Chapter Twenty One

M rs Kear had told Mara over the phone to present herself at the Public Reading Room, and to bring a list of what records she wants to access. There are only two records, not hard to remember. Following instructions, Mara searches the catalogue drawers for the reference number for the 1891 Census, the latest available, and also for the most recent parish register for Barnley church. She fills in her forms, hands them to the woman at the counter and goes to her desk to wait.

The Records Office was once a school, and the room is large and high-ceilinged. Drifting dust motes permeate the warm air where sunlight spills through the tall windows. Mara relaxes in the studious quiet, content to casually observe her fellow researchers. A gentleman in an old-fashioned suit and bow tie delves in a box, carefully laying his chosen documents on the table, rejecting others. A woman with steel grey curls uses a magnifying glass to study a tattered-edged map.

And in the shadiest corner of the room, another woman turns the pages of a leather bound volume, making notes with her pencil on a pad at her side. Mara brings out her own pencil – no pens allowed here – and her notepad and glances constantly at the board next to the counter to see if her requests have arrived.

She fills the time thinking about this new aunt, Dorrie. She and Kathryn were the same age, more or less, and must have known each other. Mara is fascinated to think how the cousins’ lives differed once Kathryn left the Forest. Were they close? Did they write, at least for a time, until their separate paths meant there was nothing to bind them any longer?

Wriggling on the wooden seat, Mara avoids applying this same logic to her and Peter, each caught up in their own lives, more so once Josie left the nest. If he’s having an affair, which she constantly tells herself he isn’t, can the blame be partially laid at Mara’s door? She huffs, wanders to the board. The census microfilm has arrived.

Barnley in 1891, as today, boasted a small population, and it doesn’t take long for Mara to find her family at the address of the cottage in the lane.

Hester Haycroft Williams, age nineteen, unmarried, and her daughter Ellen Williams, aged eleven months. The Haycroft puzzles Mara. An unusual middle name, likely a family surname once upon a time. Mara ignores it.

She pencils the ages and address in her notepad with a sense of triumph. One step closer. No Appleby, however, which makes sense given Hester is unmarried. She searches the rest of Barnley in the microfilm in case he’s there, a neighbour. Drawing a blank, she reviews those villages she knows of within a few miles. No Appleby. Rewinding the microfilm, Mara carefully removes the roll and returns it to the counter.

It’s past midday and the sun beating at the windows continues to heat the room. Mara is thirsty, and hungry. A glance at the board tells her the parish register has arrived already, has been waiting for her. She will give herself another hour before she leaves, whatever she has found, to search out a café for a late lunch.

Mara starts at the end, at 1899. Her finger hovers above the entries as she tracks 1899, 1898, 1897, her eyes scanning for familiar names. Her throat is dry, the repetition of the same local names drills a furrow in her brain, and the warmth makes her sleepy. She perks up at 1892 where there’s an upsurge in burials. Flu, or smallpox, in an area remote from good health care. She turns a page, and a marriage entry catches her eye.

1891, the same year as the census, the marriage of Hester Williams (no Haycroft) to Aaron Appleby, in August. After the census. Well after Ellen’s birth

A surge of excitement greets her discovery. Aaron Appleby exists. He’s Mara’s great-grandfather. At least, she corrects herself, by marriage. Did Hester meet him after giving birth to Ellen? Ellen was illegitimate, as the unmarried tag on the census says. Not widowed. Ellen’s birth record, should Mara find it, might tell the name of the father. Mara bites her lip. She has a vague idea paternity was not required to be stated. Does she care? She has found Aaron and he is family of a sort.

Jack pops into her mind. Aaron is his great-grandfather too, and possibly by blood given Rose is the younger sister. Which begs the question why Rose didn’t carry his name either.

Mara closes the register with a soft thud and rubs her temples. Dehydration has given her a headache. She needs to eat and drink. Before she leaves the table, she opens a fresh page in her pad and records her meagre findings to date:

Hester and Ellen Williams living in Barnley in 1891

Hester’s marriage to Aaron Appleby later the same year

Ellen’s marriage to Thomas Goode 1912

Kathryn’s birth 1914

Hester Appleby’s death 1947.

Not a lot to solve a mystery, although she has proof of the family connection. Did Kathryn know Aaron? How did she come to have his journals, and why did she never show Mara these exquisite heirlooms? Too many questions needing answers.

She stretches in the chair and takes in her fellow researchers. The grey-haired woman continues to peer at maps. The woman in the shady corner – sensible lady – has a document box she is sorting. The bow tie has gone.

The day after tomorrow, Mara will drive to Shrewsbury to explore the Records Office there. It’s a long shot, based on a single mention in Aaron’s letter and the assumption Shrewsbury or thereabouts is where his parents lived and where he came from. Mara views it as much as an opportunity to explore the countryside as to find information. She won’t be disappointed if nothing comes up.

She walks to her hot car, opens the windows and decides she will allow herself to visit the King’s Shilling after Shrewsbury, share the results of her labour with Jack. She also needs to remind him of his promise to introduce her to his Aunt Dorrie. Their Aunt Dorrie.

Mara turns the key in the Fiesta’s ignition with a sigh and the notion she should call Peter before she leaves tomorrow. She doesn’t dwell on the wicked realisation that spending time at the King’s Shilling with Jack excites her more than attempting a conversation with her husband.

***

The road Mara chose to journey to Shrewsbury takes her through countryside lush with summer’s bounty, brilliantly green under the hot sunshine. She’s glad. The scenery is a distraction from her futile call to Peter this morning.

As the working day there hadn’t ended, Mara took a chance and rang his office

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Ash,’ his secretary said, not sounding the least sorry. ‘Mr Ash is in a meeting not due to end for another hour, and will have to rush to catch a flight.’

Mara didn’t ask where this flight was heading.

‘Tell him I called, please. I’m travelling today, and he can get me tomorrow morning my time on this landline.’ Mara spelled out the number, including international dial codes. Peter has the number of course, and she rebuked herself for her pettiness in this unsubtle reminder of his failure to call.

The secretary is new and there was no friendly chat as would have been the case with Peter’s previous secretary Maureen Gibson, a long-standing employee. Now retired, Maureen had met Mara for lunch on a couple of occasions, and Mara had loved the tales of what went on in Simmond & Sons years ago. Her favourite is the story, true or apocryphal as it happened before Maureen’s time, of the secretary who, having had her bottom patted one too many times by a partner, cracked, and punched him in the face.

Despite the scenery, Mara nears Shrewsbury in a gloom-ridden mood. Is Peter actively avoiding her, or has he forgotten he has a wife? Or is there a conversation he doesn’t want to have? Mara’s throat tightens. The coward in her is more than willing to play the avoidance game.

The Records Office is on the far side of the town, and Mara has to hold in her frustration at navigating a one-way system which finally delivers her to the car park identified on her map. She pays the fee, and, seeing a sign for the Welsh Bridge, heads there, searching out a tea room where she can refresh herself after the long drive. Learning from experience, food and drink are necessary before diving into musty reading rooms and dusty registers.

The bridge is not far, and Mara steps onto it, walks to the centre and leans on the stone balustrade to peer upstream. The Severn is far more narrow than it is in Mara’s part of the world where it widens into the Bristol Channel, once known as the Severn Sea. This view is cosier, more tame. Beyond a red brick wall on one bank mature willows hang over the water. If Mara squints, she can imagine Mr Toad and Ratty there.

Did Aaron Appleby take in the view upstream and downstream from this bridge? Mara crosses the narrow roadway and gazes towards the distant ocean. Did Aaron see the river nymphs? The sketches in his journals with their magical annotations alongside the medicinal suggest Aaron Appleby had much of the spiritual about him. A herbalist, and more. The idea is delicious.

How much was Kathryn aware of, talking about witches in the family? A shadow crosses Mara’s heart at the loss of her mother, and her knowledge.

‘I wish you’d told me, Mum,’ she whispers to the river, ‘told me what the goddess is waiting for.’

A light wind lifts the hem of Mara’s summer jacket, swirls languidly about her body and is gone. Mara follows the breeze as it dips to the river, titillates the steady silver stream of the water. She blinks, frowns. Long hanks of rope-like hair trail on the surface, a glimpse of white limbs below the ripples, and then, nothing. Mara grasps the stonework, stares further downstream, searching for a disturbance. There is only an unruffled calm, and a whisper on the departing breeze.

Be strong .

Be strong. If Peter doesn’t ring her in the morning, Mara will call him, and keep calling until she has him on the other end of the phone.

***

The long, unfamiliar drive, the hours in the Records Office in Shrewsbury peering at microfilm, have exhausted Mara. She puts together salad leaves and tomatoes, arranges a slice of cold chicken beside them on a floral plate, cuts bread and carries the plate and a glass of white wine into the garden. The air is still, humid, with high clouds darkening in the long twilight. A murmuration of starlings wheels and curves close above the cottage, the low rumble a backdrop to the chirping stridulation of crickets and the deep-throated croaks of frogs by the stream.

Another noise intrudes, unwelcome in its unnaturalness, summoning Mara to the kitchen where her mobile phone performs a St Vitus’ dance on the table.

It’s Peter.

Be strong.

‘Hello,’ Mara says, breathless from running. ‘Must be early for you.’

‘Morning.’ His voice is thick with sleep. ‘Jenny said you called, sounded peeved, and I was to call you. Had no chance yesterday, here now.’

Jenny, the secretary. Did Mara sound peeved? And this is the reason Peter has called? With his grudging voice.

‘Sorry,’ Mara begins, and changes tack. ‘I realised we hadn’t spoken in days, was worried you might think I’d run away.’ Her tone is light. Whatever promise she made to herself on the Welsh Bridge, she’s too tired for a quarrel tonight.

Peter’s humph is hard to interpret. He makes no comment about running away, instead moving into a kind of apology, or excuse. ‘Been frantically busy, work keeps piling up, time flies.’

‘Josie said.’ Mara takes a short breath, says, ‘She was worried this Sydney client was causing you stress, said you weren’t in the best of moods much of the time.’

‘Did she?’

It’s an accusation, and Mara worries she’s put Josie in an awkward spot. ‘She was concerned for you.’

‘I’m fine, just tired. I’ll tell her sorry when I see her.’

Here is true contrition. Peter loves his daughter, wouldn’t want to upset her. Mara hmms a concurrence, waits for him to ask what she’s been up to, how the research is coming along, how was her trip yesterday.

‘Are you still planning on staying until September?’

The abrupt non-sequitur throws Mara. ‘What do you mean?’ What does he mean?

‘What I said. It’s a long time.’

His tone is brusque, carrying the suggestion this is a discussion they’ve had before and not finished with. Mara thinks about this. Unless she’s missed a beat, September was the plan from the start.

‘September’s always been the plan,’ she says. She works at staying neutral. ‘Until Josie gets here. I can see her settled in, head home afterwards.’

There’s another humph. ‘If it’s what you want.’

Before Mara can ask what’s going on, Peter is muttering about how late he is, he’s gotta dash, important meeting first thing, needs to prepare, and he’ll ring when he can.

‘Right, and next time ring the landline, this is pricey calling –’ Mara is talking into an empty phone.

She replaces the mobile on the table with a mental note to charge it overnight and walks into the garden. The starlings have roosted, twilight has slumped into night, the frogs are sleeping. Moths flutter about the light by the door, a dog barks, once.

Ignoring her unfinished meal, Mara collects her wine and continues on between the garden beds down to the stream. When the urge rises to keep walking to the river, she squashes it. She has no torch, and no wish to break an ankle, or worse. She contents herself with watching the trailing willow branches, thinking of the brown hanks breaking the surface at the Welsh Bridge, the lustrous limbs beneath. Mara draws in a long breath at the unreality of it all. Was this Kathryn's experience too? Did her mother also hear Sabrina's whispers to be strong? Which brings Mara back to Peter.

He had asked nothing about her, how she is faring, is she doing what she came for, any success. Rather, he sulked about the length of her planned stay. Sulking isn’t a normal trait for Peter. Sulked, or – the grim possibility breaks the surface of Mara’s thinking with a flick of its nasty tail – prodded her into a conversation where she could be cast in the role of uncaring wife.

She takes another deep breath of cooling air, sips her wine and frowns at the water streaming around and over stones blackened by night, flowing to the river and the sea.

Be strong , she whispers to herself.