Witch Hunt

Chapter Thirty-Five




Mum’s house had a stagnant atmosphere to it; as if sentient to the fact its owner had died and had therefore given up on its own life.

It was unhappy.

I’d been back to pick up post and sort a few things out a while ago. I thought this had only been a week or so ago but the stack of mail wedged up against the door indicated it must have been longer.

The burglary had heightened my sense of anxiety so I made sure, as I was checking her place, that I double locked the front door once I was inside. Of course, I’d tried to swallow Wheatley’s suggestion the burglary was of a random nature. But if it was kids, why would they take my research? After the lovely Joe had departed I spent hours in the morning searching under the sofa, at the bottom of cupboards, on top of the fridge, wondering if I had put the folder somewhere absentmindedly. When it finally dawned on me that it might have been personal – though Christ knew what they were looking for – I abandoned my search and bolted round to see if my mother’s house was all right.

The place looked okay. Well, it seemed secure. Yet it felt wrong. It wasn’t just Mum’s passing that had subdued the atmosphere. Some of the rooms felt disturbed, as if contaminated by an outside presence. Or maybe it was just that they seemed so untouched. Unloved. I thought about phoning Joe and seeing if he could come round at some point and check it, but didn’t, because I wasn’t sure if my motives were pure or whether it was just that I wanted to see him again. And I knew that he was busy today with work, then packing, then off on his course until Wednesday. I would just have to be a big girl about it all and do it myself.

Perhaps, I wondered, maybe I should start dealing with Mum’s stuff. I hadn’t wanted to since she went, yet it was a process I had to go through. If I didn’t do it then it would remain there, on my list; a chore no less, but still a connection to Mum. I’d known for a while that this avoidance technique was impractical and made no financial sense, yet I was prepared to suffer the consequences. However that afternoon, when I had a proper look at the neglected living room, with Mum’s trinkets collecting dust, it struck me that she would have wanted me to sort through them, knowing only I would treat them with the required care and loving concern. It made me feel like I’d betrayed her all over again: I had been self-centred and selfish.

But no more.

I resolved to make a start and began with the pictures and photos that she so loved; a framed snap of her and Dan on a mountain top in the Peak District, an embarrassing portrait of me – all teeth, tits and mortar board – at my graduation, an old map of Essex detailing the various ‘hundreds’. I didn’t know when it was produced but it referred to the North Sea as the German Ocean so I was guessing it was pretty ancient.

Beside that was a print of Colchester Castle, drawn in coloured inks from a south-easterly perspective. I was so

accustomed to seeing it hang over the sofa I’d never questioned its significance or wondered how it had come into Mum’s possession.

But I did now. I read the text underneath: a neat description of the state of the castle. The ‘s’s were written like ‘f’s. She’d visited there then, I thought, and bought this as a souvenir. Must have had been a while ago – the picture had been on the wall forever and left a darker space behind it when I stood on the sofa and unhooked it from the nail. As I did I glimpsed, in the glass reflection, the face of a woman staring over my shoulder.

My eyes clamped shut reflexively and I tensed, waiting for the voice to come, the temperature to drop or something nasty to suck out my mind.

But nothing happened.

Slowly I peeked at the glass. She was still there, but with a gulp of relief I saw who it was – Circe the witch, peering out from Mum’s favourite painting. No passive victim or gnarled old woman but a beauty and a force to be reckoned with. Circe transformed her enemies into animals; Odysseus’ men she turned into pigs. There she was, head bowed, pouring her enchanted potion into the sea. I had always liked this picture. I remembered when Mum brought it

home, recounting how the owner of the shop struck up a conversation. He said he could see a resemblance there and had insisted it should be hers – she had protested poverty but he let her have it at a fraction of the price. Dad lost his rag when he heard that story and had a rant about bourgeois values and the vulgarity of the reproduction. But I think he might have been a little jealous. Anyway, the painting remained upstairs in the loft until Dad left. Then it took pride of place in the living room.

Circe Invidiosa, Colchester Castle and an old map of Essex. For a second I wondered if they were a series of visual clues but then I remembered they had been acquired over a period of years and were unlikely to be connected.

I took Circe down cautiously – it was a heavy frame – and placed her with the other pictures, resolving to find a home for them at my place.

That was it for the living room, so I made my way slowly round the house through the hall and dining room into the kitchen then upstairs, methodically taking down all decorative items.

Two hours later I was in Mum’s old bedroom. Though that was a bit of a misnomer as the bed was downstairs. Because of her illness it was more convenient to use the dining room for sleeping so the upstairs room was more of a storage space.

But it smelled of her: Chanel Number Five and Yardley – English Roses or something. I closed my eyes and remembered being wrapped up in her lap. Her skin had been so soft then. Her clothes light and fragrant. There was a rocking chair and a song she sang as she kissed my hair. Oh Mum, life is so much colder since you went away. And I thought of her and I remembered her hug and wondered what she would say to me, if I could see her.

She’d undoubtedly want me to get things done and continue on my way.

So, I put down the feeling that was about me and walked into the room. A practical, methodical approach was what was required now. I needed to shut out all sentiment. So I lifted my chin with purpose and hardened my heart. Then I went into the middle of the room.

On the opposite wall hung a huge framed map of south-east England, which had appeared about eleven or twelve years ago when Mum first got interested in walking. The exercise helped her mental health and she’d often take herself off for a couple of days. It was too big for me to handle on my own so I left it up there and turned my attention to her wardrobe.

I opened the double doors hiding the old unwieldy closet that stretched the length of the room. At the far end I came across some of her old gladrags. They were dusty, long-unused gowns of their time: a few glitzy evening dresses complete with sequins and shoulder pads; one classic black velvet number; several skirts that spanned different fashion trends; cotton maxis and some old suede coats with real fur collars.

At the back of the closet inside a plastic sheath was her wedding dress. It was a floaty romantic thing that reflected the romanticism of the seventies: a wide gathered neckline dropped off the shoulders and dripped down in light chiffon over an A-line skirt. An ivory lace, wide-brimmed floppy hat finished it off. I loved it. There was no way I was sending it to a charity shop, so I took it downstairs and placed it beside the pictures.

When I returned the room was darkening; dusk becoming night. Yet as I walked through the door I was able to see, two feet away from the open closet door, my mother’s jewellery box.

I hadn’t put it there.

At least, I didn’t remember doing so. Perhaps I had dislodged it as I rummaged through the clothes?

The lid was open. I went over and touched the ballerina set into its middle. Slowly she began to rotate. The cobwebs about her twisted and pulled free, encasing her in a dusty veil. A mechanical melody jingled through the air. I recognised the rhythm and then moments later recalled the old song:

Pale and wild pale and wild

The witch did leave the child

She watched her grow and put her down

The willow’s leaves wrapped round and round

Her evil cries filled the air

And so did end the bad affair

Pale and wild pale and wild

The witch did up end the child

For a moment I was transfixed by the song and the box, hurtling back through years. This time to a forgotten teenage scene: Mum talking about the jewellery, insisting if she were to die I take the box and … I couldn’t remember what she told me. I had been too consumed with envy, hypnotised by the sparkle of her few jewels.

The ghostly music tinkled. I looked on as the plastic ballerina turned and jerked on her spring. Bending over, I closed the lid and delicately picked it up. As I did, part of it, the base, came away and clattered to the floor.

I turned the box over to inspect the damage. A small compartment had been concealed beneath the wooden base. My fingers crept into the underside and felt around. It was a shallow slot, covered in aged velveteen. As I touched it something flimsy dropped out: a piece of paper, folded over so it was only about two inches square. Very old and fragile, I unfolded it with great care. It was a document, roughly A5 in size.

In the darkness I was unable to make out what it said. So I took it over to the door. The eco-bulb there wasn’t particularly brilliant but I could see what it was. The bluey-black ink was faded and powdery in the folds but I could clearly make out the words.

As I read them I felt my knees buckle. I grabbed on to the doorframe for support, first confused then as it sank in, stupefied with shock.

In my hands I held a birth certificate. From 1977. November 15th.

My birthday.

It chronicled the birth of a girl. But it wasn’t my name that was scrawled there. That baby was called Mercy Walker.

Blood was throbbing in my ears as I looked down to see the Name and Surname of the mother – Rose Walker. Beneath it I read, with increasing disbelief, the place of birth: Hemel Hempstead. Hertfordshire.

Then finally my eyes caught the ‘Father’ section. There was only one word recorded in the slanting black hand. I read it with anguish.

‘Unknown’.