Weird Sister (27 page)

I didn’t cry, in fact I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t feel much of anything. It was as though Agnes was occupying my emotions so fully that there wasn’t room for anything else. I rang the police, I said there had been an accident. I felt like we were in some dreadful movie. Agnes stayed upstairs; she told me later she had taken a nap. At the time I thought this perfectly normal. She came back down when the police arrived. In her statement she said that she had heard them arguing as she came down the stairs, that she saw him push her, that the vase had been knocked over accidentally. Graeme knew the officers who came to the house, he’d worked with one of them. He told them that they’d had a row, that he had pushed her, that it had been an accident, a terrible mistake.

No charges were laid. At the inquiry her death was ruled accidental. None of us mentioned that Andrew had been a witness to the scene.

Jenny slept through everything. After the police were gone I went upstairs to tell her what had happened. I bent close to her face to wake her up; her breath was sweet like a baby’s. She opened her eyes.

‘Karen is dead,’ I said, immediately regretting my blunt words. ‘Karen has passed away.’

The colour drained from Jenny’s face. Looking at her made me feel the cold, my fatigue. ‘Agnes did it,’ she whispered, ‘didn’t she?’

‘No,’ I said, annoyed. ‘Graeme pushed her. They were arguing. She fell against the mantelpiece. He didn’t mean to harm her – he didn’t mean for her to fall so hard. He’d –’

She looked at me with wide incomprehension.

‘I don’t want to be in this house anymore,’ she said. ‘It isn’t safe.’

‘What do you mean?’ I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise.

‘Agnes – it isn’t safe, none of us are safe.’

I asked her what she was talking about and she began to blather, nothing she said made any sense. Eventually I got cross and told her she had to listen to me.

‘They’d both been drinking. Graeme and Karen. Agnes had nothing to do with it.’

‘Is that supposed to explain it?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘listen, I wanted –’

Jenny began to cry. I felt incredibly relieved. At last someone was responding in a way that was normal. I took her in my arms and cried as well. We cried together, Jenny and me, for Karen, for what was happening to our family.

Martin

Martin knows who Agnes is.

Martin knows

Martin Throckmorton has known who Agnes is from the beginning. He recognized her name. Of course he didn’t say anything about it – how could he?

He sits there, day in and day out, wheeled first this way, then that way. He doesn’t walk, doesn’t speak, doesn’t give any clues about how he is feeling or thinking, if he is feeling or thinking. They’ve got used to it, the Throckmortons are used to it, as a family they pride themselves on getting used to it, they can get used to anything. He is part of their lives, Daddy with his blanket on his knees, a benevolent presence, someone to love unquestioningly. His care is onerous, but they shoulder it, Karen shouldered the bulk of it. She is gone now.

No one knows what he sees and doesn’t see. No one asks. The doctors are absent, their visits are rare, and he is an old man, even though, in real time, he is in his mid-sixties. No one takes him on directly, confronts him, challenges, teases. They don’t dare. It would be cruel. No one knows what he thinks.

Except Agnes. She knows he knows who she is. It’s their little secret. He’s not telling.

Agnes is a witch and a whore

They are at the church burying Karen; Andrew and Francis throw clods of dirt down onto her coffin and Francis tries to pick up another and turn it into a game. His levity makes everyone feel worse. Robert looks up at the sky; he feels as though the old church is leaning heavily toward him, as though it might collapse and crush him – crush them all – under its stony weight. Agnes slips her arm through his, he is momentarily reassured. Graeme stands behind his two sons, controlled, impenetrable. For a moment Robert thinks his brother looks like a bouncer at a suburban night-club, dark overcoat and puffed up chest. Someone should puncture that man, he thinks angrily. Graeme turns and looks at him and Robert sees his eyes are rimmed with red. He softens. His brother’s wife is dead.

Robert has arranged everything; Graeme is incapable. He went through Karen’s clothes himself, to try to find something to bury her in. Karen’s clothes – Karen didn’t have any clothes to speak of. Discovering this, Robert feels a tremendous sense of failure, as though Karen’s shabby life was his responsibility. In the end he settles on a dark suit – an ill-fitting suit that, he recalls Karen wearing to the wedding. The undertaker has done his best but, in death, Karen looks as neglected as she was in life.

The post-funeral reception at the Throckmorton house is an uncanny recreation of the wedding. Same guests, same vicar, same use of the house and garden. Lolita and Jim Drury provide a scaled down version of the catering, sausage rolls instead of smoked salmon, cheese and biscuits instead of crab vol au vents; they bring the food in before Lolita goes back to open the pub for lunch. There is no marquee and the door of the ballroom is locked, the room unsafe. No teenage waiters, no champagne. Robert lights the fire in the sitting room. Everyone is draped in black. It is a bleak February day.

Graeme is wearing a black suit, a white shirt, a black tie, his hair thick with gel, the lines in his face accentuated, deepening. Marlene Henderson leans on her husband Geoff as she looks at Graeme; she is offended by his handsomeness, it doesn’t seem right. She thinks he should take his face away from this place. She is not feeling well and when Elizabeth sheers up to her, hoping to gain a little warmth, wanting her friend’s good and sensible company, she prevents her from speaking so that she can speak first.

‘I lost the baby,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘I lost the baby.’ Geoff Henderson bites his lip and looks away, he doesn’t want to hear this conversation. ‘We saw Karen walking down the road – I’d been in hospital. I miscarried.’

Elizabeth pulls Marlene to her and hugs her fast. ‘Oh Marlene,’ she says. She takes Geoff’s hand too and makes him look at her. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She speaks to both of them.

‘It – she – it was a little life, not like Karen, but a life . . .’ Marlene stops talking. She stares beyond Elizabeth, at the window. Elizabeth turns. Agnes is there, outside the window, staring into the crowded sitting room. Her face – high, at an unnatural height – is framed by the window, that’s all that can be seen of her in the dark afternoon. Elizabeth looks at Marlene, and back at the window. That’s it – Agnes is gone.

‘Did you see her?’ asks Elizabeth.

‘Who?’ says Marlene, but her face is white and full of fear.

Graeme stalks the reception like the uninvited guest. He has scarcely spoken since that night, stayed drunk mostly, leaving Agnes and Robert and Jenny to care for the boys and Martin. Today he is blanched and sober, his brooding over, as though he’s been through the options and worked it out. People offer their condolences timidly and he accepts their handshakes. He knows they think he killed her. He stands stiffly beside Karen’s parents who can’t bring themselves to look at him. Her mother asked to take the children and was upset when Graeme said that they were fine where they were. She thinks that Graeme killed her daughter. She never liked him. She repeats to her husband under her breath, ‘I told you so. I told you this would happen. She should not have married him. She should have gone out to work.’

Jenny clings to Robert. She avoids Agnes, she avoids Elizabeth. Part way through the afternoon her friend Lolly arrives, resplendent in black dress and rings, her clothes suitable for once. Jenny draws Robert to one side – he is happy to be drawn, he is tired of mouthing the same phrases over and over, ‘It was a shock. A terrible accident. She was a good person. We will make sure the boys are all right. Thank you. Thank you for your offer. Thank you.’

‘I’m going upstairs to my room with Lolly. Is that okay?’

Robert is pleased to be asked. He says that’s fine.

Andrew and Francis sit under the table where the food is piled. They are wearing their suits, which they find uncomfortable, too small, they have both grown since the wedding. There are no other children present. Their father is busy. They can’t find their mummy.

Geraldine Andley is there, Elizabeth wonders if she was invited. She follows Elizabeth around the room, giving off the scent of patchouli. When Elizabeth stops at the drinks table, Geraldine bumps into her.

‘I’ve remembered,’ she hisses, low, making sure no one else can hear.

‘What?’ says Elizabeth.

‘I’ve remembered where I met Agnes Samuel. Before.’

Elizabeth turns, ready to walk away.

‘I was at her execution. I saw her hanged.’

Elizabeth’s heart drops drown into her belly. ‘What?’

‘My past life. I was there. Mistress Andley they called me.’

‘This is nonsense,’ says Elizabeth. ‘You’re talking rubbish.’

‘Witchcraft,’ whispers Geraldine, ‘witchcraft. She’s very dangerous.’

Elizabeth feels angry now and she is shocked at what she feels, unsure who she is protecting, Agnes or Robert. And she is panicked by this allegation; what kind of a world is it where women we don’t like are called witches? ‘You’re jealous,’ she says, and it’s an effort to keep her voice down. ‘You’re jealous of Robert and Agnes.’

‘It’s not me who’s jealous,’ returns Geraldine. ‘I thought I should tell you. I thought you’d want to know. You can ignore what I say. It’s your funeral.’

Elizabeth is glad to see Geraldine has the grace to be embarrassed by her turn of phrase.

‘What I mean is, I’d watch out for your beloved Robert.’ She purses her lips. ‘I’ve nothing more to say.’

Elizabeth turns her back on Geraldine. When she looks around, moments later, she is gone.

Agnes moves from kitchen to sitting room to garden and back again. She doesn’t stand still, she doesn’t converse with anyone. She dispenses sad smiles and takes people by the arm. They are still warmed by her touch, they are still thrilled by her presence, but now they find her unnerving. There’s something strange in her eyes. Her black dress is a little too low-cut, her shawl a little too slinky. The men find her attractive and are suddenly awkward with that. She’s American, foreign, too young, too bright, they love her and hate her at the same time. Even Jim Drury finds himself shifting from foot to foot as Agnes passes by. He feels sad, terribly upset, and it isn’t until later that he realizes it isn’t because of Karen.

Graeme launches himself across the room when he sees Agnes go by, as if he’s had enough and has to act. He follows her into the garden. She keeps walking, across the lawn, down to where Karen’s rose garden begins.

‘Agnes,’ he says. From his first word it is clear he has decided to plead. ‘Agnes, I need you.’

She keeps walking.

‘Don’t turn away. Don’t – Agnes. I want you. Don’t you see? We can be together now. I want you. Don’t you see?’ He follows behind her, stumbling, his cane catching on the wet grass, sliding, not noticing that they’ve come full circle and are approaching the house once again. He hadn’t realized this was what he was going to say.

Agnes stops abruptly and turns to face him. There are people dotted around the garden, inside the French doors, around the sitting room – they have an audience. Everyone watches Agnes, always, without thinking, they can’t help themselves.

Upstairs Jenny and Lolly are chanting. It’s a simple chant, something Lolly invented. ‘Out out, damn witch, go on, go on; Out out, damn witch, go on, go on . . .’ Candles burn, the girls are lying side by side on the floor, feet touching.

‘I want you Agnes.’ Outside, Graeme is begging. With every ‘I’ his voice gets louder. ‘I love you. I need you.’

Agnes speaks, her voice low but loud enough to carry. ‘You’re disgusting,’ she says, ‘you disgust me. You killed her. You killed your wife.’

The party falls silent. The watchers are listening. Robert, who has been talking to Karen’s mother, steps toward the French doors to see what is happening.

Graeme has never grovelled before. ‘You mustn’t push me away, you mustn’t –’ his voice doubles in volume, trebles.

‘You can’t tell me what to do,’ Agnes says in a near-whisper. ‘You killed her,’ she says, ‘you killed Karen.’

‘You don’t mourn her,’ he says, growing angry, ‘you wanted her out of the way. For us . . . for . . .’ He tries to take Agnes by the hand.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hisses.

He snatches her wrist. Infuriated, Agnes attempts to wrench her arm away but he tightens his grip, squeezing. With his other arm he grabs her around the waist. He pulls her body to his in a frantic embrace. ‘Agnes,’ he shouts angrily, ‘Agnes – I –’

Robert springs forward from inside the house, overtaken by fury. He grabs Graeme’s shoulder and, as his brother turns toward him, punches him in the face. Immediately Robert grips his own knuckles, his hand stinging. Graeme is stunned. Robert shakes the bones of his hand loose, pulls back, and punches his brother again. Graeme lets go of Agnes. He draws himself together, then hurls himself at Robert, as if liberated by the violence, as if he’s been waiting for it to reclaim him. They fall, punching and kicking, onto the grass which quickly becomes mud. In the mêlée it is hard to tell one man from the other.

Agnes watches, composed and static. The guests stay rooted, mesmerized.

Graeme shouts as he fields punches. ‘She seduced me. That whore –’ With a new fury Robert flips his brother onto his stomach and pushes his face into the mud, silencing him. Graeme struggles to raise his head. He reaches out toward Agnes, snatching at her ankles. She steps away lightly. Robert traps his hand. ‘She let me fuck her,’ Graeme shouts, his face coated in mud, ‘she wanted it.’ Robert shoves his face down into the muck again. Graeme bucks as he struggles to breathe. Robert lifts his head up by the hair. ‘She fucked me,’ Graeme says, looking up at Agnes. In the light cast from the sitting room he sees her eyes go from green to black and back again. ‘She’s a witch,’ he bellows with all his strength. ‘I know she is.’