– chapter four –

JOHN (JACK) RICHARD STEWART
BELOVED SON OF WILLIAM AND CAROL
BORN 20TH JULY 1930
LAST SEEN 22ND AUGUST 1944
A TRAGEDY OF WAR
I dropped to the tangled weeds and traced the spongy moss spreading from the base of the headstone and partially along the grave. It ended just below the inscription, the point where the sun spotlighted the name on the aging stone.
“Oh, quit with the fainting act!” Ally said. She halfturned away from me but faltered when I didn’t get up and turned back to face the headstone. “Poor sod was even younger than us.”
“Look at the surname though.” My voice was barely a whisper as I fingered the rough lettering.
“A rellie?” Ally mused.
An overwhelming heaviness seemed to drag me towards the ground and I lowered my hand to the overgrown grass to dispel the sense of grief. “If he was still alive,” I pondered, “he’d be as old as Grandad.”
“His brother?”
“Dunno, but I wonder if he’s got something to do with the haunting of Grandad’s flat.”
“You really are insane!” Ally threw her hands up and stormed off down the path.
“Denying the existence of ghosts doesn’t make them go away.” I struggled to my feet to catch up.
“Ghosts do not exist,” she said, hurrying past the tearooms. “You live, you die, end of story.”
“I know for a fact that’s not true.”
“You know nothing,” she said, glaring at me. “You forget you’re NUTS!”
I shrugged and fell in step beside her. We’d gone as far as Trentham Terrace when the distant strands of blue, red and white plastic dancing in the open doorway of the corner shop caught my eye.
“Dammit!” I muttered. “Forgot the batteries.” I was so close to finding out about my past that I really didn’t want to waste time going back to the shops, but I could hardly use the corner shop after what Grandad had said.
“They don’t have to know where we buy them from!” Ally shrugged, following my gaze.
We hurried to the shop and stood for a moment, trying to adjust to the dim interior.
“What d’ya want?”
A gravelly voice startled me. A withered old man with hair as wispy and white as the cobwebs draped from the ceiling above him, leaned on the worn, grey counter. Cubed wooden shelves lined the wall behind him, most only holding a single item, which, judging by the dust, were as old as the shopkeeper. The baskets of chocolates and lollies in front of the counter were the only things that looked fresh and I ran my fingers across them, willing their sweetness to counteract the sour atmosphere.
“What d’ya want?” he said again.
I snatched my hand from the lollies, sensing his distrust.
“Um, batteries, triple A.”
“Where’s your manners?” He glared at me.
“Same place as yours?” I said.
Ally grinned but the old guy grabbed my top to pull me towards him. Thankfully the doddery old git was weak and his hands gnarled with arthritis. I stepped back, clasping my T-shirt where he’d touched it, as if shielding myself from his violation of my sanctuary.
Meet me at the marsh at twilight.
I flinched as the words flitted into my mind. Had he just said that? But the voice had been younger, hushed and yet filled with spite. Ally was writing her name in the dust on the counter and obviously hadn’t heard anything.
I fixed my gaze on the man’s leathery face and his small black eyes squinted into narrow slits as he assessed me. I squirmed and studied Ally’s writing on the counter.
“You’re not from these parts,” he said.
“No,” Ally offered, “we’re Australian.”
He sniffed, half-turned away and poked along the shelving.
Yer all descendants of crooks.
I took a step back in shock as I read the thought floating through his mind. I thought it was only Ally’s that I could read. And my grandad’s.
He finally located a pack of batteries, slammed them on the counter and demanded twelve pounds. Now who was the crook!
“For two batteries?” I snorted. “Get real!”
“Suit yourself,” he said.
His black eyes fixed on mine and this time I held his gaze. He leaned forwards. So did I. He squinted. I copied. I knew those cold, heartless eyes; I’d seen them before, not in this old sour face but… A chill ran down my spine.
“You’re Dougie Smith.”
“What if I am?” he growled.
“Stan and Millie’s boy.”
His eyes widened in surprise.
“Katie!” Ally grabbed my elbow and tugged me outside.
I kept my glare on him until he shuffled from behind the counter, slammed the door, opened it to release a trapped blue strand, slammed it again, and turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’.
“What the hell is with you?” Ally gasped.
“I-I’ve got a really bad feeling about him,” I said. “Didn’t you feel it?”
“But you knew him?”
Ally marched over the road, ran across the grass and vanished behind the washing that hid the view to the back door of the apartment block.
Jack Stewart, Grandad, me; we were connected somehow, apart from the fact we shared the same last name, but I thought it was more than that. I could see images in Grandad’s mind. And words in Dougie Smith’s. So did that mean he was part of my past?
The ground floor door clicked shut behind me, startling me, and I grasped the sticky banister to haul myself up the stairs. I was on the brink of discovering who I once was and now I was this close I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I kind of liked being Katie Stewart. I mightn’t have changed the world, been famous, kissed Zac…
I cast the thought from my mind. I was just grasping at anything that would hold me to this life. Even though Zac and I were really close and he had the cutest smile, I doubted we’d ever be more than just friends. When I looked in his eyes, there was something there, a connection that bonded us in more ways than friendship alone ever could. Deep down, I wondered if he considered me the sister he never had.
Grandad’s loud snoring filtered through the wall, his tiny bedroom adjacent to the stairwell. I cringed when the hinges squealed on the front door in case the sound woke him – although I knew he would have some answers, I was a little afraid of them, unsure if I was ready to take the next step to my previous life.
But his snoring continued without disruption and I tiptoed down the passage to my bedroom. Ally sat crosslegged on her bed and ignored me, focusing on whatever game she was playing on her mobile. Mum and Dad were out.
I tried the TV in the lounge but there was nothing worth watching. All my stuff was in the container and wouldn’t arrive for weeks so I guessed there was nothing better to do than clean. And how considerate, Mum and Dad had left an assortment of buckets and rags in the kitchen and a note weighted to the table by a torch.
Girls,
I’d really appreciate it if one of you could make a start on the attic. Hoping there’ll be enough room up there to store the majority of our things when the shipment arrives.
The access panel is just inside the front door. Inside the hatch is a folding ladder. The prop to pull it down is in the cupboard beside the bathroom.
Thanks,
Dad.
PS Do this and I promise I’ll take you somewhere special. Anywhere you like, as a treat, as soon as I sort out a car.
He may as well have addressed the note just to me, for as long as spiders existed Ally would never go up. And he needn’t have resorted to bribes as I’d rather clear the attic than clean the putrid toilet anyway – there might be some interesting junk to look through. But Ally wasn’t likely to clean the flat either.
“Dad wants one of us to clear the attic, Ally,” I said in the bedroom doorway, holding the note to her. “Toss you for it?”
Ally glared at me, tossed her phone on the mattress, brushed past me to the kitchen and began filling the bucket. I grinned and snatched the torch off the table.
The cupboard opposite the front door smelled slightly of gas and housed the power meters, ironing board, vacuum cleaner, an almost bald mop and a million spiderwebs. The mop attacked me when I snatched the ladder prop and I jumped back, slamming the cupboard door on it.
The wooden hatch jerked upwards when I jabbed it with the flat end of the prop and I slid it sideways, shining the torch around the timber frame until I spotted the metal ring. The prop fitted the ring perfectly and the ladder unfolded in three jerky movements to my feet. Heat from the roof was suffocating when I hauled myself inside and my narrow torch was virtually useless until I noticed the light switch on a timber support.
A single dusty bulb cast a yellow halo on a jumble of timber boards laid across the beams. Dotted around the attic were cardboard boxes, some white with mildew and stinking like mouldy oranges, and wooden tea crates covered with a stained brown sheet lined the sloped roof edge. A flimsy partition made from thin warped timber was tacked to the angled roof supports and a triangle of darkness loomed above it.
Dust and mould spores drifted into the stifling air when I dragged the closest box to the partition and I yanked my T-shirt neck over my nose. The cardboard, weakened by cycles of damp air and drying heat, ripped in my grasp and an assortment of junk and tarnished candlesticks spilled onto the boards.
A teapot spout poked through newspaper and I roughly rewrapped it and placed it back in the torn box. It felt intact yet rattled as if it had broken or had something inside it. Curious, I sat down and peeled the paper off. Apart from a rough white chip marring the rim where the lid had knocked against it, the teapot was completely brown and too dark inside to see.
Two beads the size of my thumb tumbled onto the loft boards when I upended it. They were deep blue ellipticalshaped bits of glass, but apart from the thinnest points on the bevelled edges, they were virtually obscure. Their smooth surfaces were cool to touch and felt so nice in comparison to the rawness of the roof space. I closed my eyes against waves of dizziness, yanked my T-shirt free from my nose and pressed the glassy stones to my face.
Fresh air wafted around me, cleansing the staleness away. Such a welcome contrast. Refreshing. Confusing.
I flicked my eyes open to an alien scene around me. Instead of the stuffy attic, I was sitting on the wooden bridge by the old cattle market. Pale sunlight filtered through white cloud and gave the scene a surreal and hazy appearance. Water trickled beneath the bridge and leaves rustled on the trees beside the church, but the sounds seemed distant and the trees much smaller than when I’d seen them just now with Ally.
I blinked, bewildered. How the hell had I got there!
A blast of dungy odour wafted from behind and I twisted to examine its source. But the sight left me even more confused. Instead of Cattlemarket Villas there were metal sheep pens, and although there were no sheep and the ground was relatively clean, the stench emanating from the pens was gross.
I sank, disorientated, against the bridge. All around me, people went about their business, but the outfits they wore were even shabbier than the stuff at the charity shop, and the atmosphere, I couldn’t quite work out.
“Mummy!” A little boy at the foot of the bridge, wearing trousers way too short for him, tugged at his mother’s hand. “I’m hungry.”
The mother’s already drawn face seemed to break with the effort of not crying. She crouched in front of him and grasped both his arms. “I know you are, sweetheart. I know.” She virtually crushed him in a hug and I could tell by the way she kept her face pressed against him that her tears had broken free. “This rotten war will be over soon, you’ll see.” She pulled away and forced a smile but it didn’t break the worry etched onto her face. “And then we can have a big feast and you’ll get to see your daddy! Won’t that be special?”
“Who’s my daddy?”
The woman’s sob tore at my heart as she hauled the boy onto her hip and hurried away.
I dragged my attention away from them as they shrank into the distance and focused instead on an argument that seemed to be unfolding in front of the church. A group of old men was gathered in front of the doors, discussing something in depth. There was a lot of gesticulating and raised voices before they hurried from the forecourt and along the church path, splitting into two short lines to make way for a couple of women carrying string bags that were headed my way.
Both women wore grey skirt suits and wedged shoes and walked quickly and purposefully as if late for something. I tried to shrink back against the bridge to make room but they stopped right in front of me.
“Where did you get that, Kathy?” the blonde said, pointing at my top. She glanced at the brunette beside her. “Never seen anything like it, have you, Millie?”
I sat bolt upright and instinctively glanced down at the white slogan on my brown T-shirt – the world is for sharing but the chocolate is mine!
“Like it.” Millie nodded and lifted her gaze to my face. “You off to get your rations then, Kathy? You wanna get down there quick, they got sugar!”
“Your mum’s at the factory isn’t she?” the blonde said. “She won’t be too happy if you forget.”
I let the glassy beads go as I tried to calm my galloping heart. Everything flickered and blurred and I found myself back in the attic with the boxes and trinkets scattered around me. The beads stared like dark eyes from the loft boards. What the hell had they just done! Incited a vision? A dream? A memory?
Maybe that stuff I read about psychometry before Mum’s books were burned was true, and objects really could show stuff from another time! I’d never experienced the sensation before, so why now? My mind churned as I tried to process the idea. Grandad mistook me for Kathy. The women from the wartime had mistaken me for Kathy. So had I been Kathy in a former life? If that was the case, maybe that’s why I could see stuff when I held the beads; it was about me, or rather, who I used to be.
I nervously plucked up a bead again and images and sounds instantly fuzzed as the two timelines tried to converge. Gradually, the scene around me lodged and shifted into my brain, growing stronger in focus as if Kathy and I were merging, and as my senses sharpened and I could see the brunette looking directly at me, I knew who she was.
Millie Smith.
“You and Freddie are welcome round anytime to keep our Dougie company,” she said. “We’re still at my sister’s place, you know, Eddington’s? Your cousin Jack can come too, if he’d like.”
And as she spoke his name, something clicked inside me. Of course I knew Jack – the guy in grey.
I grasped the beads tighter to intensify the images and a powerful memory overwhelmed me.
The theft of the class dictionary had been blamed on Jack, my only cousin, and since then we hadn’t been allowed to mix with the likes of Dougie. Dougie was in Mr Jenkins’ junior class with me and Jack and it was Dougie who’d told our teacher to check Jack’s plimsoll bag one lunchtime. Even though Mr Jenkins had found the book, I knew for a fact that Jack hadn’t stolen it. Jack hated the school dinners and always went across the road to the soup kitchen, so he wasn’t even at school when it had been nicked.
But years had passed since then and I hated Auntie Carol still telling me what I could and couldn’t do. We weren’t allowed on the gap in Milton Street – Milton Street was where the junior school was and the gap where the Smith’s house used to be, but I still went there. In fact, it was me that found the teapot…
“Katie!”
Dad’s voice startled me and the peculiar scene vanished. In the yellow roof light the blue beads glowed almost black in my hand and I shook them to the floor like they were suddenly hot.
“You up there?”
A footstep vibrated on the ladder.
“I’ve got a surprise for you,” Dad called.
“Y-yeah, be down soon.”
I gazed at the beads, my mind racing. Was this what my letter meant about going back to my past? I didn’t have to physically leave my family? I exhaled deeply as the relief washed over me and glanced at the masthead on the crumpled newspaper that the teapot had been wrapped in.
The headline read:
‘Rear gunner would have turned twenty-one today.’
Beside it was a photo of an old aeroplane and a portrait of a guy who had been killed, along with a pilot officer and flight engineer.
Even without holding the beads, the headline stirred an ingrained memory.
I vaguely remembered hearing about the tragedy on my next-door neighbour’s wireless. Old Mr Bettis had called me in to give me a gift. Such a treat! A fresh egg, the first his layer hen had produced in weeks; and on my birthday too.
Mum had promised me mashed potato from the veggies grown along the church path and the Dig for Victory allotment opposite Trentham Terrace, where everyone tended the home-grown produce and shared it amongst the community. Mashed potato and the egg.
I never got to eat my birthday feast. Jack was late home from his Boy Scout errand at the church. If he didn’t come back soon, he’d be walking home in the blackout and blackouts were darker than a power failure on a cloudy moonless night. No streetlights, no headlights, no light through house windows. Thick blackout curtains trapped the light inside.
And almost the instant I thought of the blackness, the memory vanished. I grunted in frustration. So much was surfacing from my subconscious but I wished I could remember it all. I felt like two people in one body.
I snatched both beads to try and piece together the snippets of memory that the newspaper had triggered and braced myself against the instant distortion of my vision.
Eventually, the past sharpened into view and I glanced over my shoulder as I crept to the front door to look for Jack. The passageway was dark and the patterned wallpaper appeared covered in hundreds of giant insects as the last remnants of light filtered from the kitchen. Mum and Auntie Carol were in there, madly preparing tea. Pretty soon though, they’d have to close the blackout curtains, else Mr Bettis, who happened to be a blackout warden, would be onto them.
I tiptoed outside, quietly closed the door, ran across the road and hid inside the tool shed on the allotment; the door open just a fraction so I could see if anyone followed.
They didn’t.
It took ten minutes to reach the church from Trentham Terrace. But Jack wasn’t in there. What was he supposed to be doing? A group of men glanced up from loading an old lorry with crates and boxes as I darted outside.
“Oi, Kathy.”
By the tone of his voice it sounded as though Stan Smith was in another of his dark moods. My mum never had much time for him – unlike Dad and Uncle Bill, he hadn’t been conscripted into the army but had volunteered instead for the fire service. I didn’t know the full story but Mum said it was because he was scared. Not like my dad; he wasn’t afraid. But I was: constantly afraid he’d never come back, that we’d get a visit at home like Sylvia Jones in my class had. Her dad wasn’t coming back.
A wave of heat engulfed me as I recalled the potency of the mother’s words to her little boy earlier, and I realised that apart from the group by the church, I’d seen no other men. Of course I hadn’t. They were all at war.
Or dead.
“You tell him from me, I’ll give him a good hiding,” said Stan.
Poor Jack, it wouldn’t have been the first time he copped the back of Stan’s hand for no good reason. But Stan couldn’t belt Jack if he couldn’t find him!
The beads dropped from my grasp onto the crumpled newspaper. The date on it stared up at me.
August 23rd 1944.
I swallowed hard, flopping back against the partition in the roof.
The day after my last birthday as Kathy Stewart. A day I couldn’t remember.