Leaving Shades Read online

  The darkness of the night was creeping down and in and all around her. The outside porch lights had not been lit. Soon it would be as black as the bottom of the well.

  Growing ever more panicky, Elizabeth had kicked at the door – too frightened to worry about scuffing her boots. She was so afraid out here in the darkness that was sneaking upon her. She should peek in through the windows and see if Mummy was at home. But she was afraid to, for she might find Mummy ‘asleep’ on the floor clutching one of those tall, pretty-labelled, strong-smelling bottles, the bottle empty. One time there had been a little brown bottle too. It had been in the morning, and Mrs Reseigh, the daily help, had telephoned for an ambulance. It was the day after that when Daddy had left never to return. Elizabeth was so afraid she’d find Mummy poorly again. Mummy might have been sick again all over the carpet and cushions.

  Her desperation growing ever more keenly, Elizabeth had steeled herself to step along the terrace and look into the sitting-room window. The room had been dark with looming shadows and seemed to be empty. She had edged all round the house, moving faster and faster as she left each window. As scared as she was, she had even gone round and tried the back door. It had been locked, as she had expected. She banged on it as hard as she could but had received no answer. Finally she had hurried back to the front door. Mummy was nowhere to be seen or heard.

  She must have already left for London, gone without her! She was never coming back! Like Daddy, Mummy was never coming back. Daddy didn’t love them any more – Mummy had said so. Every day she had repeated it in tears of anger and rage. Now Mummy was gone too. She had often threatened she would go.

  ‘Mummy! Mummy! Come back!’

  It was fully dark. The night had come down. Even if she could get inside, Elizabeth was too frightened to enter the huge dark house on her own. The ‘things’ of her dreams might be in there, all come real and out to get her. Shapeless ‘somethings’ that loomed and followed her and cackled noises at her, noises of the like she had never heard before, and there would be the thuds and slithering and the sliding.

  She couldn’t stay here. Elizabeth knew she had to get away before she was ‘got’ by the somethings and they did terrible things to her. It was icily cold and the wind was howling louder and Elizabeth was scared by the way the trees were rocking, bending down their long bare branches, their twigs like clawing fingers. The wind was thrashing through the dead fallen leaves and tossing bits of dust and grit about. Elizabeth was so afraid of the dark, afraid of so many things. Things she couldn’t put a name to, things she was told didn’t exist and were only in her imagination. She just knew they were there, dark mysteries, and all a constant threat. Witches were real. She was a clever girl and she had read about the witches that had been burned at the stake. There might have been witches burnt to death in the local area. Perhaps even close to where she was now. And witches ate children. It said so in many, many stories. There could be witches about to fly out of the darkness at her right now and ‘get’ her.

  She started to run down the long drive, just making out the edges of the wide path. The wind was hitting her with force, trying to knock her over. She was old enough to know there was a storm whipping up out at sea. The waves would soon come charging higher and higher inland. They would flood the little private beach way down below the cliff. The water might climb the cliff and sweep up over the wooden steps that Daddy had had built down to it, and climb up and up and over the cliff top and head straight for the house and the drive and she would be washed away, never to be found!

  ‘Mummy! Where are you?’

  She had fled. Growing more frightened by the moment, she had dashed out into the lane and, following some survival instinct, had run along the roughly straight narrow thoroughfare for perhaps twenty minutes. She was racing away from the direction of the church and vicarage, the nearest neighbour of Owles House. Mrs Oakley would refuse to take her in, and Elizabeth was too frightened to go near the churchyard in the dark.

  Without halting to gain some much-needed breath she had turned off for the steep twisting hill down to the fishing village of Portcowl. There were Tresailes down in the cove but she couldn’t go to them, they’d turn her away too. She reached a cottage near the bottom of the hill and banged and banged on the door. What happened next was hazy to her. A woman wearing a pinafore had lifted her inside into the warmth and light of the home. There had been another kind voice, a man’s. A warm drink had been held to her lips and she’d received the first hug she’d been given in ages. Children had crowded round her but were quickly ushered away. There had been a young policeman with a soft voice. Then he had left. ‘He’s gone up to your house, my handsome,’ the kind woman had said. ‘To see if your mother’s all right.’ He had returned and whispered with the kind woman and the man who had given her refuge.

  That night Elizabeth had slept in the home of the kind strangers. Next day she had been told that her mother wasn’t to be found anywhere. Hours later, Grandma, with whom she’d spent nearly all the school holidays up in Wiltshire, had come for her.

  * * *

  ‘Dear Lord, Beth, you look as if you’re about to faint.’ Kitty slid an arm round Beth’s waist. ‘Perhaps we’d better go. Let you get used to being back in Cornwall again first. We could have a meal. There’s a fine fish restaurant down in the harbour, according to the holiday brochure. What do you think? Then, later, you could ring Christina. Don’t tell her you’re here. Just speak to her first. Get used to her voice. Then ask her if she’ll meet you somewhere away from this house.’

  ‘She probably won’t want to see me.’ It was dead certain she wouldn’t. Christina had hardly been in touch with Beth over the years, just the usual pretentious this-is-all-you’re-getting-out-of-me Christmas and birthday presents. There had been nothing for the last five years.

  ‘On the other hand, she might. Who knows what’s been on her mind all these years?’ Kitty said. ‘I know it’s hard but try not to lose heart. Look around, Beth. See how beautiful everything is. It might help lift away some of the bleakness you associate with this place.’

  Shaking her head and sighing, Beth looked down over the far-reaching, neatly trimmed lawn then up over the high, ivy-encrusted wall that separated the property from the cliff path. Beyond the wall, breaking off the path, were the steps down to the little private beach. Further up the coast Beth could see Dunn Head and in the near distance in the opposite direction was Coggan Point, the two headlands that sheltered the fishing cove of Portcowl with their overhangs of hard rock. In the direction of Dunn Head the path led towards Portcowl, emerging quite shortly into the lane above the descent to the cove. The way towards Coggan Point meandered off into many long walks, some of which led out into the lanes; one was near the entrance to the vicarage. The first route trailing off the cliff path quickly went into the woods that gave haven to Christina Tresaile’s property. It was all quite beautiful but it meant nothing to Beth. ‘You do love your happy endings, Kitty. You’d like to see Christina and me somehow make things up, wouldn’t you? Well, it isn’t going to happen. I didn’t come here for that.’

  Smiling a sad smile, Kitty shrugged her shoulders. ‘My late father used to talk about some of the suffering he saw in his work at the hospital. If anyone can save themselves from more bad times then it’s always worth the effort. Well, we just can’t stay here. If Christina is at home and peeping out at us she’ll be wondering who these two strangers are who are loitering on her doorstep.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s exactly what she and I are to each other,’ Beth uttered vehemently. ‘Strangers. Let’s go, Kitty. I didn’t think this through properly.’ It was the consequence of her most recent inner turmoil, a secret that only Kitty knew about. ‘Let’s return to the cottage. Never mind a fish lunch. We can make an omelette and tuck into the fresh cottage loaf and butter we bought at Boswarva Farm when we fetched the cottage key. I need to wander along the beach there and sort out my mind.’

  Beth reached the car fir
st. She allowed Kitty to follow at a slightly slower pace to admire the scenery. Kitty enjoyed new experiences. She quickly engaged with all things no matter how simple, but Beth knew she was finding the whole place here fascinating. Unlike Beth, she liked lots of company and she would make a friend of any child or beggar. Lovely, amiable, sometimes hearty, Kitty was a magnet to people of all ages. She caught the eye of eager young men and staid old gentlemen, for her grey-green eyes sparkled and she laughed easily. People were drawn to glance at Kitty several moments before they noticed Beth, something that pleased Beth, who preferred to stay quietly in the background. Whatever happened during the next few days, Kitty would discover a lot to be impressed by. Earlier today, after they had finished unpacking at the holiday cottage, Kitty had chattered about the prospect of going out on a pleasure boat to fish for mackerel and then spit roasting it over an open fire on the beach.

  The sound of a loud territorial barking just beyond the wall made Beth freeze as if hit by a sheet of ice. There was a high solid gate in the wall and it was being opened. The nose of a dog appeared and then the whole body of a large German Shepherd came scrambling through, and then it was making a mad dash up the lawn at Beth and Kitty, more curious about them than anything. There was no need to be afraid of it. The dog was so like Cleo had been that Beth was overwhelmed with grief knowing her old friend must have died some years ago. So her mother had got another dog, and now she was bringing it back from a walk.

  Kitty joined Beth. ‘Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll have to be.’ Beth cursed underneath her breath for not leaving earlier.

  Holding herself straight and tall she waited for the dog’s owner to appear.

  Her mother.

  Two

  ‘What is it, boy? Chaplin, quiet now.’

  Beth’s blood slowed in her veins at the sound of the familiar husky voice. The voice sounded older and weaker and slightly gaspy now, but it was the unmistakable voice of Christina Tresaile. Beth fought against the revolting sensation of her heart icing up.

  The German Shepherd, a handsome creature with coarse straight hair, bounded up to Beth and Kitty, halting them. The dog sniffed them, paced about them and sniffed them again, and then as if satisfied they were no threat to its mistress it finally allowed Kitty, who had been offering it a coaxing hand, to stroke its back. Beth ignored it. The dog wasn’t Cleo and she wanted nothing to do with it.

  Christina Tresaile came sideways through the gate. At first glance she looked rather like a movie star, dressed as she was in a long-sleeved tunic top over loose leisure pyjama trousers. Her sun hat was deep-crowned with three separate parts to the wide brim and she wore tinted glasses. The glamorous effect, however, was downsized by her flat lace-up shoes and the ebony-handled walking stick she obviously needed for support. Then it could be seen that the clothes weren’t new, were rather well worn in fact. The hat was good but not couture made and was arranged purely for comfort. She pushed the gate shut and drew the high bolt across to lock it securely.

  Once facing the house she was startled to see two strangers in her garden. Keeping her sight rooted on them she approached them slowly, with a slight limp in her right leg.

  Kitty glanced at Beth. Saw the unnatural brightness burning in her eyes and knew she was incapable of speaking at that moment. Kitty smiled at the woman to convey cordiality. ‘Good afternoon. Please forgive the intrusion. Mrs Tresaile?’

  ‘Can I help you?’ the woman asked Kitty, wary of both callers, but she was not altogether unfriendly.

  Beth had clamped her lips shut. The lump in her throat was too rigid, too sore to get her voice out past it. Could this really be her mother? Where was all the glamour of the times she had not been drunk? The bottle-blonde hair, the glossy dark red lipstick, the armoury of gold jewellery? Why wasn’t she red-and-watery-eyed and raddled beyond her years by all the alcohol she must have gulped down her throat for the last fifteen years? She was wearing no make-up and her skin looked slightly milky, as if smothered with cream as a precaution against the hot sun. Damn it, she looked like an ordinary woman, someone you’d see anywhere and take no particular notice of. Women who neglected their children, who turned their back on them, should look harsh and cruel and rotten, shouldn’t they? Like wicked stepmothers were portrayed in fairy tales. For many years it was how Beth had thought of this damnable woman.

  ‘Not me, but my friend here,’ Kitty replied, keeping up her bright smile. Then she dropped her eyes, leaving things to Beth.

  Christina Tresaile had noticed the second young woman’s hostile stance and her own bearing had stiffened. She kept her attention on the red-haired woman, the only stranger prepared to communicate with her. She removed the tinted glasses, and there was all the evidence Beth needed to prove who had mothered her, the clear and direct, cornflower-blue, almond-shaped eyes that were exactly like her own. Why hadn’t her mother’s drinking rendered her eyes rough and permanently bleary?

  She thought she had known her mother’s face. Simpering, hard and unfeeling, made wretched by the endless complaints of being lonely and abandoned and not understood. In an effort to gain some sort of comfort throughout her later years, Beth had tried to excuse and understand Christina’s self-obsessed behaviour. She had considered her mother weak, pathetic and pitiable, but also callous and pitiless and utterly selfish. Yet here was a woman who, at first glance, came across as none of these.

  With nothing more forthcoming from the speaker, Christina’s head swerved to the second stranger. She stared and stared at her. Then her eyes widened, she gasped tremendously and her mouth dropped open. She took a clumsy step towards her. ‘It can’t be… Elizabeth?’

  This was the point, Beth thought, when she should say with drama and sarcasm, ‘Hello, Mother. How good it is to see you after all these years. As you can see, I’m fit and healthy and successful in life, no thanks to you.’

  Instead she swallowed hard and was only able to return a curt nod.

  ‘Elizabeth!’ Christina let out such a long breath she seemed to shrink in size. ‘It’s been such a long time but I’d have known you anywhere. Well… I… I don’t know what to say.’ Visibly shaken, Christina brought a hand up to her face. The nails were filed neatly, not professionally polished as had sometimes been done in the old days, Beth noted.

  With the other two women in a state of shock, Kitty broke the uncomfortable silence. ‘Do allow me to introduce myself, Mrs Tresaile. I’m Katherine Copeland, although everyone calls me Kitty. I’m Beth’s friend. We’ve come down for a little holiday.’ Kitty gazed at Beth, willing her to add something. ‘And Beth thought she’d look you up. Didn’t you, Beth?’

  Beth felt Kitty nudge her. She watched Christina for her reaction to Kitty’s explanation, aware that Christina was watching her for the same reason. Again, all Beth could manage was a quick nod.

  ‘So here we are,’ Kitty twittered, desperate to ensure that her conviviality kept Christina Tresaile interested. If she became offended by Beth’s coldness she might ask them to leave. Then Beth would adamantly refuse to make any more contact with her mother and she would be left even more angry and confused over the beginning of her childhood. There were times her emotions ran into uncompromising bitterness.

  Christina glanced uncertainly at Kitty and back to Beth. ‘I can’t believe you’re here, Elizabeth. Oh, do you prefer to be called Beth now you’re all grown up?’ She copied Kitty’s jollity, talking fast and breathlessly. ‘You haven’t changed much, Beth. You’re tall. I never thought you’d grow tall, but then Phil was tall. Well, I… I suppose you’d both better come in. Would you like to? Why not come in and… and say a proper hello to Chaplin? He’s Chaplin after the movie star, and I’ve got a cat called Charlie. Cleo, of course, passed away some years ago, of old age, she died peacefully. Chaplin comes from the same breeder. Perhaps you’d both welcome an iced drink on such a warm day… would you?’

  ‘No drinks. We’re not staying.’ Beth got the blunt inflexible words o
ut past her raw throat. This was too strange. Unreal. Bizarre. To actually be here, finally facing her mother, to be confronting her past after all the years she had pictured herself doing so, in many different scenarios, all with explosive outcomes, she making sure she turned out the victor, her recriminations echoing down Christina’s uncaring ears. This person she had just met was not the drink-befuddled harpy she had expected and it had put her off her beat. It was as disturbing as it was unforeseen. Frightening too, with all her hurt and anger, which she’d planned to offload immediately, bottling up inside her and threatening to remain barely in check. There was no way she could bring herself to step inside Owles House today.

  ‘Oh…’ Christina glanced away. A habit of hers when facing the unpalatable – Beth had seen it many times before. ‘Well, never mind. Um, how long are you down for?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Would you mind if I sit down?’ Christina indicated the wooden bench just off the paved pathway behind her visitors. ‘I’ve walked a little too far, I think. My hip’s hurting.’

  Every muscle in Beth’s face tightened. She must, she absolutely must keep up her defence. Her mother was already intent on wringing out sympathy for herself.

  ‘I mean… you’re not going straightaway?’

  ‘No, we’re not,’ Kitty said, firm and friendly. ‘Why don’t you both sit down and chat for a minute? I’ll take a stroll round the garden. I’d had no idea it was so beautiful here.’

  ‘Very well, we’ll do that,’ Beth said tightly, displeased that this gave her no choice in the matter. She glanced around to see what she could remember about the grounds. There was the small walled garden. She was surprised to get a warm feeling. The other side of the high red bricks, currently crawling with red, pink and purple clematis, she remembered was one place here where good things had happened to her. She got a clear picture of the beds of beautiful flowers within, a stone bird bath, and a peculiar gardener, a tiny bent-over old man, a kind, chattering, ancient goblin who had taught her how to prepare the earth and put in plants – teel, he had called it. It was unlikely Mr Jewell still worked here. He was probably dead. Beth turned her head away, stricken. Pleasant memories could be her undoing.