Blackwater Hall
September 2019
As Ellie stepped up to the ivy-rimmed doorway, it struck her just how much had happened since she’d knocked on this very door only a week before. Then, she’d come here unwillingly, unenthusiastically, the words of an unknown woman in her pocket and the urge to pass them on in her mind. She felt, still, a touch of apprehension now as she rapped on the door, but this time it was not for herself, but for Charlotte. For Nancy. Their memories. And for those left behind.
Albert.
Hattie.
Milo.
In her bag she carried the two folders. But she would leave them there. Concealed. Until she knew the truth. Until she had all the answers. Or at least until she had the answers that could be found.
Above her, the clouds were moving off, leaving bright blue where before there had been only grey. The lough, a mirror on her previous visit, now rippled with gentle movement as it filled from the streams rolling off Cottah Mountain, white rivulets swollen with the morning’s heavy rain.
She knocked, then stood back. Brushed her fringe from her face.
A moment later, footsteps. The turning of a handle.
And Albert was there. ‘Hello.’ That accent, trapped somewhere on the Irish Sea.
‘Albert.’ She was pleased to see him. And looking so well. His cheeks were flushed and he wore a dark blue knitted jumper that hugged his slim frame, the crisp line down each elbow a telltale sign of newness.
He smiled. ‘Ellie.’ She swallowed her surprise at his recognition. ‘Milo’s in the library.’ He motioned for her to step inside.
The hallway was dark, as it had been before, but its smell was different. Then, it had been musty, but now fresh pine clung to the air, mingling with a tang of chalkiness. A pile of tins and discarded brushes stood by the wall. ‘Redecorating?’
Albert patted the door frame. ‘This place is held up with limewash and now it has a new coat. Milo’s been busy. Even mopped the floor.’ This he said with pride, as though it might be a once-in-a-decade event. Ellie looked down at her feet. The black-and-red quarry tiles shone. Albert watched her with a steady gaze. Did he remember her visit or had Milo told him an Ellie was due to call? He cleared his throat, prompted: ‘Third door on the right.’
Ellie turned; a strip of light cut into the gloom. She looked back. ‘Will you join us?’
‘In the library?’ The look on his face changed. ‘No. But we’ll have tea after.’ He motioned again for her to lead on, and by the time she reached the door, he was gone.
Milo sat at a small bureau, a large pile of books towering next to him. He wore rough trousers and a tartan shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. A golden leaf was stuck in his flaxen hair.
‘Been gardening?’ she said by way of greeting.
He looked down at his trousers; green stains covered his knees. He spread his hands. ‘How can you tell?’
‘Just a hunch.’
He stood. ‘You saw Jules?’ He gave her a guilty look.
Ellie stepped forward. Appraised the room. It was lined floor-to-ceiling with books. ‘I saw him. And he told me about Tabby.’ To ease his guilt, she added, ‘Jules can be very persuasive.’ A fire flickered under the green marble mantelpiece on the far wall, but the room was icy cold.
‘You did say he was starting a historical society . . .’
She had said that, hadn’t she? That day at the surgery. It felt like a lifetime ago.
Behind the bureau, a large sash window framed the woodland that sat at the base of the mountain. The slope was bathed in sunshine and a new scour of purple, a recent rock fall, cut its face. It was bright out there now, the clouds off to bother another place, somewhere inland.
Milo went to the fire. ‘No matter what I do, this room’s always Baltic.’ He threw a large log on the flames. ‘Albert never comes in here. I’m surprised the books have survived.’
‘Speaking of books . . . the ones you dropped at Threadbare . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Why those?’
He shrugged. ‘A random assortment of classics. I wanted an excuse to meet Bernie. She’d been bringing Albert Meals on Wheels.’ He turned his back to her, poked the fire. ‘I just wanted to check she was grand.’
Not a gold digger? ‘And how did you find her?’
‘Colourful.’ He teased: ‘I hope you paid handsomely for the books?’
‘An outrageous price.’ Outside, a group of starlings rose from the woodland. She watched them wheel westward and out of sight. ‘So,’ she continued, ‘you wanted to show me something?’
He nodded. ‘In the garden.’
She stepped forward and reached towards his face. He looked alarmed, surprised. Pleased? She plucked the leaf from his hair. Held it up. Then dropped it into the fire to curl into ash. ‘The garden?’ She looked to the woodland beyond.
‘Down by the lake, through the trees, there’s a walled garden.’
‘A secret garden?’ She felt her fingers tingle. Hidden doors. Rusty keys. Long-forgotten treasures waiting to be found.
He laughed then. Started for the door. ‘No, Ellie. This isn’t a Gothic children’s novel.’
Before she followed him, she turned, stepped up to the fire, the words from the file burning a hole in her bag. And I pushed him back against the mantelpiece. She ran her hand across the dusty stone.
It was as smooth and flat as the day it was made.
They passed through the blue room towards the French doors. Albert was there, folded into his wingback chair. ‘Where’re you off to then?’
‘The garden, Albert.’ Did Ellie only imagine the shadow that passed across Albert’s face? When Milo said Albert rather than Dad?
He cleared his throat. ‘I thought we’d have tea.’ Beside him, on the table, were three cups and the tarnished silver teapot, steam rising from its spout.
Milo went to the fire, worried at the flames. ‘In a bit, will we?’
But Albert was getting to his feet. Leaning down for the tray. ‘I’ll bring it out. You’ve cleared the arbour. The perfect spot.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘And the rain has cleared.’ Ellie watched the two men lock eyes; they matched, green as the hills beyond.
‘Well . . .’ Milo’s gaze flicked to the teapot. Ellie could almost see his thoughts. Could you stand your teaspoon in it?
Albert picked up the tray. ‘Jolly good then.’
‘All right,’ said Milo, taking it from him. ‘I’ll just go and make a new pot. Nice and hot.’ He winked at Ellie as he went. Whispered, ‘He’s having one of his good days.’ He tried to say this with exasperation, but she could see that he was pleased. Very pleased. She watched him leave the room. Noticed, as he passed the sideboard, that the O’Conor – its copy, at least – had been replaced on the wall above.
Albert watched her appraise his son, appraise the painting. He smiled. ‘What’s it like out there, Ellie?’
‘Chilly.’
He turned from her. Went to the sideboard. From it, he took three thick woolly blankets. He put one in her arms. ‘Shall we?’ He opened the French doors and stepped out into the day.
As she followed, Ellie glanced to the far end of the room, towards the cabinet. Someone had cleaned the glass. And the item inside. It sat proud of the navy velvet that pooled underneath, the rubies two red drops of blood on its wings. And the sapphires, previously so dull and lifeless, reflected the sunlight that streamed through the window so that it spread across the ceiling, speckled like stars on a clear Kerry night.
Newly cut grass stuck to their feet as they crossed the lawn. A dozen sparrows pecked in the debris, searching for grubby treats beneath. Albert’s step was surprisingly quick, and Ellie walked close beside him, their elbows touching as they went.
They entered the woods and followed a path through the trees. It was covered in leaves and humus but firm underfoot, as though it had once been gravel or stone. Fat drops dripped from leaves overhead, reminders of the recent rain, and Ellie peered through the foliage looking for a wall.
And there it was, not far into the woods.
‘They chose this spot to shelter from the wind, I imagine,’ said Albert. ‘When they built the house.’
An archway led them into the garden.
It was, in a neglected way, beautiful. A rough stone wall, head height, with once-espaliered fruit trees sprawled across its surface. She turned, trying to orientate herself. The western wall was lined with a messy proliferation of raspberry plants. Knobbly berries dripped from them; dark red, well past their best. The garden was alive with birds, noisy and fat with the fermented fruits of September.
Albert followed her gaze. ‘We’ve had our fill of berries this year. And Milo’s started on the vegetable patch.’
A little digging had been done. Rich earth recently turned. But there was serious ground left to cover. Some sort of machine might be in order, Ellie thought. She pushed the idea aside. That wasn’t, Moira had always lectured, what gardening was about. It was the wonder of pulling something from the soil one minute, only for it to end up on your plate the next. Ellie had always been uncertain about her mum’s garden; windswept and barren on the mountain’s edge, it wasn’t exactly a haven of tranquillity. And its produce – floury potatoes, slug-eaten cabbage, the odd forked carrot – had always been . . . entertaining. Nonetheless, she had to admit that there was nothing like a spud pulled from the ground – boiled and smothered in butter – to make her feel at home.
As though reading her mind, Albert said, ‘The potato ridges are in the field behind the woods. They haven’t been set for years.’
On the southern wall, in shade, sat a square rubble-stone ruin. Rotting timber was piled inside. An old stove, rusted so that its top had fallen in on itself, sat at one end. Albert stared at it, frowning. As though he’d forgotten it was there.
‘This is the arbour?’ said Ellie, pointing to the eastern wall, where a wooden frame was hugged by woven sally and bathed in afternoon light. A wild and unruly climbing plant weighted down the archway, a single blue flower hanging amongst the wilted summer blooms. A huge pile of matching foliage sat beside it.
The arbour had indeed been recently uncovered.
‘Clematis,’ said Albert, stepping forward to pluck the last brave flower. He gave it to Ellie, who took it, appraised its star shape, the sapphire hue of its petals. She didn’t need to hold it to her nose to smell the almond fragrance.
She tucked it behind her ear, and raised an eyebrow.
Albert nodded, his gaze moving far away. He was going somewhere, she knew then. Going away. Like he had done the week before.
The arbour looked rickety, but there was a wrought-iron chair and round table on the far side of the garden. ‘Wait here a minute, Albert.’ She carried the setting over, put it next to the arbour. ‘Take a seat.’
‘My mother’s eyes,’ he said as he watched her. She placed a blanket across his knees, not wanting to acknowledge his changing state. Carefully then – testing its robustness – she took a seat in the arbour.
A robin, small and wiry, had followed her across the garden. Ellie leaned down, flipped a muddy stone near her feet. ‘Try under here,’ she said to the tiny bird, willing him closer.
When she looked up again, Albert was back, his eyes clear. He ran a finger across the table, let the water drip from his fingertip. ‘How is your mother, Ellie?’
Ellie frowned. ‘I didn’t realise you knew my mother?’
‘You said you were back for her health?’
‘Oh. Yes. That’s right. She’s much better, thank you.’
‘We need to look after our parents,’ he said. The robin hopped quickly forward to pull a worm from the earth, then flew off and paused on the foundations of the tumbled shed. ‘And your father?’
Ellie looked to her hands. A ball of mud from the rock sat in her palm. ‘He’s . . . not with us any more.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘What happened?’
‘A car accident.’
‘What a terrible thing.’ He reached across, patted her hand. ‘Thank goodness you weren’t with him.’ He said it kindly, something to fill the space.
Ellie spoke before she could think. ‘I should have been with him. I . . .’ she touched the mud in her palm, swirled it into an earthy stigmata, ‘I was supposed to join him that day. He was going on a trip.’ She squinted, conjuring the memory. ‘He loved history. Every weekend we went sightseeing. And he had such a collection of books.’ Albert was watching her intently, lucidly. ‘We were supposed to visit a ruined castle, but I was out with friends the night before, and I got home the next morning later than I’d promised.’ She looked at Albert. ‘I had the car.’
The robin was back for second helpings, he paused to look up at them, cocked his head to the side. Ellie would never forget that image of her father slipping out of the front door without a backwards glance. In her memory, in her dreams, she always tried to turn his head, to see his face. But it was never there.
‘He took the keys from my hand and left without me. And never came back.’
She turned away, wiped hard at her eyes. Never before had she told anyone what she’d just told Albert. Not even Dylan. And certainly not Moira, who had been out at work that morning and missed the whole confrontation. Or lack thereof: her father had always shown anger through silence.
She hadn’t mentioned it to Nils either, that day they’d hung their arms over a gate and peered at the ruin on the edge of the sea.
There was warmth on her fingers and she turned back to Albert. His hand was there on hers. ‘If you continue to hold on to this, it will destroy you,’ he said. He reached forward and took the flower from behind her ear. Twirled it in his fingers. ‘My mother’s eyes were as blue as this clematis. Bluer, if you can imagine it.’ He brushed a petal. ‘Bad things happen to good people, Ellie.’ He placed the flower back behind her ear, then frowned, peering in the direction of the potato field, somewhere in the distance.
Ellie took a breath. This was her chance to ask him about Tomas.
‘Albert, I wonder—’
He flinched and looked around, dropping her hand. As though just noticing she were there. ‘Hello,’ he said, appraising her.
‘Albert, I wanted to ask . . .’ She stopped. He was dredging his mind, just as he had done days before. A slight tremor in his hands. ‘Albert, I’m Milo’s friend Ellie. We’re having tea in the garden.’
He glanced at the table, suspicious. Then: ‘Tea? Would you like some?’ The plum, the pluck, was back in his voice. ‘Let me . . .’ He began to stand, pushed away the blanket from his knee. ‘Are you here to see Mama?’
‘No, no,’ she soothed, alarmed at the sudden change.
‘Sorry for the wait.’ Milo was there, a tray full of crockery and a face full of reassurance. ‘Albert, we’re having tea.’ He placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder, nodded carefully.
Albert sat.
‘The place needs rewiring,’ said Milo. ‘Fuse went. Had to boil the kettle on the range.’
Ellie raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s very Robinson Crusoe of you.’
‘This is your new wife?’ said Albert, looking at Ellie with his head tilted to the side.
‘No, Albert, Ellie’s just a friend.’
Albert looked between them and laughed, shaking his head. He muttered, ‘A friend.’ He pointed at the tray. ‘You’ve forgotten the fourth cup.’ Then he stood and batted away his son’s hand. ‘But don’t worry about me, I’m off to find your friend some flowers to go with that one behind her ear.’ He wandered to the far end of the garden, laughing to himself.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Milo. He poured the tea – it was beautifully brewed – then took a seat next to Ellie in the arbour. ‘Normally he’s back for a few hours once he’s had a good morning. Did something set him off?’
She took the flower from behind her ear. ‘His mother,’ she said. ‘It was the same when I was here before.’
‘They were very close.’
Ellie looked back towards the house; just a collection of chimneys above the treeline. One puffed brightly. ‘The tea’s better for being made over the fire,’ she said as she took a sip.
They watched Albert talking to himself as he gathered a jolly orange posy of nasturtiums.
‘Hattie said he’s refusing to go into a home,’ said Ellie.
‘He’s stubborn.’
‘Why won’t he go?’
Milo considered his answer. ‘Pride, firstly. But I think it’s . . .’ He hesitated. ‘You remember when we met on the beach that morning?’
‘Of course.’
‘And what I told you.’
The curse. ‘You don’t believe it, do you?’
‘No, it’s not that. If Albert goes, he’s worried I’ll stay here alone. He’s worried about what will happen.’
‘To you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does he believe it’s the house or the comb that’s cursed?’
Milo flinched at the word. ‘They seem to be one and the same in his mind. He told me once that both of them changed his life.’
Ellie frowned. Now was the time. ‘Did you know Tabby had a brother?’
He looked up, surprised. ‘Yes. Of course. That’s why I asked you here. I wanted to tell you something about Tomas.’
Did he did know? ‘Yes?’
But Milo said something she didn’t expect. ‘They were in love.’
‘What? Nancy and Tomas?’
He laughed. ‘No, not Nancy.’
‘What do you mean?’
He reached across her. For a moment – a terrible moment? A wonderful moment? – she thought he was about to embrace her. But he brushed the edge of the arbour, pushing aside the curtain of clematis to reveal the etching beneath.