Chapter Ten

England, 1997

L ate spring is an ideal time to travel in England. Mara gazes from the train window across fields where tractors furrow the dark soil between greening hedgerows spotted with wildflowers. Brown cows graze in a field, sheep fatter and whiter than the ones Mara is used to, in another. Lambs trail their mothers or play hide and seek with each other. The day is mild, sunshine and high cloud, and Mara looks forward to reaching Gloucester where a car rental is waiting for her. The maps show an easy drive from there into the Forest of Dean where she has booked a room at the Victoria Hotel in Shiphaven. She chose the hotel mainly because it’s located on the main road, meaning she can avoid having to explore narrow country lanes when she is tired from her travels.

Her flight from Adelaide via Singapore had been comfortable enough. Peter had insisted on business class. Mara didn’t argue. After she booked the ticket, they reminisced over their first trip to Europe, before Josie was born, when Peter was about to begin his legal career as a shiny new Associate at Simmond & Sons. While they had felt rich after the rigours of college and university, they were not rich enough to splash out on anything lavish for their great adventure. Cheap hotels in Earl’s Court and being young enough to qualify for heavily discounted train travel passes had seen them through. They’d travelled for two months, and none of the handful of trips since came close to matching the sheer fun of their first time. Mara recalls hot sun, French bread, creamy cheeses, dank English castle ruins and flowery pub gardens, and the wonder of exploration. Adventure.

Adventure is what Mara has come here to recapture, albeit by herself. She’s not been further west in England than Stonehenge and is eager to discover this hidden corner of the country. Where her mother grew up.

‘You can change your mind if you find it a bit rough.’ Peter had peered at the map spread on the dining room table. ‘It’s a skip and a jump to the Cotswolds.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Mara assured him. If Kathryn had wanted to go back, it couldn’t be all bad, even if her mother had rarely spoken of the Forest. Her tales tended to centre on London and the war years, before she and Mara’s father took the Ten Pound offer to help fill Australia with white people.

Sitting in the train watching the cows and the gambolling lambs, Mara thinks how Peter’s statement about the Cotswolds reflects their hard-earned, privileged lives. Search out the luxury, hang the cost. Nevertheless, despite being dubious about the state of civilisation in the Forest of Dean, Peter hadn’t attempted to dissuade Mara from this trip.

‘Go to England? Do a bit of family research?’ He had reached for the wine bottle and topped up Mara’s drink.

A rare occasion, having her husband home, and Mara had broached the subject after clearing the remains of the casserole and stacking the dishwasher. She fingered the stem of the wine glass, watching Peter bend to the task of refilling his own.

‘For how long?’ he asked, not looking up.

‘Given Josie has won her studentship, I’d stay until she came over in September.’

Peter had glanced at her. A glimmer of surprise mixed with an emotion which suggested sudden possibilities flashed in his eyes, and was gone. By the time he set down the bottle, his expression was pure approval.

‘A great idea.’ He nodded slowly. ‘These months since Kathryn’s death have been tough on you.’ With a self-deprecating grimace, he said, ‘And I’ve not been around as much as I should’ve.’ He sighed. ‘You’ve done well without me interfering, but it’s taken a toll.’

‘You’re happy for me to go, and for nearly four months?’ A tiny voice deep inside Mara pleaded, please let him be ambivalent.

‘Well, not over the moon.’ The grin he gave her was warm. ‘I’ll miss you –’

‘Although as you say, you’re hardly here.’ Mara’s smile was both to welcome the warmth and to cover her nasty barb.

‘– but, as I was about to say, the change of scenery will do you good. Even if you don’t find much about your family or this mystery man, a good long break in the English countryside should recharge your batteries.’

Afterwards, Mara understood she was probing for a show of true reluctance when she blurted, ‘You could come over, join me for a bit. If anyone needs a holiday, it’s Mr Hard-Working Lawyer. These trips –’

His frown was so fleeting Mara decided she’d imagined it.

‘Yeah, yeah, great idea.’ He swirled his wine, making a show of enjoying its smoothness. ‘See what I can do.’

He wouldn’t. Mara set her own glass on a coaster, keeping her fingers curled around the stem. ‘Right, I’ll start organising.’

Peter had lifted his wine in a toast. ‘Here’s to a change.’

‘To a change.’ Mara returned the toast.

A change. The two words had rattled in her mind at the time. They rattle again. Has Mara made a mistake? Is this trip a cowardly flight from confrontation rather than a studied attempt to steer her marriage back on track?

A voice announcing Gloucester as the next stop intrudes on her thinking. Mara shoves the book she’s not been reading into her large handbag, checks her train ticket and the hire car details are handy, and sways along the narrow aisle to retrieve her suitcase from the luggage area. The train halts short of the platform and she and a handful of other passengers wait in stoic silence until it lurches forward and stops where it should. A man with a briefcase and an impatient frown jabs at the button and the doors slide open.

Mara, with her suitcase, waits until last before stepping down to follow the line of people to the barrier and out into the ticketing hall. A helpful man at the desk advises her she needs a taxi to get to the hire car firm, it’s too far to walk. Half an hour later, with directions memorised, Mara slides a blue Ford Fiesta out of the parking area and into the afternoon traffic.

***

The Victoria Hotel is a long low white stone building at the crest of a hill opposite a church. The church, with a graveyard falling scenically towards the River Severn, would be too grand for this small community if it weren’t for the tall Georgian houses lining the road at the bottom of the hill. Prosperity lived here once upon a time, and the faded neatness suggests the glory days are remembered.

On her first night, Mara eats at the hotel, a plain, well-cooked fish meal.

‘Salmon’s the speciality here, love,’ the elderly landlord tells her. ‘Used to be quite an industry in these parts, still is.’ He grins. ‘Salmon and eels.’

Mara thanks him, hoping he doesn’t stay and chat.

Needing sleep more than food, she determines to resist her pillow until a decent hour, wanting to quickly overcome her jet lag. Recognising sitting with the neglected book will send her into too early unconsciousness, Mara wanders across the road to gaze at the view of the river and to blearily explore the churchyard in the long dusk. Near the cracked bitumen path she finds a headstone marking the grave of two young brothers, drowned in the river. One hundred years ago, yet Mara’s tired soul weeps. She ambles towards the lych gate and stares once more to the darkening river.

The river. The river’s waiting . And Kathryn’s last words – The goddess, Sabrina. She loves us, you see.

Mara remembers the jolt she received when the small amount of research she did before travelling tossed up the legend about the Romans calling the River Severn Sabrina, goddess. The stately wide expanse below her is her mother’s river, the last words she uttered.

Behind Mara, the sun has set, clouds thicken and the breeze cools. She shivers, part tiredness, part eeriness at being here, beside Sabrina. Pulling her jacket closer, she heads towards the hotel. A movement catches her eye. Mara squints. A shadow by the corner of the church shifts, takes the rough shape of a man, and dissolves.

Mara shivers harder. Ghosts?

‘Don’t be stupid,’ she mutters.

Her hand is on the lych gate when curiosity gets the better of her aching need for sleep. Pretending courage, she walks towards the corner, scouring the spot where the ‘ghost’ appeared. There’s no shifting of shadows, no darkness staining the grey stone of the wall. Braver, albeit with her pulse beating faster than it should, Mara is about to leave when she spots a familiar name on a nearby gravestone.

Stanley Williams, she reads, Called to God, 12 Oct 1888 aged 53 yrs. Loving husband and father. Safe in the arms of Jesus.

Williams. Her grandmother Ellen’s surname. Mara backs away from the stone. Icy fingers pluck at her spine.

‘Coincidence.’ She snorts. And forces herself not to glance over her shoulder as she retraces her steps, this time not hesitating at the lych gate. Her mind is hallucinating. She needs rest.

***

The cleaner’s key in the door wakes Mara from a groggy sleep. She had forgotten to put the Do Not Disturb sign in place.

‘Hold on,’ she croaks, stumbling out of bed, grabbing for her dressing gown

The key is silent. ‘Sorry, love,’ a voice calls from the other side. ‘I’ll come back later.’

Mara stands in the middle of the shadowy room. What time is it? Sunlight shows at the edges of the heavy curtains, and it’s late enough for the cleaner to assume Mara is up and out. She reaches for her travel clock, telling herself she should have set an alarm. Ten thirty. More than time to begin her day.

The shower, not much more than a tepid dribble, is sufficient to bring Mara to full consciousness. She dresses in black linen trousers, a long-sleeved green and white cotton jumper, and collects her jacket. Sunshine or not, it’s May and likely to be cool. Dressed and awake, hunger drives her in search of a late breakfast, or brunch.

The hotel dining room is closed. Mara laughs to the young woman at reception about jet lag and sleeping late, and asks if there’s a place nearby to eat. She is pointed down the hill to a tiny, oak-beamed café with flowered curtains across ancient bottle-glass windows and an oak floor which lifts and dips like the swelling of the sea. Satisfying her stomach with toast, strawberry jam and English Breakfast tea which arrives in a white china pot with matching cup and saucer, Mara wipes her fingers on the rosy serviette and thinks about planning the rest of her day. However, the cheerily plump owner with tight permed grey curls and an apron to match the curtains, is in a mood to chat and Mara is available.

‘Visiting, love?’

Mara has already understood that ‘love’ is how people address strangers here. She likes it, grinning at the imagined reactions of addressing every passing stranger as ‘love’ at home.

‘Yes,’ she says.

‘First time here?’

‘Yes.’ Mara feels obliged to elaborate. ‘My family came from this area, the Forest. Some time ago.’

‘Ah, I see.’ The owner crosses her arms over her flowery bosom. ‘We get those from time to time, people doing their family histories.’ She tilts her head. ‘What was their name?’

‘Appleby, and Williams,’ Mara tells her. She frowns, a recent memory stirring, a jet-lagged dream.

‘Can’t think of any families by the name of Appleby or Williams here these days, at least not old ones.’ The woman furrows her brow. ‘I daresay the –’

What she would dare say is cut off by the jangle of the door bell and the chattering of four elderly women entering the café accompanied by two silent grey-muzzled spaniels. The women call hello, exclaim what a perfect day it is and how invigorating along the river, and they’re good and ready for a cup of tea and Maggie’s quiche … they hope she has the quiche Lorraine today, tasty as it is.

Mara nods a general greeting, drinks the last of her tea, leaves cash and a tip on the table and, accompanied by the clanging bell, steps out onto the narrow footpath. A bus signposted Gloucester rumbles past and pulls in further along. Mara idly watches as two women and a man step onto the bus, which indicates and pulls out.

How will she spend her afternoon? Invigorating along the river . A walk is what Mara needs, stretch her legs and lungs after the long flight and the drive. At the Victoria, she swaps her moccasins for the walking shoes she brought with her and asks for instructions on how to reach the river.

‘When you get to the path,’ the receptionist tells her, ‘go right. You can walk along there for a long way if you’re a serious hiker.’

When Mara explains she’s after a stroll to clear her travel-addled head, the receptionist tells her a good place to turn back is the King’s Shilling, a nice pub not too far along. She waves off Mara’s thanks. ‘Enjoy your walk, love.’

Mara steps outside and crosses the main road to the quiet street leading her to Sabrina.