The Mezzotint Chapter 5 - Part 1 Hope Disappears

Creest saw nothing of Hope Lincoln over the weekend after their dinner date. He was surprised, and more than a little disappointed, after adding an extra afternoon stroll to his customary morning and evening rambles around the village with every intention of ‘bumping’ into her.  Furthermore on each occasion he deliberately altered his normal route to ensure he crossed close by Hope’s cottage.  Despite fine warm weather and slightly varying the times he left his house on each occasion he had failed to orchestrate a ‘meeting’ with Hope either in the garden or at any of the focal points of the village.  Neither had Creest missed her at these places making enquiries after her, in as nonchalant a fashion he could muster considering the enormity of passion she had sparked within him.

The following day heralded the weekly art class.  Creest had arrived early.  He was slightly haggard as he had slept little over night, his mind filled with anticipation at the guilty pleasure of being able to spend the best part of two hours gazing at her in a situation that would not compromise him.   At 11:00 he was in the process of setting up the easels, boards and paints in three separate arched rows of four, when the regulars began to file in.  Creest tried to concentrate on the task in hand but found it impossible not to glance at the door his eyes almost requiring her to walk in as she had done so a week ago and satiate the longing lodged in his soul.

By 11:05 all the class were seating bar one.  The place in question was for Hope and Creest had positioned it intentionally and inconspicuously, in the middle row just off centre.  He had determined this would dampen any accusations of favouritism and allow his gaze unparalleled access without betraying his ardour for a girl old enough to be his Granddaughter.

The class was getting fidgety and loud whispers informed Creest that they were cognisant of the name of the absentee.   Creest guessed that any further delay would unravel his disguise and began the lesson.

For 30 minutes he taught staccato style, unable to focus.  When he wasn’t glancing toward the door his ears were pricked for a creak or a knock.  Exasperated, Dorothy, seated front centre of course, spoke up, the usual model of reticence.  ‘Is she not coming then?’

‘Who?’ Creest returned unconvincingly, moving nearer to her

‘That’s the difference isn’t it Professor?’

‘I really don’t follow’

‘The elderly lady; what we lose in looks we make up in fidelity’ Dorothy declared, the corners of her mouth lifting almost imperceptibly with malevolent mirth.

Creest’s tetchiness suddenly swelled into anger which he sought instantly to suppress but in doing so accidently bit the inside of his cheek.  He turned away and winced.  Dorothy, one of those people who haven’t the capacity to understand when a line has been crossed, spoke again.  ‘Heartburn Professor?  I’m told Italian food does have that facility’

Creest reeled on her.  ‘Not with me’ he growled.  ‘I become bilious digesting nauseous doses of cant vocabulary’

Dorothy, stunned by his ire, offered no reply and Creest’s rage subsided with the same velocity as it had arisen, assisted no doubt by witnessing the grins of the assemblage behind, content to see the Village faucet stoppered for once.

The class dismissed at one o’clock.  To redress the customary ambience of his art class Creest over-complimented Dorothy on her composition ensuring the others heard.  Nevertheless he remained uneasy over Dorothy’s knowledge of his dinner at Hope’s cottage and the latter’s non-appearance.  He pondered that consciously he had manifested his disappointment in the quality of the picture she had given him, knocking her confidence and causing her to stay away.  It might also explain why no-one had seen any sign of her in two days.  Perhaps, he thought, she envisages me mocking her effort with the others in the class.  All sorts of guilty thoughts seemed to swill around his brain like litter in a high wind.  It needed resolving.  It was a good reason to call on her.

 

*

     

The gate to Hope’s cottage was open – he was sure the last time he passed, it was closed.  It shocked him that in his heightened emotional state what was probably just the lazy attitude of the village postman, became a harbinger for abandonment.  With trepidation he knocked on the door.  There was no echoing boom in the silent rooms beyond but it was soon evident Hope was not at home.  He peered in through the windows.  The furniture was neat; almost too neat.  One would hardly guess the house had been occupied at all.  Creest was crestfallen and irritated in equal measure.  He moved to the rear of the cottage and tried the kitchen door.  It was locked but he noticed the window was slightly ajar.  He pulled at it and manipulated his fingers into the space to unhook the arm from its mounting and prised the window fully open. 

‘Hope’ he cried – silence.  Then he astonished himself by attempting to climb inside.  His wiry frame presented no problem even with the window being not particularly big but he needed leverage.  Two feet away and resting against the kitchen wall was the base of an old tree trunk.  Creest tried lifting it but it was too heavy so he pushed at it with his feet until it rolled underneath the window sill.  After half a dozen attempts he managed to drag his thin carcase across the shelf head first, pulling his legs after him.  Then, lying across the sink he rather awkwardly, and risky for a man his age, rolled over, planting his feet before him.  Exhausted from this ludicrous exercise he leaned forward, resting his hands on both knees and gulping in air on the same spot two days previously he had been breathing in those wonderful smells of Hope’s cooking.

As his heaving lungs and heart rate subsided it occurred to him that if his instincts were wrong and Hope were to walk back through the front door right now, given a month to consider, he would be unable to think of a reasonable motive for him being caught here.  But he felt sure.  He knew she had gone.  She’d been here barely a week.  He had to find out why. 

A scrawled up letter in a bin containing a plea from a sick mother begging Hope to return home urgently; money problems even.   Like a retired and bored detective he shuffled around the rooms looking for clues but they were clean.  Not tidy clean but the kind of clean that signifies abandonment nevertheless, he still braced himself for that turn of the key in then lock or the snap of a latch unfastening as he climbed the narrow staircase to the upper rooms. 

There were two small bedrooms and a tiny bathroom.  Once again the interiors were spotless as if they were being readied for a photo shoot. The bathroom contained no toiletries – the surfaces of the bath and basin were dry and the wispy shower curtain hung from a hook next to the nozzle like thin over read newspaper.  The smaller bedroom was sparse with furniture and the master hardly better, the only accoutrement being a large standing tailor’s mirror.

Standing in the door of the master bedroom he closed his eyes and imagined her lying beneath the sheets on the bed in front of him when suddenly he caught her essence.  He opened his eyes to find her lying there exactly as he had envisaged.  She was curled to one side and sleeping deeply. 

He moved almost on tiptoe not wanted to disturb her but also fascinated by her seeing her slumbering.  As he reached the end of the bed she turned and, as if sensing him, slowly opened her eyes.  He stopped, partly guilty of breaking that peaceful state but also in anticipation.  How did he miss her being here?  What will she say?  Will she scream?  She didn’t do either; she just smiled and then beckoned him closer.

He obeyed and eased around to the side of the bed, his member already throbbing so hard it hurt him.  She watched his every step, unblinking, until he stood above her.  Silently she gripped the top of the blanket and peeled it back.  His desire to see her naked became everything to him.  It depreciated his love of art, his work, the summation of all he had achieved in his sixty odd years.  He kneeled down beside her because those joints could not bear the weight of his trembling body.

 As the blanket rolled back he looked down in want of fulfilment, but she wasn’t naked.  She was dressed in what appeared to be a doll’s outfit.  The surprise tapered his desire which swiftly became a mixture of attraction and repugnance.  He looked at her.  She was sucking her thumb as if she were performing fellatio.  He shot back away from her.  Her head seemed enormous as if in the process of transformation and her tongue lolled outside of her mouth and listed from corner to corner.  Then the piercing shriek of a child wailing reverberated throughout the cottage, seeming to emanate from within the walls and up through the floorboards.   Creest spun around facing the mirror but the glass was without reflection.  It had become a widow displaying a view of a long garden enclosed on either side by trees.  At the far end a row of bushes sealed the space and Creest could see a small hooded figure standing there.  It crouched and moved swiftly toward him growing larger as it neared.  Creest turned to run but found his arms pinioned at his sides.  Hope had grabbed him, her strength a direct contradiction to her mass.  He wrestled to free himself but it was in vain.  He could hear her giggling like a schoolchild behind him.  Ahead of him the figure was almost upon him.  The face beneath the hood was featureless except for two piercing eyes shining from within.  It leapt from the mirror as if to devour him.

He woke up and realised he was propped against the master bedroom door.  The bed was shapeless and the room visible within the mirror.  Creest wasn’t waiting the J B Priestley effect and exited the cottage far more swiftly than he had entered it.  He didn’t even stop to reset the window latch.

*

 

Crossing the village green some 5 minutes later Creest was hailed by a loud voice behind him.  His heart still clattering from the experience of his second and rather more sinister daydream the shout caused it to bounce around his rib cage like a pinball.  He turned imagining for a frozen moment he would be facing the hooded figure he’d seen in the mirror, but, mercifully, it was the vicar.  He attempted to compose himself as the cleric skipped toward him but was clearly unsuccessful.

‘Are you okay Professor?’ he asked

‘Away with the fairies I’m afraid’ he answered after the fleetest of pauses and a confession that felt partly true.

‘Perhaps a drink would bring you back from the nether life?  I have a rather nice Shiraz give to me by a parishioner’ He brandished it like a trophy.

‘I was on my way home.  I rather fancied a nap to be honest’

‘A glass of a good muscular red might be the tonic.  It can be drunk at any venue of your choice ’

The temptation was enough.  ‘The patient relents but requests that he be treated at home’

‘House visits are my speciality’.

 

*

 

‘How was the class today?’ the vicar enquired after pouring them both a full glass. 

‘I’m afraid I lost my temper’ Creest admitted dolefully after a rather large gulp of the Shiraz.  ‘Dorothy was…is…such a busybody…I…’

‘She’s one of my most dedicated parishioners…’

‘Oh…I…’

‘…and I therefore understand and, indeed, sympathise with your frustration’

Creest smiled in relief at is companion’s leniency.

‘One’s flock are arrayed in a variety of fleeces, after all isn’t that what the confessional was invented for?’   

Creest took another large sip.  ‘Have you seen Hope…Miss Lincoln at all?’

‘The new girl? I haven’t seen her for a couple of days but it is quite coincidental you mentioning her.  She was in church Sunday, though not during the service.  I had just finished the obligatory farewells at the church door and was on my way back to the vestry to change when I heard whispering coming from near the crypt at the far end.  I thought perhaps it was a member of my congregation saying a private prayer but in this profession you soon learn that there is a rhythm to supplication – supplicants rarely accentuate.  I think it creates a kind of trance like state.  Anyway these mumblings were far more staccato and random.  I crept along to investigate, but slowly.  The language wasn’t English, French I assumed, but I couldn’t be sure.  We’ve have had some problems in the past with thefts and it is quite dark there even in the bright glare of a summer day.  Half way down I saw a fleck of cream in the corner, near the statue of St Nicholas. It turned out to be the colour of a thin raincoat and wearing it was Miss Lincoln’

‘Religious? That’s one trait I would have…well I mean I only met her briefly…’

‘Didn’t you have dinner with her?’

‘My God does the whole village know?  As a virus the pneumonic plague can only pay lip service to gossip.  That’s why I was angry with Dorothy.  How did it get out?’

‘I’m sorry professor I didn’t mean to pry and I have no idea who knows and who told who, but my confidant was Miss Lincoln herself’

‘But didn’t you just say you hadn’t seen her’

‘That’s the thing.  She told me this on Sunday – Sunday week.  “Good morning vicar” she said, “I’m inviting Professor Creest for dinner Monday night.  Have you any idea what I might cook him?” 

‘But I hadn’t even met her and I now realise that’s what your earlier remark referred to – enjoy your dinner.  I marvelled at the time as to how you could have known, but nobody knew.  She made the offer outside.  No-one else was present and I ran into you less than an hour later. How did you know who she was? ’ Creest replied astonished.

‘I didn’t, until later’ the vicar spoke softly, ‘I just assumed she was a friend of yours from the past.  Unfortunately not every new resident feels the need for spiritual sustenance.  I’ve often run into new people months after they came to stay here.  What made me uneasy was her manner of conversation’

Creest could feel his knees shuddering but asked the question anyway and the vicar obliged.

‘She said it without acknowledging me at all.  Not a hello or anything, as if she sensed I would be drawn to her.  What’s more she said it all with her back to me’

 ‘What did you do?’

‘I began to engage her in conversation with the usual chat; where she was from and how did she come to know you, but she said nothing more and never turned from facing the statue.  I felt uncomfortable and chill.  Just then my curate entered the church to tidy up the altar and caught sight of me.  He called, a little concerned when he saw me talking to someone in the dark.  I turned to discharge his fears and he continued his work, but when I had turned around Miss Lincoln had disappeared’

‘Did the curate see her go?’

‘I quizzed him about her.  “No Vicar” he replied, “I didn’t see her leave but then again I didn’t see anyone at all.  I thought you were talking to yourself” ’