Helen Phifer - The Forgotten Cottage

He rattled the door handle but it was locked. ‘I can’t get in; it’s locked up tight. Did you leave a window open—how did they get in? I’ll go fetch my dad; he might be able to get the door open.’

‘No,’ she shouted after him and he turned back to look up at her face.

‘Well, what am I to do?’

‘Please don’t go, don’t leave me. Kick the door in and if you cannot then break a window. I don’t care as long as you come inside and chase away whoever is downstairs. I’m so scared.’

He bent down and ran at the door with his shoulder as hard as he could. The door, which was old and not in a very good state of repair, cracked and then splintered and he fell through it onto the cold stone floor of the kitchen. He couldn’t see much because of the stars which were flashing in front of his eyes. Betsy shouted down to him and he dragged himself up onto all fours. He squinted as his vision adjusted to the dark and looked around. There was no sign of anyone standing at the bottom of the stairs or anywhere else and he shouted to her, ‘Everything is all right; there is no one in here…well, except for you and me, oh, and your mother.’

Betsy ran down the stairs and threw herself into his arms. ‘Oh, my Lord, I have never been so scared. Thank you.’

She lit two more candles and looked around the room. The flowers she had placed on the kitchen table were now lying on the floor in a damp puddle amongst the broken glass of the jar she had put them in.

‘Look—see, someone was in here and it looked as if they were wearing my mother’s clothes. Please take a look inside her coffin and make sure she is still wearing her best dress.’

Seth squirmed but then did as she asked; he didn’t want her to tell everyone he was afraid of a dead body. Picking up a candle, he walked over and drew back the curtain. He paused and wrinkled his nose at the smell. Stepping closer, he looked down into the coffin then stepped away again and turned to Betsy.

‘Your mother is still wearing her Sunday best that she wore to church every week. Are you sure you weren’t having a bad dream? I mean, you’ve had a shock and all that; it’s bound to have been playing on your mind.’

Betsy, who had finished sweeping the broken glass, turned to look at him. Could it have been a dream or maybe it had been her guilty conscience? You couldn’t just take another person’s life and not expect to be affected by the matter. She nodded her thanks to him but she knew deep down that it had been no dream. How had the jar been smashed? There was no wind tonight and they had no animals in the house, not even a rat would be interested in a jar of flowers. She didn’t want to stop in this house a minute longer.

‘Please can I come back with you? I don’t want to be in here on my own.’

He looked across at the coffin and then at Betsy. She was only two years older than him and he tried to imagine how it must feel to have to share a house with just your dead mother and a cold chill ran down his back.

‘Course you can, but you’ll have to stay on the chair downstairs. I don’t want my mother accusing me of things that are not true.’

She frowned at him, too wrapped up in her own world to realise what he was trying to say, then she nodded. Too scared to look in the direction of the coffin, she left the house and shut the door behind her, locking it and locking her mother inside.

Mrs Whitman was already awake when they went inside and she took one look at Betsy’s white face and went across and held her.

‘Child, you can stay here until they take your mother away and bury her. I never thought it through. I’m so used to the dead, they don’t bother me one little bit, but this is the first time you have had to deal with it and I should have been a bit more considerate.’

The relief which washed through Betsy was enormous and she would be eternally grateful to this woman who had shown her more kindness in the last few days than her mother had her entire life.

The day finally came for the funeral and as they all lined up along the front street watching the coffin get loaded onto the handcart Betsy had to stop herself from smiling. She was finally going to be free of that awful woman and she could go back into her own home and sleep in her own bed. The villagers who had lined up along the square all walked behind the cart as it was pushed through the narrow streets to the church. Betsy noted that Joss was standing outside the pub with his cap in his hands and his head bowed. She turned her head to look back at him and as he stared at her she gave him what she hoped was a sad smile. Now in his eyes they both shared the same pain in their hearts: he had lost his wife and she her mother. Even though Betsy was glad to be free of her burden she would never let Joss know that because he genuinely grieved for his wife. She hoped he would still be there after the funeral because she very much wanted to talk to him.

The church service was short and the burial even shorter. As the priest said his parting words she stepped forward to throw down a bunch of daisies she had picked this morning from the fields at the back of the house and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Mother, but you have to rest in peace and leave me alone now. I have my own life to live.’ Betsy stayed until the last and watched as her neighbours and the other villagers filed out of the church gate, down the steep steps until she was on her own. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and turned to see Joss standing behind her.

‘Come on, Miss Betsy, there is nothing more you can do now.’

She smiled at him and nodded. ‘I do believe you are right, Joss. Will you take me to the pub so I can have a drink to toast her and drown my sorrows at the same time?’

She reached out and clasped his hand. At first he wasn’t sure what to do but then he gripped it gently and together they left the grave and walked back towards the pub. It was busy inside, the locals loving nothing more than a funeral as a good excuse to not do any work and drink ale all day. She sat on a chair in the corner and waited while Joss went to the bar to get her a drink. He came back with one each and then he sat down next to her. The next couple of hours went past in a blur and Betsy got drunker and drunker until she could not stand straight.

When Mrs Whitman brought her back she nodded at Joss. ‘I think you should take her home, Joss, make sure she’s tucked up in bed and lock the door behind you.’

He nodded. He knew that Mrs Whitman trusted him but he did not know if he trusted himself; she was all he could think about until an image of his wife would appear in front of his eyes and remind him he was a married man. He stood up and helped Betsy to her feet.

‘Come on, Betsy. I think it’s time you and me went home now.’

Betsy began to laugh. ‘Why, Joss, are you finally propositioning me? I thought the day would never come.’

His cheeks began to burn but he grinned at the same time. ‘Not as such. I just want to make sure you get home safely. Seth told me about the other night and how you thought there was an intruder in your house.’

He took hold of her arm and walked her towards the front of the busy pub and out of the door into the cobbled street. It was dusk now and he really should get back to his children; he’d been gone all afternoon. He walked Betsy across the village square and towards her house. They went inside and he began to light some candles and close the windows, which had been left open to air the house through and get rid of the smell of death. She stumbled as she walked across the room to where there was a curtain drawn across; tugging it open, she nodded at the empty bed then turned back to him.

‘Are you going to tuck me in, Joss, make sure I’m safe?’