Haunted Ground (34 page)

June 2010

The trip had been Louisa’s idea.  She thought it would be best to be away when it happened, and I didn’t bother to argue.  What did it matter where I was?  Either way, things would never be the same, and I would have to deal with the knowledge that whether I was in England with her, or on the couch in my lonely apartment looking at the clock, the love of my life was marrying his pregnant girlfriend at that precise moment.  I still thought of him as my husband, despite the fact that the divorce came through two months ago. 

Michael and I had been high school sweethearts and got married at twenty, when most of our friends were just beginning to experiment with relationships.  We always knew we wanted to be together forever and there seemed no point in waiting.  Our marriage was easy, fun and full of love, as marriage should be when you’re married to your lover and best friend.  We had a plan.  We would finish college, find good jobs that would allow us to buy a house in the suburbs within a few years and then start a family.  It seemed simple enough.  Millions of people do it every day, but it wasn’t meant for us.  We did finish college and get the jobs.  We even bought our dream house in Connecticut and allocated the nicest bedroom with a view of the meadow for a nursery.  Now all we had to do was fill it with a baby, who would make our happiness complete. 

I threw away the birth control pills, and we began to try officially.  We even told our parents and siblings, preparing them for their new roles.  When nothing happened the first few months, we weren’t overly concerned.  It was normal, everyone said.  These things take time.  We were young and healthy and had plenty of time.  Nothing to worry about.  By the time we’d been trying for a year, various tests were mentioned, appointments had been scheduled, and doctors had been consulted. 

Another year had gone by and still I wasn’t pregnant.  None of the tests showed anything wrong with either of us, but nature wasn’t on our side.  By the time we’d been trying for three years, options were put forward and discussed.  We could do in-vitro and if that didn’t work, we could always adopt. 

We started the process.  I was taking hormone shots; Michael was filling plastic cups with his specimen, we became tense and anxious, and increasingly strapped for cash, but still nothing happened.  The embryos never took hold, and after five attempts, it was either sell the house or stop trying until we could afford another round.  We began to gather information on adoption, but I knew Michael’s heart wasn’t in it.  He wanted his own baby, a child who would be a combination of us; one who might have my eyes or his smile, or inherit his aptitude for numbers or my love of art. 

He didn’t want a stranger’s child who would never remind him of himself at that age, or hold the promise of everything we had to offer encoded in its DNA. 

We argued bitterly for months.  I wanted a baby -- any baby.  I had a lot of love to give, and if I couldn’t have a child of my own, I was happy to give it to a child who needed me, but Michael didn’t feel the same.  Our house became filled with resentful silences and angry pauses, and the future nursery began to function as Mike’s office.  What was the point of wasting a perfectly good room, after all?  We still slept in the same bed, but nothing much happened.  We didn’t make love because we didn’t feel love, and there was no chance of getting pregnant, so why bother? 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Mike was having an affair when he began to come home later and later claiming work overload.  It was all so cliché.  I wanted to confront him, but I was afraid of where the confrontation would lead.  I wasn’t ready to let go of the life I’d been planning since high school, and I was still holding on to the dream that we could work things out, and maybe find our way to adopting a baby, which would ultimately bring us closer together. 

Mike found his way to a baby long before I did.  His girlfriend became pregnant a few months into the relationship, and my husband informed me that he was filing for divorce.  She could give him something I couldn’t, and he wouldn’t pass up on a chance to be a father to his own child.  He was sorry, of course, remorseful and sad, but firm in his resolve.  He offered to buy out my share of the house, and I gladly sold it to him.  I didn’t want any part of that house if he wasn’t in it with me.  The divorce was finalized a lot quicker than I expected since Mike didn’t contest anything, and two months ago I became a divorcee at twenty-six.  Some of my friends hadn’t even gotten around to getting married yet, and I was already divorced.  I rented an apartment in my sister’s building, since one became miraculously available, and spent most of my time at Lou’s crying on her shoulder and watching sappy movies. 

I might have gone on like that much longer, except that Lou was offered an opportunity to travel to England to value an art collection at an old manor house near Plymouth as part of her job as restorer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  She would be away right around the time of the dreaded wedding, and begged me to come along.  I suspect that she would much rather have gone alone than drag me with her and deal with my grief, but Lou wouldn’t dream of it.  She was going to get me through this, and if she couldn’t do it on the Upper West Side, she would do it in England.  I was conveniently off for the summer from my job as an art teacher at an elementary school, she argued, and had no good reason not to join her, so I did.  Lou booked us rooms at a charming old inn in a village outside of Plymouth, which would be close to Compton Hall where she would be doing her work, and so here I was, running away from my misery.

I had to admit that the village of Newton Ferrers was charming.  Situated just ten miles outside of Plymouth, it was a perfect example of a picturesque fishing village that hadn’t changed too much over time; with most of the buildings clinging to the sides of Main Street and the heart of Main Street, being the Dolphin Inn and Pub.  All life spread out from there.  Dozens of quaint shops catered to the locals as well as to the tourists, and the narrow, winding streets all led either to the river or to the center of town.  The Bradford Inn, where we would be staying for the next several weeks, was located on the outskirts of the village and could have easily passed for an eighteenth century house if one chose not to notice the modern light fixtures or the desk with a computer on it in the parlor boasting Wi-Fi.  There were no TV’s in the rooms and the décor was strictly authentic, with sturdy four-poster beds and elegant wooden dressers and tables in mahogany and walnut. 

Our rooms were wallpapered in old-fashioned patterns, and clashed hideously with the bedspreads and matching drapes so lovingly picked out by Mrs. Bradford, who claimed to have had them replaced just last year.  She was a sweet old lady who provided a full English breakfast in the mornings and supper, only if ordered no later than noon.  She needed time to prepare.  Lou and I ate breakfast at the inn, dinner at the Dolphin and lunch wherever.  She was working at the manor most afternoons, and I spent time exploring the village and trying not to think of Michael.  I had to admit that coming had been a good idea.  I felt strangely removed from reality, and the charm of my surroundings helped to cushion me from the acute pain I felt when in the vicinity of my former husband.  Lou congratulated herself on being right, and we did our best to enjoy the trip.

My room was directly across the hall from Louisa’s and faced the rear of the building.  It was decorated in shades of mauve, and was actually rather cozy if one ignored the multitude of colors and patterns crammed into one small space.  I liked to leave the windows uncurtained at night so I could see the ruin of the castle rising mournfully on the hill in the distance.  It was just a husk of a tower jutting against the sky, but it fueled my fantasies and helped me get to sleep. 

I woke up early one morning and watched the sun rising behind the crumbling edifice, the empty windows momentarily flooded with a blaze of crimson light, turning the gray stones to just a black outline against the rising sun.  I decided to ask Mrs. Bradford about it.  My guidebook didn’t say anything, and I was curious as to the history of the place.  I came downstairs and poured myself a cup of tea, since the coffee Mrs. Bradford made was virtually undrinkable.  She erupted from the kitchen with a tray of bacon and eggs and a rack of toast already smothered with butter. 

“You’re up early today, lovey.  Is your sister still asleep then?”  She deposited my cholesterol-fest on the table and stood with her head to one side, clearly expecting a nice chat. 

“She’s still sleeping, I think.  Mrs. Bradford, I was wondering about that castle on the hill.  Who did it belong to?”

“Oh, that.  It belonged to a local family called Whitfield, I believe.  They were quite wealthy, but not titled.  Made their money in trade.  Not much is known about them, except that one of them was a traitor and met with a gruesome end.  No one has lived there since the seventeenth century and the castle fell to ruin.”

“Can I go explore?”  I loved ruins and the prospect of wandering around an old castle perched on a hill overlooking the vista of village, river and the Celtic Sea held great appeal.

Mrs. Bradford gave me a disapproving look.  “I wouldn’t recommend it, dear.  That place is not safe.”

“You mean it’s a hazard because it’s crumbling?”  I was curious to see it and wouldn’t be easily dissuaded.

“No.  The stones are not going anywhere.  It’s the kids.  They hang about the ruins after school, drinking and doing Lord only knows what.  The place is full of syringes and worse.  Those hooligans like to pick on tourists too, give them a fright, if you know what I mean.  Stay away.  If you long to see a nice castle, take a day trip to Windsor or Leeds.  They’re lovely, with furnished rooms and gift shops.  Perfect for Americans.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Bradford, I’ll certainly mention that to my sister.  I’m sure she’d love to take a little trip on the weekend.  May I have more tea?”  Mrs. Bradford waddled back into the kitchen to make another pot of tea, and I tucked into my breakfast disappointed.  I wanted to see the castle, but not if I were stepping on syringes and looking over my shoulder for hoodlums waiting to give me a scare.  I would have to find something else to do today since Lou would be gone for most of the day.  I would certainly mention the idea of going to see the places Mrs. Bradford suggested.  I would really enjoy that, and anything that would take my mind off my problems would be a welcome distraction.  I would just take a walk down Main Street today and look for some souvenirs for mom and dad. 

I was just turning the corner to reach my room when Louisa burst out of her room looking flustered and annoyed.

“Totally overslept.  Can you believe it?  Why didn’t you wake me?”  She gave me that accusing older sister look and swept past me down the hall.  “Meet me at the Dolphin at 6pm,” she called over her shoulder as I heard her feet thundering down the carpeted wooden stairs, the front door slamming behind her. 

“Will do,” I mumbled to myself and entered my room.  I looked around until I spotted my sketch pad and a box of charcoal.  I wouldn’t go explore the castle, bu
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no one said I couldn’t draw it.  I hadn’t drawn anything in months due to lack of inspiration and desire, but at this moment my fingers were itching to hold a piece of charcoal and capture the sinister beauty of the jutting walls of the ruin, outlined against the pristine background of a cloudless June sky.  I took my supplies and left by the back door, finding a nice, shady spot in the garden where I had an unobstructed view of my subject.  I sat down on a comfortable wicker chair, positioned my pad in my lap and began to sketch.  My fingers flew over the page, first outlining the ruin and then filling in the texture of the stone, the narrow slits in the tower that offered glimpses of the sky, and the jagged chunks of what remained of the wall. 

I made several different drawings, one in charcoal and two in pastels, trying to capture the desolate, yet mysterious aura of the place.  I liked the charcoal drawing better.  It was more dramatic, and made the castle look more sinister than the colored drawings.  Satisfied with my efforts, I went back to my room and deposited the drawings on the dresser, before putting away the charcoal and pastels and getting ready to leave.  I’d grab a light lunch at the café by the wharf and then stop into a few shops along Main Street in search of the perfect gift for my parents.  I’d spotted an antique shop tucked away on a narrow side street, and would stop there along the way.  My mom would love some Victorian trinket, and dad would probably appreciate something on the history of smuggling in the area.  He was always fascinated by anything that had to do with getting over on the tax man. 

As I walked toward the river, I tried not to think about Michael’s wedding tomorrow.  I knew that some of our friends were attending, and felt an irrational resentment toward them for accepting the invitation.  Of course, they had no reason to decline.  It wasn’t them he left.  I had no right to ask them to choose between us, but I knew they would choose anyway.  A few of my friends had remained loyal and steadfast, but some of the couples that we associated with were already choosing to invite Michael and Kimberly and leave me off the list.  I was no longer part of a couple, and therefore, not a desirable guest at a gathering where everyone was conveniently paired off.  Soon they would be throwing Kimberly a baby shower and giving her advice on nannies and nursery schools, forgetting that it was supposed to be me that they did those things for. 

“Stop that right now, Valerie,” I admonished myself.  “You’re becoming bitter and angry, and I don’t like you that way.”  With that, I put Michael out of my mind and walked into the café.  I took a table on the wooden patio overlooking the wharf and ordered a bowl of soup.  I loved watching the boats moored by the piers, their wooden hulls rocking gently on the ever-shifting surface of the sparkling river that wound like a ribbon through the hills in the distance.  The seagulls screamed to each other and fought over the crumbs left by careless patrons, while fishermen who came back early unloaded their catch, calling out greetings to each other and bragging about their haul.  It was a peaceful scene and I stayed longer than I intended, just enjoying the feeling of being a tourist. 

Finally, I picked up my bag and left the café heading toward Main Street.  I walked slowly down the cobblestone street, looking into shop windows and admiring their wares, as the gentle sunshine of the late afternoon bathed everything in its golden haze.  I purchased a few postcards with pictures of the marina and a magnet for my fridge, before coming to the shop I’d been looking for.  It was small and dim, cluttered with tiffany lamps, end tables with spindly legs and inlaid surfaces and lacquer boxes depicting oriental scenes of snow-covered pagodas and parasol shaded geishas.  I wandered around, careful not to touch anything. 

Just as I was getting ready to leave, I caught a glimpse of a china figurine on a shelf in the far corner.  My mom always mentioned a Dresden shepherdess her grandmother used to have that she loved as a little girl, and this reminded me of it.  I stopped in front of the shelf and picked up the statuette.  It was made in Dresden as I suspected, but two fingers of the smiling, rose-cheeked shepherdess were chipped off.   I put the statue back disappointed.  It would have been the perfect thing to get for mom.  On a shelf above the statuette, I noticed an ormolu clock tucked between a carved jewelry box and a pair of large brass binoculars.   The sheer gaudiness of it caught my eye, and I took it down to examine it more closely. 

The clock was heavier than I expected, made of brass, with porcelain panels painted with pink and blue flowers around the base.  The round face of the clock had a pattern of the same flowers encircling the spindly hands, which pointed to golden roman numerals that were so large they barely left any space for the minutes in-between.  The “best” part of the clock was the hugely fat cupid perched on top, holding a loaded bow ready to shoot some unsuspecting victim in desperate need of romance.  The clock was ticking loudly, but was set to 8:10, which was almost four hours ahead of time.  I’m not sure what possessed me to do it, but I opened the glass panel covering the face of the clock and carefully moved the hands to the correct time, which was 4:05pm.  Suddenly, it’s as if all the air had been sucked out of the shop, and I felt like a fish that finds itself out of water, breathing but not drawing in any air.  I’d just enough time to put the clock back on the shelf as all sounds faded into silence and I felt momentarily dizzy before everything in front of my eyes went dark.