Chapter Ten

That day, Grandma Willoughby cleared the breakfasts more quickly than usual. She bustled about, stuffing empty sacks and baskets and boxes into the back seat of the Austin. She ordered Stella to get in and be quick about it. She drove off at great speed with a determined look on her face and her hat at an angle – she’d been in such a rush of purpose she’d forgotten the hat-pin. Stella, squeezed in the back seat among the packaging, had watched her grandmother’s set face in the rear-view mirror. She knew better than to ask questions. Grandma Willoughby was clearly not in the mood for talking. They sped up the Great North Road in silence.

After an hour, they were bumping too fast along the muddy track that goes along behind the stone cottages at Low Newton, round the corner, past the back of The Fisherman’s Arms. With a scattering of stones, Grandmother Willoughby pulled up in the area where the fishing boats are kept in winter and where cars are not supposed to park. She yelled at Stella to get a move on and help her with the bags. She straightened her hat, locked the car, picked up as many packages as she could carry, and set off along the dune path with Stella stumbling behind carrying her own load, a sharp wind in their faces. There was nobody about. They wended their way through the dunes and through the little colony of wooden beach huts that stand here and there at angles, mostly closed up for the coming winter. Grandmother Willoughby puffed and panted up the last steep slope but didn’t slow down. Stella followed.

When they got to the Beach Hut, Grandma Willoughby banged at the door. It was locked. She pulled a bunch of keys out of her pocket, shoved the big one into the deadlock and flung open the door so hard it banged against the wall and caused the whole place to shudder. Muriel was nowhere to be seen, though it was clear she was living there and was perhaps still about. Ruby went straight through to the new kitchen and gave a grunt of satisfaction before scanning the shelves where Muriel kept all her jars and bottles. The smell turned Stella’s stomach. She could hardly stand to be in there. In the front room, she looked around at Muriel’s taxidermy materials, all laid out neatly. A dead swan hung by its scrawny legs from a meat hook attached to the ceiling, its throat cut and a basin of congealed blood with bits of feathers underneath collecting drips. A dismembered hare was pinned gaping open on a plywood board on the table, its bones in the process of being removed. A bloodied scalpel and an open jar marked Arsenic, POISON sat beside it. Coming through from the kitchen, Ruby cursed, readjusted her hat, picked up a lid and screwed it back on the arsenic jar. She breathed out loudly and threw the jar roughly into the sack she was holding open with the other hand.

Stella followed her into the bedroom. There was no sign of Muriel there either. The room smelt stuffy, of bedclothes that needed changing. The bed was a mess of sheets and blankets and the paraffin heater was on. Ruby turned it off and yanked the thin curtains back on their wires. Grey autumn light seeped into the room and made it look abandoned. Muriel’s little travel clock that she took everywhere was on the bedside table, propped up in its case, saying ten to two and still ticking. In the other bedroom – the smaller room where Stella used to sleep – the bed had been stripped and Muriel’s clothes were strewn all over. The window was open, the curtain billowing. Ruby banged the window shut and screwed it tight. She stormed about, picking up items of clothing and throwing them back down. Grandma Willoughby seemed to be looking for something, but Stella didn’t know what. There was a pair of man-size wellies beside the front door, but Grandma Willoughby didn’t seem to notice those. In the little bathroom she picked up some shaving things and both toothbrushes and threw them into the sack along with the poison.

‘I’ll set fire to the place,’ she said. ‘That’ll fettle her. And Him. Whoever He is.’ Grandma Willoughby knew fine well who He was.

But Ruby didn’t set fire to the place, she just went round grabbing randomly at Muriel’s taxidermy things – the dead swan and the hare included – and stuffed them at arm’s length into the old coal sacks they’d brought.

‘Get that basin emptied out, our Stella,’ she said, kicking the enamel one that was catching the blood, ‘and get a move on.’ Ruby held a sack open with one hand and stuffed things in it with the other, all the while muttering and cursing. Bluebottles, disturbed from the dismembered bodies, buzzed against the skylight.

Stella couldn’t lift up the enamel basin; it was stuck to the floor. When she finally pulled it away, it came unstuck with a jerk and semi-congealed blood splashed over the edge and onto her hand. Her instinct was to drop the whole thing, but she didn’t dare let go of it. She held the basin out at out arm’s length, holding her breath, trying not to breathe in the smell of the blood or feel the touch of it on her hand. It was like in Treasure Island where you’re given the Black Spot and then you die. A horrid feeling swept over her – just for a moment – a horrid, horrid feeling. Then it passed. Stella went into the lean-to and turned on the tap. There was no water. She stood there, helpless. A loud sigh and Grandma Willoughby stomped in, dumping the sack she was carrying at the door.

‘For pity’s sake, our Stella, get your wits about you,’ she said as she snatched the basin from Stella’s hands, now splashing more of its vile contents on the floor. ‘See to it you get that floor wiped,’ she commanded as she wrenched open the back door and threw the whole basin and everything in it outside so it disappeared among the marram grass and dead bracken. Slamming the door shut again, Grandma Willoughby turned the key in the lock, removed it and shoved it deep into her coat pocket. ‘And you can put your face straight, our Stella, or there’ll be Trouble,’ she said.

Stella watched Grandma Willoughby unfold a copy of the Court Order and fix it on the wall above the stove. She fixed it with a nail in each corner and she hammered them in with the thick end of the poker. Then she stuck it round with parcel tape for good measure.

‘Come along, our Stella,’ she said, gathering up the sacks and baskets and boxes she’d stuffed all the paraphernalia in and dumped them on the creaky veranda outside. ‘Come along, and get a move on.’ They left the sacks and baskets and boxes there, leaking blood and formalin. The only thing Grandma Willoughby brought away with her that day was a small Kilner jar with some hateful wizened specimen in. She’d stopped on the way to the car, taken it out of her bag as though she meant to throw it into the hedge, but she hesitated and put it back in her bag. She grabbed Stella by the wrist and pulled her all the way back to the car.

‘That’s that,’ Grandma Willoughby said with finality as she started the engine. But of course it wasn’t. And Stella had to travel all the way home with the congealed blood still on her hand.

The Beach Hut. Stella hasn’t thought of any of that for years. She has the keys for the Beach Hut, but she won’t go there. Not yet. Not with that Frank Fanshaw panting after her, in that way he does.

Clutching the suitcase, Stella wonders why Frank was waiting for her at the boarding house, why Frank wants to go to the Beach Hut, why he wants Stella to go with him.

Stella opens her case and feels around for the envelope from the prison. She pulls out the introductory letter to the social worker. Newcastle upon Tyne Probation Service, it says at the top. She’ll have to ring that Clara up again. Ask for more concrete help. She’s entitled. Marcia said. Entitled. Don’t forget, Stella. They’re expecting you. You’re entitled.