The Moors: Some secrets are better left buried (5 page)

CHAPTER FIVE
The Secret Garden
Saturday 12
th
February, 1972

Further along the garden was the clothes line, stretched between two poles that lay a considerable distance apart. As the women got closer, Amanda could hear the slow and constant squeak of an old rusty swing-set coming from a secluded garden. Sat on the swing was a tall, gaunt boy named Malcolm Keane.

‘What’s he doing out here alone?’ complained Margaret as she dropped the basket and headed towards him.

Amanda followed.

Even with both women there, Malcolm didn’t stir. Instead, he gazed motionlessly into space as he swung somewhat hypnotically, not even sparing the energy to blink. Beside him was an old wheelchair that Amanda guessed was used for his transportation.

‘Amanda, this is Malcolm. What you see is what you get. In all the time he’s been here, he’s never shown much sign of progression. If anything, he’s gotten worse. It’s as if he simply doesn’t even know he’s alive,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he’s been here for six years and he hasn’t acknowledged anything around him for four of them. The doctors think he may have been the victim of severe abuse as a child and it made him create his own world that he doesn’t wanna come out of,’ said Margaret.

Amanda couldn’t help but feel saddened.

‘What happened to his parents?’ she asked.

‘What happened to all of their parents?’ Margaret shrugged. ‘We just don’t know. All our residents were either neglected or abandoned because their conditions were deemed too demanding.’

‘Do they ever get visitors?’ Amanda probed.

‘No. The cold hard fact is nobody cares about them. They were too much to care for and nobody’s interested in fostering a child that requires so much attention. That’s where we come in,’ said Margaret, revealing elements of both pride and resolve. ‘We’re their family now.’

As Amanda looked back at Malcom, she was caught by an unexpected wave of emotion.

How badly must someone have been abused to completely give up?
She pondered. A storm of emotions built in her heart and tears began to form in her eyes.

‘Any parent who stands by and just…’

Amanda fell into an outraged silence.

‘I know, dear,’ whispered Margaret, ever so gently, as she patted her on the back. ‘I know.’

Emotionally, it appeared that Margaret and Amanda were kindred spirits and for both women, just knowing that somebody shared their own grief proved some form of consolation. They both kept an eye on Malcolm as they clipped the washing to the line. The sky was an odd combination of purple and grey, yet it was warm. Indeed, Exmoor seemed to make up its own rules when it came to the climate. Now that Amanda was stood there, she noticed an outhouse partially hidden behind a row of hedges at the foot of the hill.

‘Does that belong to the home?’ she asked.

‘Sure does,’ Margaret confirmed.

‘What’s in there?’ Amanda snooped.

‘Well, most of the building’s used for storage, but it’s also where our groundskeeper lives.’

‘Groundskeeper? I haven’t seen him,’ said Amanda.

‘Oh, he’s a very private man. Goes about his business quietly,’ Margaret informed her.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Arthur. You’ll see him around from time to time, I’m sure. Try not to disturb him though, eh? He doesn’t much like conversation.’

Amanda nodded and proceeded to hang up the washing. Indeed, it was Margaret that seemed to linger on the topic.

‘He’s a lovely man. Lonely, but lovely,’ she added.

*
 

The morning had enhanced Amanda’s knowledge of the home considerably, but not until Margaret led her beyond the car park and through a flowery archway towards a very subtle outdoor enclosure did she experience genuine surprise. The land was so beautifully preserved that the last thing she expected to see was the home’s very own graveyard, where scores of headstones stood in pristine condition.

‘What is this?’ gasped Amanda, clearly shaken.

‘Where’d you think they went once they’d passed on, dear?’ asked Margaret, as though it was the most logical conclusion in the world.

‘In a graveyard!’ replied Amanda, passionately.

‘This is a graveyard,’ stated Margaret.

‘Who sanctioned this?’ Amanda continued, sounding far more aggravated than she had intended.

‘What does that matter, lovely?’ asked Margaret.

‘It’s… not right!’

‘What? Burying them with the only people who ever really cared about them? I can’t think of anything more fitting,’ she countered, looking over the headstones as though reliving fond memories of the deceased.

Amanda took a moment to absorb the information. Something about the situation didn’t sit well with her at all, but then, as she saw Margaret’s reaction – the way the yard seemed to bring her peace – she wondered if she should be more liberal. She took a deep breath and attempted to remain neutral, but she needed to know more.

‘How did they die?’ she eventually asked, in a more relaxed manner.

‘Well, when we first established the home we housed terminally ill children, but it just got too much. Losing people you love on what was nearly a monthly basis was… very tough,’ she sighed.

‘I’ve never heard of a home that does this,’ interjected Amanda, unable to conceal her shock.

‘Well, they should,’ said Margaret, adamantly. ‘We’re the only people to care for these children in life, so it’s only right we do the same in death. I’m sorry if you find it strange, my love.’

Margaret was a clear advocate of keeping the bodies within the grounds and Amanda could tell she had offended Margaret by her reaction. Now that she had explained things from her point-of-view, though, Amanda could understand her opinion. The question of where the bodies should have been laid to rest, if not there, wasn’t an easy one to answer. Amanda wondered what it was about Margaret that made even the most bizarre of situations understandable. She looked to the ground and shifted on her feet, feeling bad for upsetting a woman who was so loving and caring.

‘It just took me by surprise, that’s all,’ Amanda admitted, offering some form of apology.

Margaret being Margaret immediately found a way to forgive her.

‘I guess that’s understandable, love… but Christian used to be in the funeral business, see?’

This was news to Amanda.

‘Really?’ she remarked, flippantly, but deeply interested.

‘Yeah. My husband was an undertaker and, years ago, he began his own funeral business. It was successful, too! When Christian left school, he wanted nothing more than to work with his dad. It wasn’t long before they were partners and the business grew like wild fire. He has the gift of the gab, does Christian. People just seem to warm to him. They trust him. They worked together for years and made a lot of money. A
lot
of money!’

‘What was your husband’s name?’ asked Amanda, curiously.

Stanley Prince was his name. It said so on his headstone, and if his doting wife was happy to bury her husband in the yard then maybe it wasn’t such a twisted idea after all.

STANLEY PRINCE
A LOYAL HUSBAND AND LOVING FATHER
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
1902–1967
 

‘He died of a heart attack, bless him,’ revealed Margaret.

Amanda rubbed her back with affection.

‘Where did you meet?’ asked Amanda, hoping to provoke a fond memory.

‘I was working as a carer in Kent, looking after kids who’d been affected by violence in a place called Saint Matthews.’

Hearing the name aloud sent a shudder down Amanda’s spine. Saint Matthews
is where she had been sent immediately after her mother overdosed on pills, a suspected suicide that had left her all alone. It was the beginning of several lonely years for Amanda, during which the one person she remembered fondly was stood before her, engrossed in telling her story.

‘I went into town one day for lunch and this man rode his pushbike right into a lamppost. I, of course, rushed over to help. Turns out he hit the lamppost because he was looking at me!’ she chuckled.

Amanda smiled along.

‘Oh! He was a fool!’ continued Margaret. ‘But he was my fool. And the bond he had with Christian was unbreakable.’

After another short moment of gazing at her husband’s grave, Margaret dusted herself down and took a deep breath.

‘Anyway… I’d better show you the rest of the house.’

Amanda observed Margaret closely as she explained certain homely routines. Her sadness soon subsided and she seemed to have an extra spring in her step. Thinking about it, Margaret must have been over the moon to have somebody to talk to given the rest of the characters that ordinarily surrounded her. Amanda knew their growing friendship was a real asset but didn’t feel good about exploiting such an affectionate source for the sake of a story. If she had a choice, she would find the information through other means.

They took Malcolm to his bedroom, where Amanda used her key for door number 1. It was the only child’s room on the ground floor and situated directly opposite Christian’s bedroom. Margaret then led Amanda back up the stairs to the first floor where she learnt that room 2 was occupied by Reuben and Georgina, who were the only children that shared, room 3 belonged to Gordon and room 4 belonged to David, who she had yet to meet. There was nothing really special about the rooms except for the fact the quality of the décor seemed to decrease the further up the house they travelled. Amanda found this fascinating as she had long harboured an interest in the Victorian era, where this would be common practice among wealthy families. Back then, the rich would stay in well-decorated rooms towards the ground floor of the house and the servants would often be confined to small, makeshift rooms further up and towards the attic. Amanda wondered if the reason the children’s rooms were so poorly decorated was a clue towards their destructive nature – a theory supported by Margaret as she turned and faced Amanda at the end of the hall.

‘And this is number 5,’ Margaret said, stopping outside the door and looking Amanda directly in the eyes.
‘This is Ellie’s room. Now don’t be scared and try not to get too upset by her behaviour,’ she added, rather ominously.

‘Why? What’s wrong with—’

Margaret shot Amanda a look that reminded her to rephrase the question.

‘Sorry! I mean… what’s her condition?’ asked Amanda.

‘She’s deeply depressed. Suicidal. And she can be
very
aggressive,’ Margaret informed her.

‘Suicidal? How old is she?’

‘Fourteen,’ Margaret replied. ‘Now, because she don’t know you, she may attack you, but it’s only because she’s scared. If she does, don’t panic! We’ll just have to restrain her for a few seconds and she’ll calm down. Alright?’

It wasn’t alright at all, but Amanda fought hard not to look as overwhelmed as she felt, watching anxiously as Margaret took the lead and inserted a key into the lock.

Clunk!

Cautiously, they both entered the room, which was almost completely bare except for a bed and a large wooden wardrobe.

‘Ellie?’ called Margaret, softly.

She flicked the light switch but the specialised plastic light that clung to the centre of the ceiling sparked and faded.

A very small window was positioned high up on the far wall, providing the only source of brightness and ventilation. At first glance, it was as though squatters had broken in and taken residence in an old empty building. Visibility was low and Amanda had to squint, forcing her eyes to adjust. When she could see more clearly, she noticed that the walls were padded with cushions. She couldn’t resist pressing her hand against the material, a spongy padding that was about three inches thick at the centre of each panel.

‘Ellie?’ Margaret repeated, patiently, as she moved around the room in search of the youngster.

There was still no answer.

‘Where are you, my lovely?’ she continued, in a gentle tone that insinuated they were playing a game. ‘Under the bed?’

Amanda watched closely as Margaret approached the mattress and shaped to crouch under it.

‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ she said, struggling to lower herself to her knees before exploring the darkness under the bed for what seemed like an eternity.

There was a sudden
Thump!
as Ellie Sullivan burst out of the wardrobe and ran at Amanda, screaming at the top of her lungs as she rapidly approached her. When their bodies came together, the impact was fierce and Ellie lashed out in a ferocious rage.

‘Ellie! Stop it!’ yelled Margaret, as she fought her way back to her feet and grabbed a hold of the young girl’s flailing arms.

It didn’t stop her. Instead, Ellie started to kick out at Amanda, who stood dumbstruck as she was hit by a barrage of blows.

‘Grab her feet!’ instructed Margaret.

It took a moment for the words to register, but eventually Amanda managed to get a good grip of the girl and together, she and Margaret struggled towards the bed. Ellie’s pulsating body made the task incredibly difficult. Eventually they pinned her down but her level of fight increased as she squirmed, spat and screamed hysterically at the women. The struggle was such that Amanda wondered if they could be heard in the room beneath.