Chapter Twenty Eight

The Forest, 1997

A unt Dorrie,’ Jack tells Mara as the old Range Rover judders up a rutted lane between the trees, ‘is the oldest of my dad’s brothers and sisters, and the last survivor.’

Mara senses his sideways glance at her profile as she peers through the windscreen, eyes widening at the depth of the potholes. He returns his attention to the track, wet and puddly from heavy overnight rains, and steers the vehicle between the dips and ridges.

‘A sad history, Aunt Dorrie.’ Jack huffs gently. ‘She was engaged to be married in ’39, but her fiancé was killed in the early days of the war. And then Rose, her mum, passed not long after, and Dorrie stayed at home to care for her dad. Her brothers were grown and working – miners and fishermen, what men did around here for centuries.’

‘Or pub landlords,’ Mara says. She’s happy to be on this bone-jolting track, learning her history, eager to meet Dorrie. And not having Peter’s irritable demands for her to go back to Australia, and whatever those demands might imply, churning her stomach.

‘Yes, pub landlords,’ Jack says. ‘Where beautiful women stroll in out of the blue and need my help.’

Mara laughs, and her stomach churns for a different reason. ‘Every day,’ she says, making his comment a joke.

‘Every day,’ Jack agrees and the brief, sweet strain dissipates like mist under a summer sun. ‘And here we are.’

He brings the Range Rover to a rattling halt at the end of the track, opposite a cottage built from reddish local stone with Virginia Creeper blurring the edges. The house is in good repair, doubtless thanks to the family. The garden, however, has been let run wild, and chickens wandering in and out the front door don’t convey a sense of sophisticated living. Mara falls in love with the last century charm.

‘Wow. Quaint,’ she says. ‘Is there electricity, running water?’

‘There is.’ Jack points to the wires running from a pole on the verge. The pole appears to have strolled out of the Forest, trailing other wire-strung poles behind it at long intervals. ‘There’s a pylon in the valley,’ he says, ‘can’t see it from here, which sends electricity to other cottages in the middle of the Forest. Arrived in the ’50s.’ He raises his brows at her gasp. ‘No sewage or gas. A septic tank, and wood burners for heat and hot water.’

‘Must be hard for an old lady to deal with.’ Mara’s views on a family allowing an eighty-six-year-old woman to live like this, charm or not, must tinge her words with faint accusations.

‘Been trying to persuade Dorrie to move in with one of her numerous nieces or nephews.’ Jack’s tone is apologetic. ‘We haven’t put her out to pasture like an ancient horse. They’d all have her, well, most would, enough to go round.’ He huffs. ‘She’s stubborn as a mule. This is where I was born, she tells everyone, and this is where I’ll die.’

Mara softens her criticism. She thinks of Kathryn and her militant independence. Of course, Kathryn had more mod cons and the equally militant observant Mrs Bowen next door. ‘As long as she can take care of herself and people pop by often, why not, I guess?’

‘Why not, indeed? Come on, let’s see what the old lady has to say.’

The hearty scent of lamb and barley soup thickens the air in the kitchen. Childhood winter nights and chunks of tender lamb in their herb-flavoured broth surface in Mara’s mind. It might be the same recipe, maybe learned from Hester, passed on through Ellen and Rose. A shame Mara doesn’t know how to make it. She could ask Dorrie, she supposes, carry on the tradition.

Introductions over, Aunt Dorrie fusses about, filling the kettle from the single cold tap and placing it on the wood burning range, spooning tea into a giant rose-patterned pot, fetching out matching cups and saucers. She is tiny, stooped, with silver hair pulled into a bun and shrewd, assessing eyes enlarged by thick-lensed spectacles. Her floral summer dress hangs on her thin frame beneath a hand-knitted chunky blue cardigan. Mara’s worry that Dorrie feeds herself enough is denied by the old lady’s quick, bird-like movements.

Busying herself with the tea, Dorrie tells Mara how happy she is to meet her, how she and Kathryn played together in the woods as children, then lost touch after Kathryn went first to London and, after the war, out to Australia. Her Forest accent and dialect means Jack has to translate until Dorrie decides she’ll ‘speak proper, like we wuz taught in school.’

‘And our Kathryn?’ she asks, placing a sugar bowl on a tray. ‘How be her …?’

‘Mum passed at the beginning of the year,’ Mara tells her. ‘She had a fall in her garden, hit her head.’

A surge of emotion sets her lips quivering, and Dorrie moves around the table to wrap her skinny arms around Mara, pulling her into a soft hug.

‘Was quick,’ Dorrie murmurs. ‘No nasty nursing home and her lingering.’ She steps away, gives a wan smile. ‘Keep wonderin’ if’n need take longer, tougher walks in our woods myself.’

‘Dorrie, stop it.’ Jack’s chastising tone tells Mara he’s heard this before.

Dorrie chortles and tells Jack to bring in the tea things while she ushers Mara into the tiny living room, bidding her sit in the faded floral upholstered chair closest to the unlit wood burner. The room is cool, shadowed with one small, deep, north-facing window to let in a meagre light. Jack follows with the laden tray.

Mara, rather than sitting, wanders the periphery of the room, dodging side tables piled with knitting and magazines, skirting the ill-matched assorted chairs, to peer at the rows of framed photographs on the window sill and dresser.

‘Family?’

‘Most of ’un.’ Dorrie hunches beside her guest, pointing out who’s who.

Mara nods and listens. ‘Family I never knew existed,’ she says to Dorrie as both take seats and Jack pours tea. ‘Jack’s told you about my search for Aaron Appleby?’

‘Aye, boy garbled summat on telephone.’

‘Garbled,’ Jack mutters. He sips the strong brew, makes a face and reaches for the sugar bowl.

Dorrie bends towards Mara. ‘I’m well remembering yer great-grandma Hester. Died after the war, a few years after our mam.’ She presses her hand to her bony chest. ‘Hester be so upset, being naught her can do for her girl. Here every day with potions ’n brews, which doctor said couldn’t hurt like ’n might help.’

‘Poor Hester.’ An image of herself nursing a fatally ill Josie squeezes Mara’s heart like a sponge. She shakes it off and asks, ‘What was Rose like?’

‘Fun, moody, erratic, a careless mam.’ Dorrie giggles. ‘All on us adored her.’ She fixes Mara with a toothy grin. ‘We be out hours with her in t’ Forest,’ Dorrie says. ‘Foraging along streams and by t’ river. Mam was allus happy by water, ’specially t’ river.’ Taking off her glasses, Dorrie gives a myopic blink. ‘She told us how Hester declared Rose be a gift from t’ goddess. Sabrina, river goddess, you know, love?’

‘Yes, yes.’ Mara sits forward, her pulse pattering. ‘Did the river sing to Rose?’

Jack frowns. So does Dorrie. Mara doesn’t care.

‘Not as she told us, like.’ Dorrie lowers her voice. ‘It were Hester, and Ellen too, who folk whispered be fey. Witches.’ The last word is a murmur.

Mara laughs, says to Jack, ‘No secrets here.’ And to Dorrie, ‘Mum always said she came from a line of witches. She joked about it but do you know, Dorrie, I’m not sure something wasn’t going on.’

Her laughter drops away with the image of the river nymphs stretching their long arms to her. Had they sought Hester and Ellen too? And Kathryn as a young woman?

‘Not Mam.’ Dorrie replaces her glasses and her brown eyes grow large. ‘She be different, more practical.’ She peers at Jack. ‘Blonde, blue eyes, same as thou and thou dad, Edward. Him be only one took after Mam. The rest of us be proper Hewsons, brown hair and eyes.’ She sniggers. ‘I remember clear once, one of t’boys teasing Edward, calling him foundling, and Mam angriest I ever saw.’ She wriggles into the many cushions. ‘Never say that word, she yell at him, and he be that shook, he run off crying.’

Mara exchanges raised eyebrows with Jack. ‘I wonder what that was about?’ she says and Jack shrugs.

‘Did you see a lot of Hester and Ellen?’ Jack asks Dorrie, who lifts her gaze to the low, beamed ceiling for an answer.

‘Before t’ war, yes. Me and Kathryn being friends, and Rose’d take Edward to them, often. When Kathryn left I lost interest, and then Rose fell sick near beginning of t’ war, and I had my hands full here …’ Her brow gathers additional creases. ‘Different after the war, all different.’

Mara lets the silence envelop Dorrie’s memories.

Jack breaks the bubble. ‘You took me to see Ellen when I was a lad, and I’d go myself when I was older, up until she died. I remember her well.’

‘Yes.’ Dorrie scrunches up her face. ‘Thou be her favourite, spoiled you. Oh, the rest of us was allus welcome if we’d bothered. Thou, like Edward, her had a particular soft spot for.’

‘What was Ellen like,’ Mara asks. ‘Apart from being fey?’

‘Aunt Ellen.’ Dorrie sets the tea on a table with a gentle rattle of cup on saucer. ‘A sweet lady. Lived a good long life. Separate from the witchiness, I allus felt me and Ellen had a bond, given what happened.’ She squints at Mara over her thick spectacles.

‘Her husband killed in the first war? And your fiancé in the second?’

‘Yes.’ Dorrie clasps her hands in her lap, stares over Mara’s shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ Mara says gently.

‘Tain’t thou fault.’ Dorrie is gentle too. ‘Now,’ she returns to briskness, ‘this Aaron fellow. Who be him?’

‘Exactly.’ Mara places her tea on the tray. ‘No one knew he existed until I found his journals.’

Mara explains about finding the books after her mother’s death and her search for Aaron, how she believes he was Ellen’s father, and possibly Rose’s, although neither girl bore his surname nor are their births recorded in the Barnley parish register. She hopes Dorrie might be able to tell her about him.

‘Hmm.’ Dorrie scrunches up her eyes and taps her mouth with a bony finger. ‘Mam never talked about her dad, ’cept to say, when pressed once, he died when her and Ellen be very young. But I wonder …’

Mara waits, praying Dorrie’s wondering will pay off.

***

‘Wonder what?’ Jack touches the side of the cooling teapot, thinks he should top it up, and glances at Mara who murmurs, ‘Yes, what?’

‘Might be …’ Dorrie hauls herself out of her chair. ‘Thou make more tea,’ she tells Jack. ‘I need remember where put the damn thing …’

She wanders from the room, into the tiny hall with its crowd of umbrellas, boots and coats. There’s a rattling noise, slow footsteps on the stairs together with the rhythmic thump of a stick.

‘Should I help her?’ Mara frowns towards the hall.

‘No.’ Jack picks up the pot. ‘She won’t welcome it, and she does it every day.’ He grins. ‘Hope she finds whatever it is, curious.’

Mara wriggles on the chair and wraps her cardigan more tightly about herself, reminding Jack it won’t be too long before the wood burner will need to be lit for the cooler months. He heads to the kitchen with the teapot, making a mental note to check Dorrie’s log pile and find out if one of the cousins has ordered wood. Otherwise, the old lady will be out in the icy Forest scavenging for herself.

Jack brings the fresh pot of tea at the same time Dorrie comes in carrying a tattered, grubby old-fashioned cardboard school case which might once have been blue. She sets it on the low table, clicks the catches and pokes about the contents.

Jack exchanges a bemused look with Mara. Her eyes shine, expectant, and Jack takes a step forward. He wants to sit close beside her, share her excitement.

He’s happy Mara’s relaxed today. No more calls from the ratbag husband, he assumes, nagging her to leave. He admires her tenacity, is glad to be keeping her here in the Forest for longer. It’s July. He has two more months and he’s determined to enjoy them, not fret about his impossible dreams. He should be praying the husband makes more of a nuisance of himself, make it clear to Mara there’s no point going back … Get real, Jack.

‘Here be it.’

Dorrie’s triumphant voice breaks into Jack’s daydreams. He stays standing, ready to be thrilled with whatever Dorrie has found. She’s waving a studio sepia portrait at Mara, who takes it, flips it over to read the inscription, and squeals with delight.

‘Oh, Dorrie, this is brilliant!’

‘What is it, who is it?’ Jack sees four figures in the photograph.

‘Hester, Ellen, Rose June 1895,’ Mara reads. Her grin splits her face. She flips the photograph, stares at the four figures. ‘This must be him, must be Aaron Appleby.’

Jack clears his throat, hinting, and Mara hands the portrait over. A tall, handsome man, a beautiful woman and two pretty little girls, each bonneted and suited in their best finery, peer solemnly into the camera framed by a giant potted palm and the Pyramids. One of the girls has dark hair, like her parents. The other has a frizz of light curls and wide eyes drinking in this unusual experience.

Hester, Ellen and Rose. Yes, from what he recalls of Ellen, the dark-haired girl fits the portrait perfectly.

‘O’ course,’ Dorrie says, mischief glinting in her eyes, ‘might not be he. Might be another.’ She gives one of her shrugs. ‘Never heard the name, and never heard nowt of any man in Lavender Cottage ’cepting this photo I found after our dad passed, and then there be no one left t’ ask who this ’un be, apart from likely being our mam’s dad.’

‘There was a man at one stage,’ Mara says. ‘This proves it. And see how much alike he and Ellen are?’ She takes a breath. ‘She has to be his daughter.’

There’s a long pause in which Jack realises his aunt must be tiring. ‘We should leave you to rest, Dorrie,’ he says.

‘Yes, yes.’ Mara jumps to her feet. ‘It’s been fascinating hearing about my grandmother and great-grandmother, and Rose too. Finding this picture is the icing on the cake.’ She holds the portrait out to Dorrie, who dismisses it with a wave.

‘You keep ’un, love. They be more your family than mine and besides –’ she keeps the wave going, this time to the picture-covered walls – ‘I got me enough photographs.’

‘Thank you, I’m really grateful, Dorrie, and I’ll come again if I might, tell you all about Kathryn.’ Mara stoops over Dorrie, kisses her on the cheek. ‘It’s been truly lovely to meet you.’

‘You take care, my love.’

Jack piles the cups and saucers onto the tray, lifts it to carry to the kitchen. Mara follows him, insists she’ll rinse the tea things. He should spend a few more minutes with his aunt.

He would have, except when Mara appears a few minutes later, Dorrie is snoozing under a crocheted multi-coloured blanket, and Jack is wandering the room examining the photographs he’s taken no notice of his whole life. What secrets might they hold for future generations? Good and bad.

As he and Mara creep from the cottage, Dorrie stirs.

‘Mara,’ she mumbles, opening her eyes. ‘Forgot to say. About Ellen an’ Rose, where they be born. Hester’s family be from Shiphaven, if it be a help to you.’

‘Ah, thank you. Yes.’ A fleeting frown passes across Mara’s forehead as if she’s trying to remember something. ‘Yes,’ she repeats. ‘Williams.’