off for me now? I want to see what this room looks like in the daytime. I might have to set up camp in here until there’s a room upstairs ready.’
‘Kate, are you being serious? I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you really can’t live here, in this house, with it in this condition.’
‘Yes, I am – and why can’t I? As far as I can see it only needs a couple of new windows, doors, electrics and the roof fixed. It looks structurally sound. You said so yourself. The rest is all cosmetic work.’
‘I did, but it’s a wreck. It hasn’t been lived in for how long? There’s no heating or hot water. How will you manage?’
‘I have a bed, sofa, camping stove and a cool box. I’ll be fine; I might look like a complete wuss, but I can assure you that I’m not. I’m not saying I’ll like it, but I’m desperate to get started and I can’t stop in that flat another day. If I check into some hotel while I’m waiting for a room to be ready I’m wasting money, far too much money. I can be clearing up whilst I’m here and getting on with jobs that aren’t too difficult.’
‘You’re braver than I am. I like my home comforts too much.’
‘Yes, well, so did I, but since Martin decided to take away everything I had, I’ve sort of got used to doing without. Except for the wine – I can’t do without that. My life wouldn’t be worth living if I couldn’t have a glass or two to numb the pain.’
She started to laugh and he joined in, only they both knew that she meant it. Although she would never admit it to anyone, Kate knew she was an alcoholic. It had all stemmed from her teenage years of drinking every weekend down the park with her friends, then when she was old enough, nights out in the pub. It got even worse after her miserable marriage to Martin, when he would tell her he was working late and she knew he was out wining and dining his latest conquest.
Then the shock of Amy’s terminal cancer diagnosis had tipped her over the edge and turned her into a full-blown, can’t-get-through-the-da-without-a-drink alcoholic. Maybe one day when this place was finished and her life looked as if it might get back on track, she would get some help to tackle it. For now, she would try her best not to drink too much, even cut it down to one bottle a night instead of the usual two.
‘That’s emotional blackmail, making me feel sorry for you – you know that, don’t you? Right then, I’ll take these boards off and we’ll see what we can do. Where’s your stuff?’
‘Back at the flat. I’ll have to find someone to help me bring my bed and clothes here. I don’t think they’ll fit on the back of my pushbike.’
‘Well, let’s see how bad this room is and then if you decide you’re going to do this, I’ll drive you in the van to see what you need and bring you back.’
‘Really? Thank you so much, Oliver. I’ll pay you for your time.’
‘No, you won’t. I’ll do this because I think you’re mental and also because you’re a friend.’
She squeezed his arm. ‘Aw, you’re such a sweetie. Thank you.’
4 January 1933
Mother Superior Agnes Nicholas looked outside the window at the snow-covered garden and shivered. It was cold enough inside the convent and they had roaring fires burning in the lounge, kitchen and upstairs bedrooms. To be outside in this weather didn’t bear thinking about. She hated the cold. It made her swollen, arthritic bones ache.
Sisters Mary and Edith had spent most of the morning filling up the wood baskets so they wouldn’t have to go out into the garden when it got dark. Now that only the three of them lived here, the convent was far too big. Poor Sister Emily had died of pneumonia in the hospital three weeks ago, and Agnes couldn’t shake the sadness that filled her entire being, every minute of every day. Emily had been far too young to die. In turn it had made Sisters Bernice and Joanna realise life was far too short to waste on God, and they had decided to leave the next week. Leaving just the three of them to it.
Agnes wouldn’t be surprised if the church shut this place down and moved them somewhere else; it was far too big of a house for three women to run. Since that strange woman had turned up at their door that night, hammering on it as if the devil himself was chasing her, things hadn’t been quite right. The woman, who finally told them her name was Lilith Ardat some hours after she had been inside their home, had been crying and begging for their help. All three of them had been loath to turn her away, despite Agnes’s nagging feeling inside the pit of her stomach that she was bringing trouble to their door.
Edith had silently pleaded with Agnes, imploring her with those huge, blue, innocent eyes until she’d relented. Agnes had nodded her permission at Mary, who had then ushered the woman inside and down to the kitchen, wrapping her in a thick woollen blanket. She had sat her down by the crackling fire. Edith had fetched the woman a small glass of sherry and then they’d all sat down and asked her what was wrong and how they could help her.
The story the woman confided in them was one of horrific abuse, which had sent shivers down Agnes’s spine, but despite the horror she was hearing and the fact that she was a nun, there was a part of Agnes that didn’t like Lilith Ardat. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but the sly smile that would spread across her face after she finished each sentence had something to do with it. Agnes got the impression the woman was enjoying sharing her tale of violence and woe with the three of them.
If Lilith was telling the truth, then the poor woman had been severely mistreated, but Agnes wasn’t convinced that she was. Although Agnes had no idea why Lilith would turn up at the convent so late on such a cold night if it wasn’t true, she couldn’t shake the niggling feeling from the back of her mind that Lilith wasn’t entirely what she seemed, or that she wasn’t the person she was trying to portray.
Mary loved a good tale of woe and despair, however. She had been sucked in wholeheartedly, gasping and making loud noises of objection throughout the woman’s tale of horror at the hands of her husband. Edith had only just said she was bored of not having anything more exciting to talk about than what Father Patrick might preach about in his Sunday sermon. She sat transfixed by the small, raven-haired woman in front of them.
Agnes had kept her distance. She didn’t know whether it was her intuition or her basic mistrust of most human beings that had stepped in, but she hadn’t gone too close. The woman had skin that was whiter than the driven snow, and lips that were red – blood red. There was a blue and yellow bruise beginning to form across her left eye and forehead.
She told them it was where he’d hit her, but Agnes thought it looked more like the kind of injury you got when you were in one of those motor cars and it stopped suddenly. As if the woman’s head had hit the steering wheel with force; although why this woman would be out driving a motor car at this time of night in this weather God alone knew the answer. This was not the sort of weather to be out gallivanting around in. It was far too cold and dangerous with the ice that covered the roads and paths.
‘She can stay in Sister Emily’s room. I’ll go and make up the bed myself.’
‘No. I don’t think that would be appropriate, Mary.’
‘Why not? It’s not like Emily is going to need it anytime soon is it?’
Agnes stared at Mary in horror; the girl was so insensitive at times. It didn’t seem right to put her into Emily’s room so soon after she had passed away.
‘She
