Blackened (16 page)

*

Dear Diary,

I am incensed! Sick to my very gut. Anger is a hell pit within that scolds and cracks and ravages my mind! My hands shake as I ink these words. It is all I can do to refrain myself from grabbing the nearest man and beating the living hell out of him!     

That conniving old bastard Father Shepherd lied to us. He actually lied. Sent us on a wild goose chase. And thus our hopes of capturing her today are obliterated. Tossed to a savage wind, torn to pieces. Obliterated by the deception of one who has sworn never to commit the sin of dishonesty.

I swear, when I return to Grousehill, I shall make Shepherd pay for his lies! Lower Bridgeton – pah! She is not here. She is not in Lower Bridgeton – she is in Old Firsden, a village that lies at least a day's journey east of here. The priest here, Father Biggs, informs us that Reverend Pettigrew visits Lower Bridgeton once every two years. This year he visits Old Firsden. That is, unless Father Biggs is lying also. But I cannot believe that. The very idea that he is involved is simply too far-fetched.

Damn Shepherd and all his trickery! Damn him to hell! We have wasted the last three hours searching this village; precious time that we should have spent elsewhere.

Now we must journey to Old Firsden in the hope that the Reverend has decided to lengthen his stay. Jean-Bernard remains confident, but I confess, I cannot.

My head swells with the pain of fury. I can write no more.

C.C

C
HAPTER 17
M
EMORIES

Dear Mama,

I hope you are well. You may be content to hear that I miss you still, but your memory fades a little, which perhaps means that I am growing stronger, more independent. Indeed, much has happened since my last letter.

You will be glad to know that I have avoided Father and Jean-Bernard and thus, thankfully, I am free and safe. This I owe in large part to the actions of Reverend Pettigrew and his driver Jojo, a curious, young, black-skinned man whom I must admit I am growing rather fond of. Indeed, thinking that Father pursued me, and, fearful for his own safety, Jojo did all in his power to protect me. It turned out, much to our surprise and amusement, that neither Father nor Jean-Bernard were present in the village and that all was well.

However, the threat of their approach still lingers. It is an ever-present burden on my mind. Though they seek me elsewhere, I fear that they shall soon discover my whereabouts. They will not concede defeat. Father is too stubborn for that.

The good Reverend disagrees with me, as do Mary and Todd Hopkins, the owners of Old Firsden bakery. Mary chastised me for my negative outlook. She lectured me for nigh one hour over our supper on the virtues of maintaining a positive mind-set. And, though I see sense in her kind words, I cannot dismiss the notion that they will not stop until they have me.

Reverend Pettigrew confessed to me that he did a naughty thing. It makes me smile to think of his face as he spoke the words: “Lisbeth, can you fathom why your Father and his friend have not yet progressed to Old Firsden?” I said no, no I could not. Of course, I dwelt on this question many a time throughout the afternoon and could not find an adequate answer. “Well,” he said, “I must confess something to you. Something naughty that I did before we left Grousehill.” I asked him what it was, never in a thousand moons expecting the answer he gave. “I told Father Shepherd, and indeed as many persons of the village as I could find, that we were headed to Lower Bridgeton, not Old Firsden.” He smiled then and his cheeks flushed scarlet, but he looked rather pleased with himself. I laughed and wrapped my arms about his neck. Thank you, I said, your little white lie has saved me.

It is safe to say, therefore, that we have gained some distance from Father, but can we maintain this distance? Even now, as night crushes day, they may be heading this way. But the good Reverend believes it safe for us to sleep here tonight and begin our journey early tomorrow morn. I hope he is right.

Mary has fashioned me a cosy bed in her back room. She has also given me a fresh dress and a shawl that she wore when she was, in her own words, 'a slip of a thing like yourself!' I am immensely grateful for her kindness. You would love her Mama, you truly would. Some moments, I cannot believe my luck. I never would have made it this far without these generous souls to guide me. Reverend, Jojo, Mary, Todd – they are such good people.

I shall endeavour to remain positive, as Mary requests. My wishes for your good health continue. I will be sure to keep you informed of my progress.

Lisbeth

*

“Just two more stops and then we shall journey directly to London to find your brother,” says Reverend Pettigrew.

A Bible balances upon his knees. He holds a scrap of lead as he scans the sacred pages.

The carriage bumps along whirring and grinding incessantly. The weather is wondrous mild. March is come at last. I lift the shawl from my shoulders, fold it, place it on the seat beside me. The sun speaks little for it is cast out by its grey-bearded neighbours, but it is determined; heat soothes my aching skin as I peer out of the window.

Wind breathes on me, runs its fingers through my hair. My hair is a ripped, black flag shimmering atop a haze of green and brown. Sheep speckle the fields, plump with unborn babes, content with tranquil life. Earth and grass and manure; nature's scents silt the air.

Life appears simple. But it is not. On the surface, I appear calm; beneath, I am a girl flailing in a hailstorm. I may have broken out of my cell, but I am not yet free. 

I sigh. 

The good Reverend looks up, “My dear Lisbeth, are you worried? Speak to me, please.”

He shuts his Bible and places it on the seat. Leans forward, “What is on your mind, dear Lisbeth?”

“I am sorry. I did not mean to interrupt your work.”

He laughs, “I needed a rest! Please, tell me your woes and I may be able to help.”

“It is the same concern as before. Father. Jean-Bernard. I fear they may find me before I get to Eddie.”

He gazes into my eyes kindly, “And what shall you gain by concerning yourself with things over which you have no control?”

“Nothing. I see what you mean. It is just that for so long now I have been unhappy. Now I see that there may be hope for some kind of happiness, and I suppose I am scared of losing that hope.”

“I see. Hope does indeed sustain us,” he pauses a moment, “Lisbeth, I think I shall share something with you, something that I have not shared with anybody save Jojo.”

His eyes lose their warmth. They go to an ancient place. His voice loses its power, turns in on itself. Grows quiet, self-contained. 

“Fifteen years ago, I lost the person I most valued in the entire world, my wife, Joanna. We were childhood sweethearts. I, a wild youth with strange ideas, she, a calm, gentle creature with the kindest of souls. Indeed,” he pauses, refocuses on me, “there is something in you, dear Lisbeth, that reminds me of my Joanna.”

He takes a deep breath, readying himself to continue, “We were married on Joanna's eighteenth birthday. Two years later, she fell pregnant with our first child, a beautiful boy whom we named Joseph. He died a few months later, one night in his cot. Joanna fell with child three times more, but never carried to term. Alas, for us, it was not meant to be. So, we decided to make ourselves content to be just us two for the rest of our God-given days. We were very happy. Joanna kept house while I guided God's children. Then, one night, Joanna suffered a seizure. Mercifully, it was over in a matter of minutes. I held her hand as I watched her die. I must admit I thought my life over. I even questioned my faith, something for which, for years, I could not forgive myself. But then, not one month after Joanna's passing, I took a walk by the Thames and heard a rather peculiar sound. At first I thought it a cat and nearly walked past, but something moved me to inspect the source. That was when I discovered my hope; he was such a little dot, all skin and bone. I searched for his parents, but of course they were nowhere to be found. So I brought him up as my own and I named him Jojo.”

I touch his knee, “I am so sorry about your wife.”

He pats my hand, “No need. She has gone to a good place. My point in telling you was to suggest that perhaps your hope lies just around the corner, out of sight at present, but soon to be revealed.”

“Never give up,” I whisper.

“Indeed.”

“Thank you.”

He laughs and I can tell he is back to his usual self once more, “If you say thank you one more time I will throw you out of this here carriage!”

“Sorry,” I say with a small smile.

“No more 'sorrys' either or the same fate shall await you!”

“Yes Sir!”

He winks and returns to the Bible, lips parted in a smile. I turn to look out of the window. The sun is bolder than before.

My heart feels a touch stronger, but it still hurts; it always hurts. I think back, try to remember a time when my heart did not feel as though it were constantly being squeezed and stabbed by invisible hands. Deja vu sweeps over me; I have sat here before, looking out of this carriage, the good Reverend sitting opposite me. Sunlight creeping in. The moment ends, but I am abruptly transported to a distant time and place. Sitting by a roasting fireplace, Eddie, a mere babe in arms. I am holding him, cupping his bald head in my hand, his bare bottom resting against the crook of my elbow. He is days old. I look down at him in wonder. I should only be ten years old, but my arm is too long, my fingers too much like an adult's. I look up, see Father. His hair is black with very little grey. His face has lost its wrinkles, and, most surprisingly, he is smiling. He is smiling. He is smiling back at me. He walks over, reaches out his arm...

I wake up.

“We are here!” booms Reverend Pettigrew. He clasps my arm.

“Already?” I croak. My throat is dry and sore.

He chuckles, “Yes, dear Lisbeth, you slept for three hours!”

“Where are we?”

“Little Mersham. And just in time for luncheon. Mrs Sprig and her daughters always lay out a sumptuous meal for us.”

“Reverend, may I ask you something before we go?”

“Of course. You may ask me anything.”

I hesitate, unsure how to phrase my question. “I have never heard Jojo speak. I am curious. Has he always been mute?”

His smile pinches, “Yes. Something quite terrible happened to him as a baby. When I found him on that fortuitous night, there was a substantial quantity of blood covering his face and chest and he was in a great deal of pain. I took him straight to my doctor and we discovered that Jojo's tongue was missing. It had been cut out. Doctor Parsons said it was a wonder that Jojo did not die from shock. It is a miracle he survived.”

“How dreadful. Poor, poor Jojo.”

“Yes, and no. Jojo has found other ways to express himself, one of which is through his drawings. Have you seen one yet?”

I nod, “He has a remarkable gift.”

The Reverend beams, “He does, does he not?”

“I saw his drawing of you and I could not believe my eyes; it was so good.”

“Jojo is shy about his talent. Indeed, it surprises me that he has shared his work with you. He does not trust people easily. He must truly feel comfortable around you, and why should he not? You are a very special person.”

I look away, struggling to control my emotions.

“You are too generous,” I murmur, “I am not a good person. If I were good, Father would not spurn me so.”

He reaches out and clasps my hand, “Do you sincerely believe that this is why your Father behaves in this way? Could there be no other reason? A reason that is not of your own doing?”

I look down at the brown lace up boots that Mary gave me. I contemplate Reverend Pettigrew's questions. Could Father's distance be caused by something else? Something that I have not yet considered? I think back, back to before we moved to Blackened Cottage. What was our relationship like before? But my mind is like a black tunnel full of doors that are locked, doors that I cannot enter. I cannot even picture our old house.

“I cannot recall anything prior to the last few months. When I try to remember nothing comes. Nothing but blackness. I keep having fleeting visions. Moments when I think I am experiencing a memory, but things do not quite make sense.”

The Reverend's eyes narrow, “Really? Well, there is little wonder that you are never at ease. Memory loss? How peculiar. Do you know what causes one to lose one's memory Lisbeth?”

“I must confess I have given it very little thought. Perhaps a serious bang to the head? An accident of some kind which nudges the brain in one direction?”

He nods, “Yes. That is one cause I believe. Another of which I have heard is memory loss caused by a terrible incident. Something that the mind simply cannot cope with.”

“But I am fine. My body is fine.” I do not mention the pain in my throat nor the pounding headache that I am presently suffering.

“Your body may be fine, but your mind is not. Vital elements are missing. Memories give us stability, an idea of our identity, they make us who we are. Without them, we our mere shadows.”

“But what can I do? Is there anything I can do to regain these memories? And indeed, should I be keen to regain them in the first place? Perhaps they are too awful. Perhaps it is better if they are left well alone. What if I was to dredge them up, and then things took a turn for the worse?”

Reverend Pettigrew pinches the skin between his eyes, “This is certainly a predicament and I am no expert to advise you. But I have an idea. There is a man, a very great friend of mine who lives in London. His name is Gregory Beard and he is a Psychiatrist. Recently, Gregory has been delving into the art of hypnotherapy, the art of putting the mind into a relaxed state so that the subconscious may be accessed. It may be worth a try. Oh, do not look so worried! I shall not insist upon a decision from you now. I only ask that you take some time to meditate upon the idea.”