The Woman in the Woods Read online

  Miranda mutters something as she picks at a plate of seed cake in front of her, but I can’t make out the words.

  ‘Yes, I did.’ I take the remains of the cake from Mina’s hand and wipe her sticky palms, before picking up the nappy bag and hanging it over the handle of the pram. ‘Miranda, did you say something?’

  Miranda shakes her head, but Tara steps in. ‘Yes you did, Miranda. What did you say?’ She looks around at the rest of us, letting out a trill of laughter. ‘Don’t leave us all in suspense.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Miranda shakes her head again, and I feel a twinge of pity as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Tara presses, oblivious to Miranda’s embarrassment. ‘We’re all friends here, just say it, Miranda.’

  Miranda throws her napkin down on the table as if accepting defeat. ‘I said’ – her cheeks burn a bright vivid pink as she speaks – ‘it’s a good job Allie didn’t have him at home.’ Her eyes meet mine. ‘Not in that cottage.’

  I make my excuses, keen to get away after Miranda’s unsettling words, and I drag a briefly grumbling Mina out onto the street, bribed with promises of an ice lolly when we get back. It was a good job Leo wasn’t born at home, although Miranda’s words caused a shiver to run down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck pricking to attention. The baby’s birth was the complete opposite to Mina’s. Things had started well, but I didn’t progress as I should have done – things were taking longer and longer, and I was growing more and more exhausted. Everything fades to a blur when I try to think back now, walking home to the cottage with Mina skipping along beside me. Rav told me after that the baby wasn’t in the right position, that his tiny body inside mine was stuck. Hours after my waters had broken, hours spent pushing and pushing with nothing happening, I vaguely remember being so tired that I barely noticed when a contraction came. My hair was stuck to my face and there was a raging thirst burning in the back of my throat, nausea bubbling up after every hit of gas and air, before there was a flurry of activity that Rav tells me later was a whole team of midwives and doctors that rushed into the room. There is tugging, pulling, a feeling of somehow being violated although I can’t feel anything thanks to an expertly timed epidural. The only scene that stands out, clear and bright in my mind, is the sight of the baby in the midwife’s arms as she carries him to the baby station, trying to shield him from my view. In addition to his getting stuck, the cord was wrapped tightly around his neck, a deafening silence filling the room as he was finally yanked from my body. The image of his small limbs hanging loosely, his skin a terrifying bluish-white, crowds my vision and I blink hard, looking down into the pram to his fat, pink cheeks. He was fine, obviously. The doctors did whatever it was he needed and seconds that felt like minutes later, he was crying angrily as if enraged at being pulled from his warm, soft space into clinical white light. They placed him in Rav’s arms as I was stitched up and cleaned up, all while feeling as if it was happening to someone else. When they eventually gave him to me, I couldn’t reconcile the shifts and squirms in my belly with this tiny white creature with two marks either side of his head where he had been wrenched from me.

  ‘Look, Mama, a parcel,’ Mina races up the path to the front door, where a small box sits.

  ‘Wait,’ I call, ‘don’t open it.’ Dread creeps along my spine as I remember the bones tied to the tree. ‘We don’t know who it’s from.’

  ‘Yes, we do.’ Mina ignores me, pulling open the cardboard flaps to reveal a Tupperware container. ‘It’s from Avó.’

  Of course, it’s from Avó. Once we get inside, we open the box to find a tub of Rav’s favourite curry – enough for one generous portion – a pot of spiced potatoes for dosa (even though Avó knows I don’t know how to make the thin, crepe-like pancakes that Rav loves for breakfast), and a large packet of chocolate buttons for Mina. Sighing, I stack the tubs on the work surface and pull out my mobile to call Avó to thank her, even though none of the gifts are for me.

  ‘Hi, Avó,’ I say when she answers, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice. ‘Just calling to say thanks for the package you left.’

  ‘Make sure Rav gets his dosa in the morning, eh?’ she says, and I am glad we are having this conversation over the phone, not face to face as I roll my eyes at Mina and she giggles.

  ‘I will, and I’ll give him the curry tonight, OK?’ I’ll have toast; my appetite seems to have shrunk to nothing anyway. ‘It’s his favourite.’

  ‘Eh?’ she squawks into my ear, ‘the potatoes are for Ravi. The curry is for you.’

  ‘For me?’ I feel the sharp sting of tears behind my eyes. Avó has never brought food for me before – Rav and Mina, all the time, but never for me.

  ‘For you. It’s good for the milk. And good for the baby to taste the flavour, so he won’t be a fussy eater when he grows up.’ She sniffs.

  ‘Oh. Well, thank you.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or cry and I’m not sure whether the gift is for me or really for the baby. Movement outside catches my eye and I move closer to the window, craning my neck to peer out into the garden. ‘Avó, thanks so much, it was very thoughtful of you, but I have to go. There’s someone … at the door.’ And there is someone here, out in the garden by the border.

  I hang up, promising I’ll try my best to make dosa for Rav’s breakfast (as if I don’t have anything else to do) and pull open the back door, stepping out into the sunshine that warms the patio. ‘Mum.’ She stands from where she is crouching over the border plants, a waft of Shalimar surrounding her.

  ‘Ah, you are home. I didn’t think you would be long. I thought I would wait.’

  ‘I’m glad you did. How was your meeting yesterday?’ I ask, stepping towards her with a brief glance back towards the kitchen. I don’t have the baby monitor, although the baby is still asleep in his pram and I’m sure Mina has parked herself in front of the television while I am distracted.

  ‘Eh. Busy. Full of men explaining things I already know. How are you today?’ Mum looks at me closely, as she rubs a rosemary stem between her fingers releasing the pungent scent. ‘This smell reminds me of Paris.’

  ‘Oh, you know. Tired.’ I force out a laugh. ‘I found bones tied to the tree outside, and I think Naomi might think I’m going mad.’

  ‘Bones? What is this?’

  I tell her what I found, that creeping sense of dread tickling between my shoulder blades as I picture the bones upstairs in the drawer. It’s as if there is a tie between us, something dark and tangled that makes my skin crawl and I swallow hard at the idea of touching them again, but the thought of throwing them away makes my pulse skip and a knot tie in my belly. ‘I haven’t told Rav yet that I found them. I’m not sure that he’ll be very happy about it.’ He’ll tell me to throw them out, or worse he’ll throw them out himself. I don’t want him to touch them, and I can’t explain why but I feel too frightened to let them go until I know why they were left there, what significance they hold.

  My mother shrugs, hand going to the pocket of her tailored shift dress, to the bulge of her cigarette packet. ‘You say that you think Naomi thinks you are crazy.’

  ‘I don’t know that, I just get that feeling, after she sent that text to Rav, and they met in the pub without me. I think she thinks that there’s something wrong with me.’

  ‘But she didn’t say this? This is only what you think, but perhaps you need to be careful what you say to her. Just in case.’ She shrugs again, lighting her cigarette and blowing the smoke in my direction, causing me to flap my hand to wave it away. ‘Have you looked at these plants?’ my mother says, turning her attention back to the borders. ‘I can see why your friend called this place the witch house. Look, sage, rosemary, lavender. All healing plants.’

  ‘There are others, too.’ I guide her towards the far end of the borders, to the shadows of the woods beyond. ‘Oleander, vinca major, digitalis. All less than healing.’ She reaches out a finger to stroke the leaves on the oleander tree, a
nd I put out a hand to stop her, my fingertips millimetres from her skin. ‘Don’t touch them. They’re poisonous. Oleander will give you nausea and vomiting, diarrhoea too if you’re unlucky.’ I point towards the others. ‘Digitalis will give you stomach pains and dizziness, and vinca major will give you dangerously low blood pressure. I think they were all planted here deliberately.’ An image of the woman in dark clothing, Agnes, bending over the borders rises in my mind.

  ‘Really? It is possible I suppose. Are you still having the dream, or vision, whatever you are calling it?’ My mother speaks bluntly, her eyes on mine.

  ‘Yes.’ I wish I could tell her differently.

  ‘Hmmm. You are a good mother, Allie. Remember that.’ She looks back at the border, a frown on her face, before she turns and walks towards the house. ‘Come. Let’s go inside.’ I follow behind her, afraid that if I let her out of my sight, she’ll vanish like the cigarette smoke that surrounds her.

  ‘Do you want to hold him?’ When I enter the kitchen a few steps behind her, she is leaning over the pram, her face close to the baby’s.

  ‘No, no. Leave him while he is sleeping.’ Her eyes roam around the kitchen, eyeing the tubs of food from Avó on the side, waiting to go in the fridge. ‘You are being well looked after.’

  ‘It’s just from Avó, you know she’s a feeder.’ The baby stirs in the pram then, and I lean in to pick him up. ‘Are you sure you won’t hold him?’

  ‘No, let him sleep.’ She leans closer though, stroking his head with one finger. ‘Listen, I only stopped by to see how you were. You seemed upset when you left the café, and I wanted to tell you that I did enjoy spending time with you and the children.’

  I wait, sure now that she’ll tell me she’s going back to France. She never admits to enjoying my company. We’ve barely spent any time together at all since I married Rav. It’s as if she can’t bear to be near me after I refused to listen to her when she told me she didn’t like him, that I was making a mistake. ‘Is this where you tell me you’re leaving?’

  ‘Only for the post office,’ she laughs briefly, as the doorbell rings. ‘I have to go and send some things to my office, but shall we have coffee again soon?’ She rests a hand against my cheek briefly before she picks up her bag and moves to the back door. I can smell her perfume. ‘You are not going mad, Allie. But I do think you should get those bones out of the house.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘I’m so sorry, Allie, I rang the bell and then you didn’t answer and I rang again, and then I thought, oh, maybe she’s feeding Leo, or he’s asleep …’ Tara starts talking the minute I open the door to her. ‘I didn’t wake him up, did I? I should know better, it’s not like I don’t know how annoying it is when someone wakes the baby up.’ She eyes the baby in the fancy travel system she is holding, the top of his head peeping out from the blue blanket.

  ‘Tara, it’s fine. Do you want to come in?’ Pulling the door open further, I stand aside to let Tara in, her face shiny with sweat.

  ‘Thanks. I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

  ‘Honestly, it’s fine.’ I gesture for her to follow me, calling to Mina that James is here to play. The two toddlers run upstairs to Mina’s room and I lead Tara along to the kitchen. ‘Come and have a drink. It’s a shame you weren’t here five minutes earlier, you could have met my mum.’

  We step into the kitchen, empty apart from the baby and my mother’s crumpled cigarette packet left lying on the table. The baby lies in his pram, kicking and waving his tiny fists, and the chair where my mother sat is still pulled out at a slight angle. ‘Sorry,’ I say, as Tara takes a seat in the chair opposite, after parking the travel system in the hallway and sliding the baby out. ‘I haven’t had a chance to clean up from this morning yet.’

  Tara looks around the kitchen, to the empty box on the worktop that held the food from Avó, the empty mugs in the sink. ‘Are you kidding me? This place is spotless compared to mine!’ she laughs. ‘This little chunk is nearly five months older than Leo and you’re far more organized than me.’

  I turn to the kettle, filling it noisily as my cheeks flush a hot red, although I’m not sure why. I make tea for both of us and sit in the chair recently vacated by my mum, the wood cool against my bare legs.

  ‘I wanted to apologize for earlier,’ Tara says, jiggling her baby on her knee. The baby, a boy, has more hair than Leo and his mouth makes a surprised ‘O’ shape as he bounces. Ralph, I think he’s called. Or maybe Robert. ‘If I made you feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ I shake my head. ‘No need to apologize.’

  ‘I should have left it, not nagged at you to tell us your birth story. Shhh, Rufus.’ The baby lets out a grizzly cry and Tara bounces him harder. ‘I always go too far, I’m sorry. Karl is always telling me when enough is enough. That’s my husband.’

  ‘It’s OK, Tara, I’m fine. It’s just not that easy to talk about, you understand. It was a pretty scary experience.’

  She nods, pursing her lips and for one brief, dizzying moment I think she’s going to press me on it again, that she’s going to try and cajole me into telling her the whole horrifying tale. Instead, she says, ‘How are you feeling now, though? I mean, an easy birth can take it out of you, right? It must be even harder when things don’t go according to plan.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’Just not sleeping, dreaming of something terrible happening when I do manage to sleep, and worried I’m sharing my house with something that shouldn’t be here. ‘Just a bit tired, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Tara says emphatically. ‘I had postnatal depression after I had James. It was the most horrendous time of my life. I honestly wouldn’t have been able to cope if my mum and Karl hadn’t been around. You haven’t …’ She breaks off for a moment, shifting in her seat. ‘You haven’t been feeling down or anything, have you?’

  ‘Um, no. Nothing like that at all.’ The conversation has taken a serious turn and I get up, moving to the sink to rinse out my cup, even though I am only halfway through my tea.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. No one ever asked me that, that’s all. This time they’ve been all over me, asking if I’m OK, how I’m feeling, but the first time, nothing.’ Tara offers up a small smile. She’s not as confident as she makes out, I think. A lot of it is bluster and noise.

  ‘I’m sorry. That must have been awful for you.’ I am not like that. I am tired, yes, but I am not depressed.

  ‘Anyway. Let’s not talk about that. As long as you feel all right, that’s the most important thing. And it’s nice that you have your mum to support you at the moment.’ Tara picks up her cup, Rufus still balanced on her knee and I have that frightening image again of the cup dropping, the hot tea spilling all over the baby, scalding him.

  ‘Here’ – I hold out my arms – ‘let me hold him while you drink your tea.’ Rufus feels different in my arms, a solid hefty weight, with rolls at the tops of his chubby thighs in contrast to my baby.

  ‘I wanted to apologize about Miranda too – well, not apologize as such. Explain, I suppose.’ Tara greedily swigs at her tea, and I recognize that feeling. The urge to drink it all while it’s hot, and you have a free hand, if only for a moment.

  ‘Miranda? Yes, she’s a bit of a character, isn’t she? She seems nice, though.’

  ‘Oh, she is. Very nice. She’s just a little … involved, shall we say, with all the witchcraft and paganism thing. She can’t help it.’

  ‘She told me that she writes those books about the legends of the village. Is she …’ I want to laugh at what I am going to say next. ‘Is she a practising witch?’

  Tara snorts, and I let a bubble of laughter leak out. It all seems so ridiculous, until I think about the icy chill at the top of the stairs, the cries from the woods, Mrs Sparks describing the house as active. Then it doesn’t seem so funny after all.

  ‘No,’ Tara says, ‘she’s not a practising witch, but she definitely believes in all that. She’s Pluckley born a
nd bred. Her mother was a supposed witch, and she reckons she can trace her lineage back to Pendle Hill and to the Scottish witches.’ Tara rolls her eyes. ‘Her mother reckons they’re related to the Gowdie sisters. Hence Miranda’s middle name being Isobel. No proof though.’

  ‘Yes, she did mention that when I spoke to her about … some of the stories around the village,’ I say. I don’t want to tell Tara that I was asking about Agnes specifically and how she is connected to the house.

  ‘I hope she didn’t scare you too much?’ Concern crosses Tara’s face. ‘She can be a bit full on with it all. The thing with Miranda is that she’s grown up with it all as a big part of her life, so she can come across as a bit odd when you first meet her, but she is honestly harmless.’

  I think of Miranda’s face as I left the baby group earlier today. Good job he wasn’t born at home. Not in that cottage. A shiver runs down my spine and I have to fight the urge to shudder.

  ‘We’ve all got used to her, and lots of the others don’t think too dissimilarly to her, to be honest.’ Tara sniffs. ‘I’m from North London originally. I don’t hold much stock in all this talk of the supernatural, to be honest, all those bloody ghost hunters clogging up the village just get on my wick.’

  ‘You’re from London?’ Although London is barely sixty miles from Pluckley, the difference in the pace of life, the attitudes of the villagers compared to Londoners is at such odds that it often feels like a different world to me down here. We spend the rest of the afternoon talking about the things we miss about living in a big city – the regular public transport, the lack of Deliveroo and Uber Eats in the country.

  ‘I miss the theatres,’ I say. ‘Rav and I used to go to the West End a lot, we’d go for a quick dinner somewhere – The Ivy if it was a special occasion – and then go and watch a show. What I wouldn’t give for a plate of shepherd’s pie from The Ivy for dinner tonight.’

  ‘Borough Market,’ Tara says with a groan. ‘Saturday morning spent wandering around the market, then a walk along the river and a few beers in the sunshine.’