The next week passed relatively unremarkably, which Charlie believed was a little to Tess’s dismay. Tess had quickly latched on to the idea of a haunted cottage, perhaps to distract from Leon and his girlfriend. The first couple of days that week, Tess had called daily for updates. The only update had been that a mug had possibly moved, but Charlie couldn’t actually remember where she’d left it. By the weekend, Tess was messaging instead of calling. Now, on Wednesday, Charlie hadn’t heard from Tess since Monday. Charlie had plenty of time to sew, finishing three dresses (one a custom order), two skirts, a pair of culottes, and four more tops. She’d sold as many and more this week too. She thought she would have enjoyed the reprieve from Tess’s persistent contact but found herself missing her friend’s daily messages.
Unlike Wednesday last, this Wednesday Charlie had woken with the dawn, determined not only to be on time to the grocer but also to start the day right. She now stood on top of the nearest hill, stretching her calves after a steep final climb to the top. She breathed deeply, relishing the freshness in the air. The only scent was from the grass and the trees. Completely clean. She perched herself on a mossy rock, thinking back on the little extra information she had learnt that week.
Charlie had found no records online of the first settler to inhabit this land, Henry Thomson. Of the Evans family, too, there was no online record. She found Frank Forster in an online obituary for “a life well lived, 1933–2000.” Apparently, he’d died peacefully in a nearby nursing home. Charlie was pretty sure she’d found Linda Forster alive and well, in an online newsletter from the same nursing home, smiling sweetly for a family day photo. Linda looked happy, with what Charlie assumed must be children and grandchildren surrounding her. Charlie had stopped digging into the woman’s life once she’d realised she wasn’t capable of haunting anyone, but she couldn’t help Google the person she’d bought the house from, Rebecca Harper. Charlie found her almost instantly on Facebook, wondering if Google had pinged that their phones had been close together earlier that year. Technology was scary that way.
Not much of Rebecca’s profile was public, but from the little Charlie saw, it also wasn’t remarkable. Rebecca looked to be fresh into her thirties, her profile picture always the same smiling girl with cropped black hair. The only thing this search revealed about Rebecca was that she seemed to like a lot of the local markets’ public announcements and often checked into the town’s pub – The Grey Gum Inn. Charlie shook her head as she thought how easy it was to stalk someone online these days. Rebecca probably hadn’t paid any further thought to Charlie since selling the cottage.
As it tended to do at odd intervals, the wind picked up slightly, howling through the rocks and trees. Charlie cocked her head, waiting to see if the deep thrumming music would start up again; she found herself hoping it would. And just as she’d longed for, the wind did begin to howl melodiously, so soft to begin with she could barely hear it. As the deep, thrumming song wound around with the wind, Charlie relaxed into the stone behind her. “I’m so happy here,” she surprised herself by saying out loud.
As if her words had broken the spell, the music faded and all that was left was the sound of the wind. Charlie wondered if Henry Thomson had ever come this way when he lived there and if he’d felt the same way. Maybe even heard the same music. Perhaps the Evans children had played on top of this very hill, climbing the rocks. Charlie liked to think they had. “Right, no more dawdling,” she told herself as she stood, staring down over the hills to her cottage. “Time to go.”
This time, Charlie’s trip to the post office went off without a hitch — no peanut-wielding toddlers, no near panic attacks. She even stayed in the store to pack her items, rather than hiding in her car, before giving them back to the shop clerk.
“Charlotte White, isn’t it?” the clerk asked.
“That’s right,” Charlie said, taken a bit aback. “I didn’t realise you knew my name.” Of course, Charlie had seen this man almost every Wednesday for more than half a year now. Feeling a bit guilty she hadn’t registered his name, she flicked her eyes down to his name badge. “Tom?” she asked sheepishly.
“Mmm-hmmm. I have a parcel for you this week. It wouldn’t fit in your lock box.”
“Oh,” Charlie said, surprised, wondering if she’d somehow ordered that fabric the other week after all, when the internet had still been dropping out.
“One moment,” Tom said, then disappeared into the back room. Less than a minute later he was back with what was indeed a large box. “It’s a little on the weighty side,” he said. “Just sign here for me.” Charlie did as instructed, before thanking Tom and taking what was indeed a weighty box back to her car. As she placed it in the boot, she took the opportunity to look at the “From” section.
“Hollow Tree,” Charlie read aloud, with still no clue what was inside or where it had come from. The sticker on the back had a drawing of the Nordic tree of life (a symbol that graced many necklaces, notebooks, art prints, and even garden furniture). If Charlie remembered correctly, the tree was a symbol portraying the connection between all life and all worlds. This drawing was surrounded with star details. A nearby conversation brought her attention back to the path. Seeing an elderly couple walking towards her, Charlie decided she could wait until she got home to solve this mystery. Staying in the post office to pack her items had required enough bravery for one day.
As she started the engine, she checked the time on the dash. She still had ninety minutes before her grocery order would be ready. Enough time to start checking those old newspapers. And she’d come prepared with dates this time. Soon enough, she was climbing the steps to the library, once again loosening her mask as she passed the NO FOOD sign.
“Hi, Trent,” she said chirpily as she approached the desk.
“Hi, honey,” Trent replied, as if legitimately pleased to see her. He wore his trademark polo shirt and chinos again, and his hair was as unruly as ever. Stubble clung to his long narrow chin, winding its way down to a prominent Adam’s apple. Trent’s eyes crinkled along well-worn lines as he smiled broadly at her. This time, Charlie didn’t flinch at his use of the ‘honey’ affectation. “I somehow knew I’d see you today. A little earlier than I’d expected, but no point wasting daylight.” Charlie guessed in a town this small, there wouldn’t be many new people, so perhaps he was happy to see her.
“Actually, I’ve only got ninety minutes today, but I do have a starting point this time.”
“Well, that’s handy. What have you got for me today?”
Charlie pulled a slightly creased piece of paper from her pocket. “Can I see the obituaries from the newspaper for these years?” On the paper was written “1881–1921,” “1933–1947,” and “1961–1971.”
“That does make it a little easier,” he said. “But there’ll still be plenty of papers to trawl through. And the local paper didn’t properly establish until 1894. How about I start with 1894–1921 and we can tackle those other dates another day?”
“Actually… Could we start with 1933–1947?” She was more curious about the two children than the first occupier of the land.
“Righty-o.” Trent smiled. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable at that desk again and I’ll be back shortly.”
A short while later, Trent returned with a large box under one arm beckoning to her with his free hand. “Come with me.” She followed him to a small, dark and windowless room just past the reception desk. A strange-looking contraption sat on an old desk beside an even older computer. “Our newspaper records are saved on microfilm,” he explained, popping the box of microfilm onto the floor. “Pretty easy to use,” he said, before fiddling with the wires and cables behind the computer and machine. “Ah, there we go. Loading up now.” As the computer pinged to life, Trent took one of the films from the box. “You’re lucky we’ve split the obituary pages out from the rest of the paper already. You won’t need to trawl through the whole newspaper.” He smiled at her. “Looking up when and how people died is more of a common pastime than you might think these days. So take the microfilm and place it like so in this contraption here. Voilà, here it appears on the screen.”
It was a simple process, and Charlie quickly got into the groove after a stern telling from Trent to ensure all microfilms were placed back in the exact chronological order she’d found them. She was motoring through microfilms a handful a minute, her eyes scanning the computer for “Evans.” She found none in 1933, but in March 1934 she came across her first name.
EVANS—Mstr. Jack William, 2, son of William and Emma Evans, died Tuesday at his home in Greenfields, of polio. He was born February 11, 1933, in Greenfields. Brother to Betty, Mildred, Marie, Alice, and Florence Evans. Funeral services will be conducted Thursday at 2:00 p.m. in Greenfields Church under direction of Bishop Archibald Christiansen. Burial will be in Greenfields Church Cemetery.
There was a photo of the family, dressed in their Sunday best, Jack sitting on his mother’s knee, William standing stone-faced behind her, the girls positioned beside them.
“Trent!” Charlie yelled excitedly, forgetting for a moment she was in a library. It barely mattered, as there were only a handful of patrons there that day.
To his credit, Trent came quickly, with not a word of chastisement. “Found something then?”
“This is the family who used to live in my cottage! Can I print this? How do I take a copy?”
“Yep, okay…” Trent leaned over and took control of the computer mouse. “All we need to do is transfer this image to the computer like so…and…send to printer. Voilà!” It really did look simple.
“Thank you so much!” Charlie said, more thrilled to have this piece of the past than she’d thought she’d be. She felt connected to something bigger than herself, even if just for a moment. Her house felt even more special to her, grounded not just in beautiful grassland but in history.
“Was that all you were looking for, honey?” Trent asked.
“Actually, no. I’ll keep looking if that’s okay.”
“Alrighty then,” Trent said, rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Just call if you need me.”
Over the next sixty minutes, Charlie managed to look through the remaining microfilms from 1934–1936, and the microfilms from 1961–1964, finding both of the other obituaries she’d been hoping to in 1936 and 1964 respectively.
EVANS—Miss. Marie Patricia, 9, daughter of William and Emma Evans, died Sunday at her home in Greenfields, of pneumonia. She was born March 23, 1927 in Greenfields. Sister to Betty, Mildred, Marie, Alice, and Florence, and to Jack, her brother in heaven. Funeral service will be conducted Tuesday at 2:00 p.m. in Greenfields Church under direction of Bishop Archibald Christiansen. Burial will be in Greenfields Church Cemetery.
This obituary was accompanied by a new photo, obviously cropped for the obituary, as Charlie could just make out the shoulder of another girl beside her. Marie, wearing a simple dress, pig tails, and bows in her hair, clutched a worn teddy. Her huge eyes gleamed even in black-and-white, instantly drawing her attention. A sparkle of mischief leapt off the page; the way the child held her shoulders shouted defiance. Charlie felt herself connect with the bright-eyed Marie – a kindred spirit.
EVANS—Mrs. Emma Bernadette, 62, wife of William Evans, died Monday at her home in Greenfields in her sleep. She was born 5 July, 1902, in Sydney, daughter of H. D. and Amelia Morgan. She was married November 11, 1920 to William Evans of Sydney. She had lived in Greenfields since 1924. Besides her husband, she is survived by her daughters Betty, Mildred, Alice and Florence, son in-law Arthur Baxter, and grandson William Baxter. Reunited in heaven with her children Jack and Marie. Funeral service will be conducted Wednesday at 3:00 p.m. in Greenfields Church under direction of Bishop Ronald Baxter. Burial will be in Greenfields Church Cemetery.
This time there was a new photo of Emma, quite a bit older, sitting side by side with her husband William.
Charlie had walked to her car clutching the papers to her chest in elation. Not only did she have much more information, but she also had their photographs. It made it feel so much more real. She found herself longing to stare at the family photograph again, memorising every detail of the Evans family’s faces. She’d resisted, however; this week she was only minutes late to the grocer, much to his approval.
As she started the car up again, ready to head for home, she thought about how excited she was to share her news with Tess.