one with all time and place. And when we hear the waves break and the tide ebb and flow, we will remember Marguerite. At the rising and going down of the sun, we will remember Marguerite. As long as we live, we will remember her.’

  The small group of women, even Violet with her broken fragments of voice, chorused the promise, ‘We will remember her!’

  As Sadie sprinkled the last of her mother’s ashes slowly into the sea, Thomasina – to Sadie’s great disbelief and wonder – took a piece of paper from her pocket and began to read in her loud, broad accent. ‘I’ve only slipped away into the next room. Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever spoken without the trace of a shadow on it. Life is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind just because I’m out of sight? I’m waiting for you, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.’ Finishing up, she took out a handkerchief and blew loudly, then added, ‘I read that somewhere and kept it. Totally soppy and ridiculous, but Marguerite would have loved it. She always was a sentimental girl.’

  Sadie smiled at her, fighting back tears as she glimpsed the wounded child who stared out through Thomasina’s eyes. ‘Thank you, Thomasina, it means so much,’ she whispered, touching her aunt’s hand.