The Woman in the Woods Read online

  I feel my shoulders rise up towards my ears, tension creeping back in as I will Naomi to stay quiet, for the baby to sleep for just a little while longer. Naomi rocks him gently and he seems to settle again.

  ‘Are you busy at work?’ Talking of the Flower Moon, thinking of the shop makes me want to catch up on everything. ‘I miss it, you know.’ The summer months are my favourite, the busiest time of year. I wake up early for the markets and stay in the shop long after others have all gone home, working my way through bridal bouquets, buttonholes, funeral arrangements, declarations of love all tied up in ribbon and ferns.

  ‘So busy, you wouldn’t believe it.’ Naomi rolls her eyes, ‘I’d much rather be at home with a baby.’ Her face clouds over and she shifts the baby up onto her shoulder, resting her cheek against his tiny head. ‘Enjoy this time at home with him. You’ll be back in the shop before you know it.’

  There is something sharp in her tone, her words stinging a little and I want to tell her that I am enjoying it – trying to anyway – but that she doesn’t understand how becoming a mother strips away a part of your identity. I can never say those words to her. Instead, I change the subject slightly. ‘Are you sure you can spare the time to come and visit me? Don’t forget I know how rushed off our feet we are at this time of year, so if you’re too busy, don’t feel you have to come over.’ Even as I say the words, I don’t mean it. I’ve loved having some adult company and being with Naomi reminds me of the old me, the pre-baby me.

  Naomi looks down, her finger dabbing at crumbs from the tart on the table. ‘It’s fine. We’ve … they’ve taken someone else on to help out while you’re off.’

  ‘Oh.’ I sit back in my chair, the spindles on the back digging into my spine. ‘Oh, well of course they would. They can’t be a man down during the summer, it’s not practical.’ There is a sharp twist in my chest at the idea of someone else opening up, someone else drinking tea out of my mug, or using my pliers, and I shake it away, feeling silly.

  ‘Listen’ – Naomi leans forward, her cheeks flushing, and I wince waiting for the baby to stir – ‘why don’t I take Mina out for a bit this afternoon? I could take her to the park, and you could sleep for a bit while Leo naps. I can put him in his Moses basket now, and I’ll take Mina for an ice cream. No offence, Al, but you look like shit. You must be exhausted. I know all this stuff about someone in the woods has upset you.’

  ‘Naomi …’ I am not offended by her words; I probably do look like shit. ‘What about work? You just said you’re really busy.’

  ‘I … I can take the afternoon off. It’s fine. You need me more than they do.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could get the rest of those boxes down …’ Before I can finish my answer, the doorbell rings and I get to my feet, rushing along the hall to answer it before whoever it is rings again and wakes the baby.

  ‘Avó!’ I am surprised to see Rav’s mum on the doorstep. ‘I wasn’t expecting you …’

  ‘I did tell Rav I would come and see you today.’ She gives a heavy sigh as her tiny frame pushes past me into the hall. ‘I have to see my grandchildren. I’ve hardly seen the baby since he was born! Ravi says you’re too tired. But it’s fine. I will take the bus all the way over here to see you, if Ravi won’t bring you to me.’

  I bite back my frustration and let her brush past me into the kitchen, without saying a word. We moved here partly to be closer to Avó, but it still isn’t close enough for her – she is only a short bus journey away, a walkable distance for Rav and me, but she would only be truly happy if we were living in her spare room, or failing that, in the house next door. She already has the baby in her arms by the time I appear in the kitchen doorway. I call to Mina, who rushes downstairs and throws her arms around her grandmother’s legs.

  ‘Allie, you do look tired. Ravi was right. This won’t do. You need to sleep when the baby sleeps.’ Avó frowns at me as she reaches down to stroke Mina’s head and I feel the weight of her judgement as if it were a ton of bricks.

  ‘I was just telling her the same thing, Mrs Harper.’ Naomi gets to her feet, snatching up her bag from beneath the table. ‘Allie, shall I take Mina to the park, get her an ice cream and then …’ she casts a quick glance towards Rav’s mother, ‘you could get some sleep while we’re gone?’

  Avó’s face is already creasing into a frown, her mouth open to say something, and I speak hastily. ‘Oh no, Naomi, honestly it’s fine. We’re fine. But thank you for coming over, it was good to see you.’

  ‘OK. If you’re sure?’ Naomi raises her eyebrows and I nod.

  ‘Absolutely sure. Mina, say goodbye to Naomi.’

  I see her to the door, and by the time I get back Avó is already tucking the baby into a knitted cardigan that she has magicked from somewhere, and Mina is sitting on the kitchen floor, pushing her trainers onto the wrong feet.

  ‘Did I miss something?’ I say with a tired laugh. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Your friend Naomi offered Mina an ice cream, so I am taking Mina for an ice cream,’ Rav’s mother says briskly. ‘I am taking the baby too, so you go upstairs now and go to bed.’ She peers closely at me, her face only inches from mine. I can feel her breath on my cheek, smell the scent of the Indian sweets she eats. ‘Rav is right, you are very, very tired.’

  And she is right, too. I am far too tired to argue.

  Chapter Seven

  The house is quiet once Avó has bustled out with the children, and I try not to let her forceful interference grate too much, telling myself she’s only trying to help. I close the door behind them, smiling and waving, and head back towards the kitchen. Passing the mirror, I pause, eyeing my reflection closely. Naomi is right, I do look tired. I peer closely, tugging at the skin beneath my eyes, a flicker in the mirror drawing my gaze away from myself to the hall behind me. Movement. I thought for a moment there was movement in the mirror, to one side of my own reflection, but when I turn to check, the area behind me is empty and silent. Of course, it is, I think. You’re alone in the house. There’s no one else here. My thoughts return to Naomi’s comments about The Colonel and the Pluckley Witch. It’s just superstitious nonsense but it still makes my skin prickle to think about it. If I go outside now, I reason, the fresh air will make sure I sleep tonight.

  The sun is still warm as I venture out onto the patio, heading towards the border filled with herbs. I run my fingers through the trailing stems of thyme, rub my fingertips together on a sage leaf before bringing them to my nose, inhaling the fresh, herby fragrance. The white starburst buds of jasmine are partially closed, ready to bloom as the sun goes down and fill the garden with its heady scent. I get on to my knees, not bothered about the dirt and grass that will stain my jeans and start to push through the mass of tangled plants that meld together. I’ve spotted the thyme and sage, and as I part and separate them, I find woody stems of rosemary at the back of the border, the last remnants of dried purple flowers still clinging on desperately. I suppress a smile at the scent of rosemary, as I remember my mother cooking roast lamb on a Sunday, the smell filling the kitchen and creeping up the stairs to where I sat in my bedroom, eventually lured down by the scent, and the banging and crashing coming from the kitchen. I would sit on the kitchen counter as she cooked, a glass of red wine to hand. Sitting back on my haunches I feel a wave of longing for my mum, imagining her in her tiny flat in Paris, cigarette in one hand, the other crumbling a croissant into nothing as she flicks through the paper. It wasn’t all bad growing up with her, and now, at a time when I wish I could see her every day, I feel her absence keenly. We were close when I was young, being just the two of us, but she never really approved of Rav and once Rav and I were married our relationship stretched thinner and thinner as I struggled with her disapproval, until we reached a point of barely speaking at all. She hadn’t been happy about me leaving her behind to go travelling in the first place, and when I came home with Rav in tow I should have known she wouldn’t have been ecstatic about it. It had started the
moment I brought him home to meet her – I’d been nervous, especially anxious as I already felt so strongly about Rav. It had been just me and my mum for such a long time, that it was important that she liked him, that she accepted him. But the moment he walked in and I had introduced him to her, hiding my shaking hands behind my back, I could tell by the way she narrowed her eyes that she didn’t like him. Rav, to his credit, battled his way through stilted small talk with her, whispering to me as he kissed me goodbye at the door that he thought he might have frostbite. I had laughed, a soft laugh that died on my lips as I closed the door and turned to see her watching us. It had only got worse. The more serious Rav and I got, the tighter my mother tugged on her maternal cord, until I felt suffocated, breathless with the weight of her neediness. On our wedding day, she had been rude to Avó, and barely spoke to Rav when he greeted her, turning her face away when he bent to kiss her cheek. She had told me at our wedding dinner that she was only concerned that Avó would never accept me, that none of Rav’s family would, that we were from two different worlds, but I knew it was more about the fact that she felt I was leaving her. I had finished my wedding day crying in a crappy Portaloo, eventually coming out to find my mother had left without saying goodbye. After that, I had tried to keep our relationship going, my heart breaking at the way she shut me out, but it was almost as if she were punishing me for marrying Rav. When she wouldn’t visit when Rav was home, refused invitations to birthdays and Christmas, and rarely returned my calls, it made things almost too difficult to bear.

  Now, I feel an intense longing to hear her voice, and I pull out my mobile and scroll until I find her name, stabbing at the button to connect. It rings, the long, single tone of the international call, and I hold my breath, waiting. It clicks to voicemail, my mother’s voice flying down the line speaking rapid French that I still understand, even though I haven’t spoken it for so long, and then the beep of the message.

  ‘Mum. It’s me, Allie.’ I pause, not sure what to say. ‘I just wanted to say … I miss you. And I wish you were here.’ My throat thickens and I have to swallow. ‘Things are … I just wish you were here, that’s all. I could do with your help.’ I hang up before the tears can leach into my voice.

  My trawl through the border reveals chamomile, mint and a rose bush, tucked away into the corner. I snip off the dead parts, clearing away the weeds that surround it and hope that I’ve done enough to encourage new growth before the summer is out. Picturing a vase of fresh roses on the kitchen windowsill, or a tiny jar of blousy peonies in the spare bedroom, brings a smile to my face as I snip, and prune, and weed, my head feeling clearer for the first time in what feels like weeks. I should have let Naomi take the children out before when she offered. Much as I love being a mother, being alone in the garden without the worry of them I feel as though a fog has lifted. Being among the plants reminds me of why I chose to do the job that I do, and I feel almost like the pre-children Allie again. Straightening up, I pull the weeds together into a pile, glancing along the border as I do so. I have cleared quite a large section, but the end that is in shadow, towards the woods, is still overgrown and rambling, and there is still the matter of the pond to be dealt with. I throw the weeds into a pile in the opposite corner of the garden and step towards the shaded area. A cool breeze washes over my bare arms as I lean down, the shadow from the trees casting a cold shawl across my shoulders. Things are less organized this end, as though whoever planted it had run out of patience, had hastily stuffed the plants into the ground without care and attention. I see green fronds of coriander, emitting a faint washing-up liquid smell when I stroke the leaves, interspersed with previous years’ dry stems, brown seed pods still attached. Glossy, smooth basil leaves evoke memories of fresh pizza, Rav and I sitting in our favourite Italian restaurant, sipping red wine for him, Coke for me, Mina growing in my belly. I feel a buzz of excitement, keen to tell Rav the treasures I’ve discovered growing in the garden, when I catch sight of a plant that makes my stomach drop away a little.

  The purple flowers of wolfsbane stand out against the wild, tumbling green of vinca major, a plant I haven’t seen for a long time. Stepping onto the edge of the border, I carefully peer into the wild plants, the outline of a white oleander bush taking shape at the edge of where the sunlight meets the shade, its white flowers standing out in stark contrast to the vibrant purple of the digitalis that grows alongside it. An uneasy feeling snakes its way along my spine, as I glance back towards the end of the border closest to the house, the innocent herbs planted there taking on a more sinister feel as I realize what has been planted at the opposite end where I now stand. All of these plants, in this chilly, shadowy end of the bed are poisonous, all capable of causing serious illness from stomach pain to dangerously low blood pressure if ingested, some of them too dangerous to even touch. I step back, rubbing my hands over my arms, realizing as I do so that I stand in the exact same spot as I did when I made this motion before. When Rav brought me to see the house. Only this time, I don’t feel that tingle of excitement for what the future may hold. Instead an unsettling feeling bubbles low in my stomach. I scrub my hands over my now baggy maternity jeans, even though I didn’t touch any of the poisonous plants, telling myself it’s just a border, it’s nothing unusual, nothing special. Glancing back towards the house I strain my eyes for any sign of movement, in the hope that Avó is back with the children, but there is nothing. The house is still and silent, the air thick and heavy as if waiting for something. I feel dizzy for a moment, the image of my own feet on the stairs, the blue blanket draped at the end of the bed from my vision swirling in front of my eyes.

  ‘Ridiculous.’ I mutter the word aloud, swiping my hand across my sweaty forehead. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’ There is a small thud as I collide with something behind me, and I turn to see the peeling, slippery bark of a birch tree. I have backed so far up from the border that I am on the very edge of the woods. The sun doesn’t reach here, the trees casting long shadows, and as I turn and peer into the woods, the branches of the trees seem to connect overhead, turning the world a dim, greenish dark. I step forward, the last thick blades of grass bouncing beneath my feet as I step into the dark, onto the bed of dry leaves and twigs that have lain here for summer after summer, following their winter deaths.

  ‘There’s no one here,’ I whisper under my breath, ignoring the chill that has followed me in. Tiny spots of sunlight are all that can fight their way through the thick boughs above me, and the sweat that trickled down my spine as I crouched over the border makes my T-shirt cling to my back like a cold, sticky hand. I let out a laugh, a rush of breath that loosens the tightness in my chest. ‘There’s no one here. It’s just a wood, nothing else.’ I let myself step further in, running my hand over the gnarled bark of an oak tree, spotting the bent, crumpled stems of bluebells that would have just finished blooming. Now I have been brave enough to set foot inside the border of trees that mark the start of the wood I feel silly, the cold, sinister sensation fading to leave me feeling almost drained. There is nothing to be afraid of, no flash of white or disturbed earth. I step further in, with one quick glance back towards the house, enjoying the relief that comes from the cool, earthy air on my face after the heat of the sun in the garden. A bird, a crow or magpie maybe, caws somewhere deep in the trees and I suppress a shiver, laughing at myself, before something catches my eye and the laugh dies in my throat.

  A flash of white. I blink, my tongue sliding out to lick at my suddenly dry lips, before I see it again, a flash of white moving at speed through the trees away from me. As if whoever it is was watching me and fled before I could realize.

  ‘Hey!’ Without thinking, I start to run towards the white, a shambling slow run, feeling hefty and unfit as I stumble over twigs on the uneven path, but it’s no use – I can’t keep up and the flash of white disappears from view. Stopping, I bend at the waist trying to suck in enough oxygen to soothe my burning lungs, rasping and gulping. Tears spring to my eyes and I sw
allow hard as I straighten up, trying not to be sick. My stomach muscles hurt, my legs hurt – everything hurts – and I place one hand on my chest, achingly aware that the baby will need to feed soon. I wait for a few minutes, despite my legs wanting to turn back towards the house, to the sunshine and hopefully Avó and the children wondering where I am, but I force myself to wait, to make sure that I am entirely alone before I start to walk back. I am almost at the end of the trees, my eyes fixed on the house ahead when I stumble over a partially buried tree root, my hands flying out to brace my fall.

  ‘Shit,’ I hiss under my breath, brushing the debris from my palms, sure that beneath the denim of my jeans my knee is skinned. I look up, scanning the woods for any sign of movement, suddenly sure that I will see her, the woman I visualized before standing in the doorway of the cottage. Don’t be ridiculous, Allie. There is a growing sense of foreboding and the air seems to thicken around me, making it difficult to draw breath. There is no sign of movement, no flash of white, but as my gaze comes to rest back on the tree stump, I see the patch of disturbed leaves, as if someone has stood there recently.

  Someone was here. I wasn’t imagining it before, and I definitely didn’t imagine it today. They were stood where I am now, a clear line of sight to the house, and to the patch of bent blades of grass where I was kneeling just a short while ago. I turn on the spot, trying to narrow down the path that whoever it was might have taken through the trees to stand here. A flattened shrub to the right, along with a pile of leaves that look as though someone has scuffed through them lures me in and I walk closer, expecting to see further evidence that someone has walked through here, loitered here, something concrete that I can show Rav when I tell him that I wasn’t imagining things. Because I wasn’t imagining things … was I?