“And do you find you like this building?” a cultured voice intrudes.
Jesse swings around. “Pardon?”
The man’s dressed in a black cassock with a pectoral cross, and he’s carrying a lit candle in a silver holder. Odd, in daylight. “Like. It’s a useful word. Noncommittal when you don’t want to say what you really think.”
“Um. Well, I suppose it is a bit intimidating.” Jesse’s bemused.
“That’s what they were, the Normans. Professionally so.” He turns to look at her. “You don’t like it all, do you?”
“No. I must admit I don’t.”
He grins. “Fred Stewart’s my name. I’m the rector. Come inside. It gets worse.”
There doesn’t seem to be another option, so Jesse follows.
Closing behind them, the sound of the door echoes like a handclap. Fred waits for Jesse to speak.
She whispers, “What’s that?”
The interior of the church is dim, as if natural light is somehow not permitted, and it’s not just Fred’s candle that flickers in the gloom—ranks and rows of candles are everywhere. But that’s not what Jesse’s pointing at.
“It’s called The Harrowing of Hell.”
“The what?”
Fred leads Jesse to the altar, where she genuflects unself-consciously. He says quietly, “A one-of-a-kind survival in the north, this.” He gestures at the fresco covering the wall behind the altar. “It was lost for centuries and thought to have been destroyed in the dissolution of the monasteries, but when the Victorians got stuck into renovation here, they found it behind Tudor paneling.”
Jesse takes in the monstrous images of devils eating women, demons pushing children into flaming pits, men skewered by tridents and torn apart by monsters. “It’s just”—she searches for a word—“terrifying.” What she’d really like to say is that she’s revolted. “I mean, what must the congregation have thought? The children’s nightmares!”
“That was the point. It helped keep everyone in line when people couldn’t read. Their version of cartoons, I like to think.”
Jesse turns in a circle. “I’ve never seen a church like this. Don’t think me rude, but it’s dark.” And I’m not talking about the opposite of light, either.
“That’s why I’ve got this.” Fred holds up his candle. “I had spares in the car.”
She sniffs. “Is that incense?”
Fred nods.
“This is a Catholic church?”
“No, but they all were once. So, how are we going?”
“Pardon?” Jesse’s confused. But Fred’s asked the question of the dark above their heads.
Someone answers, “Pretty much done.”
Jesse swings toward the sound, can’t place its origin.
“Up there.” Fred’s amused. “In the pulpit.” As Jesse looks up, a disembodied head floats in the shadows of the canopy. The head moves and reveals itself on top of the body of a man dressed in dark coveralls. He’s packing up an electrician’s tool kit.
Fred says conversationally, “Actually, the church is darker than it normally is. We had a power failure and that’s where the fuse box is.” He protects the candle flame with one hand as he gestures toward the altar. “I agree about the fresco, by the way. What were they thinking? So, you know my name. What’s yours?”
With such a contrast between his ceremonial clothing and the informal way he speaks, Jesse’s nonplussed, though she shakes the proffered hand. “Jesse Marley. Hello.”
“Call me Fred. Everyone does.”
As if by sorcery, a blink of light flickers—on/off, on/off—then stays on; and the interior of the church jumps into being, all shape and form and height.
“There. Much more cheerful. You can see all the colors now.” Fred’s staring at the fresco, smiling slightly.
“Yes, you can.” All those flames and blood. “Isn’t that good.”
“Now, is there anything I can do to help?” Fred’s looking at her encouragingly.
She says cautiously, “Maybe.” He has such kind eyes.
“Good. You looked a bit lost out there.” He gestures to the door of the church. “I can spot that, you know. Years of training.” Another smile, dispensed free.
Jesse hesitates. “Well . . .” What have you got to lose? “Parish records. The lady in the library says there’s still quite a good collection among the border churches?”
“The lady at the library is right.”
“I’m looking for my birth family, actually. I was born in Scotland, you see, but was adopted and brought up in Australia.”
“Ah. Well, since I don’t have any customers right now, perhaps we can shed a bit of light together.” A gracious sweep of the arm shows the way as Fred strides to a side door. “A lot of church records have been stored in the larger towns for easier access, but you’re very welcome to see what we still have. We’ve microfiched many of the oldest records. There’s so much interest in ancestry these days, and I was concerned about damage to the physical documents. This way. I’m just next door in the parish hall.”
Fred’s office is long and narrow with high windows and walls painted a drab beige. It looks like a converted corridor, and what available space there is is crowded by pigeonholes on both sides.
“There’s just too much stuff in here. Space. Such a problem. The ladies of St. Michael’s Auxiliary had already colonized the hall before I arrived; didn’t want to give much of it up. So I got this. Never mind. Do sit.” There’s a visitor’s chair, but the seat’s been slashed. “Sorry about that.”
Fred doesn’t explain, and Jesse doesn’t want to ask.
“So, this is the business end of what you want.” He pats an odd-looking metal box with a hood and some kind of screen in its depths. “Much quicker than going through all that paper, the microfiche. Now, information. What do you have?”
“Green. That was my mother’s surname. Her first name was Eva. I don’t know where her actual birthplace is, though it might be in the borders somewhere because I was born in Jedburgh. Just have to start somewhere.”
A polite nod. “And your father?”
Jesse takes a breath. “It’s not recorded.”
Fred doesn’t react.
“But I’m planning to ring all the Greens I can find in Scotland. Someone must be able to help me.” She’s speaking too fast. Nerves.
Fred considers what she’s said. “As good a plan as any, to get you on your way. I should just explain something, however. The more common names will often need a little work to track down the correct person. You’re lucky Eva is less usual, so let’s see if we can find any information about your mum in our records. Do you have her date of birth?”
Jesse unfolds the birth certificate from her bag. “It says 1940. And I was born in 1956—Jesse Mary. Here I am.” She offers the piece of paper.
Fred doesn’t comment.
Jesse aches when she thinks about it. Sixteen? So, so young. Of course, it must have been impossible, of course Eva would have given her to other people. How could her mother, still a child herself, have kept her in those days?
“Your mother was born during the war, of course.” Fred wrinkles his brow as he pulls open a filing-cabinet drawer. “G, G . . . Let me see.” Another drawer. “Here we are. All the G’s I have.” He sorts through hanger files at a rapid rate. “Graeme, Grahame—a lot of those—Grayling, Grave, Gread, Green . . .” He pulls out a folder of transparencies and puts them next to the microfiche reader. “You’d appreciate that a number of births were, shall we say, irregular during the war? We had both army and air-force bases close to the village.”
“So, is 1940 likely to be a problem?”
A kind smile. “This was not my parish then, as you’d understand, but I do know there was a fire in the hall after blackout one night; a cigarette, we think. Not serious for the building, but an annex was burned out. That was where church records were stored, and some were lost. I’m hoping that’s not the case here. Green, Green, 19
40, let me see . . .”
Jesse wills her heart to slow, wills the blood to be still in her veins. If she thinks of waterfalls, the sea, snow falling, as the minutes pass, she’ll center herself. Her mum taught her how to do that when she was stressed or unhappy. Her mum in Sydney.
“Hmm. Nothing for January to March 1940.” The rector swaps cellulose sheets under the lens of the microfiche. “So, April.”
The kindness of strangers. Jesse doesn’t know how to respond as she watches the priest; his hands are magnets.
But it’s unbearable just to sit and observe someone trawling for evidence of her life, or her mother’s life. Jesse gets up quietly and mimes going back to the church. Fred nods, absorbed.
She picks a chair in a tiny side chapel. The altar is no bigger than a card table, but votive candles flicker before a statue in a wall niche. Carved with more faith than talent, the paint and gilding have mostly flaked away from the Madonna and her son, and wormholes pock the ancient wood. But Jesse finds the simple image comforting, and the jaunty baby in Mary’s lap makes her smile. She’d intended just to sit quietly, but the kind expression on the Madonna’s face slips under her defenses. Without thinking, she kneels and joins her hands. And prays. So many women must have asked you for help. My mum. Was she one of them? She was just a girl and I don’t know if anyone cared.
Our Lady of Sorrows. The name floats into Jesse’s head, and she sees her mother’s stricken face in Sydney; the moment when, sobbing, she’d slammed the bedroom door. And shut Jesse out.
Being in that house had been impossible from that afternoon on. And now she’s here.
Jesse opens her eyes. Even this far from the altar, the power of the fresco is enormous. The barbarism, the cruelty, the sheer relish in God’s vengeance against the so-called wicked. It’s an assault to the eye and the soul. Angry, upset, she scrambles off her knees.
“Apologies.” Fred’s been waiting for her. “Hoped I wouldn’t disturb.”
Jesse wipes her hand across her eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s—that is, I should be apologizing to you. What a ridiculous world this is.”
The priest says gently, “No. Just full of surprises.” He smiles and she responds. A little. “Come back to my office.”
She knows, looking at his face. He would have said he had good news, but it’s still no easier hearing the truth.
“I’m sorry, Jesse, but I haven’t found Eva Green or, indeed, any records that mention you.”
She slumps.
“Not yet, that is. But”—Fred turns back to his desk, picks up a piece of paper—“I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve made a quick call on your behalf.” He taps the number that’s written there. “I saw you were born at Holly House. It’s a private home now, but I was able to find the number through a colleague—a Catholic priest. I rang the contact he gave me, and the owners were very helpful.” He offers the paper to her. “This is for a nursing home in Jedburgh.”
“Nursing home?”
“Yes. They have a resident whom you might like to meet. She was a nun—a nursing sister—at Holly House in the fifties. Her name’s Sister Mary Joseph. She lives there in retirement with a number of her former colleagues. I knew her slightly some years ago. A fine person. Very compassionate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Holly House was a home for unmarried mothers when you were born. It was run by the Catholic Church, and the pregnant girls worked in the commercial laundry that was managed by the sisters.”
Jesse stares at what he’s written. “This is very kind of you, Reverend Stewart.”
“Fred, as I said. Just my job. The nursing home has liberal visiting hours; you can make an appointment or just turn up as it suits you.”
Jesse stands. “I feel so lucky, meeting you today.”
Fred beams. “Let me know how you get on. Remember, this is just the beginning: you’ve made a start.” He says that as if she’s been awarded a prize.
Jesse finds the muscles that make a smile. “With your help.” A beginning. It’s true.
On her way back to the square, Jesse finds the little Madonna and her baby again. She lights a taper and kneels at the altar rail.
Let me find her. Please. Just let me find my mother.
She knows that praying’s a relic of childhood habit. She knows it’s idolatrous too—beseeching a statue for help—but Jesse still opens her heart to that kind woman. And hopes.
The Hunt is busier than yesterday when Jesse finds her way inside.
Rachel’s hurrying from table to table, past another girl who’s working today as well: a teenager with the startled pink eyes of a rabbit.
Mack whirls past with a wave. “Table won’t be long.”
Jesse calls out, “Thanks!” The people, the food, the noise, it’s all cheery, all so alive, so normal. Normal is good today. And comforting.
“This way, Miss Marley.” Rachel leads her to a table for two. She offers menus. “Anyone joining you?”
“No, it’s just me.” Jesse feels as if everyone’s staring. Afternoon at the Hunt is a coupled world, and people seem to know each other, companionably leaning between tables to catch up on gossip.
“Thanks, Rachel.” Mack appears behind the girl’s shoulder.
“Sure.” The waitress gets the hint.
“May I?” Mack taps the back of a chair as the waitress plunges back into the scrum.
“Of course.” Jesse’s mood lifts. “But you’re very busy.” Let him sit. He wants to!
Mack grins. “Always. Wasn’t expecting to see you quite so soon.”
“No.” Jesse fiddles with the menu as he slides into the seat.
“So, what brings you to town?”
She’s grateful he doesn’t ask about Rory or Alicia. “Oh, you know. A bit of sightseeing. I met Fred Stewart, by the way.”
“He qualifies. Definitely. Should be declared a national monument, Grade I listed.”
Mack’s got good teeth when he smiles. Jesse likes that—it’s unusual enough to notice in Britain. “He’s nice. He showed me some of the parish records for St. Michael’s. It was a long shot, but we looked up my mum’s name.”
“Any luck?”
Jesse shakes her head. “He’s given me a lead, though. Someone he knew who worked at Holly House at about the right time; that’s where I was born. She lives in a nursing home now, so I’m going to visit her.”
“In Jedburgh, right?”
“Yes. I guess I can catch a bus.”
“Tell you what. I’ve got a day off due, how about I take you when you’re ready?”
“Wow. Really?”
He leans across the table. “Do you a deal.”
Jesse finds she’s grinning too. “What are the terms?” Close up, the eyes are a shock. So dark, the pupils cancel out.
“And here’s me thinking all Australians are risk-takers.”
“But I’m not Australian.” A twinge of disloyalty.
“Ah, yes. You said that.” He’s looking at her expectantly.
Jesse rallies. “What have I got to give to get?”
“Eat lunch. On the house. A proper meal. You need to build your strength.”
He has the wrong idea, plainly. “Actually, I like eating.” She smiles nicely. “Sold to the girl in the very old jeans. With thanks.”
He says amiably, “I didn’t notice. Not the jeans.”
The brief silence is filled with noise, voices, the clatter of cutlery, and Jesse doesn’t know what to say.
Mack taps the menu. “Let Rachel know what you’d like. The Eccles cakes are good today. Personal recommendation.”
Eccles cakes. It seems like a sign, an approval of some kind; as he gets up, Jesse says hastily, “Just one thing, Mack.” There are so many things she wants to ask, such as What is it with Rory?
“Yes?”
It’s not easy matching his glance. She temporizes. “Um, Helen. Is she around?” Maybe she’s on a hiding to nothing asking Mack’s mum for information again,
but that strange moment yesterday could have been a misunderstanding.
Or not.
“I’ll find her.”
Jesse says hastily, “No rush. Truly don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
“Impossible.” That smile again.
Jesse would like to pretend the menu takes all her attention, but her glance strays at least three times over the top of the card. She’s watching Mack as he winds through the dining room, chatting, pouring drinks, clearing tables where he can.
Is it the streak of white hair? No. It’s the eyes. Definitely the eyes. He catches her looking his way. He smiles and she blushes. Then it happens again, though this time she catches him looking at her.
Mack’s not the only one taking an interest. As she dawdles over the Eccles cake, Jesse brushes the back of her head; it feels like an insect’s caught in her hair. When it happens again, she checks over her shoulder.
A man is sitting at a table directly behind her, almost within touching distance. Somewhere over sixty, the spare frame and the deep-sunk eyes speak of suffering and will, but an interested glance swings Jesse’s way. “Hello there. Have we met?”
She turns a little more in her chair. “I don’t think so. I’m a visitor. Jesse Marley is my name.”
“Australian?”
“Well spotted.” She doesn’t mean to get into explanations.
“Alistair Nicholls, physician.” He half rises. “Don’t let me interrupt.” He waves at the last of the cake. His smile is attractive and brings warmth to those mournful eyes.
“I’ve eaten too much already.”
“May I offer you a cup of coffee?”
Jesse’s slightly startled. “That’s very kind. Tea, I think.”
“Very wise.” He swivels in his seat and beckons the other waitress. “Another pot of tea please, Jewel.”
Jesse tries not to stare, but the rabbit analogy from earlier is inescapable—something about the nose, never mind the eyes. And the girl walks with a lollop. Definitely. Stop that!
The doctor winks. “And I’ll have what this young lady’s having.”
Wild Wood Page 23
