Weyward, p.8
Weyward, page 8
She hesitates when she comes to the ancient sycamore tree, remembering the crows from her first night. She looks skyward, at the reaching branches, red with the setting sun. The tree must be hundreds of years old. She imagines it standing sentinel for generations, keeping the little cottage safe in its shadow. She reaches out her hand and presses her palm against the bark.
It feels warm. Alive.
The air shifts. Suddenly, she wants to go back inside. There’s something about the garden that feels crowded, overwhelming. It’s as if there is no longer any barrier between the outside world and her nerves.
She reminds herself she is safe. She won’t go back inside. Not yet.
She walks deeper into the garden, listening to the hum of insects, water running over pebbles. The beck glimmers below. She climbs down to its banks, holding the twisted roots of the sycamore to steady herself. The water is so clear that she can see tiny fish, their little bodies shimmering in the light. An insect hovers nearby. She can’t remember what it’s called: smaller than a dragonfly, with delicate mother-of-pearl wings. It skims the surface of the beck. She stays like that for a long time, listening to the birds, the water, the insects. She shuts her eyes, opening them again when she feels something brush her hand. The dragonfly-like creature with the iridescent wings. The word swims up from the depths of her brain: a damselfly.
Tears well in her eyes, surprising her.
She was fascinated by insects, as a child. She remembers begging her mother to spare the moths that fluttered out from wardrobes, the gauzy spider’s webs that clung to the ceiling. She’d collected vividly illustrated books about them. About birds, too. She would hide under the covers reading, in the small, silent hours of the morning while her parents slept in the next room. It hurts now, to think of that little girl, her innocent wonder: torch in hand, turning the glossy pages and marvelling at the wild and wonderful creatures. Butterflies with eyes on their wings, parrots in candy-coloured plumage.
After her father died, Kate had collected the books into a shiny, colourful stack and put them on the pavement outside the house. She’d woken in the night, heart swollen with regret, and crept outside to retrieve them. But they were already gone.
Kate took this to be a sign, confirmation of what she already knew. It was too dangerous for her to be around the insects, animals and birds she loved. She’d already caused her father’s death. What if she hurt her mother, too?
She kept her other books – Grimms’ Fairy Tales; The Secret Garden – the stories that became a salve during those long nights when the only sign of life from her mother’s bedroom was the neon glow of the television under the door. Fiction became a friend as well as a safe harbour; a cocoon to protect her from the outside world and its dangers. She could read about Robin Redbreast but she must avoid at all costs the robins that tittered in the back garden.
And she kept the brooch, tucked safe in her pocket through compulsory netball matches, exams, even her first kiss. As if it were a good luck charm rather than a reminder of what she’d done, who she was. A monster.
The brooch is worn now, the gold dull and black with age. It was beautiful, once – she remembers playing with it when she was very young, the crystals sparkling in the sun so that the wings almost looked as if they were moving. She doesn’t remember when she got it. Perhaps that awful moment – holding it tight in her hand while her father’s corpse was driven away – has blotted out all other associations, like a harsh light.
Kate shivers. It’s getting colder, the warmth leaving with the sun. She stands up, looks around. Then she notices something.
A wooden cross, weathered and green with lichen, is nestled among the roots of the sycamore.
There is no name, no date. But, leaning closer, she sees the faint outline of jagged letters. RIP.
The sun has disappeared behind dark clouds, and her skin smarts with the first pinpricks of rain.
As she stands before the cross, the garden seems to swell with sound. Her skin feels raw and open, like a new-born animal’s. There’s a feeling, in her stomach and in her veins, of something wanting to get in. Or wanting to get out.
She runs, then; the strange, grasping plants leaving smears of red and green on her clothes. She shuts the door behind her, drawing the curtains on the windows so that she can’t see the garden, the sycamore tree. The cross. The green-mottled wood, the way that it juts out from the roots of the sycamore.
It couldn’t be a person’s grave, could it? The cottage is so old, after all … she remembers what the cashier said. Went back centuries. Could it be one of the Weywards?
She’d hoped to learn more in Aunt Violet’s papers. But the folder she found under the bed contained nothing earlier than 1942, and nothing about the cottage itself, or anyone who might have lived there before Aunt Violet.
Then she remembers that there’s an attic. She saw a trapdoor, didn’t she? Set into the ceiling of the corridor. Perhaps there’ll be something up there.
The top rung of the ladder creaks as Kate steps on it. God knows how old it is: she found it rusting against the back of the house, half covered in creeping ivy. Ignoring the ladder’s protest, she pushes the trapdoor open.
Aunt Violet’s attic is enormous – big enough that she can almost stand up. She switches on the torch on her phone, and the dark shapes take form.
Shelves line the walls, sparkling with insects, preserved in specimen jars. The space is dominated by a hulking bureau. Even under the torchlight, it looks scratched and very old, possibly even older than the furniture in the rest of the cottage. There are two drawers.
She opens the first drawer of the bureau. It’s empty. Then tries the second, which is locked.
She feels around in the recesses of the first drawer again, just in case she’s missed something, some clue. She breathes in sharply as her fingers connect with a package. Pulling it out, she sees that it is wrapped in fraying cloth. She won’t open it here, in the dark, she decides. Something skitters on the roof and her heart rises into her throat.
She lowers herself down into the yellow oblong of light, the package tight in her hand, its dust working itself into the tread of her skin.
She’ll start the fire, make a cup of tea, turn on as many lights as possible. Then she’ll look at it. Strange, that the other drawer would be locked. Almost as if Aunt Violet was hiding something.
13
ALTHA
I watched as Grace swore on the Bible, to tell the whole truth and nothing but. The prosecutor rose from his seat and walked slowly towards her. I could see her eyes searching for mine.
I wanted to look away, to hide my face in my hands and curl myself up small, but I couldn’t. There were too many people watching. I was Lancaster’s greatest attraction. In the gallery, men pointed me out to their wives; mothers shushed their grubby children. There was a low and constant hiss. Witch, I heard them say. Hang the witch.
The prosecutor began.
‘Please state your full name for the court,’ he said.
‘Grace Charlotte Milburn,’ she said, too quietly. So quietly that he had to ask her to repeat herself.
‘And where do you reside, Mistress Milburn?’
‘Milburn Farm, near Crows Beck,’ she said.
‘And who did you live there with?’
‘My husband. John Milburn.’
‘And do you have any children?’
She paused. One hand went to her waist: she wore a kirtle of dark grey wool, thick enough to hide her shape. I willed her not to look at me.
‘No.’
‘Could you tell the court what is raised at Milburn Farm? Crops, or livestock?’
‘Livestock,’ she said.
‘Which animals?’
‘Cows,’ she whispered. ‘Dairy cows.’
‘And how did your husband come by Milburn Farm?’
‘He inherited it, sir. From his father.’
‘So he lived there from birth.’
‘Yes.’
One of the judges cleared his throat. The prosecutor looked up at him.
‘Bear with me, your honour, this has relevance to the charges laid upon the accused.’
The judge nodded. ‘You may continue.’
The prosecutor turned back towards Grace.
‘Mistress Milburn. Would you say that your husband was familiar with cows? With the patterns and habits of these beasts?’
She hesitated.
‘Yes, of course, sir. Dairy farming was in his blood.’
‘And the particular cows at the farm were familiar with him?’
‘He took them from byre to field and back every day, sir.’
‘I see. Thank you, Mistress Milburn. Now, mistress, could you describe for the court the events of New Year’s Day, in this, the year of our Lord 1619?’
‘Yes, sir. I woke up, at dawn as usual, sir, to feed the chickens and put the pottage on. John had already got up, to milk the cows and then take them from the byre.’
‘And was John alone in doing this, or did he have assistance?’
‘He had help, sir. The Kirkby lad comes to help – came to help – John on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’
‘And this was a Thursday?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened next?’
‘I was getting ready to get water from the well, to wash the clothes, sir. I had picked up the basin and I was looking out of the window. I wanted to see how thick the snow was, sir, to see if I needed my gloves.’
‘And what did you see, Mistress Milburn, when you were looking out of the window?’
‘I saw the cows, sir, coming out of the byre and into the field, and John and the Kirkby lad.’
‘And how did the cows seem to you?’ Did they seem – agitated? Aggressive, in any way?’
‘No, sir,’ she said.
I knew what was coming next. I felt giddy with dread, as if I might swoon. I was grateful that no one could see my shackled hands, how they shone with sweat. I wiped them on the skirt of my dress.
‘Please, go on, Mistress Milburn.’
‘Well, I had been looking at the window, but then I dropped my basin, sir. It made an almighty clang, loud enough that God himself could’ve heard, I thought. I bent down to pick it up. While I was crouched on the floor, there was sound from outside, like thunder. I thought maybe a storm was coming. Then I heard the Kirkby lad yelling.’
‘Yelling? What was he saying?’
‘Nothing that made much sense, at first. Just sounds, like. But then he started saying my husband’s name, over and over again.’
‘What did you do next?’
My heart drummed in my ears. The edges of my vision grew hazy. I wished for some water. I wished that none of this had ever happened. That I was safe in childhood, climbing trees with Grace. Pointing out the finches, the shining beetles; her laughing wonder in my ears.
‘I went outside, sir.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘The cows were all scattered in the field. Some of them had heaving flanks, wild eyes, as if they’d been running. The Kirkby lad was still yelling, bent over something on the ground. At first I couldn’t see John. But then I saw that he … my John … he was the thing on the ground.’
Grace’s voice grew thick with tears. She took a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. The gallery murmured with sympathy. I felt their eyes on me; heard the hiss again. Witch. Whore.
‘And can you describe to the court your husband’s condition at this point, Mistress Milburn?’
‘He was – he was not recognisable as himself, sir.’ She paused and licked her lips, steadied herself.
‘In what manner?’
‘His arms and legs were all twisted, sir. And his face. It … weren’t there no more.’
A memory rose up, like vomit in my throat. That face, bruised and pulped as damson jam. The teeth gone. One eye split and oozing.
‘My John was dead, sir. He was gone.’
Her voice broke on the last word. She cried prettily, the head bowed in its white cap, the slight shoulders hunched with pain.
She had the courtroom rapt. In the gallery, men comforted their wives who wiped away tears in sympathy. To the jurors, she presented a perfect picture of grief. Even the judges looked softened.
The prosecutor – mindful of this, no doubt – went on gently.
‘Could you tell me what happened next, please, Mistress Milburn?’
‘It was then that I saw her, running towards me from the trees.’
‘Who?’ he asked.
‘Altha,’ she said softly.
‘Please, Mistress Milburn, would you point her out to the courtroom.’
She looked at me, raising one hand slowly. Even from where I was sitting, I saw the delicate fingers were shaking. She pointed at me.
The gallery erupted.
One of the judges called for order. Gradually, the shouts fell away.
The prosecutor continued.
‘Were you surprised to see Altha Weyward standing there?’ he asked.
‘It was all a blur, sir. I can’t remember what I felt when I saw her. I was – overcome.’
‘But it would have been an unusual occurrence, I assume, to see the accused standing on the edge of your field, not so long after daybreak?’
‘Not so unusual, sir. She is known for taking early walks.’
‘So you had seen her before, then? Taking walks of a morning, near your farm?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Regularly?’
‘I wouldn’t call it regular, sir.’ I saw Grace’s tongue dart out to moisten her lips. ‘But once or twice I’d seen her, yes.’
The prosecutor frowned.
‘Would you continue, please, Mistress Milburn. What happened after you saw the accused standing on the edge of the field?’
‘She rushed towards me, sir. She asked me what had happened. I can’t remember what I said all too well, sir. I was just so – shocked, you see. But I remember, she took off her cloak and threw it over his body, and then she bade the Kirkby lad to fetch the physician, Doctor Smythson. She took me inside to wait.’
‘And when did the doctor and the Kirkby boy arrive?’
‘Not long after, sir.’
‘Did the doctor say anything to you?’
‘Just told me what I already knew, sir. My John were gone. There were no bringing him back.’
The little head bowed again. The shoulders quivered.
‘Thank you, Mistress Milburn. I can see that having to relive this grave tragedy has been wearing on your spirits. I thank you for your courage and assistance in this matter. I have only a few more questions to ask before I can release you.’
He paced back and forth before the bar, before speaking again.
‘Mistress Milburn, how long have you known the accused, Altha Weyward?’
‘All my life, sir. Same as with most others in the village.’
‘And what has been the nature of your relationship with her, during your acquaintance?’
‘We were – friends, sir. As children, that is.’
‘But no longer?’
‘No, sir. Not since we were thirteen, sir.’
‘And what happened, when you and the accused were thirteen, that caused the friendship to abate, Mistress Milburn?’
‘To – what, sir?’
‘To end. What caused the friendship to end?’
Grace looked at her hands.
‘My mother fell ill, sir. With the scarlatina.’
‘And what did that have to do with the accused?’
‘She and her mother—’
‘Jennet Weyward?’
‘Yes – she and Jennet, they came to treat my mother.’
‘And could you tell the court, please, the outcome of that treatment?’
Grace looked at me before she spoke, so quietly that I had to strain to hear her.
‘My mother died, sir.’
14
VIOLET
Violet was looking for something to wear.
Father had said that they were going to go clay pigeon shooting with Frederick after breakfast. Violet wasn’t fond of shooting. She’d never shoot real pigeons, of course (even Father knew better than to ask her to do that), but she still didn’t like the way that the gunshots startled the birds in the trees. Besides, she always worried that a bullet intended for a clay pigeon would find a real one instead. She loved wood pigeons, with their pretty plumage and gentle songs. She could hear them now, cheering the morning.
She wondered if Frederick liked birds and animals as much as she did. The thought of Frederick – the heat of his eyes on her – made her stomach flip. She both dreaded and longed to see him. The previous year, she had read about magnetic fields in one of Graham’s schoolbooks, and it seemed to Violet that Frederick had his own such field; that it pulled at her like a tide.
She could speak to him today. Over breakfast or while they were shooting. But would he want to talk to her? She may have been sixteen, but Violet still felt – and, worse, looked – like a child. She frowned at the looking glass. She had put on a scratchy tweed skirt and jacket, with her stiff brogues. The jacket and skirt were slightly too large for her (Nanny Metcalfe ordered everything a size too big, promising that Violet would ‘grow into it’), which made her seem even smaller than she was.
Her hair fell past her shoulders in shiny dark waves. She wished she knew how to put it into an elegant chignon – or even pin curls, like the modern-looking women who smiled from the advertisements in Father’s newspapers – but the best she could manage was a clumsy plait. She could have passed for twelve.
Before giving up and going downstairs, she made sure her mother’s necklace was tucked securely beneath her blouse. Father didn’t even know she still had the necklace. He’d made Nanny Metcalfe confiscate it when Violet was six (fortunately, the nursemaid had taken pity on her sobbing charge and returned it). Had it pained him to see it, she wondered now?
She had almost put the feather in her pocket again but thought better of it. What if Father saw? It was too risky. Instead, she’d briefly pressed it to her nose, inhaling its dark, oily scent, the sweet hint of lavender, before tucking it back into its hiding place inside the Brothers Grimm.
