The Scrap of a Paisley Shawl
written by: Sarah Das Gupta
Tom suddenly found himself alone with this girl, Louise. Somehow, they seemed to have been cut off from the rest of the ‘trick or treating’ gang from Westbury High. Every so often he thought he caught the sound of the main gang, shouting and laughing from several streets away. But the sounds became fainter and disappeared in the fog which had suddenly become thicker.
‘Hi, I’m Tom Groves, the new boy in Year Ten. I’m afraid I haven’t learned all the names and faces yet.’
The girl didn’t seem inclined to answer. As they passed the last street light, before the road petered out into a stony lane, Tom noticed her pale face and long auburn hair, braided in two old-fashioned plaits.
‘Looks like the road ends here. Don’t think there’s any doors to knock on!’
‘Oh, yes there is one, just up the lane on the left.’ Her voice was soft and slow. Tom battled to hear it in the now thick yellow fog which wrapped itself round the bushes at the side of the narrow lane. Brambles tore at Tom’s black jeans as if hands were reaching out to pull him back. A black bird flew up into his face. He felt the tip of a wing as the bird flew off.
‘It’s a bit spooky here, Louise. I feel like I’m in some Halloween story!’
‘We will be at the cottage in a few minutes. The lane is always dark,’ her muffled voice came out of the fog and seemed to hang in the air.
‘This is the cottage.’
Tom could hear her struggling to open a gate. He pulled on the broken wood enough for them to squeeze through. He saw with relief that a light was on in a ground-floor room and a lantern swung from a hook on the veranda. A paved path led through a garden with tall, thorny plants leaning across it. The cottage did not welcome strangers. Yet Louise seemed to know the place as she pushed the menacing plants aside.
She shoved the decrepit veranda door open and a bell on a long, rusty chain jangled loudly. As Tom’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a bust of Queen Victoria, chipped and muddy, was holding open the door into the cottage. On the glass shelves that lined the veranda walls were stacks of old books and magazines. A stem of ivy had made its way from outside through a rotten window frame. It had invaded the shelves, winding and creeping its way over books, old newspapers, and magazines, slowly strangling them. Tom noticed with a shock the headline on one yellowing newspaper—‘Tragic Losses on the Somme.’
He followed Louise through the half-open door. The light was feeble, coming from two oil lamps balanced precariously on a marble-topped table. There was a sudden movement in the gloom. For the first time, Tom saw an elderly figure, hunched in an old leather armchair, sitting by the crumbling embers of a log fire. The light of the fire made the face an angry red as flickering shadows hung in the corners of the room.
‘This is my grandmama,’ Louise was more at home now and tied the ribbons on the old woman’s bonnet as she bent to kiss her.
‘It’s All Souls’ Day again, grandmama, and I’ve brought Tom for you.’
The old woman looked at Tom with cold, greedy eyes. He came reluctantly forward, avoiding the rat-like eyes as much as possible.
‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs . . .’ his voice faded away.
‘Grandmama, just Grandmama,’ she proffered a skeletal hand. Tom could see the fine bones and network of veins beneath the skin. The hand was freezing. It seemed to draw all the warmth from Tom.
‘Louise, call Ranjit Singh. This young man is shaking,’
As Louise went out, Tom looked around the darkening room. At his feet was a moth-eaten tiger skin rug. The mouth of the tiger was wide open with its sharp, yellow fangs about to attack.
On the walls were fading sepia prints of young English children on ponies held by Indian servants. Edwardian ladies were sipping tea on the veranda with ayahs and their young charges in the background. Photos too of the Bengal Club and a jolly amateur performance of ‘The Importance of Being Ernest,’ peered out of the gloom.
‘Those must be very old photos of British India?’ Tom couldn’t help asking.
‘Oh, a couple of summers ago, before my son’s shooting accident.’
Tom felt suddenly very cold as Louise returned with an elderly turbaned Sikh, presumably Ranjit Singh.
‘Oh, Ranjit, could you see if you can find a whiskey for this gentleman? He seems a little anxious. Whiskey settles the nerves, they say. All right, I’ll join you, Tom. In memory of my son Hubert, who is lost but will be found.’
Tom raised his glass and watched, through her fine parchment skin, the whisky dribbling down her throat as she drank.
He took one sip from his own glass, swallowing as little as possible. In the dark room, he managed to pour the rest into one of the many flower pots. He was no expert on whiskey but he’d never drunk anything like that before! He was increasingly anxious to make an excuse and escape. Escape from what? There was something evil in the house but what exactly, he was unsure.
‘I must be going. I don’t know this area well and I still have some schoolwork to finish.’
‘Well, come along into the back garden. The moon is out again and the fog has cleared. Louise can show you a shortcut into town.’
Before he could make an excuse, Tom felt the strong arm of Ranjit Singh propelling him through the kitchen and out of the back door.
The moon was full, a strangely luminous orange in the night sky. The garden was overgrown and full of dying nettles which still managed to sting Tom’s bare hands. He remembered he was wearing his skeleton costume. The phosphorescent paint gleamed wickedly in the orange light.
‘You have certainly chosen the right costume. A clown would hardly be appropriate.’
She was obviously mad, standing in a cold, autumn garden in a ragged Victorian dress!
For the first time, he saw Louise clearly in a long, faded green skirt, a paisley shawl round her shoulders. Tom could feel the tension in the bizarre moonlit garden as he asked for directions back to town.
‘Well, come down to the edge of the river and we can point out the quickest way.’
For the first time, Tom could hear the water. The river was in spate and rising fast after the heavy rain. The moon emerged again from a bank of clouds. The skull and ribs painted on Tom’s costume glowed a macabre orange like dried blood.
Tom stood on the wet bank, as Louise pointed out the town lights in the distance. He felt a sudden shove in the small of his back. For a second he seemed to sway, his arms flailing, before he fell into the freezing river. He felt himself sinking down under the dark water. He held his breath, almost to bursting point. As he came to the surface, a stone hit him, followed by one after another. He felt blood dribbling down his face and was nauseous, dizzy. He heard the crazy old crone yelling, ‘A life for a life, my Hubert, my darling son.’
Tom for some reason heard again his father’s voice on holiday when he had struggled in a fast mountain stream. ’Don’t fight it son, let yourself go with the current.’ He stretched out his arms and the river carried him at a frightening speed. He knew at some point it flowed through the town. Surely Halloween revelers would be out celebrating and they would see him?
It was so cold, Tom felt very sleepy. Why fight the river? Better to rest on the sandy bed.
From a distance, he heard a child’s voice, ’Dad there’s a skeleton in the river!’
***
The next Halloween Tom made sure he stayed with his Year 11 friends. He had told no one, neither his parents nor friends about the nightmare in the cottage at the end of the lane. Instead, he had told how he got lost in the fog and dark. He tried to follow the river back into town when he had fallen into the water.
One summer day he had returned to the stony lane. There was no cottage in sight just rubble in the long grass where a building had once stood. He saw something lying in the nettles – a scrap of a paisley shawl.
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