Long Goodbyes (8 page)

‘Goodness, the storm is upon us.’ Orla’s hands were stroking my cheeks. ‘Jenny, it is all well. It will pass. We are safe.’

‘It is not the storm,’ I whispered. ‘It is something evil, I feel it. Orla, what happened to Jennifer O’Brien?’

‘Don’t upset yourself, Jenny. Please.’

‘Orla, I saw something, in the house. I felt that, whatever it might have been, it wanted to keep me there. I
felt
it.’

‘No, no, no. You are overwrought, Jenny. Such things are not possible.’

The storm reached a crescendo, buffeting the rafters. It felt as though the whole building were shaking on its foundations. I raised my voice above the hubbub. ‘You have seen him too. Tell me you have not!’

Orla took my hands in hers, her pale face unreadable. She would neither confirm nor deny my accusation. We flinched as a jagged streak of lightning illuminated the room and, hard on its heels, its thunderous sibling rattled the windows.

The minutes passed and we felt as though we should be swept away, ourselves and the entire house, but then, as if by magic the wind abated, the noise of thunder receded and calm was restored. The rain eased and although we could still hear it pattering on the tiles and dripping from the gutters, it seemed as though the worst had indeed passed.
 

‘There,’ Orla said. ‘Now let us take a breath and be rational. Let me relight the candles.’

I had not noticed that the candles had been extinguished but it was clearly a common enough occurrence, for Orla simply went around again with the taper and relit them.

‘The draughts,’ she confirmed. ‘William is always intending to have the windows reglazed, but somehow we have never got around to it. Now then, I think perhaps we should break off our discussion and play a hand or two of cards?’

I could not say that I would not have taken up Orla’s suggestion with alacrity under normal circumstances, but I had to know the end of the O’Brien girl, for I felt sure that in some strange way my own fate was bound up with hers, or if not, then something or someone was intent on making it so. I pressed Orla to continue, arguing against her extreme reluctance.

Eventually, when she could see that I would not be dissuaded, she went on. ‘Sir William moved the girl into the grand house, there to keep a close eye on her. He kept her in a room known as the tapestry room. Now that she was a virtual prisoner, of course, she was no longer able to give away the food Sir William had provided for her. Her family began to starve, her brothers being turned away each time they came to the door to represent their anguish.’

‘I can imagine Jennifer’s reaction,’ I said quietly. For how could she allow herself to be nourished when her family were dying?

‘Yes. It is as you have guessed. Whatever Sir William did, whatever extreme measures he adopted to impress his own will upon Jennifer’s mind, came to naught.’

‘Dear God. She starved herself to death?’

‘She did. And Sir William wept over her body for weeks upon end, it is said. It was in this unhappy state that he was found wandering by those with grudges against him - and naturally they took full advantage of his distracted grief.’

‘Orla, I am not a superstitious person. God knows, in my short lifetime I have seen and heard enough to bring terror and fear into the stoutest heart, but there is something here in the village which defies explanation. And you know this, do you not? Both you and William?’

Orla nodded miserably. ‘We thought you would refuse the cottage, you see. I mean, if you knew what had happened to Jennifer and Malachi.’

‘Had I known, I would still have come. As I have already said, I am not a superstitious woman. But I have seen and heard things these last weeks and months which I cannot rationally explain.’

‘There is an atmosphere about the place, I know,’ Orla said. ‘But come, such things cannot be. They are the stuff of fairy tales and fireside yarns.’

I felt certain that Orla was playing down her fear, strengthening her own resolve so as not to cause me further alarm. She would not return to the subject and we spent the remainder of the evening chatting about mundane matters, if war can ever be labelled mundane - her husband’s naval career, the German U-boat threat, the possibility of peace in Europe. But by now the hour was late and I was tired, emotionally drained by Jack’s departure and the evening’s subject matter. This I communicated to my friend.

‘Of course. My dear, I am a poor hostess indeed. I will show you to the spare room. You may borrow one of my nightdresses - I have quite a selection.’ She said this brightly so as, I imagined, to cheer me up.

The guest room was comfortable, with bare boards covered by a soft Chinese rug next to the single bed. A wardrobe and dresser stood against walls gaily patterned with white roses on a blue background, and a silver candle holder sat atop a mahogany bedside cabinet beneath the leaded window.

‘It will all seem better in the morning, Jenny. Please don’t upset yourself concerning the things I have told you this evening. I would never have spoken of them had you not-’

‘It is quite all right. I am overwrought, that is all. A silly woman panicked by a storm and some fanciful notions. I will see you in the morning. Sleep well, Orla and thank you.’

chapter nine

I do not know what awakened me. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the bed, a change in atmosphere. But I remember that my eyes opened to find the chamber flooded with moonlight. I rose and went to the window, my thoughts all of Jack and our separation. I opened the window a fraction and a mild, salt-laden breeze freshened my room. I could hear the waves breaking upon the rocks, the susurration of the tides sucked back and forth by invisible forces. I was struck by the enigma of it all, the unfathomable mystery of nature. What a world we live in, I thought, how scant our understanding of the unknowable! And then, raising my eyes heavenward I beheld an uncountable scattering of stars gleaming like precious stones upon the vast canvas of the Milky Way.
And here is humankind
, I mused,
a little lower than the angels, eyes turned downwards to the soil in conflict, rarely elevating their vision to the infinite, bent only on destruction
.
 

I turned my gaze earthwards, to the lane which ran beneath my window and on past Mr Keane’s small-holding towards the green before bending away to the cliffs and the sand and shingle beaches of the Atlantic coast. And then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the moonlight, I caught a movement upon the lane, an unmistakeable figure walking with measured, deliberate steps in the direction of our cottage.
 

Orla.

My first instinct was to call out to her, but I knew it to be unwise to suddenly awaken somebody from such a condition. For surely she was sleepwalking; I could think of no other reason why my friend should leave the house and take to the road at this ungodly hour. I hurriedly threw on my dress and shawl and went downstairs. The front door was wide open. Should I lock the house? But I had no key. As I was selecting a stout cane from the umbrella stand I heard the wolfhound stir somewhere in the bowels of the house, but satisfied that he was locked securely away, I felt emboldened enough to step out into the lane in pursuit of my friend.
 

The air was mild, and - apart from the sound of rainwater running alongside me in the hidden sheugh -
 
there was no noise save the distant roar of the sea. As I walked I wondered how best to arrest Orla from her somnambulistic ramble. I resolved to catch up with her and then, speaking softly, lead her gently back to her house and to bed. She would be unlikely to recall the incident in the morning. Perhaps I would neglect to mention it at all, in case it should cause her concern. But then, had I not awakened, had I not seen her, what might have become of her? She could easily have come to grief on the clifftop; indeed, she was presently open to any kind of danger. I quickened my pace at the thought.

As I passed the green and its empty bench I saw her walking swiftly past the church. If I cut through the graveyard I might be able to intercept her at the far side by the gate.

However, Orla was walking at a brisk pace, and although I had the cane to aid my pursuit, I realised that I would not be able to catch up with her unless I broke into a run, an impossible feat given the length and style of my dress. She must rest soon, I consoled myself, and by now it was clear to me that Orla’s destination must indeed be our cottage. I paused for breath, my heart beating hard in my chest. I was startled momentarily by the hoot of an owl and a breath of unseen wings overhead, but then the comforting sound of a cow lowing in a nearby field settled my nerves and I set off again, happy in the knowledge that my nocturnal walk was nearing its end.
 

The cottage came into view. I could clearly see Orla standing quite still in the lane outside the garden gate. Should I call to her? No, better to exercise caution. Could she see me? She gave no such indication. I walked very slowly towards her, but she turned abruptly and went through the gate. A few seconds later I heard the door of the cottage open and close behind her. Exasperated, I went to the gate. I set my hand upon the latch, and it was at this moment that I felt the presence of another immediately behind me. My entire body shivered as if spring had changed places with the dead of winter. I could not move, whether rendered incapable by fear or by something more sinister I cannot say. My eyes were fixed upon the cottage window, through the leaded panes of which I could determine the glow of candlelight and the movement of one or two persons within. My hand gripped the cane, but at that moment I felt an icy touch upon my shoulder and my grip loosened. A scream caught in my throat and my legs turned to water.
 

I remember nothing else.
 

Nothing.

Until, with a sense of dread I cannot adequately describe, my consciousness returned. I knew in an instant where I was. The smell struck me immediately; I remembered it clearly, the smell of opulence turned to decay. The bed I was lying upon was wide, the mattress soft and pliable. A candle burned low on the dresser and a bowl of fruit was beside me on the bedside cabinet. There was utter silence.
 

I eased myself out of bed and placed both feet on the floor, at once feeling a heaviness bordering on nausea in the pit of my stomach. Worse still was a sensation of preternatural
malaise,
the effect of which was to render me helpless and quite unable to rise. And so in this paralysed condition I remained for a long while, immobile and frightened not only for my life but also for my soul. I remember that I gasped aloud as I became aware that I was clad in an old-fashioned nightdress which belonged neither to me nor to Orla; its cobwebbed lace clung to my skin like damp tissue. Galvanised by this new and unwelcome discovery I moved slowly away from the bed, fearful of the possibility that I was not alone in the chamber, the hairs on my arms and neck bristling and my pulse beating in an unsteady rhythm. My movements felt slow and awkward, as though I were swimming in, rather than moving through, the bed chamber. I put out a hand to steady myself and the corner of the dresser crumbled at my touch, falling to the floor with a soft
puff
, as would a growth of fungus. I recoiled, retching at the smell, and my back brushed the chamber door. I tried the knob - and to my utmost relief it turned easily and the door gaped open.

A staircase led directly from the chamber into the darkness below. I took a cautious step, and although it gave slightly under my feet, the tread felt firm enough to support my weight. My hands went out to the walls, but I withdrew them immediately as I felt their damp, sticky texture. The banister was in a similar condition, as if the entire framework of the house were riddled with corruption, decomposing slowly like some abandoned mausoleum. With my hand over my mouth I made my slow descent. I reached the lower floor without incident and stretched out my arm in front of me as I moved forward so as to identify any obstacles, cursing myself for a fool for leaving the candle in the bed chamber. Casting a fearful glance behind me I was startled by a shadowy presence to the right of the door through which I had just come, until I recognised the object as a tall grandfather clock. Calming myself by humming a childhood nursery tune -
hickory dickory dock -
I went on. My feet made no sound on the thick carpet, but a faint rotting smell accompanied me along the landing which gave me to understand that the soft furnishings were in a similar state to the walls and woodwork. Still there was no sound save my laboured breathing. I began to hope that I would pass from this awful place unmolested by whatever had abducted me. As I made my slow, shuffling progress across the landing I fretted about Orla. She too might have become a victim, for all I knew. Perhaps she was imprisoned in some other room? This thought arrested my progress. What should I do? My instincts and sense of self-preservation instructed me to look to my own safety and escape as soon as I was able, but how could I leave my friend in danger? I continued in this agonising quandary until I found myself at another door - or was it the same door? Where was the main staircase? Surely it should not be difficult to find, even in this awful darkness. But whichever way I directed my footsteps I arrived inevitably at the same door. There was nothing else to be done. I placed my trembling hand on the doorknob and, pushing it cautiously open, made my feet carry me forwards. I was greeted by dim candlelight, and encouraged by this small beacon of hope, I stepped fully into the room.