Chapter Twenty

England, 1997

M ara blames her restless night on the humidity which followed yesterday’s storms. She is hot, throws off the cotton blanket. Wakes up chilled, pulls the blanket up. When the pale light of pre-dawn invades the gap between the curtains, she gives up and slips from the bed. Her head is thick, her eyes heavy.

Ten minutes later, showered, dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, with a light cardigan over her shoulders, Mara walks into the garden. The morning air should finish the job the shower began and clear her mind.

Today there is no Ellen digging in the garden beds as Mara wanders to the stream where the willow’s branches trail their green ribbons in the running water. The air is moist, warm, cleansed by the storm. Mara breathes it in. A lethargic aimlessness invades her body. With no plan in mind, she lets her feet carry her to the river where she pauses at the cleft looking east across the water.

Streaky clouds blush pink and gold to herald the sun. The tide is in, and the sedate river mirrors the flamboyant sky. Seabirds wheel and call, dark spots freckling the glorious colours. Mara searches the pink water, wanting to laugh at herself, but hopeful. No dark mass of coiled tendrils of hair, no pearlescent bodies move there. She stays, waiting, and while she waits she thinks about the distance which opened between her and Jack at the realisation they were cousins.

Was it at the same moment Jack understood the cause? Or have the feelings for her which Mara is certain he holds, existed longer? Romance is easier for Jack with no wife or girlfriend in the frame. His heart is free to give.

Mara crosses her arms and squints into the radiance of the rising sun. Until yesterday, she had been kidding herself, working hard to convince her own heart the attraction she feels for Jack is a mild summer flirtation, a reaction to his considerate courtesy. He’s good-looking, easy to talk to, helpful and kind. What woman wouldn’t find such a package attractive?

This woman, married as she is, shouldn’t. Even with the excuse of enduring the vague negligence of a husband consumed by work, and who knows what else.

Mara grimaces, turns from the water and strolls slowly to the cottage, stepping over roots, avoiding muddy puddles. Whatever her and Jack’s family relationship, the brutal fact is that a married Mara is a far more meaningful barrier to an attraction beyond friendship. Besides, in two months she will have to face reality and deal with the state of said marriage, whatever it might be. She needs to be strong, as Kathryn told her, as the river has whispered, to cope with what reality will bring. Friendship with Jack is good, friendship is sufficient – she tells herself and determines to believe it.

Then why does the twist in her heart she experienced yesterday tighten a fraction more?

Her hollow stomach calls for breakfast and Mara toasts the last of the bread, makes tea, and sits at the kitchen table with a notepad and pen. She came here to search for Aaron Appleby and she will find him, not fantasise over impossible ‘what ifs’ like a moonstruck teenager. With a resigned sigh, Mara marshals her thoughts, forcing herself to make notes of her next steps in the search for Aaron Appleby. When the cottage phone rings, she startles, and answers the call.

‘Hi Mum, hope you’re up.’

‘Been up for hours,’ Mara says. ‘Dawn is awfully early here this time of year. How’s things?’

‘Fine,’ Josie says. ‘Good to be in the old house with heating which actually keeps you warm and a shower blasting out hot water.’ She sighs loudly and happily. ‘What about you? Any progress on the great mystery?’

Progress. Mara exhales and confesses yes, there have been revelations.

‘I have a cousin I didn’t know existed,’ she says, and takes the handpiece to the sofa where she sits staring at the cold ashes of last night’s fire while she tells Josie about the coincidence of living in Hester and Ellen’s cottage.

‘Oh, wow, gives me goosebumps.’ Josie’s thrill revives Mara’s excitement at the discovery of the cottage. ‘There might be more to Granny’s stories about witches than we gave her credit for.’

‘Could be.’ Mara’s tempted to blurt about river nymphs, whispering goddesses and ghosts in the garden, even the sensation of the spirits at St Ceyna’s well. No. Josie might enjoy the shivers at tales of coincidence. Maybe not signs of her practical, busy mother losing her mind.

She steers the conversation into another, barely less hazardous stream. ‘How’s Dad taking having his baby girl at home?’ She doesn’t say she hasn’t spoken to Peter for several days.

Mara hears Josie’s shrug on the other side of the world. ‘Can’t tell. He’s never here, spends all his time in Sydney.’ She humphs. ‘He’s grumpy when he is around, so I don’t care if he’s swanning about in the Big Smoke.’ She brightens. ‘He might as well rent a flat there, save Simmond the hotel costs. And me the aggravation.’

Rent a flat. Does Peter need a flat or is his accommodation provided? Bitterness twists Mara’s stomach. She doesn’t laugh at Josie’s joke. ‘Talking of flats, any news on Grandma’s house?’

‘Oh yes, should have said.’ Josie breezily accepts this further change in subject. ‘The agent called, said the place is getting viewings, but things are slow, no offers.’ Her voice turns questioning. ‘Do you want to put it up for auction? The agent’s keen.’

‘No.’ Mara’s response is instinctive. Auction would force the issue, the house would be lost to her. Her gut suggests caution, she might need Kathryn’s home herself. The lack of interest could be a blessing.

***

After Josie’s call, Mara shops in nearby Lydney, visiting the supermarket to stock the pantry and fridge. She browses the busy high street, discovers the butcher and buys sausages and chicken breasts. With no freezer in the cottage beyond the ice-tray sized one in the fridge, she can’t buy too much.

By lunch time the humidity has lifted and the sun blazes from a cerulean sky. Mara remembers the King’s Shilling boasts a beer garden shaded by tall trees. She thinks about Jack’s reaction to the revealing of their relationship, weighs this against her determination to keep their friendship and her desire to learn more, and slips Aaron’s journals and letters into a holdall. They can stay in the car, and if the opportunity doesn’t arise to show them to Jack, so be it. Disappointing as this would be.

The pub is doing brisk business for a weekday, with locals and visitors taking advantage of the sunny day. Mara finds a table in the garden, wanders into the bar and orders a tuna sandwich and a lime soda from the young girl working there. Jack isn’t in view and Mara doesn’t ask for him.

After eating, she finishes her drink and watches the beer garden empty as closing time approaches. The thrum of car engines mingles with desultory birdsong, and Josie’s comment about Peter spending most of his time in Sydney surfaces without warning. Mara examines it for different meanings. There never has been such a demanding client in the whole time Peter has worked for Simmond & Sons. It could be a sign of her husband’s seniority, that he must devote himself to the bigger and busier clients.

Mara thinks about other partners. She is close to a few of the wives, with their constant flow of mild complaints about how little they see their husbands, how these men might as well be married to the firm. The complaints come with self-deprecating moues, an acknowledgement there’s a price for success, for grand homes in the best suburbs, private school fees and holidays overseas.

Mara could, should, view Peter’s behaviour in the same way. She’s overthinking matters, confusing distracted busyness with deliberate avoidance, seeing boogeymen – or women – where none exist. Possibly don’t exist. She clenches her jaw. Don’t exist. Peter loves her, loves Josie. He wouldn’t put his family through the horror mill of affairs, and worse …

The sun, the birdsong, the relaxed air of the beer garden work their own magic. Going away for a time has been the right thing to do. Distance is giving Mara the perspective she hoped for. She grunts, failing to feel the sense of her logic deep in her gut.

If perspective remains elusive, what she has grasped, however, is a taste for living without the constant reminder of her husband’s lack of presence. What does this particular perspective tell her about their marriage?

Putting her speculation aside, Mara realises she’s the last customer remaining. She should leave, catch up with Jack another time. Maybe distance is needed here too.

‘Mara!’ Jack strides towards her. ‘Been busy, just spotted you out here.’ He glances at her empty plate and glass. ‘How was lunch? Can I get you a drink?’

‘Lunch was good, and no thanks, I should be thinking about going.’ Jack’s reserve of yesterday has gone, and Mara is glad. ‘Although I confess to an ulterior motive, other than hunger, for coming today,’ she says. ‘If you’ve time, I’d like to tell you exactly why I’m here in the Forest, and to pick your brains some more.’

‘Love a mystery.’ Jack frowns, glances at his watch. ‘We close in ten minutes. Can you wait?’

Of course Mara will wait. When Jack hurries inside after collecting the lunch debris from the outdoor tables, Mara retrieves the journals from her car and spends the next twenty minutes reminding herself of their contents.

She delves in her handbag for the pack of Post-it notes she’s sure is there and bookmarks the pages with the sketches of the cottage garden and the little girls. Mara traces the details of the flowers, the leaves, the fluff of the chicken with her fingertip, setting them in Lavender Cottage alongside Ellen’s ghost. One hundred years and they live again. The notion thrills her, seeps into her soul like a welcome homecoming.

‘Sorry, took longer than I expected.’ Jack is there with two small glasses of white wine. He sets them on the table and sits opposite Mara. ‘I’m all ears.’ He fingers the stem of the glass. ‘First, I need to apologise.’

‘Apologise?’ Mara’s lungs fill with air, pressing into her ribs. She’s unsure she wants any apology where Jack might expose his feelings.

‘Yesterday, when you said we were cousins …’ He catches her eye, looks away. ‘It came as a shock, out of the blue.’

Mara’s whole body strains, traitorous, to hear him say why. She can’t ask. Married woman, married woman – the mantra circles her mind like a shark. She grins, makes light of the statement before too much has been said.

‘Me too.’ She throws out her hands. ‘An amazing coincidence.’

‘Fate,’ Jack says softly. ‘For better or worse.’

Heat rises up Mara’s neck at the tender regret in his voice. The desire to soothe Jack’s regret fills her throat. No, no, no.

She searches for a way out, finds it, blurts, ‘Josie, my daughter, called this morning and of course I told her about it.’ Mention of daughters should cool things. If Peter had called, she could have metaphorically shouted how she’s a married woman, which might have been more of a cold shower. Peter hadn’t called. Hasn’t called in days.

‘What did she have to say?’ Jack’s voice is strained, as if he shares with Mara the not so deeply buried tension in this conversation and is unsure if he wishes to shovel ice on it or dig deeper.

Mara leans back on the bench, a physical separation. ‘She said it gave her goosebumps.’ She arches her eyebrows. ‘My mother used to talk about there being witches in our family. Now Josie believes there really were, and she’s very happy about it.’ She laughs and is pleased the laugh is natural.

Jack joins in, and skips past his apologies. ‘You said you were going to tell me why you’re here, witches and all.’ He reaches over to touch the closed journals. ‘Are these part of the story?’

‘They are the story.’ And Mara tells how she found the journals and how she decided to come to the Forest to search for her family, and for the mysterious Aaron Appleby.

‘Ellen, my grandmother, might have been his daughter.’ She flips the journal open to the page with Ellen and her chick, with the name Appleby in brackets, and turns the book to show Jack. ‘Which means Rose was too, I guess.’ Mara pokes the unwelcome idea aside. ‘Except, both are Williams, not Appleby.’ She frowns at Jack who is examining the sketch. ‘I went to Barnley church and checked the register. Hester’s death is there as Hester Appleby.’

Jack scratches his chin. ‘You mean she was married to this Aaron fellow?’

‘I think so. Did you ever hear the name?’

‘No. Hester died when I was a baby, and as both Ellen and Rose were Williams, I assumed Hester was too.’ He examines the journal. ‘Exquisite sketches,’ he murmurs. ‘If this Aaron is family, did you or Josie inherit the drawing gene? Because I didn’t.’

Mara scoffs. ‘Can’t draw a stick figure,’ she confesses. ‘Neither did I inherit this love of herbs and wildflowers which the women had, as well as Aaron, who was a true herbalist. My best efforts are to admire their prettiness and use the herbs in cooking.’ She shakes her head. ‘Josie has the green fingers, in spades.’ They both laugh. ‘Your turn,’ she says. ‘What can you tell me?’

‘Not a thing about your Mr Appleby, as I said, sorry.’

Mara holds her disappointment to herself. She asks about his side of the family.

‘Rose, the blond lass in the sketches –’ Jack gestures at the journals ‘– married a local fisherman, Billy Hewson. One of their sons, Edward, was my dad. He died of miners’ lung disease in ’65.’ He lifts his wine glass. ‘The same year the last Forest mine closed, to give his death an ironic twist.’

‘How did Rose die?’ Mara asks. ‘She must have been quite young.’

‘Yes.’ He shrugs. ‘No idea, sorry. Maybe the number of kids she had. Big families in those days.’ He studies the wine, glances at Mara and grins. ‘Which brings me to Aunt Dorrie.’

‘Who?’

‘Dad’s oldest sister, the last of them all. Eighty-six and sharp as a tack. She doesn’t talk about the family much, not the old ones anyway, more interested in the living, of which there are plenty. If anyone has any tales to tell, it’ll be Dorrie.’

‘More family I had no clue existed,’ Mara says. ‘Can’t wait to meet her.’ Which is true. An eighty-six-year-old aunt can’t carry the same potential for heartache.