Friends… if you could call a group of abusive men that.
His dots bounce for a while, but no message comes through. Guilt nips at me, but as much as I love knowing he’s there, I can’t rely on him for everything.
According to Mum, Martha’s name changed when she got married. It’s no wonder my searches proved fruitless.
The fields zip by in a blur of green, not as vibrant as in summer, the coming winter dulling them. The train is quiet, and I’m thankful for the peace.
By the time I get to the station and get another cab to her cottage, the nerves start to make me nauseous.
The village is barely more than a hamlet, so I take the cabbie’s number for the journey back, fairly certain there’s not a taxi rank anywhere nearby.
I stand at the side of the road staring at the sign on the red brick house. Acacia Cottage. How quaint. I really hope she still lives there, or if worst comes to worst, they have a forwarding address.
And that she’s still alive. Martha isn’t super old, but life gives no guarantees.
Picking my way through the overgrown garden, I set my shoulders. I need to look her in the face and find out if she’s told anyone about what I did. While I don’t think Martha’s stalking me, it doesn’t mean she didn’t set whoever is into motion.
It takes three rounds of knocking before the door opens an inch, a metal chain crossing the gap.
‘Hello?’ Comes a voice that is unmistakably Martha’s.
‘Martha.’ My voice comes out steadier than I feel. ‘It’s Katherine Elliot. I don’t know if you remember me?—’
A wrinkle enveloped eye appears, narrowing as she cuts me off. ‘Yes. Yes. I know who you are.’
‘I hope it’s okay that I’ve shown up. Your number is out of service.’
‘What do you want?’ she asks, sounding annoyed. Not exactly a reunion, huh?
‘I need to talk to you,’ I say. ‘About that summer. About the boy.’
Silence stretches before she sighs and closes the door.
Shit.
I’m about to knock again when the sound of the chain sliding comes from the other side of the door.
‘You’d better come in then. Wipe your shoes.’
Martha leads me through the cottage, which canonly be described as ramshackle. She must have taken up art as there are paint-clarted jars everywhere, most with greyish water and an assortment of brushes sticking out. Half-finished canvases litter every corner, piled up against each other.
I step over a particularly fat tabby cat, who stretched as I pass, swatting lazily at my shoelaces.
When she offers me a cup of tea, I decline politely, because I’m not sure I’d trust that she can find a clean one amongst the chaos.
Sitting across from her throws me right back to being a little kid, dependent on her but also a bit afraid. I’m not sure how she ended up a nanny, but it couldn’t be for the love of children.
‘I knew what was happening in that cottage,’ she says. ‘Even before you told me. I’d seen the boy hanging around, and the bruises on his skin.’
‘Why didn’t you help him?’
‘I’m not a monster. I did try to help once. But the father threatened to burn the house down while we slept if I didn’t keep my nose out of it. It’s why I tried to stop you playing with the boy, but you were never one for listening.’
‘That’s why you slapped me the night I’d peeped through the window?’ I say.
‘I know what they might have done to you had they found you there. You were a pretty little thing, and so spirited. I didn’t want you near that man.’
‘But you knew those boys were being hurt.’
