Blackened Cottage Read online

  “No pity, no words of compassion. I have lived with this face for a long time and it is a part of me.”

  Her voice is smiling, but her lips are twisted. She is hideous but she is also beautiful, and I find myself filling with admiration.

  “You are amazing,” I whisper.

  “Thanking you kindly!” she says, curtseying daintily in front of me before dancing down the garden.

  I follow, less afraid to venture further with such a lively, strong spirit beside me.

  I can no longer contain my curiosity.

  “Bethan. Where do you live?”

  She pauses and looks at me. Her aura suddenly darkens.

  “I reside deep in the woods over in that direction,” she gestures to the right with a graceful sweep of her arm.

  “May I ask who you live with?”

  For some reason I feel this may be sensitive ground. Bethan laughs, but it is not natural-sounding.

  “Let us not talk of unhappy things now. Let us enjoy the moment and live life to its fullest.”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Immediately the tension retreats and she grabs hold of my hand.

  “Come, Lisbeth! There is so much to explore in this garden and I know you have not searched it yet.”

  “I cannot be long,” I say, “soon I will need to wake Eddie from his nap.”

  Bethan nods, “So we shall make the most of the next few moments!”

  She drags me down the garden through the wet grass, pulling me faster and faster until our lungs are exploding and we are bursting with laughter.

  I cannot believe how light I feel. My face feels funny and I realise that the muscles that are used to laugh are unacquainted to moving.

  The realisation sobers me up. A frigid wind slaps my cheek. I wrap Mama's blanket more tightly around myself.

  “I need to go and wake Eddie.”

  “Worry not Lisbeth. We will see one another when darkness comes.”

  We bid farewell and I trudge back up to the cottage.

  *

  Dear Lisbeth,

  I cannot lie to you. Your queries concerning your Father cause me great concern.

  I have told you what I know: your Father is unwell. Charles' mind is a minefield. You can never be too careful around him and you most certainly cannot trust him. He is more often swayed by the devil on his shoulder than by the angel.

  Often, his mind would play tricks on him, tricks persuading him that you, Eddie and I were dangerous. That, perhaps, is why he was crying. He was probably afraid. One of his delusions probably took hold and made him concerned for his own safety.

  Indeed, though I loved him once, your Father has always been tinged with selfishness. He will always put himself first. This is what concerns me most; were he to get the idea that you were out to injure him...well, who knows what he would do to protect himself?

  As I said, his mind is a minefield, with each mine presenting a slightly different danger.

  Please heed this warning Lisbeth. I care only for your safe passage through this difficult life.

  Lovingly,

  Mama

  *

  Back in the cottage I pause outside Father's study. His quill scratches furiously. I move away and the floorboard creaks loudly. The scratching quill ceases. Silence.

  I freeze, my breathing turning shallow and fast.

  The scrape of a chair. He is getting up! Moving towards the door, towards me.

  I try to step away but my feet will not respond. I am rooted to the spot by thorns of fear. Rooted to the floorboard directly outside Father’s study. Driven down, helpless.

  Unable to flee, I wait with thundering heart for him to appear, but he does not. He stays on the other side in his room, his breathing slow and rattling. Serpent-like, he stands on the other side of the door, his body inches from mine separated only by a slice of wood, his stale breath flowing out of the small gap between the door and its frame. The door between us is my only protection.

  I try to swallow. Cannot. A bead of sweat trickles into my eye. My palms are moist and algid perspiration settles in my armpits. I cannot help but wonder what debauched things he might be thinking. I dare not move for fear that he will hear my foot upon the floorboard. If I move, he may dart out and grab me, drag me inside and…

  Abruptly, the door bangs shut and he locks it, making me jump.

  Swallowing thickly, I stand there for a few moments quivering uncontrollably. The sweat on my skin evaporates turning the cold air sour.

  Finally, I pull myself together and hurry upstairs to wake Eddie.

  CHAPTER 4

  BETHAN

  Night comes. Father is in his study, Eddie is tucked in bed and I am outside waiting for Bethan to arrive.

  This night is tepid and the stars are shrouded. No hooting owl or fluttering bats, just darkness and pulsing shadows and strangling entrails and nude trees and licking grass.

  Peat explores the air. It is very very dark. Meek light escapes Blackened Cottage, but its journey is short-lived. It is so dark. Too dark by far.

  My resolve to stay until she comes begins to ebb. I am disappointed at myself but I am also afraid. Afraid of what, I know not. Consciously I know that it is silly, childish even, to be scared by shadows. There are no monsters or ghosts; it is all in my mind.

  Nonetheless, I cannot control my instinct to flee the darkness. The pressing, tightening sensation in my chest and the crushing pain in my temples warns that I can stay no longer.

  As I hurry back into the cottage, I hope Bethan will not be upset. I yank open the kitchen door and glance up into Bethan's dreadful face.

  “What are you doing in here? If Father sees you...”

  She laughs lightly and whispers, “I felt like giving you a little surprise! And it was worth it – you should see your face.”

  I shake my head. The stabbing pains in my skull are getting worse. Grabbing her forearm I drag her past Father's study, upstairs and into my bedroom. Hurriedly I shut us in and she helps me drag a heavy chest of drawers in front of the door.

  Laughing, Bethan collapses on the bed and wipes imaginary sweat off her brow.

  “How dramatic!” she exclaims.

  “Shush! Please, Bethan, if we are going to talk in the cottage, we need to keep our voices low.”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, “Of what are you so afraid?”

  I perch on the end of the bed and stare at the wall. What am I so afraid of? It is a struggle to find the answer.

  “Is it your Father?” she suggests gently.

  I hesitate, unsure how much to disclose. After all, family problems are private. But before I can stop myself, I am confiding in her, telling her everything. She moves into a crossed leg position and listens intently, which encourages me to go on.

  Finally, I exhale shakily and search her queer grey eyes, “So, what do you think? Should I be wary of him? Is Mama right? Do you think it was he who hurt Eddie?”

  Instead of speaking, Bethan gets up, moves to stand directly in front of me and takes hold of my hands. She stares into my eyes. I struggle to return her gaze but force myself to hold eye contact.

  “Let it out,” she murmurs.

  “I cannot,” I say. My body is trembling.

  “You have to. The only way you can change your life is to embrace the terrors within it. Trust me. I know.”

  I glance away but she will not let go of my hands.

  “Use my energy. Can you feel it? Can you feel the warmth between our fingers?”

  I focus on the contact of our hands and I nod. There is a strangely soothing, tingling sensation flowing between our fingers and palms. I glance up at her, shocked.

  “What is it?” I whisper.

  She shrugs, “I do not really know, but it is there and it feels good. I think it is some kind of positive energy.”

  “Positive energy?”

  She nods excitedly, “I think it is simply wondrous.”

  I nod. I can feel myself le
tting go. Tears come unbidden into my eyes.

  “Let them come,” she says.

  My head drops onto my chest, my body sags. Suddenly it is impossible to hold myself up, to pretend that my life is not so terrifyingly hopeless.

  The tears come and Bethan envelopes me in her arms. They come as a storm. Great, ragged sobs and dragging, tearing, wrenching, excruciating breaths. They feel as though they will never cease. So direful is my emotional torture. So painful is my solitude.

  For two whole hours, Bethan holds me. She does not speak. She simply stays with me. A constant companion and witness to my misery.

  Little by little, my tears slow. I am drained, weak. Silently, Bethan undresses me and helps me into bed.

  Before she leaves she kisses my forehead and whispers, “Well done Lissie. You have just taken the second step towards your new life.”

  “Second step?” I murmur drowsily, “what was my first?”

  Bethan laughs softly, “Why, becoming friends with me of course!”

  *

  Dear Mama,

  I broke down yesterday. Perhaps it was hearing Father's torment that brought forth my own.

  I am surprised to admit that crying felt good. Indeed, I sobbed for a long while, but you will be glad to know that I was not alone. Do not worry, it was not Eddie who accompanied me, but a young lady called Bethan.

  How happy I am to have a friend at last! Someone with whom I can talk and share and laugh. Bethan is a very special girl. She is about my age, with similar hair and figure to my own, but her face is a picture of purest horror. And yet she has accepted this and goes on with a light, breezy air always about her. She is an inspiration to me. She is always laughing and jesting and trying to cheer and comfort me. Through her eyes I see the world differently. It is not an entirely bleak, dour place devoid of hope, but an exciting realm to be explored and enjoyed.

  Just last night, she met me in the back garden and we climbed an oak tree together. For hours we sat there, sometimes talking, sometimes not, but there was never an uncomfortable moment. We stared at the stars and drew pictures in the sky by linking the bright lights. We giggled, laughed and rejoiced in each other's company. It was such fun...

  The only thing darkening our friendship is Father, or rather the constant worry that he will happen upon us. I dare not contemplate how he would react to the sight of Bethan. But I shall not dwell on that now. If we continue to be careful I am sure he will not discover us.

  Life is a little brighter, but I wish you could return and replace Father's coldness with your warmth. I hope you are well.

  Your loving daughter,

  Lisbeth

  *

  “Who were you talking to in the garden last night?” Eddie inquires.

  He slots a piece of his puzzle in place and looks up at me. My hands are frozen above the shawl that I am knitting, the needles paused in a cross. I am not prepared for his question. I thought we had been so careful.

  “Why do you think I was talking to someone?” I say, carefully placing my knitting on the bed beside me.

  Eddie shrugs, “I heard you.”

  I watch him trying to work out where the next piece goes. It is part of a girl's face. Her eye and cheek. I know where it goes, but do not spoil it for him.

  “I was just talking to myself,” I say.

  “But it sounded like you were talking to someone. And I heard a girl's voice.”

  “Were you spying on me?” I say, raising my eyebrow teasingly.

  Eddie smiles and shakes his head, “No. Promise. I woke up and heard voices so I went to the window and looked out but I could not see anyone, I could just hear your voice.”

  “So you were spying!” I say, pulling him onto my lap and tickling the life out of him.

  He laughs, protesting, but not really wanting me to stop. Soon we are both laughing and he has forgotten our conversation. Unfortunately, I have not. I resolve to be more careful from now on. If Eddie has overheard us, who is to say Father has not?

  *

  “We cannot meet here anymore,” I whisper.

  “Why not?” she replies.

  “Eddie heard us.”

  “I see. Oh dear!”

  We are crouching down behind a tree. The moon is whole, the crisp air nipping.

  I take a deep breath, “What do you think of me coming to your house? Of course, I will only be able to come at night.”

  Bethan nods slowly, “Okay. But there are some things I must tell you first.”

  I say nothing. This has been a long time coming. Her voice is graver than normal and I wait, desperate to discover her secret but fearful that she may not tell me if I push too hard.

  “But I cannot tell you tonight. I am tired and such a relation requires energy. Will you meet me one last time here tomorrow night?”

  I nod, disappointed that she wants to leave so soon.

  We hug farewell and I watch her disappear into the darkness.

  *

  Dear Diary,

  I watched Lisbeth today. Often she goes for walks in the garden.

  Of course, she still stays away from me.

  I am trying to stay away from her, but it grows increasingly difficult to quell my raging soul. My wife is gone from me and part of me longs to shake Lisbeth to force her to help me. Indeed, I am finding it harder to refrain from entering her bedroom at the dead of night, to seize her and shake her and bash her head against the wall until she regains some proper sense. But I must resist, I must. I must not give in to the devil.

  Having a loving relationship with my children became nothing but a dream a long, long time ago. It is a bitter truth that I must try to accept. And yet a tiny glimmer of hope remains. Although I can no longer love my children as I would wish, perhaps I can harness my hateful anger and force Lisbeth to help me. Violence may be the only way for her to understand how much I miss my wife.

  I am in turmoil.

  Lisbeth drew again today. I saw her go down into the cellar. I long to discover what she has drawn; perhaps it will give me an insight into the workings of her mind. Perhaps it will help me communicate with her, but I am afraid of what I might find. My fear prevents me from going down there. What if she has drawn me, horns and all? She sees me for who I am. What if I get angry again? Each time I lose control the anger becomes more difficult to contain. Soon, I may not be able to contain it at all.

  I cannot trust myself to go to her.

  Goodness, I am exhausted. I must rest.

  C.C

  *

  I am drawing her. Bethan. She is my muse and confidant. I must capture her past and her present, her emotions, her sense of self, her courage, her vitality. I must feel my way through every stroke of charcoal. That is why I do not need her in front of me when I draw her. A more faithful picture will be achieved by conjuring up her words, voice, the inflections in her voice, sentiments in her words, her actions and laughter, her light and dark places. It will not be a day's work. Nor a week's. It will take me a long long time. Perhaps forever.

  I sit at a large, worm-riddled desk, a pot of charcoal and a sheaf of parchment by my side, my fingers poised above the cream paper. I am in the cellar along with two lighted church candles, a pile of cobwebbed logs and a small, cracked window through which comes the grey light of a dull afternoon.

  The air is fusty, thick with dust, but it is quiet and that is what I need.

  I draw the first line.

  From there, everything flows like magic. I am absorbed, spellbound, hooked by what I love most. For hours I sketch and smudge.

  A clatter of hail against the little window breaks my reverie. Guiltily I look up. My eyes are dazed. Only now do I feel the emptiness in my stomach and the dryness on my tongue. Eddie jumps into my mind.

  I take one long look at my work and smile. One quarter of her face is done and it is good.

  Wiping my hands on my apron, I hurry upstairs into the kitchen. Eddie is there drinking a mug of milk.

  He smirks at
me and says, “I love it when you go drawing because you forget all about my lessons!”

  “I am sorry darling. What have you been doing all this time?”

  “Playing with Jack. We made a den in my bedroom, want to see? Jack's still in it.”

  I follow him up the stairs, relieved not for the first time that he has Jack to see him through the loneliness.

  “Look Lisbeth! Look what we have made!”

  Eddie runs into the room and dives beneath a tent constructed out of boxes and sheets.

  “It is wonderful, Eddie,” I say.

  “Did you hear that Jack? Lisbeth loves our den too!”

  “Yes. That is because she has good taste like us,” says a deep, scratchy voice that I do not recognise.

  “Who said that?” I say.

  Eddie pokes his head out of the tent, “Jack of course! Really Lisbeth, sometimes you have a terrible memory!”

  Just in case, I crawl gingerly into the tent, but of course a little boy in a sailor suit with carrot-orange hair is nowhere to be seen. Feeling a little spooked I kiss Eddie goodnight, telling him that I expect him – and Jack – to be in bed in the next quarter of the hour.

  I close his door and turn to cross the landing into my bedroom, but something makes me stop. A tilting shadow, the outline of a man's body, stretches across the landing. Its creator must be standing at the top of the stairs, just out of sight.

  The shadow can only belong to one person: Father.

  Sick with fear, I do not move. Mama's recent exhortation rings loudly in my head: Charles' mind is a minefield. You can never be too careful around him and you most certainly cannot trust him. He is more often swayed by the devil on his shoulder than by the angel.

  My plan was to go into my bedroom, wrap up in a blanket then sneak out into the garden to meet Bethan, but with Father standing there it seems as though my plan will have to wait.