Thirty Seven

Chapter

The Forest, 1997

T he bruised clouds over the river hesitate no longer. As Mara pulls the Fiesta alongside Lavender Cottage, they let loose their load with a vengeance which mirrors Josie’s fury. Leaving her case in the boot, Mara snatches her handbag and scurries to the front door, dodging the rain bouncing off the paving stones. She huddles beneath the inadequate porch and pushes the key into the lock.

Inside, she shuts the door, shakes raindrops from her hair, wriggles out of her damp coat and moves to the kitchen. She eyes the open bottle sitting on the workbench, corkscrew pushed firmly into the neck. Tempting. With a sigh, Mara tosses her keys onto the kitchen table and plucks the kettle from its stand, fills it and sets it to boil.

Josie had vented for ten minutes, a diatribe of words exploding across the oceans.

‘Did you know, Mum?’

‘Know what?’ Prevaricating.

‘Dad’s having it off with some tart in Sydney.’ Josie’s voice had risen to a shriek. ‘And has been for the past year.’

After a long, heavy day, Josie had taken herself to bed early and the house was in darkness when her father came in. His phone had rung, disturbing her sleep. She had rolled over, closed her eyes, when Peter’s raised voice reached her along the hallway.

What Josie heard had her sitting up, listening hard.

‘He was shouting about telling you in good time, would she – the person he was talking to – be patient a bloody bit longer, he had to do this his way, and it wasn’t his way to break the news to his wife he was leaving her when she was in another bloody country, and no, she wasn’t coming home early, that line hadn’t worked …’

The kettle bubbled to a boiled standstill. Mara waited, poured the hot water into the cafetière, added the plunger. She rested her hands on the edge of the workbench. The rote-like speech, the wooden plea for her return to Australia. Not Peter’s idea. He’d been acting under instructions.

Helen. Her name is Helen. Josie reported this to Mara. ‘Dad had gone all wheedly, begging,’ she had said. ‘Please, Helen,’ Josie quoted in a mocking, vitriolic singsong, ‘it’s a few more weeks, and we have those weeks to ourselves … we can take a break, have a holiday in the sun, rest up before the drama kicks off. Ugh.’

Mara had paced the road beside the church, letting Josie talk herself out. She had spotted a gate into a field which sloped to the river and had slipped in, careful to close the gate behind her. The unbroken flow of the stream, pewter under the louring sky, calmed her thrumming heart. The words came from a distance, echoing in Mara’s head, nothing to do with her. It was as if the classical radio station she’d been listening to in the car had moved on to a play.

Finally, Josie repeated the question she’d asked initially. ‘Did you know, Mum? Is that why you went to England?’

Mara cast her mind back to the days before and after Kathryn’s death. ‘Not for certain –’

‘You suspected?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you come home straightaway? Can it be fixed?’

‘I’m not sure, Josie, is the answer to both those questions.’

Josie had sighed.

‘Are you at home?’ Mara asked. ‘Where’s Dad?’

‘I walked out of my room, confronted him.’ Josie’s high pitched squeal might have been a laugh. ‘I almost felt sorry for him, Mum. He jumped like the four horsemen of the Apocalypse had materialised in his hallway.’

‘And?’

‘He told her he had to go, he’d call later, and he started apologising to me and I said I wasn’t the one he should bloody well apologise to and came back to bed. I’m there now. No idea where Dad is.’

The heavy silence was broken on Mara’s side of the world by gulls shrieking their warning of the pending storm. And on the other, by Josie’s sobs. Mara had murmured comfort, told Josie she would talk to her tomorrow, when she had decided what to do. Before anything, however, Mara must talk to Peter.

The coffee is ready, and Mara pushes the plunger with more force than necessary. Rain lashes the kitchen window, blurring the garden. The wind has risen, buffeting the corners of the cottage to challenge the rain beating on the glass. It could be nature mirroring Mara’s emotions, except what she largely feels is weariness. Weary in anticipation of the drawn-out drama to follow.

In the living room, Mara sets her coffee on the sea chest and takes the matches from the mantelpiece to light the fire. She hunches in the wing chair, the soot-smeared glass-paned wood burner door left open, monitoring the quick progress of the flames.

She is grateful to Josie for ending her nagging doubts. And guilt-ridden at the anguish her daughter is suffering. Thank God Josie’s a grown woman with her own life.

However, confirmation does not bring a solution. Mara is forced, finally, to examine her soul, to unravel the tangled twine of emotions which have knotted themselves more tightly since her arrival in the Forest.

Will you come home straightaway? Josie asked.

Where is home?

Mara picks over the last weeks and finds contentment. Lavender Cottage and its ghosts have taken her into their embrace, softly, tenderly. Is this home now?

Can it be fixed? Does Mara want it fixed? Have she and Peter outlived their happiness, leaving a residual vague sense of mutual respect – broken by his infidelity – and responsibility? Mara doesn’t mean to go there, but Jack’s blue eyes fixed on hers as they chat, interested, easy … She swallows the last of the coffee and grimaces. All very well to make comparisons with a charming stranger. Twenty-six years of marriage has a tendency to dissolve the thin skin of charm to lay bare the strength of the bones beneath.

The kindling has burned to hot coals and Mara stands to throw a log onto the fire. She waits for it to catch before closing the door, and is aware of silence. She goes to the window.

The rain has worn itself out, reduced to the usual soaking drizzle. The wind too, has done with its bullying bluster. Mara takes the opportunity to fetch her case from the car and wheel it into the bedroom. In the living room, she stacks more logs onto the fire, closes the vent as Jack has shown her to slow the flames, and sits on her haunches.

She should call Peter. Never mind if it’s – Mara does the maths – nearly midnight there. She scrambles to her feet, digs her phone from her bag. The battery is low. Good. The conversation won’t be long. Mara stays standing and presses the quick dial number for Peter’s mobile.

***

The last of the lunchtime customers have run to their cars, coats held over their heads. Jack pauses in the doorway, eyes on the rain kicking up from departing car roofs, drenching the market umbrellas in the beer garden which he, Emmy and Tom had rushed to close, battling the taunting wind. He thinks this is the day Mara drives back from Eccleshall and hopes she’s reached Lavender Cottage, safe from the storm.

He goes inside where Emmy is clearing tables. Tom’s cheerful whistling from the kitchen suggests his cook is content the busy last couple of hours are over. The clunk of pots and rattling of crockery drift into the bar.

The phone rings and Emmy, the nearest, answers it. She hands the receiver to Jack.

‘Your Aunt Dorrie,’ she says. ‘Sounds a bit excited.’

Jack arches his brows. He hasn’t seen or spoken on the phone with Dorrie since his and Mara’s visit. He has, however, sorted the wood supply for the winter and has been intending to call to tell her. He’ll do so after she’s told him what’s excited her. Hopefully this titbit won’t lead to another revelation like the last one did. He screws up his mouth and takes the phone from Emmy with raised eyebrows at her questioning gaze.

‘Hello, Dorrie, been meaning to ring you.’

‘Good thing I’ve rung you then,’ she says tartly. ‘The tel-e-pathy –’ she makes it distinct syllables ‘– tain’t working, lad.’ And cackles.

Jack smiles into the handpiece. ‘I’ve ordered your wood for the winter. It’ll be delivered in a week, and I’m relying on you to tell me it’s there so I can stack it for you.’

‘Good, good.’ Dorrie’s old voice crackles with impatience. ‘I didn’t ring you ’bout no wood,’ she says. ‘More important ’n wood, for Mara.’ She pauses. ‘She happen to be there? I could tell her direct.’

Jack doesn’t ask why Dorrie expects Mara to be at the King’s Shilling. He’s certain he doesn’t want her to tell him, because it will hurt. Did he wear his heart on his sleeve when they visited the old lady? He needs to be more careful.

‘No. You’ll have to tell me, or I can ask her to ring you when I see her.’

‘Can’t be waiting fer so long.’ Dorrie gives another cackle. Her high humour lightens Jack’s own. ‘You tell her Dorrie did more digging in Mum’s case an’ found something of interest.’

‘Oh?’ Jack’s stomach plummets. He forces himself to ask. ‘What is it?’

‘A letter, creased and tatty like it was opened and folded too much over too many years.’

In the pregnant pause, Jack sees his aunt smirking at the phone.

‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Tell me.’

‘October 1917, from Ellen to Rose.’ An intake of breath. ‘Shall I read it to you?’

‘Yes please, the suspense is killing me.’ Jack says it like a joke

‘Right, got me glasses on. Listen.’ And she reads the following:

‘Darling Rose, I will be brief, Mama will explain later. Both sad and wonderful news at this dreadful time. Mama and our beloved Papa have been reunited. He remembers us, his mind restored after all these years. Can you imagine, sweet sister? It seems our Papa never did abandon us willingly, but I know no more than that. He is heartsore, sends warm embraces and all his love, and is so proud of you in particular, Rose, for the work you do. I must catch the post, this news cannot wait a day, with love,

Your sister, Ellen

Jack sees more questions than answers in this missive. He chooses a practical one. ‘Why did Ellen write to her?’ he asks. ‘Couldn’t she have visited, told her this news?’ And what work did Rose do which made Aaron proud? Mysteries on mysteries.

‘Who knows.’ Dorrie is impatient. ‘Not the point, love. Point is, t’ man had that forgetting sickness, amnesia, reason why he never showed.’

Twenty years of never showing. Jack’s heart rips at the tragedy of those shattered years.

‘You’ll tell Mara, soon as you can?’ Dorrie says.

‘Of course, and I’ll bring her out to see you. She can read the letter for herself.’

‘The two of you come soon. I be making scones, a proper tea we’ll have.’

Jack ignores Dorrie’s teasing tone. He promises to call with a date, promises again to pass on this information, and hangs up.

Emmy is wiping tables. Jack goes into the kitchen. What else is in that damn case? Likely nothing more of interest, else Dorrie would have said. Mara will be thrilled with his aunt’s detective work.

The kitchen sparkles, and Tom is pulling on his coat to leave. The door is open and sun glistens on the wet trees. The storm has passed.

‘All done here?’ Jack says.

‘Yes, boss. I’m off.’

‘Thanks, Tom. I’m out for a bit too.’

Jack sends Emmy home, sweeps the floor in the bar, locks up and walks upstairs to the flat where he changes into a shirt which doesn’t reek of hamburgers. He grabs his keys from their hook by the door and walks out into the damp sunshine.

***

Mara’s call to Peter isn’t going well.

He cries, protests he loves her, she should have come home when he asked her, this would never have happened.

It’s been happening for a year. Mara is gentle when she points this out. Peter’s further blusterings fail to wriggle their way into her heart. While her anticipated weariness materialises, she is calm, at last certain of what she wants.

‘Peter,’ Mara says at last. ‘I’m not coming back to you. You and Helen’ – she makes sure to say the name in a way which suggests she and Helen, whoever Helen is, are on the best of terms, have agreed the full details in advance, no animosity, no blame. In truth, Mara believes it herself – ‘the two of you can be happy. I won’t be difficult, I’ll stay out of your way.’

Mara listens a little longer to Peter’s burbling sorries and it wasn’t meant to happen excuses.

There is nothing else she wishes to say so she lays the phone on the rug by the fire and leaves the room. The cost of the call, which Peter will pay, will depend on how long it takes him to realise she isn’t there. Or until her phone dies, which might or might not be sooner. Mara loves the irony. The invisible wife.

She goes into the kitchen, slips out of her shoes, tugs on her walking boots and leaves the cottage.

***

The Fiesta is parked in the lane. Jack breathes. Mara has returned safely from Eccleshall, has survived the storm.

When there’s no answer to his knock, he walks around to the back, knocks there. Continuing silence, and he tries the door, which is unlocked. Opening it, he calls her name. He glances about, doesn’t want to go in. Through the door into the sitting room, he spots her phone on the rug and frowns. She must be in the shower, cleaning off the grime of travel. He’s about to leave, wait outside, when he notices her walking boots aren’t in their usual spot. A pair of leather slip-ons lie nearby.

Pulling the door closed, Jack hesitates, thinking of the discarded phone. If Mara has gone to the river, it could be because she needs privacy. The path will be slippery with mud from the storm, the trees dripping. The tide is coming in. He convinces himself he should follow, check she’s all right. Whatever the reason she has gone there, she will want to hear Dorrie’s news. He tells himself.

She is standing above a low cleft in the bank. Beyond her, the brown waters race upstream, rapidly filling the gaps between sandbanks. He calls her name and she turns.

Her eyes are red, puffy. Jack forgets Dorrie’s findings. He strides forward, stops in front of her.

‘What’s happened, Mara? What’s wrong? Bad news from home?’ He pushes his arms into his sides to stop them gathering her into a consoling embrace.

She gives him a ragged smile. ‘Where is home,’ she says enigmatically. And returns her gaze to the river. ‘Hester must have come to this place often, when she needed comfort from the goddess. Or simply to think.’

Jack stiffens his treacherous arms. ‘Sabrina, like any goddess, has her favourites. Hester was probably one of them, with her witchy vibes.’

Mara appears not to have heard, eyes on the water. ‘When Aaron was missing,’ she says, ‘for however long that was, Hester would have walked this path, stood here, and listened to the river’s whispers.’ She faces him, her eyes fever bright. ‘Sabrina tells me to be strong, and strong is what I’ll be.’

‘Strong for what?’ Jack’s nerve ends twitch with the longing to comfort her, whatever the cause of her anguish.

‘I’ve just put an end to twenty-six years of marriage,’ she says, and repeats the ragged smile.

Now Jack allows his arms to do what they’ve wanted to do since the day Mara walked into the King’s Shilling. They wrap around her, and he pulls her close, as a friend would do, while Mara sobs into his shoulder.