Charlie took a deep breath as she pulled the driver’s door closed behind her and pressed the automatic lock. She pushed her back into the car seat, trying to force herself to breathe more regularly rather than in great gulping gasps. I feel the car seat behind my back, she thought. I feel the warmth of the steering wheel from sitting in the sun… I hear people chattering near the post office… I hear the birds in the trees… Opening her eyes, she took three more steadying breaths, already feeling better, and continued the mindfulness exercise. I see the red post box… I see the sunlight hitting the leaves of the trees… I taste the tea I had this morning… I smell… She paused, taking a breath. I smell my car freshener… I don’t smell peanuts.
This hadn’t been a full-blown panic attack. She’d managed to avoid those in public so far — at least in this town. It had felt close, though. It had happened as she’d paid for her postage satchels in the post office, mask securely fastened to her face, gloves on her hands. She’d turned to look at them automatically as she heard them enter the post office. A mother and her toddler, holding on to his mother’s leg with one hand and chomping on a chocolate bar with the other. A peanut chocolate bar. Charlie had never had an allergic reaction just from being in the same room as a peanut — at least as long as that peanut wasn’t cooking. But one flick of spittle at her face could be enough. And the fear was so ingrained in her now that she couldn’t stop her heart from racing and her palms from sweating.
“Th-th-thank you…” she’d stammered at the cashier as he’d handed her satchels to her with a smile. “No receipt!” she’d practically yelled before snatching her bags and leaving the store with as wide a berth as possible from the chocolate-covered toddler.
“You’re okay,” Charlie told herself. “I’m okay!” Trying to shake off the adrenaline, she reached behind her seat to pick up the bag of clothes she was posting that day. Now that she had satellite internet and could check her socials more often, Charlie’s sales had seen a massive lift. Apparently there was a growing niche for sustainably made, ethically sourced, natural-weave clothes in funky patterns. She’d sold five tops that week through her Facebook shop, plus two dresses and one camisole. Most of these clothes she’d made weeks ago and just never sold. She’d already received complaints about only stocking three sizes (small, medium, and large), despite their all being relaxed fit. If she were to keep up this turnover, her clothes hobby would become a clothes business. I really should have held on to that receipt…
As she stuck the last address label onto her package, Charlie checked her watch: 11.55 a.m. She’d made good time, considering how late she’d woken that morning. Her stomach growled impatiently, reminding her she’d skipped breakfast in her haste to leave the house. A quick stop at the library before picking up the groceries wouldn’t hurt. Because the library doubled as the town hall, she was pretty certain the records for her cottage would be there. Her groceries — and her stomach — could wait a little. After replacing the mask on her face and making a dash for the red post box with her parcels, Charlie was ready for the short drive to the library. Before her life had changed, she would have walked the five minutes. Now the only place she walked was her own backyard.
Parking was always easier on a Wednesday (the quietest, and hence favoured, day of the week). As Charlie trotted up the library stairs she was pleased to see a large sign declaring, NO FOOD, NO DRINKS, NO SMOKING, NO PHONES. She smiled as she entered, pulling her mask a little looser. The librarian was a stubbled man, maybe in his thirties, not the typical old shrew or young nerd one pictured when imagining a librarian. He was, for lack of a better word, normal. Tall, slim, though with a small stomach poking over the top of his belted chino trousers. A tattoo peeked out of the collar of his navy polo shirt, which was pulled and fraying at the hems. Trust Charlie to notice that; she had sewing on the brain.
The librarian was incredibly helpful, settling Charlie into a desk while he hunted down the census records. “This will give you an idea of who has lived in your house over the years. Since 1961, the census has occurred every five years, so it should give you a pretty complete picture.” It was a bigger pile than she expected. “Here,” he showed her, pulling out the first record. “Everyone in Greenfields was required to list their address for census. You can start at the last census date, with the name of who you bought the house from, and work your way back through time. Thankfully the population’s never been that big.”
“Thanks so much,” Charlie said. “I have to say census records aren’t really my forte.”
“Are they anyone’s? Anyway, this is a good place to start. Greenfields’ first official census was in 1881. I could go into the census history…” Charlie raised her eyebrows over her mask. “Ha-ha, but as you said, not your forte.” She was starting to understand that this wasn’t going to be a quick trip… or perhaps even a single trip. “Next time you can also try the newspaper records. I’m Trent, by the way. I’m usually here Monday to Friday, except public holidays.”
“I’m Charlie,” she said. “I usually pop into town on Wednesdays.”
“Well, I guess I’ll see you next Wednesday then, honey,” Trent smiled. Charlie couldn’t catch herself before she grimaced at his use of the word ‘honey’. Her father had called her that, and it felt wrong coming from any other man. Especially one she didn’t know. “You can leave the census records on the table when you’re done. Photocopier is in the corner, coin or EFT operated.” Trent gave her a friendly nod as he made his way back to the front counter. Charlie checked her watch again: 12:20 p.m. She’d give herself an hour then make her way to the grocer.
Charlie heaved the last shopping bag onto her kitchen counter, chastising herself again for being so late to the store. It had been 3.45 p.m. before she’d made it, at which point the grocer was less than impressed, reminding her he had done this as a special favour and “wasn’t a Woolworths.” She’d promised to never be so late again, had said sorry another five times, then gone on her way.
Just as she’d put the last of the cold items in the fridge, her phone buzzed. Of course it was Tess. Charlie’s brother never called her (Charlie always had to initiate), and her mother’s phone could only receive calls, not make them. The nursing home had ensured that after a spate of midnight and early-morning phone calls from Elsa to cuss at Charlie. The nursing home’s director had told Charlie it was brought on by the confusion of early dementia and of moving homes and being in an unfamiliar environment.
“Hi, Tess,” Charlie said, glad for the excuse to abandon the rest of her shopping and flop onto the couch.
“Bonjour, ma chère. Any more strange visitors?”
“Well, I’ve been out all day and only just got home, so no, not yet.” Charlie looked around her ordinary cottage. There was nothing out of place, no shadows, no glimmering white loafers. “I did get started on the research…”
“Oh, me too,” Tess jumped in excitedly.
“Muuuuuum,” Charlie heard Leon calling in the background. “Ma! What’s for dinner!”
“Hang on,” Tess said, putting the phone on mute and the video off. Charlie took the opportunity to hastily make herself a sandwich, her stomach now past the growling stage and gnawing angrily. “Sorry,” Tess said. “I swear that boy will never grow up.”
“It’s okay,” Charlie said, hastily swallowing the last bite and once again feeling a pang of sympathy for her friend. Tess had escaped the father but was still stuck with the son. She knew “stuck” was a horrible way to feel, but she’d never been able to like Leon. He’d always seemed so unappreciative of Tess and what she’d given up for him. But that was Charlie, always overprotective. And Tess too, she supposed. Perhaps Tess’s own overprotectiveness was part of the reason Leon was still a “boy” with a lot of growing up to do.
“Where were we?” Tess said, flustered. “Oh, yes, what did you find?”
Charlie walked to the table where she’d dumped her photocopying. “Everything actually,” she said, bringing the papers back to her couch. “The names of everyone who has ever lived in this cottage. Right back to 1881.”
“1881?” Tess asked excitedly. “I thought the house was built in the 1920s!”
“So did I. Maybe there was something else here before the cottage. The real estate agent was pretty firm on the house dating back to the 1920s, and none of the tradesmen who helped fix it up questioned it.”
“Fascinant.”
“I still need to make sense of it all, but it looks like the house has changed hands only three times, including to me. Then there was a fifth owner of the land before the cottage was built.”
“Did anyone die there?” Tess asked, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“Well, probably, yeah.” Charlie laughed. “You morbid wretch, you know I live here!” She smirked. “Life was tougher back when the house was built — I’m sure a lot more people died young.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll be quiet. Tell me everything.”
“In the first census record, in 1881,” Charlie began, “Henry James Thomson lived here. There’s not much detail, so I have no idea if he lived alone. In 1933 a family lived here. William David Evans, his wife Emma, and six kids.” When Charlie had discovered this, she almost hadn’t believed it. She certainly struggled to picture it. The cottage’s bedrooms were huge, but still. The Evans must have been a close and cosy family.
“Oh, la vache!”
“Tess…”
“Oui, sorry. That’s just a lot of kids!”
“Yes, well, in 1933 there was ten-year-old Betty, nine-year-old Mildred, six-year-old Marie, five-year-old Alice, three-year-old Florence, and one-year-old Jack,” Charlie said in a long-drawn breath, reading from her notes.
“And who died?” Tess couldn’t help herself.
“I’m getting to that. It’s hard to tell just from the census records, but it looks like there were some deaths. By the time the next census came around in 1947, there was no more Marie or Jack. Betty had also changed her last name to Baxter, and someone called Arthur Baxter had moved in.” Charlie looked around her cottage and shuddered. “I can’t imagine that many people living in here.”
“Poor darlings,” Tess whispered, obviously not so morbid now as she reflected on the fact the deaths could have been those of young children.
“By the time the 1954 census came around,” Charlie went on, “it was just William, Emma and Florence in the cottage. I suppose the others married and moved out. By the 1962 census it was just William and Emma, and then from 1971 it was just William. So I suppose Emma could have died too.”
“In the house…” Tess breathed.
“Tess!” Charlie chastised. “Stop it. I don’t know. And let me finish.”
“There’s more?” Tess asked.
“Yeah, at least one more, I think. After William died, or moved away, a couple called Frank and Linda Forster moved in. No children, and they were in their fifties when they moved in, so I think they might have been retirees. Between the 1996 and 2001 census, Frank either died or moved out because it was just Linda. The previous owner, Rebecca Harper, was listed as living here in the 2016 census. And I know why she sold. She told me it was because she wanted to move closer to Greenfields.”
“Okay,” Tess said. “I can speak now?” Charlie laughed and nodded. “So, taking count, that’s two bout de choux — two babies — and probably the mother too. And then who else?”
“Well, we don’t know if William died in the house, but I guess we count him until we know. The same goes for Frank and Mary Forster.”
“Six suspects…” Tess said thoughtfully.
“Great,” Charlie said sarcastically, suddenly feeling tired and emotional, and remembering her anxiety at the post office.
“Sorry, ma chère,” Tess said, seemingly really meaning it. “You know, I’ve been meaning to visit for so long. How about I actually plan something?” Charlie’s heart warmed like it so often did with Tess, and the corners of her mouth tilted happily. “I couldn’t come too soon, not for a couple of months, but let’s book it in.”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Charlie said, sarcasm gone. “I could really use a visit. And what about you? You said you researched too. What did you find?”
“Oh, non, let’s not talk about it now,” Tess said, obviously worried the conversation had hit Charlie too hard. “Nothing so exciting as you anyway. I’ll tell you about it later. Let me bitch about Leon’s girlfriend for a while.”
Charlie burst out laughing, wiping a tear that had threatened to fall earlier from the corner of her eye. The next ten minutes were a perfect, normal conversation.