‘An old sewing box, belonging to Charlotte.’
My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe I was holding one of her humble yet personal possessions in my hands, something she would have used daily. I lifted the lid, which revealed a neat row of threads in dark hues and an embroidered pin cushion with needles lodged snugly in.
‘According to my husband, who of course got it from Martha herself, it was Branwell who gifted it to Charlotte. Although Lord knows it wasn’t much of a gift! He was fond of the odd tipple, that one.’
I knew from my research that he was fond of quite a bit more, having struggled with both alcohol and drug addiction during his lifetime. I often wondered if Hindley Earnshaw’s chaotic descent into gambling and addiction in Wuthering Heights was based on Branwell, who often suffered delirium tremens while attempting to sober up.
‘Two pounds and it’s yours,’ she said.
In any other situation, I would have required proof of the provenance of such an item, but I decided to take it on faith. Besides, I thought how amusing it would be if in fact she were a swindler, selling me her own sewing box and passing it off as a Bront? collectable!
I handed her the money, which she said would go towards her retirement pot, and I set out on my journey back home to the anonymity of Dublin. Perhaps it was hypervigilance on my part, but in London, I could not shake the sickening sense of being watched.
It had been three months since my trip to England and even though I had not expected to hear from Armand, having my thoughts confirmed by the postman every morning was a little stinging. Still, I found a sense of fulfilment in my achievements and the success of my wonderful little shop, which, despite the growing number of books I stocked it with, seemed to find room to accommodate them. I had long suspected that something just beyond my comprehension was afoot, as though Mr Fitzpatrick had put a spell over the place. At night, when sleep stole away from me like a vanishing point, I would make some cocoa and sit on the floor of the shop, wrapped in a blanket. I was immediately soothed by that breathing sound I had heard since I was a child: the stories settling between the pages. Only now I could hear another sound. I shuffled over to one of the walls and, feeling a little foolish, put my ear to it. A soft creaking, like the boughs of a tree bending slightly in the breeze. I smiled to myself and often fell asleep like that, cradled in the corner of the dark green walls, wooden shelves with fluttering book leaves shimmering overhead.
When I awoke, it was still dawn and a peach light filtered through the windows. I’d had the most vivid dream, the kind that leaves you drenched in a feeling you can’t quite grasp the meaning behind. My father was listening to the books and smiling. Telling me to listen. I held one to my ear and heard a heartbeat. Then two; the second one lighter, quicker. And like an apple falling to the ground, understanding came to me all at once. I placed my hand on my stomach and felt a kick. I had not had my monthly courses since my return home and had put it down to travelling, or anything other than what it truly was. Now I felt the curve of my belly, it was real. A tear rolled down my cheek.
‘This will not be easy,’ I whispered, to myself or the shop. I wasn’t sure which. But I could not deny the joy that bubbled up inside of me. A baby. A baby! Conflicting emotions rushed through me all at once: fear, excitement, anxiety, gratitude. I felt too young, too incapable of becoming a mother, but I simultaneously relished the idea of having a family of my own.
I completely lost track of time as I idealised a very different future for myself. I opened the shop quite late that day but it felt as though it were the first day of my life. Everything was gilded in optimism and grounded in meaning. I saw each customer as the child they once were or the parent they would become. I saw us as all being connected, a universal family. And in the quieter moments, I pictured the life growing inside of me like a little rosebud; an unparalleled beauty that would make the world a brighter place merely by her presence in it. It was only when night fell that my glowing heart began to doubt itself. Reality crossed my threshold in the form of Matthew, coming to collect the rent. I had to tell him. In another month or so he would see for himself. In another six months, there would be two of us living here. It all suddenly felt quite weighty. What would he think of me now?
I wished the shop could close in around us and keep us safe, keep the world outside. I wished we could hide within these walls for ever.
Chapter Twenty-Six
MARTHA
Once the autopsy was concluded, the body would be released for burial in a matter of weeks. It was decided that I would have to attend the funeral, to avoid any suspicion. These plans were not mine but Madame Bowden’s. I really did start to wonder if she had, in fact, seen off her husbands, such was her calm approach. And I realised how forward-thinking she had been to ensure I had alibis to corroborate my whereabouts.
‘Why are you doing this for me?’ I asked her later that night when, despite my exhaustion, I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I would replay the scene.
‘Doing what? I’m simply making sure that justice is done.’
‘But, that’s not how it happened.’ I still couldn’t say for sure what had happened. Had he been so drunk that he lost his footing and fell? Every time I replayed it in my head, I could still see him being pushed, but by whom or what? Some invisible force? Was there more to Madame Bowden than met the eye? I couldn’t decide whether she was my guardian angel or a devil in disguise. Reading her was difficult; there were so many stories distracting me, too many for one lifetime. She told me once that, as an actor, she had to embody her characters. Perhaps they were all still living inside of her, like ghosts.
‘Martha, the facts are that Shane arrived here drunk and abusive with ill-intent. He was the architect of his own demise and that is the only truth worth remembering of that day.’
She sounded so convincing that I tried to hold on to her words like flotation devices every time I felt like I was drowning in the darkness. I wasn’t sure how I was going to face the funeral. My family. Shane’s parents. I thought about asking Henry to come with me, but it would have been wrong on so many levels. Besides, I still hadn’t contacted him. The shock of Shane’s death had paralysed my senses. I tried to text him, but what could I say? I had to see him in person.
I took the bus to Rialto and found the bed and breakfast he had taken me to. It felt like a lifetime ago now.
‘Ah, howya love, looking for a room, is it?’
A short man with a comb-over answered the door, with his foot across the threshold as a barking dog attempted to make a dash for freedom.