The Secret by the Lake

by Louise Douglas

  ‘I can’t wait. I need to know what’s inside.’

  ‘Why is it so important that you open the trunk at once?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t it wait?’ Although I knew the answer to that question. I had felt the same compulsion the day before, when I was in the shed. I watched Julia helplessly for a few moments, and then my eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall.

  ‘Did you remember to call the school?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I spoke to Mr Leeson. He said it’s best that Vivi sings at the concert.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘He said he understands that she’s feeling apprehensive but if she doesn’t face up to her fears now, she’ll only find it harder next time she faces a challenge.’

  ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s going to arrange for her to have tea at the school, so she doesn’t have to come home in between. That way, she can go straight to the concert with her friends and she won’t have time to start worrying.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  Julia pushed the wet hair from her face. ‘Yes, I thought so too. He’s a good man, Eric Leeson. Did I tell you I used to be at school with him?’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned it.’

  ‘He was a bright boy. He had all these big ideas about becoming a scientist and going to work for the Space Agency in America, but all that went out of the window when his father died. He had to stay in Blackwater and look after his mother. Teaching was the most academic career he could pursue around here. And I suppose it was nice that he followed in his father’s footsteps.’

  ‘Eric’s father was the old schoolteacher?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Frank, he was called.’

  ‘And Frank was the one who was on the village committee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he like? As a teacher, I mean.’

  ‘I owe a great deal to him. Without his help and encouragement, I never would have got the scholarship into dance school.’

  Julia laid down the scissors and sat back on her heels. ‘He wasn’t nice to everyone, though.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Once he’d taken against someone, he used to humiliate them awfully.’

  ‘Someone like Caroline?’

  ‘Yes. Exactly.’

  ‘What did he do?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh … He used to compare the two of us, always in ways that were disparaging to her. He did it in front of other people, in front of her too so she had to listen while he was running her down.’

  ‘What kind of things did he say?’

  ‘That I had inherited the looks and the brains in our family. That he had always known I would go a long way and that she would never amount to anything. That it was remarkable how different two sisters could be, one so precious and one so …’ She trailed off for a moment as she remembered ‘… worthless.’ Julia looked towards the window, at the rain running down the glass. I followed her eyes. The raindrops were like tears, endless tears, millions of them falling over the valley.

  ‘That’s so cruel,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but that was all we knew at the time. School was a meritocracy. Diligent, well-behaved children like me and Eric were rewarded. And those who didn’t behave were punished.’

  ‘Beaten with the slipper?’

  ‘The slipper … yes. I had forgotten. Mr Leeson made them bend over a chair in his office.’ The tiny shadows of the raindrops running down the windowpane dappled Julia’s face so it seemed as if she were crying shadowy tears of light, echoing those outside. ‘Some children were beaten every Friday.’

  ‘Caroline?’

  Julia nodded.

  ‘Didn’t she ever complain to your parents?’

  ‘No, she would never have done that. She wouldn’t have received any sympathy! They’d have told her that she must have done something to deserve the punishment, that it was for her own good. She was terribly proud, you know, Amy. When she came out of Mr Leeson’s office she would hold her head up and she wouldn’t cry. She always said that she didn’t care that he beat her; she said he could hit her every day if he wanted, she would never care.’

  The wind blew the rainclouds along the valley. For a moment a ray of sunshine beamed through and lit up the rain on the window, illuminated Julia’s face. She smiled. Then the smile faded.

  ‘When I was in London, I once met somebody who went to Blackwater village school,’ she said. ‘It was an old friend, Martha Clarke. We went for coffee together and we talked about the school. She was one of those Mr Leeson didn’t rate, but she had become a lawyer. She told me that he used to make the children take down their underwear when he was punishing them, boys and girls. None of them ever said anything, of course, because they knew they’d be accused of lying, of being rude and vulgar.’

  ‘Good God. Do you think it was true?’

  ‘I don’t know. At the time I thought it was a ridiculous accusation to make but later I wondered about it. What reason did she have to lie?’

  Julia stood up. She went across to the window and rested her forehead against the glass.

  ‘I couldn’t ask Caroline, she was long dead and so was Frank Leeson. There was nothing I could do about it. I put it from my mind.’

  She traced the progress of a raindrop down the windowpane with her finger.

  ‘No, of course it wasn’t true,’ she said. ‘How could it have been? It’s unthinkable that a person of authority would really do something like that. Mr Leeson was the headmaster, for goodness’ sake! He was on the village committee. He was a member of the local education board. He used to give inspirational talks to the Women’s Institute. He was treasurer of the Church of England Headmasters’ Association. He wouldn’t … he would never … oh dear God, Amy, a person like him simply would not conceive such a thing!’

  We looked at one another. I could see the exact pale colour of Julia’s eyes, the tiny dark rim around her pupils, the flecking of the bluey colour over the pale aquamarine. I could see the colour and I could see my doubt reflected in Julia. For a few moments neither of us spoke; I am sure the same thoughts were going through our separate minds.

  ‘I can’t bear to think of it,’ Julia said eventually. ‘Caroline was always in trouble. She was always sitting outside that man’s office, she and her sidekick, Susan Pettigrew. What if it was true? If he made her do that, if he humiliated her like that, might that not explain some of her subsequent confusion? Her hatred of authority?’

  I took hold of her hand.

  ‘If it was true,’ Julia whispered, ‘then it went on for years and nobody did anything to protect her, or the others. Nobody helped her; she had nobody to turn to. Nobody.’

  The two of us sat together, in silence. The rain fell outside. It fell into the reservoir and it fell on to the hills. It streamed down the windows of Reservoir Cottage. It fell on to the church, on to the churchyard. It soaked into the earth that lay above the lonely grave of Caroline Cummings and through the white marble chippings that covered the final resting-place of Jean Aldridge. It ran down the windows of the village school and was carried away by the guttering into the drains, and the drains took it down to the lake and all the new water became part of the old, part of the reservoir, part of the valley.

  ‘Fetch Daniel,’ Julia said. ‘Fetch him now, Amy. Tell him to open the trunk. We need to know what’s inside.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  I PUT ON my coat and went to find Daniel. I saw him, from a distance, on the other side of the upper field. He was blurred by the rain and at least a hundred sheep were between us, the animals streaming towards me like a force of nature, like water running downhill. The tricolour collie was herding them. I stepped sideways, to be out of their way, and I waited as they ran past and were funnelled through the gate. The collie’s ears were flat back against her head; she was panting, stressed – she did not seem to notice me.

  Daniel followed after the sheep. He came straight over to me, took my face in his hands and kissed me deeply.

/>   ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Why are you here and all out of breath?’

  ‘I’ve been running. I needed to find you. Can you come to the cottage?’

  ‘I was going to pick up the paint this afternoon and drop it by later.’

  ‘Julia wants you to come now. She’s desperate to open the trunk that was in the shed.’

  ‘I need to get the ewes penned, Amy. If I’m not ready when the wagon comes we’ll end up sending the wrong sheep away.’

  ‘I know, but—’

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can, as soon as I’ve finished this. That’s the quickest I can be. The wagon will be here in an hour. I’ll come straight after that.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Yes, that’ll be fine. Thank you.’

  Daniel put his arm around my shoulders. ‘Walk back up the hill with me. I’ll show you something.’

  We trudged up together towards the sheep, which were huddling together, eyeing us suspiciously from the higher ground. When we reached a rocky outcrop, Daniel turned me around so I was looking back towards the valley. From where we stood, there was an excellent view of Fairlawn, the house standing proud in its gardens. The lodge, behind, was obscured by the skeleton trees.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said.

  ‘I always loved this view.’

  ‘I love it too.’

  ‘And one day,’ Daniel said, ‘all of this will be ours.’

  ‘Ours?’

  ‘We could live there, you and I, if you’d like to.’

  ‘I think I would like to.’

  ‘There would be room for plenty of children.’

  ‘Then we should make sure plenty of children lived there.’

  We smiled at one another.

  ‘What about your father?’ I asked.

  ‘He’ll come round to the idea,’ Daniel said.

  I lifted my face up and Daniel leaned down to kiss me. I closed my eyes so that the rain would not fall into them. While we were kissing there was a call from the direction of the lane. Daniel’s father and another man were standing by the pens at the top of the field, by the gate.

  Daniel acknowledged the men with a wave.

  ‘Amy, my darling, I’ve got to go. I’ll be round at the cottage later, as soon as I can.’

  ‘OK.’

  I turned and walked away from him, back to the entrance of the field and then on through the village. And that’s when I saw Susan Pettigrew. She was carrying a shopping basket and she was heading towards the vicarage.

  I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing. I went after her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  I HAD NEVER been to the vicarage before. It was a tidy house of modest size. There was nothing grand or ostentatious about it and the exterior, at least, was masculine in its austerity – a concreted front garden, a couple of ugly pots with equally ugly, spiky bushes growing out of them. I had seen Susan go inside only a few minutes earlier, but she took a long time opening the door to me. When she did, she peered around the edge with suspicion.

  ‘My father is out,’ she said.

  ‘Good. It’s you I want to see.’

  ‘I haven’t done nothing wrong,’ Susan said.

  ‘I know you haven’t,’ I said. ‘I just want to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About your friend Caroline.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to let anyone in when my father isn’t here. Especially not strangers.’

  ‘But you know me,’ I said. ‘I’m not a stranger.’

  Susan hesitated still. I should have stuck up for her the last time I saw her, I thought. She doesn’t trust me.

  ‘Where is your father?’ I asked gently.

  ‘At Sunnyvale. They’re getting ready for the concert this evening. But he’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Please, Susan, let me in. I’ll be ever so quick. And if your father comes back while I’m here I’ll tell him it was my fault.’

  ‘He’ll say it was mine for letting you in.’

  ‘Then I’ll make sure he doesn’t see me. I promise I won’t let you get into trouble again.’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘Please,’ I said.

  She opened the door reluctantly and I stepped into a gloomy hallway lined with bookcases and dark, religious images. The inside of the vicarage smelled of cauliflower and Vim scouring powder.

  ‘We’d best go into the kitchen,’ Susan said, ‘then we’ll see him coming.’

  She was not, I realized, as simple as she made out.

  She showed me into a square, joyless room. The cupboards, the cooker and the sink were old and shabby and there was no colour in the room, but everything was clean. The shopping basket was on the counter and ingredients were laid out beside the cooker for a meal: bread, potatoes, onions, a packet of meat. A huge twin-tub washing machine was rattling in one corner, and there was a mangle beside it. Susan shuffled forward and picked a bundle of parish newsletters off one of the chairs, gesturing that I should sit there. She sat in the opposite chair and looked at her lap and twisted the fingers of her hands together, as if she were waiting for an accusation. I didn’t know how to start to ask her the questions I wanted to ask. I didn’t want to alarm her by being too direct and I didn’t want to upset her by bringing back memories she’d probably spent a lifetime suppressing. So I dithered and she waited and the silence became uncomfortable.

  ‘I have heard some things about Caroline,’ I said finally, ‘and I don’t know what to believe.’

  Susan’s cheeks coloured slightly, but she did not move.

  ‘You’ve tried to tell me about her, haven’t you?’ I asked. ‘You’ve tried but other people keep stopping you.’

  The woman shrugged. She was wearing a housecoat over an awful, beige-brown jumper with sweat stains under the arms, and those same ugly trousers I’d seen her in before.

  ‘It’s the past. It’s best forgotten,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Well, that’s what everyone says, even Julia, but I’m not sure that that’s right. What do you think, Susan?’

  She shrugged again. The washing machine slowed and began a rhythmic sloshing. The smell of detergent in the room was making it hard to think straight.

  I looked at my watch. The minutes were going by.

  ‘I know what the schoolteacher made you do,’ I said, ‘when he was punishing you.’

  In a heartbeat a deep red flush spread from Susan’s neckline to her jaw and her cheeks. She coloured so violently that I was afraid for her. The flush had told me everything I needed to know. What Julia had heard was true. Anger rushed up through me like boiling water through a geyser. I had to fight to contain it. Carefully, I breathed, counting the breaths in and out, and when I could trust my voice to be calm, I asked, ‘Have you ever mentioned this to anyone?’

  Susan moved her head very slightly to the left, and then back to the right.

  ‘Frank Leeson was a wicked man,’ I said. ‘You were not bad children – he was the one who should have been punished.’

  Still Susan looked down. She would not meet my eye.

  ‘The thing is,’ I went on, ‘the other things I’ve heard about Caroline – most of them are bad. Perhaps some are true. I don’t know. You are the only person in this village I can trust to tell the truth.’

  Susan twisted her hands together. The washing machine rattled and clanked.

  ‘My father will be home in a minute,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’re afraid to speak out, aren’t you? Well then, how about I tell you what I know about Caroline and you tell me if I get anything wrong.’

  She said nothing. I took that as acquiescence.

  ‘OK then. I know that Caroline was your friend.’

  Silence.

  ‘Your best friend. And that you two were inseparable. You did everything together.’

  ‘Inseparable,’ Susan repeated softly.

  ‘And that people – adults – weren’t always kind
to you.’

  Silence.

  ‘So you grew up, and after you left school I assume you went to work at the asylum, as it was then.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Caroline found a job working as a maid for Mrs Aldridge at Fairlawn House.’

  ‘Yes. The committee found the jobs for us.’

  ‘The committee?’

  ‘Yes.’ Susan nodded more emphatically.

  I thought about this for the briefest moment and of course it made sense. The teacher, the doctor, the vicar and the politician – between them they would have the authority to slot the village’s difficult-to-employ young people into available roles.

  ‘Did you know Mr and Mrs Aldridge?’ I asked Susan.

  Silence again.

  ‘Robert was an awful lot younger than his wife, wasn’t he? Some people thought it was a marriage of convenience. Mrs Aldridge needed a husband from a respectable family and Mr Aldridge needed money.’

  ‘And Sir George Debeger was going to help Mr Aldridge get into politics,’ Susan added.

  ‘Did he want to be a politician?’

  ‘Honour thy father and mother.’

  ‘He was told that’s what he had to do?’

  Silence. A bird flew across the window, casting a shadow into the room. The movement made Susan glance towards the back door. I looked too, but there was nobody out there. The washing machine sloshed. I tried to get to the point.

  ‘Caroline didn’t get on with Mrs Aldridge, did she?’

  ‘She said she was mean.’

  ‘But Caroline would say that, wouldn’t she?’

  Susan looked up then. ‘It wasn’t just Caroline who didn’t like Mrs Aldridge. Hardly anyone minded when she died. They all came to the funeral and stood around the grave, but it was only her parents as was crying, Sir George and Lady Debeger. And the baby. The baby cried the whole time. Poor little mite.’ She looked again towards the door and then up at the clock. ‘You have to go now.’

  I leaned towards her, made her look at me.

  ‘Tell me one more thing, Susan. Tell me what happened on the dam the day Jean Aldridge died. You said it was an accident.’

  ‘Father will be home any minute.’

  ‘What happened on the dam, Susan?’