by Syd Moore
For who was she?
Norah Davenport was just a little widow, old, with as wrinkled dugs as Tiresias and baggy at the seams like another cat that had delighted children a long time ago. Not someone any right-minded feline might court for company. But then, she had begun to realise, these cats weren’t just your run-of-the-mill furry friends.
These cats were discerning.
These cats were hers.
It had taken a few months to work Sooty out, but eventually it was Mozart that had given Norah the clue. The Marriage of Figaro to be precise. For it had been her sister’s favourite. Black-haired, dark-eyed Lydia had always loved it so.
It was on the anniversary of Lydia’s birthday that the penny finally dropped.
In the evening Norah had got out the 78 to honour her sister, in a fashion. She had fixed herself a G and T, settled into her chair, and not noticed the cat staring in rapture at the old gramophone. Not at first. Not until she had flipped the side. Finally, when the needle clicked off she watched in amazement as Sooty twitched her tail and slinked into the garden, not remotely interested in anything else.
A few weeks later Snowy had trailed Sooty in through the door. Although, let’s be straight, this was in fact Snowy the first. For there were many that were to follow him. A regal puss with pink eyes and a tail that was brown at the tip, she recognised soon enough the spirit of her husband in him. Snowy liked to play Scrabble. Not with actual words, as David had done. But in cat form, now, he preferred to paw and play with the pieces. And that was enough for both of them.
After Snowy came Tabby, her mother, with an appetite for game – mostly of the pigeon variety. All slanty eyes and affection, Tabby would purr on her lap and sleep on her pillow, her tail stroking Norah ’s thinning hair, just as her mother had done years before.
Ginger was a Canadian airman she had met during the war. Wild, picky and mischievous, he’d had a thing for the Andrews Sisters which, post-mortem, expressed itself in a preference for Choosy cat food and an insistence that she didn’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but him.
There followed a steady stream: Grey-boy, an English teacher for whom she held great affection; Socks, a black cat with white legs so very like her departed cousin Oliver; Raj, her friendly neighbour who’d got run over the previous year. He’d come back as a beautiful Siamese who was very, very affectionate. Albert, on the other side of the cottage, went some time back in the eighties. He’d been a gardener. Now he was a cheeky stray. Fluffy was her father, with long whiskers and a penetrating glare. And she received regular visits from Tiger, Misty, Edward, Sukie, Oscar – too many sometimes to count. All her friends and family, returning.
When Snowy the Fourth had died she had been bereft and had to force herself into the night to dig him a decent grave. Though no more Snowys had come recently, she knew, at some point he would return.
Therefore it was really no surprise when, after the Queen’s speech and the pudding had gone down, she swivelled her eyes to the white shadow at the door.
It meowed loudly.
And Norah smiled.
Angling her weary bones out of the chair she opened the windows to let New Snowy in. Blond and calm with a gleam in his eyes, he stubbornly refused to enter.
Instead he retreated into the inches-thick white lawn.
And stared with familiar pink eyes.
‘Follow me,’ he purred into her head.
How could she refuse such an offer?
Leaving the house in her bedclothes, she waded into the slush.
There was no coldness out here either.
And no paw prints, she noted, as she followed his path.
That’s odd, she thought and checked behind her.
But no.
There was nothing back there either.
No tread.
No footprints in the snow.
Just an old lady sleeping in the armchair, surrounded by cats, so very wrinkled and baggy at the seams.
‘Meow,’ the white cat beckoned.
When she turned back to him she saw, to her surprise, that there was nothing but brightness.
Everything was white.
The purest of colours.
David had, at last, come to take her.
THE HOUSE ON SAVAGE LANE
‘Sorry about that. Mother is very old and given occasionally to fits.’
‘Yes, the screaming. I do apologise. The medication has calmed her now. She’ll not disturb us again. She does get rather over-excited when a traveller passes by. You see we’re so out of the way, custom rarely favours us these days. The misfortune of your motorcar breaking down in the lane is, indeed, our great fortune.’
‘What’s that? Oh no. Kind of you but I shall be eating shortly. Would not want to ruin my appetite. Though please do go ahead. But I’ll have a drink. Would you care for a glass of my special mulled wine? Here, let me fill you.’
‘It does, does it? I fear I was a little too free with the cinnamon. That’s it, drink up. Oh no, there is plenty more.
‘Now, are you sure you want to hear the story? It unsettles most. Some have fled the house in terror once hearing the tale. Rest assured, in most cases, I have managed to safely return them to the warmth of our humble abode.’
‘Yes you’re right. I am being modest – it is a fine house, indeed. We are lucky.
‘So the story … You do? I see. If you’re absolutely sure … Very well. Draw in close, throw another log on the fire if you will. It’s a chill night. I shall just add some of that coal.
‘Now this may take quite a while so settle in. All right? Then I’ll begin.
‘It all started with the birth of Miss Cordelia Dorcroft. The youngest of five children and the only girl. From the word go her parents could see there was something very special about Cordelia. As a baby she displayed the sweetest of natures, crying very little and smiling oftentimes. And as the years passed it became evident that this loveable child was becoming a very charming young woman. Her beauty was not limited to her features, for she was gifted with an exceptionally handsome figure and a radiant face. An inner light seemed to shine from Cordelia and was remarked upon by many, including the parson who took her under his wing and tutored her in the works of the Lord.
‘In this way Cordelia became a pious woman, often sighted nursing the sick, providing comfort to the poor. There was some talk of her joining an order but, as is often the way, her father, Major Dorcroft, was an astute man and could quite clearly see potential for a good marriage, and one which, if engineered correctly, might secure his own growing status in society.
‘Now, as we know, where light shines brightest, shadow also falls. And as it was, on the other side of the village lived another family by the name of Barren-Barton. An old family, they had prospered for centuries and were treated with due accord by both the village and wider society.
‘To the Barren-Bartons were born three sons. The eldest was established in London, having married a nobleman’s daughter and produced two well-mannered grandchildren for his parents to adore. The youngest, too, had shown an aptitude for study and attained a position at the Royal Observatory. The middle son, Thomas, however, did not live up to the expectations of the family. His was an ill-tempered and fierce disposition. Known to frequent the gaming tables, he had brought no small amount of shame upon his father, who had on numerous occasions been required to settle his errant son’s debts. And Thomas had what you’d call a fascination for the ladies, some of whom were more than willing to take up with him. For along with dashing good looks, the young man also possessed an aspect of wild, untethered excitement, touched with dangerous passion, that was undoubtedly of interest to the more careless of females, perhaps themselves with an eye on a marital settlement. However, their hopes were never fulfilled, Thomas desired no wife to bind him, and Barren-Barton Senior was compelled on occasion to compensate their situations with a measure of gold.
‘There was, all agreed, a mighty arrogance to the middle son,
an understanding of which he had assured himself, that his father’s money would resolve any problems he created. And so that was, to a certain extent, how he became accustomed to living.
‘Now, Thomas’s appetites were ordinarily strong, his manner reckless and unthinking, but when fuelled by drink, which was frequent, they would grow uncontrollable and unleash the foul character that his black soul had become. And so it was, on one of these occasions that Fate threw Cordelia into his path.
‘Thomas had never made a secret of his desires, and the customers of the local inn were well aware of his professed achievements as seducer, and of his ambitions to corrupt the pure. Cordelia’s name had of course been mentioned on many occasions, for such was the great virtue of the young woman that her name had become a legend of the locality.
‘It was returning from the inn, one dark and dismal winter evening, that Thomas came across Cordelia. She had been tending to a family stricken with fever and had stayed longer than anyone thought wise.
‘One can only imagine what happened that dreadful night and I won’t detail what occurred, but suffice it to say, one of Thomas’s long held-desires was sated.
‘The next day, while he bragged and boasted at the inn, doctors tended to Cordelia. Her injuries were severe and it was feared that she might not survive them. But after two long weeks the dear girl opened up her eyes.
‘Her recollection of the crime had almost been wiped from her mind and perhaps in time she may have been able to return to some semblance of a normal life, were it not that Fate had another blow to deal her: soon she found she was with child.
‘This was a great tragedy not only for the girl but her parents too, who had held their hopes high for their only daughter. There was some talk of the culprit being brought to justice, but a hastily convened meeting between Mr Barren-Barton and Major Dorcroft achieved an outcome more appealing to both: Cordelia was to be wed to Thomas. It was a match that in other circumstances may have been a celebration. Yet for Cordelia it presented a cruel punishment.
‘With the seed of her violator growing within she made her way down the aisle, fainted, and could only be brought to by the salts. Witnessed by the parents of the pair, the deed was over in minutes. After, transported to a fine, but isolated residence, Cordelia began her confinement.
‘It was in autumn of the next year that, one stormy night, Cordelia endured a long and torturous delivery, finally birthing twins. The first was a healthy young boy, blessed with the fair complexion of his mother, perfect in almost every way. The second twin to greet the world could not have been more different. A dark, mewling, barely human thing, covered in coarse black hairs, it was wizened and wrinkled like an old man. The runt child’s skin was red raw and it was deformed by an acute twisting of the spine.
‘As is often the case with mothers, Cordelia’s love was blind. She doted on the children equally, compared them to two turtle doves and consumed herself dutifully with their care. Any servant who looked askance at the second son was forthwith given notice to leave. So by their first year the household comprised of just one old maid, Ida, and a daily housekeeper.
‘But to the father love did not come easy. Thomas could no longer bear the sight of his wife. Now ravaged by sorrow and labour, disfigured by his own assault, Cordelia had lost much of her outward beauty. Their offspring, too, revolted him, so he spent much of his time away from the house and returned very quickly to the lifestyle of his bachelor youth.
‘For the first few years of their life, mother and children got along happily. It was when the twins turned five years of age and were given more freedom to roam that it was brought to Cordelia’s attention that certain creatures were appearing in the boys’ room: a magpie with no head, partially decaying; a young rabbit, its insides opened up and legs gnawed; a grey squirrel with no eyes, barely alive.
‘It was clear to both maid and mother that the sins and perversions of the father had taken root in one of his children. This of course was no fault of the child, merely an unfortunate act of nature. It was agreed that Cordelia and Ida would be more alert to offence and seek to correct it when found.
‘As the twins grew older, the discoveries grew ever more grotesque. Though there now seemed another hand involved – whenever a dissected creature would appear it would be part wrapped in bandages as if one of the children, the boy with Cordelia’s nature, had attempted to repair the other’s dark deeds.
‘Upon questioning, neither the angel nor the devil would reveal who had done what. A secret pact had been formed by them to obfuscate their affliction – one needing to gnaw and wreck, the other compelled to heal; though Cordelia, knowing well both sons, saw which had inherited her character and understood, without judgement, that the other was tainted by the darkness of their father. But still so gentle and good was her own nature that she never favoured one above the other.
‘And so the years passed by and while the essence of one became bright and sunny, the other was attracted to the morbid. As the middle years approached, the latter’s turns and outbursts increased in violence and strength. By the time the twins reached thirteen, a system had been designed to thwart or, at times, restrict the episodes when his desires surfaced. In this, his ever-patient mother did achieve some success, understanding it was an instinct that could not be erased, only managed and redirected.
‘But Cordelia could not be vigilant always.
‘Having only a daily housekeeper and the maid to administer the home, she was often required to make excursions to town for clothes and medicines and provisions not available in the small village.
‘It was upon returning from one of these journeys that Cordelia made the awful discovery that was to finally turn her mind.
‘It being late in the evening, the housekeeper had left for the day, yet the maid was nowhere to be found. Their mistress searched high and low until eventually she reached the boys’ room at the top of the house.
‘Oh what terror she must have suffered when she beheld the scene within. In the corner, crunched up like a ball, one of the twins quivered and wailed. In the centre was the father’s son. His teeth dripping with dark fluid, long sinewy tatters fluttering around his mouth. As she stepped closer Cordelia saw the young man was gnawing on what was left of the maid’s jawbone.
‘Summoning what was left of her strength Cordelia bade her murderous son to go clean himself, then she turned to her other child and with much persuasion managed to soothe him, for he was very afraid. Lost in this ministration neither good child nor mother heard the commotion occurring downstairs until the door flew open and they saw Thomas Barren-Barton, eyes afire. Taking in the scene his mind burst loose and within seconds he had pulled his twisted son from his mother’s arms and hurled him with such force at the wall that immediately the poor lad’s head was split open. The coarse-haired, red-skinned angel-child died within Cordelia’s embrace. This held no solace for the murderous brother who, though his passion for flesh and his tastes for darkness had appalled his hunchbacked twin, still loved him dearly. When he returned to the room freshly washed, he flew at his father.
‘The next morning, when the housekeeper returned, she found three mangled corpses – old Ida, the maid, the hunchbacked twin and the chewed remains of his father.
‘Poor Cordelia was found in the gardens walking like a somnambulist, her mind gone forever. And who was to doubt the account of the surviving son whose faltering cherubic face told of a robber who had attacked in the night?
‘From time to time, thereafter, villagers would sometimes disappear, but they were useless people who served little purpose and who could be removed conveniently without occasioning a gap in good society.
‘Decades passed and a new road was built. It thankfully brought fresh faces by. Though locals would avoid the house at all costs, for they said, and still do, that on dark nights like this you could hear the dead ones’ cries in these here lanes leading to the house.’
‘I’m sorry old chap – can you repeat th
at again? Oh you feel cold? I’m not surprised. It has grown very dark, it’s true.’
‘I say, are you all right? You seem awfully pale. What’s that? Where is the house?
‘I thought I’d told you already – why it’s here. This house. That’s the ticket.’
‘Cordelia? Yes, you’ve got it. She’s my mother. No, please don’t get up, you won’t be able to anyway. Now, I believe you’ll be joining me for dinner.’
EASILY MADE
It was brass monkeys and Janet was quick to tell Matt that she had been waiting outside the cottage for a good thirty minutes.
He was profuse in his apologies: lunch at the in-laws had over-run and he’d had trouble getting away.
Matt was new to social work. It would probably take him a couple more years to realise that being ‘on call’ on Boxing Day meant ‘at work’.
‘And then I went to Church Pass rather than Church Lane,’ he finished, with a shrug.
Janet scowled.
‘A simple mistake,’ he bleated. ‘Some are easily made.’
‘Not really,’ said Janet. Her fingers were numbing. ‘It’s about paying attention to detail. Church Lane is in the village. Church Pass is out by the cemetery.’
‘As I found out,’ said Matt trying to smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘I just assumed . . .’
‘Well don’t.’ Janet cut him off. ‘Don’t assume. If in doubt – ask. That’s what our job is all about – attention to detail. You need to learn this, Matt.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Matt let his head hang, suitably chastised. ‘To be honest, I hadn’t thought we’d see much action today.’
Janet sighed. Boxing Day was always busy: old people tended to hang on over Christmas. Then, once they’d said goodbye to family members who’d gone to the trouble of visiting or hosting them for the festivities, they would let go. Of everything. Their worries, their dysfunctional bodies, their lives.
