A Grave Inheritance

by Renshaw, Anne

  Amelia opened the door to the kitchen and then went back to her car. Grace and Jake carried in a few boxes then waited in the kitchen. Amelia brought in a cardboard box containing a kettle, tea bags, mugs and a packet of digestive biscuits. Gwyneth had made sandwiches for their lunch and Grace and Jake dived in.

  ‘We need milk,’ Grace said, through a mouthful of corned beef and pickle.

  ‘I’ve brought dried milk, that will have to do for now.’ Amelia put a tin on the worktop.

  With Jake’s help all the furniture and boxes were soon unloaded and distributed to the various rooms. After promising faithfully to return the van intact to the hire company the following day, Jake waved goodbye and drove off. Completely worn out, Amelia and Grace made up their beds with fresh linen and immediately collapsed on them.

  ***

  As tired as Grace was, her body exhausted, her mind was in overdrive. Unable to sleep and without the luxury of a clock she guessed the time to be about midnight. Acutely aware of every creak and groan as the cottage settled for the night, Grace raised herself on her elbows, listening. For the first time she began to have doubts and wished she’d taken the time to find out more about Woodbury and its inhabitants. Fed up, she put on her slippers and feeling her way, crossed the gloomy landing to the bathroom. Going back to her bedroom a few minutes later, she found the landing floodlit and the arched leaded window forming a stencil on the wall. Grace rested her forearms on the window’s deep sill and looked out. Chain-linked stars surrounded the moon, a pearl pendant in a velvety sky. In the lambent light the pebble path appeared gold, the trees and shrubs tinged silver, a magical jungle.

  A shadow, a moving shadow, caught Grace’s eye and she pressed her face closer to the glass. Someone was below her in the garden. Without thinking of possible danger or stopping to put on her coat, Grace raced down the stairs. Heedless of her thin slippers she ran through the kitchen into the conservatory and unlocking the outside door, raced out of the house. Up ahead, a few metres away, stood a young girl of about fifteen or sixteen. She was dressed in a long old-fashioned dress, with a multi-coloured shawl wrapped around her shoulders. In her arms, folded into the shawl, she held a tiny baby; Grace could just see the top of its head. The luminous moon gave the girl’s skin a waxy tone and tinged her small face blue.

  ‘Hello. What are you doing here?’ Grace said, stepping forward.

  The girl glanced briefly in Grace’s direction then pulling her shawl more tightly around her, she turned and hurried off towards the trees. Grace began to follow, then froze. Beside a tree, in its shadow, was a woman waiting for the girl. The woman appeared unnaturally tall, but as Grace took in her appearance, a ragged coat and boots that looked too big, it was to the woman’s face that her eyes were drawn. A deep scar began above her left eye; it skimmed across her eyebrow and curved down the side of her face to rest on the apple of her cheek.

  Aware of Grace’s scrutiny, the woman inclined her head and stared back, her eyes shimmering in deep hollows. She lifted her arm and placed it protectively around the young girl’s shoulders, drawing her back into the shadows.

  Back in the house Grace locked the conservatory door behind her and backed away from it. Like an action replay, the image of the girl and woman melting into the trees replayed itself over and over in Grace’s mind. She stood and watched the door, waiting to see if the handle turned, and knew if it did she would scream.

  Chapter 3

  The next day, Grace walked to Woodbury, needing to get out of the cottage and have time to think. She walked for ten minutes to the end of Marsh Lane then along a country road. She began to think she’d come the wrong way, when the road curved sharply and Grace saw buildings. Woodbury centre was literally one street with a scattering of shops on either side. One window displayed bread and cakes. A red pillar box stood outside a newsagent-cum-post office and further on an Eight till Late grocery shop also sold lottery tickets and was licensed for alcohol. Along the road she saw a chemist’s sign. A maroon metal sign hung over the door of a semi, advertising a doctors’ surgery. Grace noticed hairdryers and washbasins, visible through the window of the other half of the house: a hairdresser’s aptly named Hair Flair.

  The Eight till Late catered for everything and Grace walked out ten minutes later with two carrier bags full of food. Passing the display of cream cakes and iced buns in the bread shop window Grace decided they needed a treat so, having both hands full, she backed into the shop, opening the door with her bottom. A bell jingled loudly above her head and the queue of customers turned as one as she joined them.

  Grace waited patiently while the solitary shop assistant behind the counter served each person, taking her time to ask after family or friends. Grace came to the conclusion the woman was naturally nosy. Her ferrety features surely indicated it. The woman’s steel grey hair, lacquered within an inch of its life, resembled a German helmet and Grace wondered if the woman frequented Hair Flair. Definitely in need of a makeover, Grace decided, observing the teal-coloured sweater and matching tartan kilt, including safely pin.

  At last it was Grace’s turn to be served. She chose two chocolate éclairs and attempting to be friendly said, ‘Hello, I’m Grace. My sister and I have just moved to Woodbury.’

  ‘I’m Mrs Brownlow, the owner, pleased to meet you.’ Mrs Brownlow smiled and waved her arm round the shop, encompassing all she owned. ‘Mr Brownlow and our two sons work in the bakery at the back. My daughter-in-law, Sandra, and I run the shop. Sandra’s expecting our first grandchild,’ she added proudly, ‘so only works part time just now.’ A slight Scottish accent explained the tartan.

  ‘It’s a family business then; how nice.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Brownlow said smugly. ‘Moved into the new housing estate then, have you?’ she enquired.

  ‘No, we live on Marsh Lane. Primrose Cottage, perhaps you know it.’

  Mrs Brownlow paused midway between putting the éclairs into a paper bag. She looked at Grace more thoroughly, curiosity aroused. ‘I didn’t know Primrose Cottage was for sale,’ she stated, sounding a little put out.

  ‘Oh, we didn’t buy it,’ Grace answered, and then noticing the woman’s confusion she started to explain. Before Grace could speak, Mrs Brownlow interrupted.

  ‘You’re renting it, then?’ This explanation seemed more agreeable and the woman’s eyebrows relaxed and settled in thick straight lines above her eyes. She put the paper bag now containing the cakes down onto the counter. Seeing Grace’s hesitation she leaned forward, eyebrows aquiver. ‘Don’t tell me you’re squatters.’

  ‘No, of course we’re not. We inherited the cottage,’ Grace replied indignantly, self-consciously aware she was wearing the crinkled denim jeans and shirt she’d worn the previous day.

  Mrs Brownlow straightened and imperceptibly moved away from the counter, frown deepening. Eyes two steel glints, she enquired. ‘Your name’s not Farrell, is it?’

  ‘Yes. You probably knew my great aunt Lillian,’ Grace said optimistically.

  Mrs Brownlow sniffed, finished wrapping the cakes and then handed them over to Grace, who still waited for a reply. None came and Grace paid for the cakes and left.

  Outside, Grace crossed the road and sat on a bench placed under the window of the doctors’ surgery, contemplating Mrs Brownlow’s attitude. The minute she’d known her surname was Farrell the woman had not uttered another word to her, and although she’d not ordered Grace out of her shop, Grace felt as though she’d been seen off with a flea in her ear. Five minutes later, still feeling confused, the sound of a motorbike alerted her. Grace perked up, thinking Jake had decided to visit them again. She stood and waved tentatively as the rider drew nearer.

  The motorbike rider changed down the gears quickly to slow down and waved back. Grace saw her own distorted reflection in his dark visor and sensed the rider weighing her up. He could be an alien for all I know, she thought, as the sun’s rays bounced off his silver-coloured helmet and hurt her eyes. His booted toe touche
d down briefly onto the pavement, and then with a few quick revs he rode off down the road. Feeling thwarted that it wasn’t, Jake, Grace sat down again, and then saw that an elderly woman had sat down on the bench too. Grace shifted her carrier bags to give the woman more leg room.

  ‘That’s my grandson,’ the woman said, pointing after the man on the motorbike.

  ‘I mistook him for a friend of mine,’ Grace explained to cover her embarrassment.

  ‘You’ve moved into Primrose Cottage then,’ the woman stated, nodding at Grace.

  ‘That’s right, yesterday. I’ve been doing necessary food shopping.’ Grace indicated the carrier bags and assumed the woman had overhead her conversation with Mrs Brownlow.

  ‘Just you and your sister, I know. Not much escapes my old eyes, dear.’

  The woman’s eyes, Grace noticed, were an ice blue and magnified behind thick lenses in large spectacles. Although deep crow’s feet flared and etched her cheeks, her eyes were youthful and merry, and while the woman’s plump cheeks were not wrinkle free, they were in stark contrast to her wrinkled neck.

  ‘The cottage used to belong to our great aunt, Lillian Farrell. Perhaps you knew her?’ Grace waited tentatively for a reaction to the name Farrell.

  The woman eyed Grace up and down. ‘Are your parents with you?’

  ‘No, unfortunately they have passed away,’ Grace said quietly, taken aback by the woman’s directness.

  ‘Oh!’ The woman considered this for a moment. ‘You inherited Lillian’s cottage you say?’ She stopped speaking and looked at Grace enquiringly. Grace nodded. ‘Then you and your sister must be Harry’s offspring. He’s dead too then,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

  ‘He was our grandfather. Did you know Lillian?’ The woman nodded in response.

  Thrilled to have found someone who knew her relatives, Grace warmed to her. ‘I suppose you were too young to know her parents, but what about Harry my grandfather, did you know him well?’

  ‘I never met Harry, or the rest of them,’ she replied, her mouth looking as though she’d tasted something sour.

  Disappointed, but determined to find out more, Grace enquired, ‘Have you always lived in Woodbury?’

  ‘I’ve lived and worked in Woodbury all my life. I’m in Tapscott Manor Nursing Home now.’

  Before Grace could ask more, a woman in a dark blue nurse’s uniform marched up to them. ‘There you are, Doreen. I’ve been worried out of my mind. I won’t take you shopping again if you keep wandering off.’ The nurse took in Grace’s and Doreen’s closeness and deeming an apology necessary, she said, ‘Sorry’, and shook her head at Grace. ‘Come along, Doreen, let’s get you back.’

  ‘We’ve been chatting,’ Grace said, wishing the nurse hadn’t arrived just then. She turned to the woman she now knew as Doreen. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again.’

  Doreen’s eyes, kind a few moments ago, stared back and seemed full of malice, her smile now a sneer. Grace slowly withdrew her hand while Doreen continued to stare at Grace as if committing every detail of her face to memory. Then she stood and straightened her coat and, ignoring Grace, she followed the nurse towards a nearby car. ‘All right, don’t fuss me,’ Doreen told the nurse.

  Perturbed, Grace picked up her shopping bags and began the long walk home.

  Chapter 4

  Amelia wandered into the conservatory and watched Grace working in the garden, seemingly nonstop since her return from Woodbury. Dressed in baggy jeans and a pale grey sleeveless tee shirt, and with her ponytail poking out of the opening at the back of a baseball cap, she looked like a boy. Stout leather walking boots and their father’s old leather gloves, worn to protect her hands, helped support the illusion. Amelia saw something of their late mother in her posture, the same worried tenseness in her hunched shoulders. Grace looked pale and tired. Amelia had taken it for granted that Grace would sort out the garden, but on reflection Amelia wondered now if it was too much for her. She tapped on the window and called out, ‘Ready for a cup of tea yet?’

  Grace scraped her boots on a rough doormat by the step, took them off and left them by the door, then came into the kitchen. After giving her hands a scrub in the kitchen sink she plonked herself at the table, glad to be sitting down.

  ‘I’ve made sandwiches,’ Amelia said and set about making tea. Grace leaned back in the chair and raised her arms to stretch, then relaxing her shoulders she rested her elbows on the table, chin in one hand. ‘Did you notice there was a full moon last night?’ she asked, after a minute or so had passed.

  ‘No, I slept like a log.’ Amelia lifted cling film from a plate of sandwiches and set it in front of Grace. Grace picked up a sandwich and then put it back down again.

  ‘Amelia …’ Grace said and then stopped, unsure how to continue.

  Amelia sat down and, still concerned by her sister’s pallor, said, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you feel well?’

  ‘I kept hearing noises when I was in bed last night. I couldn’t get to sleep.’

  ‘The cottage is old. It is bound to have creaks and groans. You’ll get used to it in time,’ Amelia reassured Grace.

  ‘I know.’ Grace watched her sister tucking into her sandwiches, still unable to eat her own. ‘I saw someone in the garden last night. It was a young girl with a baby, I think. I thought she was lost and on her own, but then I saw a woman waiting for her by the trees.’ Grace waited for Amelia’s reaction.

  ‘You were probably dreaming,’ Amelia responded.

  ‘I just told you I couldn’t sleep. I definitely wasn’t dreaming,’ Grace replied.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry if I sound a tad sceptical but you do have an overactive imagination. As for this girl and woman you say you saw, well, it could have been shadows from the bushes or trees,’ Amelia said cynically, shaking her head.

  Grace knew this wasn’t the case and wished her sister wasn’t so contemptuous. She took a bite of the sandwich and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. After a minute she spoke again. ‘I went outside. I spoke to the girl and then noticed the woman.’

  ‘Okay, perhaps they were gypsies then. Maybe there is a site nearby. We’ll ask around and find out,’ Amelia conceded.

  Grace thought about this, and then dismissed the idea. ‘No, I think our garden is haunted, maybe the cottage too.’

  ‘Oh! For goodness sake,’ Amelia said, irritated, willing herself not to shiver. She didn’t want ghosts in her garden. All she wanted was peace and quiet to get on with her life. The boiling kettle switched itself off and she poured hot water into the teapot. Behind her Grace fetched milk from the refrigerator.

  ‘I didn’t imagine them,’ Grace emphasised.

  ‘But you won’t agree they could have been gypsies, oh no. You’re telling me we’ve got not one, mind you, but two ghosts, a girl and a woman intent on haunting us. This assumption is based on the fact you saw something in the garden in the middle of the night. It’s ridiculous. I suppose you’ll be telling me next you’ve found a skeleton in one of the cupboards.’ Amelia said, trying hard to sound indifferent but failing miserably.

  Grace gripped the edge of the chair. Her hair had worked itself loose from an elasticated ribbon and long wisps played around her ears and neck. A shaft of sunlight piercing the window skimmed Grace’s shoulder and fell on a patch of flowers embroidered on the tablecloth. Minute particles swirled in the sunbeam creating a transparency to Grace’s skin. Amelia thought her sister looked a little like a ghost herself at that moment. Vexed, she picked up the teapot and began to pour. ‘It’s ludicrous,’ she said.

  Grace spoke quietly. ‘I have found something. Not in a cupboard but in the garden and you won’t be so flippant when you see what it is.’ The teapot landed heavily onto the table and while Amelia frantically mopped up the spill, Grace pulled on her boots. ‘Come on, I’ll show you,’ she said, and without giving Amelia time to object, Grace headed outside towards the trees.

  Amelia followed, still wearing her sandals, and approached the trees with trep
idation. A slight breeze rustled branches over her head and skipped dried leaves around her ankles. Pushing her way through a pile of discarded brambles she called out to Grace, ‘Where the hell are you?’ From behind a tree a few yards away Grace’s face emerged. Her hand beckoned Amelia to join her. Amelia’s sandals sank deep into soft soil which found its way under the soles of her feet. Arthritic roots stuck up out of the ground attempting to trip her up, and she was so intent on keeping upright that she failed to avoid a clump of nettles and a scattering of blisters appeared on her arm where it had brushed against them. She found Grace looking at a gravestone propped up against a tree, its surface tinged green with age and moss. Grace had already scraped away accumulated dirt and grime to reveal a crudely chiselled out initial, name and date. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, Amelia read the inscription.

  A Farrell – 1912

  Chapter 5

  After the initial shock had worn off, Amelia’s common sense set in. The gravestone had her initial and surname carved into it, but the date dismissed any possibility it had anything to do with her, unless it was a ghoulish joke. Neither was she convinced a body was buried underneath it, as Grace supposed. That was just too gruesome to contemplate. She’d made a pot of coffee hoping the caffeine would jolt Grace out of her apathy, but it hadn’t. Grace stared into space, sipping her coffee robotically. Amelia’s attempts at conversation were met with a brick wall and after about ten minutes, the silence began to unnerve Amelia. Nevertheless she kept on trying. ‘Shall we go for a walk to St Martin’s Church and check out the cemetery, find out where great aunt Lillian is buried?’ she suggested. Thankfully this appealed to Grace, and motivated into doing something positive, her spirits lifted.

  During their walk the sun gradually dipped west, creating an apricot-coloured filling between meringue-like clouds. At the church gate, shadows from sycamore and silver birch cast filigree patterns on the grass verge and path, and an eerie stillness freeze-framed the scene.