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He nodded in agreement. ‘Not helping the reputation of black cats, either. But look at the fur on her haunches, the way it echoes the lines of the storm clouds behind, and the tint of orange in her eyes. It’s not the cat that was being drawn but the repressed anger within.’
His hands were slender, pointing at the image, and a smile illuminated his face. As we talked, I imagined him standing trapped within the stained-glass window of a Victorian church like one of those translucent tortured saints. I found myself wanting to paint his face, to capture the angles of his features, the long line of his neck. One of my favourite artists had been Modigliani, known for the exaggerated necks and seductive features of his subjects. I felt the warm heat of a blush seeping across my face. Paul – even the letters of his name sparked that image in my head, long and lean, his legs white against the covers of my bed. Paul had been the man from my teenage fantasies, intelligent, courteous, patient. By the time we first slept together all my nervous reservations had gone.
I let the book drop from my fingers onto the floor of my old bedroom. I thought about the commission. The Pear Drum and Other Dark Tales from the Nursery. I hadn’t even started it and already two weeks had gone by. Too busy packing up to leave London. Or had I been avoiding it?
It was there on my phone, an attachment to David’s email. I reached into the wardrobe, pulled out a musty eiderdown, and dragged it over to the bed by the window. I propped up the pillows, arranged the eiderdown about my body and curled up with my phone, swiping through the emails to download the manuscript, then pausing to look out of the window. The sky was pastel pink, white mist shrouding the valley, trees fanning out against the horizon. The height of the window made me feel distant and alone, safe. The file loaded up and I scrolled through the contents, quickly passing over The Pear Drum to stop at a story I recognised, The Wild Swans. I settled down to read.
There were eleven brothers spurned by their new mother; their father, the king, under her spell. They’d been transformed into eleven black swans, their long bodies drooping as they flew low over the valley. Their sister, the youngest, mourned their loss and swore to turn them back. She spun and she sewed, weaving nettles into flax, blisters bubbling on her skin. Each night she crept out into the graveyard where the nettles grew, gathering what she needed. Each day she sewed the shirts. Ten she made, one after the other, glad to start the last.
But by then her stepmother had discovered her plan.
‘She’s a witch!’ she cried, persuading the king to have his daughter burnt at the stake.
One final shirt the sister had to make, sewing as quickly as she could, as the cart dragged her towards the fire, as the guards pulled her against the stake, one last shirt floating up into the air, not quite finished, as they bound her hands behind her …
The swans appeared, darkening the sky, their cries drowning out the crowd as they swooped down. Scooping up the shirts, they slipped them over their feathers, transforming back into men. The truth was out, the princess was saved, the stepmother put to death, the brothers restored to their family. Except the youngest, number eleven. He was fine, almost. Apart from his arm. It was still a feathered wing, you see, where his sister hadn’t quite finished his shirt.
I looked out of the window, the late sun burning up the hillside, streaks of mist streaming out across the valley like a line of swan brothers. I could see them as clear as day, the swans, pink eyes blinking, red beaks snapping, hissing, crowding round their sister, beating their wings, pushing her, almost crushing her in their eagerness for freedom.
I closed my eyes. I could feel her hands fighting back, the panic rising in her chest. This time it was me. Boys, girls too, crowding round me, pulling at my hair, kicking at my feet. Voices shouting, laughing, their hands reaching out to tug the feathered wings from my back …
I shook my head, as if to loosen the image from its grip. It was just my imagination, too vivid. It was how I experienced stories, as if I were there, the action a tangible thing, reaching out to touch the shapes and colours as they formulated in my head, buzzing around me like a swarm of bees. Crazy girl, that was what Paul had used to say, laughing, when I tried to explain to him how I felt about stories, about painting.
But this was different, this time it was more. My heart was racing, my knees trembling, my lips moving as if to scream. It felt real. A memory – but of what? My feet had gone numb. I unfolded my legs from under my body and swung them out onto the floor. Perhaps it was something at school? It felt that way with all those children. I wriggled my toes. I tried to picture the classroom in the village school, a building not far from the church. But it was too vague.
It was freezing up here, no heating in the room. I wasn’t going to sleep here, I decided. I levered myself from the bed, left the room and shut the door behind me.
CHAPTER 5 (#ua660598d-90cf-5ee7-ba30-b2a5228ec295)
It was the next day, after another night on the sofa. I was perched on a stool in the kitchen, my hand sweeping across the paper, sketching with a light, confident motion the wings of a black swan. I’d been fired up by that first story, eager to get started on the commission in between clearing the house. As the image grew, my heart warmed to him, my swan prince, his eyes soft and human.
There followed a series of pictures, paper floating frantically to the ground as one sheet after another was rejected. I couldn’t capture him properly. The feathers were too bold, the angle of his wing too taut. I couldn’t fathom his expression. Was it fear? Was it joy? Was he wilful, wild and free? The lines had to be perfect, so pleasing to the eye that I couldn’t stop looking at it. I wasn’t there yet. Then at last, I had it. This, the youngest prince, my prince, was sweet and innocent, untouched by the human world, the purity of his black feathers a mirror to his sinless soul. Now I was happy, I stopped. The secret to a good picture is to know when to stop.
My fingers ached. I tipped off the stool and pulled on a coat, deciding to head down to the village. Or maybe I would go into Ashbourne. There were tea shops there and more people. I craved human contact, albeit the impersonal kind.
As my car swung out from the bottom of the drive, another car appeared behind me. It was the jeep again, I recognised the driver, the same impatient craggy-faced thirty-something who’d beeped at me before. He seemed content enough this time, driving behind me, a large dog hanging out of the front passenger window despite the cold. When we got to the village, the road widened and he accelerated past.
Larkstone was quiet. The cottages that lined the road were built with solid stone, curtains drawn, blinds lowered, as if the whole village was closed to me. The Co-op shop window was full of local adverts and Christmas-cracker boxes piled high in a stack, but the doors were locked, the lights were out and no one stirred on the street. Only the butcher’s lights were on. Tinsel was strung across the window and a pheasant, hanging from its neck, bumped against the glass. A figure moved away from the door and a blind dropped into place.
I decided Ashbourne was definitely a better bet.
I managed to nab a space in the market square car park and ambled down the hill to the main street. It had a pleasant buzz to it, fairy lights in every shop, traffic passing slowly under the street decorations. I didn’t really have a purpose. I wanted to soak in the atmosphere and the voices around me.
There were various gift shops. I thought, why not buy something for Steph for Christmas this year? But what did you buy for someone who could afford to waive a substantial inheritance? Perfume? A silk scarf? Those seemed eminently suitable for Steph, but a little boring. I wanted to give something more personal, something that I’d taken my time over, that spoke to us both, even after all these years of silence between us. One of my pictures, I thought. She’d said how much she liked them. I’d give her one of my pictures, something I’d painted especially for her.
There was an artists’ supply shop on St John Street and I went inside. I wanted paper the right size to fit into a table-top picture frame. The shop was a tiny space, pungent with the smell of oil paint and varnish. I lingered awhile, appalled at the prices – I usually bought my supplies on the internet. I selected a pad of thick watercolour paper, adding a pack of pencils, paid for them and left. Back out into the cold air and the damp.
I couldn’t have been looking where I was going. I ricocheted off a passing man.
‘I … I’m so sorry!’ I cried. My pad had landed on the pavement and the pencils were rolling out of their box. ‘Damn!’
‘Fucking bitch, don’t you look where you’re going?’
I recoiled from the man’s language, the aggression in his face. He stepped towards me, a huge athletic man with thick blond hair, his face right against mine. His hands were grasping my shoulders as if he were about to shake me. I felt fear ripple down my spine.
‘I … that is …’
‘Leave the lady alone, Angus!’
Another man appeared, forcing his way in front of me, knocking back the ugly hands from where they gripped my shoulders.
‘You don’t want to get physical now, do you?’ he said.
He had his back to me, this new man. He was tall too, and brown-haired. At his feet was a large dog. I stared in dismay; it was the one from the jeep. It sat on the pavement, tongue hanging out, panting, quite relaxed. It was more than how I felt. The dog watched its master and I watched the two men. I was shaking, desperate to rub off the feel of those hands on my shoulders.
The animal rose up onto its feet, a low growl in its throat. The blond man’s posture shifted, aggression distorting his face.
‘She’s a fucking stupid—’ said Angus.
I backed up, ready to run.
‘Well that may be,’ interrupted my rescuer, ‘but not worth getting an assault charge for, eh?’
How dare he, I thought. What was the point of coming to my aid if he then colluded with this oaf to insult me? I felt my anger rise, my courage re-grouping. I bristled behind him.
Angus, whoever he was, took a moment to think about it. There was an uncomfortable standoff. Then he seemed to concede, nodding to the stranger, kicking my block of paper as he marched off. The dog sat on its haunches and cocked its head to look at me.
I reached down for my things, even more annoyed when I considered how much they’d cost. The paper was marked, the pencil leads broken; I wished I’d never come out. The man looked at me from on high. Was that pity or exasperation on his face? It didn’t help.
‘What are you staring at?’ I said ungraciously.
‘Nothing at all,’ he said. ‘Here, let me.’
He bent down to pick up a stray pencil.
‘I’ve got it … thanks …’
No thanks. I tucked the pad under my arm, snatching the pencil from his hand and turning aside, refusing to look at him. I walked away, side-stepping the dog, picking up speed with the urgency of embarrassment.
But the man followed me. He caught up, walking alongside without a word. I tried to walk faster, but he kept pace. I stopped.
‘What do you want?’ I said.
‘I want to know that you’re okay.’
‘I’m okay, now go away.’ I bit my lip at my rudeness.
‘You’re staying at Elizabeth Crowther’s old house, aren’t you?’
‘What’s that got to do with you? You know her?’ That second sentence was a mistake, an invitation for him to engage.
‘Knew her, yes.’
I nodded, acknowledging the correction. But you weren’t at the funeral, I thought. At least, I didn’t remember seeing him there.
‘We were neighbours. Let me introduce myself. I’m Craig. And you must be Elizabeth’s daughter, Caroline?’ He held out a hand.
I ignored it.
‘I was her stepdaughter, and it’s Caro, actually.’
I’d always hated Caroline, Elizabeth had called me that. I started walking again.
‘I live at Lavender Cottage, it’s further up the lane, past your drive.’
So that explained why he’d appeared to follow me the first night. I didn’t reply.
‘Look, that guy was pretty nasty, back there—’
‘Who was he?’ I saw his flash of irritation at my interruption.
‘Angus McCready.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Let me make it up to you. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. There,’ he pointed to a coffee shop on the other side of the road, all big chunky wooden tables and artsy ironwork chairs.
‘Thanks, I appreciate your help, really, but my parking’s about to run out.’
A white lie.
He looked taken aback. Maybe he wasn’t used to being blown off by a girl. He was, after all, quite good-looking.
‘No problem,’ he said. He stopped walking. ‘Drive carefully!’
His words were softly ironic. But I wasn’t listening, I was already heading back up the hill to my car.
The drive home seemed painfully long, though in reality, speeding, it must have been no more than fifteen minutes. The lane was overhung with trees, the headlamps of my car picking up the droplets of water clinging to the roadside grass. I kept looking in the rear-view mirror, expecting to see the jeep with its dog hanging out of the window. But the road was empty and I noticed the remains of the dead sheep near the house had gone.
I couldn’t wait to get inside. I shoved the key in the lock, leaning against the door as it clicked shut. I turned around holding out one hand, fingers straight but trembling. I snapped the chain into place on the door, reaching up to bolt it top and bottom. Only then did I draw breath.
Okay, there were plenty of men like Angus, bullying creeps who couldn’t even show a bit of respect for a stranger, let alone offer up some sympathy for a brief moment of clumsiness. But since I’d dumped Paul, I’d been reluctant to admit even to myself how I felt about men.
Paul had been a nice guy, too nice. At the beginning. Not that nice wasn’t good – I really wasn’t into the exciting, dangerous type – safe was good, safe was safe. I’d barely dated anyone for longer than a week until Paul. As time went by, I was drawn into his friendship. We met for dinner, we went to the theatre, we headed out of London for day trips to Brighton and the seaside town of Southwold. Then he asked me to spend the weekend with him in Bath. I knew what that meant. Here was someone that wanted me, we had a future, didn’t we? I’d never thought that might happen, I wasn’t the glamorous type, the kind of woman most men went for. I didn’t see what was coming.
‘Limpy, lumpy Caroline!’
The words punched into my brain from nowhere and I sucked in my breath. A little boy voice – another memory from school? Where had that come from? I leaned my head against the front door of the house, feeling the wind outside battering against the wood, roaring through the gap at my feet, the iron bolt cold beneath my fingers.
I made for the kitchen. With unsteady hands I reached for a bottle of wine skulking in a corner of the worktop. I poured it out into a mug and sat down.
I didn’t normally drink, perhaps the odd glass in front of the TV once I’d finished work. The liquid seemed to move in the middle, a regular ripple, circling out from the centre of the mug. It shone under the bright kitchen lights, my heartbeat reflected in the liquid, the beat transferring from hand to drink.
I lifted the mug to my lips and drank it down in one swift, grateful, needy gulp.
CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_48ce56a7-1910-5b4c-8b3a-730f1916d355)
I had to choose a bedroom – I couldn’t carry on like this, what was wrong with me? The sofa, which on my first night had seemed so inviting, was now excruciating, the cushions hard and lumpy, the ridges of the seams digging into my hips. I tucked the blankets under me and rolled over, one hand flung out, feet hitting the armrest. I resolved to sort out a proper bed in the morning.
The house was quiet, except for the tick of the clock in the hallway and the wind rattling down the chimney and buffeting the windows. I’d left the curtains open and snowflakes lightly touched the glass, slipping down as they melted. I lay on my side and drifted off, only to wake again some time later in a pleasantly floating state, aware, yet limbs hypnotically frozen in sleep.
Clack, clack, clack. The noise pierced my slumberous state. The wind had died down and it was a sharp, staccato sound, at odds with the peacefulness of the house.
Clack, clack, clack.
I moaned, unwilling to relinquish my warm, now comfortable position. But the noise penetrated, demanding a response. I’d had some kind of dream, something to do with a bird stuck in the chimney of my old bedroom, black feathers covered in soot clouding my vision, choking in my throat. It had left me on edge and in my sleepy daze the clacking sound momentarily sent shivers down my back.
I rolled onto my feet, dragging the blanket about my body. It was cold, far colder than normal, even in this house. I reached for the lamp, but it didn’t come on. A power cut? I looked towards the window. The air was thick with wide, slow-falling snowflakes, this time the kind that really settles. Snow was rapidly building up on the ground, the front drive white, the low walls too, and an eerie blue light filled the room. I knew what was coming, it had happened so many times before, when I was a child. I made a mental check of the fridge. There was enough food for a few days and for a moment I quite liked the idea of being snowed in, up here on the hill, cut off from the world in my snowy kingdom. Except it hadn’t been like that before, with Elizabeth.
But where was that noise coming from? I wondered if it was the boiler, something that had worked itself loose, or pipes contracting in the cold. Had the boiler broken down too? I pushed on my slippers and padded through to the kitchen.
I started to fill the kettle. Then I berated myself – no electricity, remember? I turned to the Aga; it was oil-fired and still warm, thank God for that – heat and something to cook by. I filled a saucepan and set it down on a hotplate.
A flurry of wind caught the side of the house, whipping the branches of a tree, clattering against the window frame. Was that the noise? By now I was too awake to sleep again. It was relatively pleasant in the kitchen and the sitting room felt uninviting. I rifled in a drawer where I thought I’d seen a hot water bottle and pulled it out. I fished out a candle too, jamming it into the empty wine bottle from the day before. I sat down on a chair to wait for the water to boil.
My thoughts turned to the man in the jeep. My rescuer, Craig. There was something about him. Maybe it was his height, or the way his hair grew, unkempt, curling at the back. Why was I even thinking about him? Just because he’d taken an interest in me. The cottage had always been empty in my childhood. I bit my lip; I hadn’t banked on a neighbour that close, I’d been looking forward to the isolation. I stood up to peer out of the hall window. I could see the cottage he lived in, further up the road, its roof snuggled close to the ground where the road climbed and fell away.
I returned to the kitchen. My phone was still on the table, where I’d left it after drawing the swan prince. Reading from my phone wasn’t quite the same as reading a physical book. I thought of all those stories where the moonlight on a particular night could make the letters of a book come alive, or reveal the secret opening of a door cut into rock, shimmering, brightening, an arc of light bursting into life as the door magically opened onto a world of princesses and fairies, goblins and monsters, promises broken and resolved.
I’d stolen a book once – why had I only just remembered that? – from the mobile library van, in the days when they still had such things. I’d loved it so much I couldn’t bring myself to return it. Thief. I rolled the word around in my head. That was me. The sense of guilt gave me a brief shiver.
I picked up the phone, swiping the screen until the file jumped into life. I looked down the list of stories in the commission:
The Foundling.
King Rat. I knew that one – wasn’t that about a boy who liked to play jokes? He got turned into a rat at the end of the story.
The Stubborn Child.
I almost laughed when I read this one – with satisfaction, not humour. A snippet of a tale in the way that some folk tales were – short and ambiguous. Perfect for me to put my own stamp on. The water was boiling, I filled my hot water bottle and made myself a cup of tea. Hugging both, I sat at the table, pulling the candle closer. Reaching for a pencil and paper, I began to draw. The old house empty around me, the wind struggling at its walls, the snow like cold fingers clawing at the windows, the clacking in the distance, it all merged within my head. And I was there, an uneven sequence of sketches sprawling across the page.
In a graveyard, a woman dressed in black stood watching. She was standing beside a mound of newly dug earth, her head bowed, her hair caught beneath a long black veil. The grave was small, a scaled-down stone at its head. In the fading light, the letters were unclear.
The ground was moving at the woman’s feet, the earth breaking, cracking. Something thrust out from beneath. A hand, a small white arm, the black soil clinging to its skin. The fist was closed tight, the whole thing stiff with rage.
The mother stepped backwards in alarm, her feet neatly booted. The child’s arm stretched out, the fingers uncurled, feeling for her legs. But the mother wasn’t having it and she kicked the hand away.
The hand reached out again, scrabbling for a hold in the dirt. This time, the mother bent, batting it down and stamping on it. She picked up a branch fallen from the trees. The child’s hand moved once more, persistent and imploring, stubborn. Now the mother lifted up her branch and brought it whipping down upon the arm.
The arm shot back into the ground, shrivelling from sight. The soil folded into place and the grave fell quiet.
What kind of story was that? These stories were intriguing, like little windows into human weakness – mothers don’t always love their children, I knew that. What made a mother anyway? An accident of birth, marriage or an inner instinct to love and care? And who knew what was behind this story? Perhaps the boy deserved his fate? Perhaps he was a fairy child, a changeling, substituted into the mother’s family to torment her? As the thoughts passed through my mind I picked up a stick of charcoal and began to draw again.
