by M K Jones
How stern and serious the children looked. Alice and Essy had been such happy, boisterous children that it had been difficult for them to pose for the length of time that it had taken the photographer to set up his camera equipment and instruct the children in how to comport themselves. It had been such a special occasion, organised by Richard Robinson before he temporarily left the district. Unprecedented, in fact. The photograph was to be displayed in the school entrance, and copies were to be developed from additional plates for parents who were willing to pay.
Several parents, including Ruth, had gone along to help keep order. The first two rows of children were seated, being mostly the infants and junior girls. The older boys stood in two rows behind.
The photograph was taken in front of the school door. It was a very cold winter day and a few of the smaller infants cried because of the cold, so were allowed to keep their coats on. William was one of them. Ruth smiled softly at his scowling face in the front row, his cold hands shoved deep into his pockets.
Next to William was Bessie Morris’s younger daughter, Sara, holding a pendant hanging from her neck. Where was the elder daughter? Ruth searched the rows of faces and found Elsie Morris, at the far end of the row above Alice and Essy. The photograph had worn after so many years in storage and Elsie’s face was almost obliterated. But she was still distinguishable by her long wavy hair tied with a ribbon and the caped coat that she was so proud of and had refused to take off for the photograph. She examined each of the children’s faces, trying to remember names. But her eyes flicked back every few seconds to Alice and Essy. She hoped that Mrs Ellis would be alert enough to recognise Essy in the photograph tomorrow.
Glancing one more time before she put the photograph away, her attention was attracted by a figure standing at the end of the back row, barely taller than the children. Ruth looked hard at the face of the school teacher, Miss Eira Probert. At that moment something clicked into place, something that caused Ruth to speak out loud in amazement.
“It cannot be!”
She glanced up, but there was no response to her exclamation, so she returned to Eira Probert. The face and form were exactly as she remembered: short and wide, round shouldered, lightish hair pinned back tightly and held in a bun at the back of her head, almond-shaped eyes, open wide in that unnerving, unblinking stare, the small, thin-lipped mouth, and almost no chin.
Exactly as Ruth remembered from twenty-six years ago, and exactly as she had looked when Ruth had glimpsed her in the crowd at John’s funeral just three days earlier. Watching. But how could that be? Miss Probert must have been in her mid-forties back then, so she should be be around seventy years old now. But the face at the funeral was that of a forty-year-old.
Ruth stared at the picture before her, remembering the lizard-like eyes that once had been so close to hers.
“She was always watching us,” she thought suddenly. “I couldn’t see it then, but whenever we were within her view, she watched us.”
Ruth stood up hurriedly and put the photograph into the drawer of the dresser. She felt a tremor of fear. On the same day, she saw Alice just as she had looked when she disappeared, and the schoolteacher, also unchanged. Was this also the result of her imagination? But she hadn’t thought about Eira Probert for many years. Why would she have imagined her face at the funeral, of all people?
Overwhelmed, Ruth knew that she couldn’t keep it to herself. She would go to visit John’s grave the following day where she might reflect quietly and talk to him. She could expect few other allies. But there were two people she trusted who would at least listen to her. Richard Robinson, of course. She would see him tomorrow. And her sister, Mary Anne, who had been such a great support when Alice had disappeared. Mary Anne had moved back to the family in Carmarthen, and Ruth decided to write to her immediately.
Mary Anne had been a great favourite of Alice. That brought her back to Alice again and in her mind she saw the events of that last morning, when Alice had gone to school without looking back, never to return. The memory was too much and her emotion released and Ruth wept. Looking out of the window she caught her reflection, but was startled to see that the reflection staring back at her, with a puzzled expression, was not crying at all.
Thirteen
May 2015
“Well, are you going to say anything, or just sit there staring at me?” the woman demanded at Maggie.
“I’m going to do both,” replied Maggie, smiling at the woman, “but I do require that you listen and not interrupt until I’m ready for you to speak.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up into her elaborate coiffure. She was evidently not used to this level of impertinence. Her carmine-rouged mouth opened, then pursed and she was on the point of making a cutting remark, thought twice and simply barked “OK”.
It didn’t take Maggie long to explain what she knew of the history of John Jones and outline her problem, keeping it precise and factual.
“Let me see your chart. You do have a chart?”
“Not quite,” she replied. “I’ve drawn something up myself. I’ve put in everything that I think could be useful. I’m afraid it’s a bit crowded, but here it is.” She fumbled around in her bag, found her file and took out a scruffy page.
The woman reached across to take the paper, and immediately began to frown. Maggie waited.
“Get a program,” the woman said suddenly and without even looking up from the paper.
“Pardon me?”
“A program, a family tree maker. There are lots on the market. You can pick one up anywhere. Makes it a lot easier to read what’s going on here.”
She continued to stare at the sheet of paper, the little woman’s lips moving silently as she traced her way through the chart, her head moving from side to side as she asked herself silent questions. Then her head shot up to look at Maggie, a knowing look, accompanied by a wide smile.
“Missing child – maybe more than one.” Her forefinger stabbed at a spot on the page.
Maggie leaned forwards to look at the spot under the finger and felt a surge of excitement and anxiety. The missing child was on John and Ruth’s line, right at the beginning. This made perfect, if worrying, sense.
“What made you realise that?”
“These two here were married in 1871, yes?” Maggie nodded. “This first child, William, was born in 1875. Not possible, you must see that.” Maggie shook her head, her expression still puzzled. The woman looked exasperated. She sighed and rolled her eyes in a way that told Maggie that this level of ignorance was not unusual to her.
“If you think they were prudish about sex, think again. I could tell you some stories that would make your eyes pop. So, 1871, just married, no contraception. Nine, maybe ten months, maximum one year – baby!”
Looking at the chart and all of the other dates, the gap jumped out at Maggie, so much so that she was amazed that she hadn’t seen it herself.
“Probably died early.” She returned to the chart.
“I don’t think so,” Maggie said quietly. The woman looked up.
“Something is happening.” It wasn’t a question, even a hint. It was a statement of absolute fact.
“Yes. I’m not sure what, but there have been some strange… conversations with… with a member of my family. This must all sound very silly.”
“No. It happens. Sometimes, not often.”
“What?” Maggie found that she was tugging at the strands of hair that hung at her neck, so she let go and placed her arms on the table. “What happens? Please, I need to know.”
She was relieved to see the woman’s expression changing. She was no longer bored, cynical or angry. Her eyes had softened and widened slightly with genuine interest, although her expression remained grim as she looked across the table. It seemed to Maggie that she was trying to make up her mind about something. Then she slowly reached out across the table, her hand outstretched. Maggie took her hand obediently.
“My name is Zelah Trevear. Would y
ou care to join me for coffee?”
Minutes later they were seated in the cafe at the entrance to the library, each with a latte. Zelah also had a cream slice that she began to eat as soon as she sat down. Maggie noticed that a number of the occupants of the cafe left when Zelah arrived.
“Your name, Trevear, is it Cornish?”
“Yes.” The reply invited no hint of encouragement to continue, but Maggie went on, anyway.
“I thought I recognised it. There’s a place called Trevear in southern Cornwall. I love the place. I take my children there every year.” She smiled at Zelah, who just looked back at her.
“Hate it. Never go there.” She continued to devour her cake. Zelah settled herself in the chair, then picked up her cup, which she cradled with both hands and jutted her chin forwards at Maggie. “So, where shall we start?”
OK. I’ve given you the bare historical facts that were all fairly straightforward. Now for the stuff between the lines.”
She started by giving Zelah a brief summary of her own history of how she had come to buy the house, which she felt was relevant to what coming next. She was about to continue the story when Zelah, who had begun shuffling in her chair, interrupted abruptly. “What’s your life history got to do with it?”
Stung, Maggie decided to let her have it right back. “I asked that you listen. You agreed. Let me finish!”
“Sorry,” muttered Zelah. “I’m not very patient.”
Maggie went on to explain how she had searched for the grave, and found the children, and then found John and Ruth’s grave, and subsequently discovered that she had actually bought her own great-grandfather’s house. This time there was no interruption. Then she told Zelah about Alice’s belief that she had seen a funeral and seemed to make a connection with a girl at the funeral, but that Maggie had not seen anything there.
She could see that Zelah’s gaze was becoming more intense. She occasionally nodded her head and grunted as she acknowledged each new piece of information. Maggie then spoke about her daughter’s disturbed dreams of the past week, calling out what sounded like a name. “I thought it was Izzie, but now I think it might be Ezzy or Essy.”
“Why?”
“Because this morning I discovered that a girl called Esme Ellis accidentally drowned in May 1883. I saw Esme’s grave when I was searching and it’s exactly where Alice said she saw the funeral. And today I also found out that Esme’s father was working as a farm labourer for my great-grandfather John when Esme’s accident happened. I think Ezzy may be short for Esme.”
Maggie paused. Zelah was completely still. “I’m sorry,” Maggie said tentatively, “am I being foolish to be concerned?”
“Depends on the part you’ve left out, doesn’t it?”
Maggie opened her mouth, hesitated, then asked, “What do you mean?”
Zelah sat upright in her chair, bristling. “You seem like a decent woman. You want… no, you need my help. I’m not fazed by what you’ve told me, not at all, but if you don’t want me to walk away now, tell me the rest. And don’t fumble around. I accept everything you say, so you don’t need to apologise. There’s nothing foolish or crazy about any of this. It’s very serious and quite feasible. So you need to tell me everything, even the things you don’t think are relevant, the things that may seem trivial, probably aren’t at all.”
Maggie smiled with relief at being taken seriously, but now she wasn’t sure what to say next. If she felt that it was all crazy what did this say about the woman opposite her who believed every word without question? Was she crazy too? “Absolutely, she is!” Maggie thought and she grinned.
“What are you smiling at?”
“You!”
Zelah laughed out loud. It was a great bellow of laughter that caused the woman serving at the counter to look over at them.
“Fair enough. You aren’t put off by me?”
“No. Not yet.”
She was surprised to see that the woman’s small face briefly screwed up, and Maggie thought that she detected wistfulness in the sharp features. It didn’t last long.
“Most people don’t like me. They think I’m rude.”
“You are,” Maggie responded. “But that’s your choice. Are you always so feisty?”
“I say what I’m thinking. I don’t really stop to consider the reaction. Never learned how not to do it like that. Too late to change now.”
Maggie didn’t agree, but kept that to herself.
“You said ‘it happens’ earlier. Now I’ve told you everything, please tell me what you meant.”
Zelah replied slowly, “I believe in… a theory.”
“Does it fit what I’ve described?”
“Yes, I think so.” She hesitated for a moment. “I think that our physical inheritance from our ancestors doesn’t just stop at hair and eye colour, and temperament. I believe that we can inherit memories.”
“What, you mean genetically”?
“Yes.” There was a short pause. “Scoff all you like!”
“I’m not scoffing. But I’ve never heard anyone propose that before. Is there any science behind it?”
“There is some research. It’s very difficult to prove because the people we get these memories from are usually dead. Sometimes it lies dormant for generations. I think your daughter may have genetically inherited memories that were dormant until she came to live here. You may need to talk to her a little more. Find out what exactly she’s dreaming.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Maggie replied. “She isn’t unhappy and doesn’t seem to remember, so I’m reluctant to push it. I’m going to have to think about all of this.”
“Of course. But, in the meantime, if it’ll be all right with you, I’ll look for your missing baby. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“That would be amazing. Thank you.” Maggie checked the clock on the wall above the food counter and was surprised to see that they had been talking for almost an hour. “Damn, I’m going to be late collecting Alice. So, what happens next, Mrs Trevear?”
“What happens next is that you call me Zelah. Can you get back here this Thursday morning?”
Maggie thought quickly. She was supposed to meet Fiona but she could put her off. “Yes. How about around elevenish?”
“Best meet in here, not the library. Too many nosy parkers there. Do you have anything else we can get our teeth into? Any papers left to you, any documents?”
“Nothing, I’m afraid.” Maggie decided this was not the time to talk about the photograph. That could wait.
“Shame. Can’t be helped, I suppose. What about relatives? Anyone else in the family you can speak to?”
“No. It’s just me and my sister, who knows nothing about the family and isn’t interested anyway. My dad never bothered with any of his family, so I don’t know who they are. I expect there are some of them around, but with a name like Jones, I could be related to half the country!”
“No help at all,” said Zelah with a straight face, so Maggie couldn’t tell if she was angry or not. “What about that house of yours? Anything in the purchase documents?”
“Not that I remember, although I didn’t really look.”
But something about the house was nagging at Maggie. “Just a minute. There is something, possibly. There are some old - trunks I think they are, up in the attic. It’s a very long shot that they’d have been there since John and Ruth’s time, but I’ll take a look this evening.”
“Excellent.” Zelah stood up briskly and gave her hand to Maggie. “That’s a plan, then. I’ll see you here on Thursday. Here’s my card. There’s my telephone number, in case anything happens in the meantime that you want to talk about.” She turned and marched across the cafe and out through the doors, the clicking of her heels fading into the distance.
Fourteen
May 1883
As the first sign of morning crept over the mountain, Ruth slid down into her high-backed parlour chair. Her legs were shaking. She had paced around the hous
e throughout the night, stopping at intervals to open the front door and listen for any sound coming from the farmyard. Once, just after midnight, she’d thought that she had heard a noise and ran out into the yard. But after a few agitated minutes of intense listening, all she could discern had been the shuffling and grunting of the livestock. She’d retreated inside to resume her pacing.
John and the farm men had searched the surrounding farmland until the early hours of the morning. When the full moon disappeared behind heavy rainclouds and their flares were extinguished by the downpour, John accepted his helpers’ advice that there was nothing further he could do, save resting and starting again at first light. Before collapsing into bed he made Ruth promise to wake him early. She had already made some breakfast for him and put food and drink into packages for the men to take with them the following day.
But now she crept quietly up to the top of the staircase, into their bedroom, and softly called his name. He woke instantly, glanced up at her and then desperately out of the window. Without a word he got out of bed and began to dress. After Ruth checked that the children were still asleep, she went down to the kitchen where the first of the farm hands had arrived. To her surprise, Mrs Ellis was there, putting the kettle onto the hob to make tea for the men.
“Thank you, Gwen. There was no need for you to return so soon. And you, too Arthur. You must both be exhausted.”
Mr Ellis nodded his head curtly and turned to help his wife, who responded for them both.
“We would like to do whatever we can to help, Mrs Jones.” She added, “Alice and our Esme were such friends. I would like to be here, doing something. I have been unwell, but now my mother and our Gwenny are looking after the little ones.”
Ruth smiled at her, realising how hard it must have been to walk back into this house for the first time without her daughter. She put her hand on Gwen Ellis’s arm and, for a few seconds, the two women stood with their heads bowed.
John walked into the kitchen and began to speak with Arthur Ellis about where they should look, as three more farm hands arrived at the back door. Ruth invited them in and Gwen Ellis poured tea. Several more men appeared, whom John had evidently not been expecting.
