Page 30 of Beautiful Ugly
Loved by all.
Known by none.
Alone at last.
Close by I spot a mound of freshly dug earth and see an empty grave. The hole is dark, and dank, and so deep I struggle to see the bottom. I stumble backward, afraid of falling in—being buried alive is one of my all-time biggest fears. Maybe someone died recently and the islanders are getting ready for a funeral. That would explain why they were ringing the “death bell” and why only twenty-four of the twenty-five candles were lit in the church. My tiredness is catching up with me, but I walk a little farther and notice that there are a lot of children’s graves. There are twelvethat are almost identical, made in the same style and size. The only thing that is different about them are the names carved into the white marble. They all have the exact same date just over thirty years ago engraved on them, and I wonder if the children got sick with the same thing. Something which they might have survived had there been a doctor on the island.
“The Children of the Mist,” says a voice behind me.
I turn so fast I’m surprised I don’t have whiplash. An elderly woman carrying a walking stick is standing there. She has long gray hair that has been woven into a neat plait resting on her shoulder, and she’s tall, so tall that she stoops a little, as though embarrassed by her own height. She’s dressed head to toe in tweed, wearing a stylish coat with a matching tartan hat, and I wonder if she might be Sandy’s mother.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she says.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude—”
“You shouldgo. Leave while you still can. Before it’s too late,” she whispers, staring intently at me before looking over my shoulder. I turn to see what she is looking at but there is nobody there, and when I turn back she is gone.
“Hello?” I call, wandering through some of the headstones, but there is no sign of her.
I start to wonder if I imagined her. Like I imagined seeing Abby. Then I wonder if I am losing my mind.
I think maybe I just very badly need to sleep.
Columbo and I hurry out of the cemetery and back toward the village green; the shop should be open by now. It’s impossible not to notice how picturesque and quaint this little corner of Amberly is. Walking around it feels like stepping back in time. The pretty little gardens in front of the thatched cottages are neatly kept, hiding behind dainty white picket fencing. Immaculate window boxes explode with perfect blooms of colorful flowers. Everything is freshly painted and tidy, no sign of any litter or graffiti, unlikein London. Up close, I can see that the thatched cottages all have quirky names above their different colored front doors: Whit’s End, Middle of Nowhere, and The Last Straw.
Someone on the island has a sense of humor.
It continues with the old-fashioned street signs: At one junction, a wooden crossroad sign points in three directions:ONE STREET. ANOTHER STREET. LANE WITH NO NAME.
There is a small row of shops, including a butcher’s, a bakery, and what looks like a gift shop selling mainly candles, and everything looks perfect. A little too perfect, perhaps, until a large Highland cow walks down the lane and comes to stand in the middle of the green. I’ve never seen one before. Her distinctive horns look almost prehistoric, and her woolly coat is gray, with wavy strands that look silver in this light. Columbo barks, but the cow just stands and stares in our direction, one eye peeking out from her shaggy mane. Watching me. She turns and walks away, her tail swishing, and I cross the road and head toward Christie’s Corner Shop.
“Back so soon?” Cora asks before I’ve even stepped inside. I guess the little bell above the door lets her know when someone comes in, but it’s as though she knew it was me before she saw me. “Don’t mind Daisy, our Highland cow. She’s the island’s unofficial mascot, a real sweetheart and ever so friendly, despite the horns.”
“Good to know,” I say, taking in today’s all-green outfit. “I forgot to get coffee yesterday.”
“If it’srealcoffee you’re after, I can help. If it’s those strange pods some people like for their machines, I’ll need to order them from the mainland for you.”
“Real coffee would be just fine.” There was acafetièrein the cabin. Cora points me in the right direction and there is a surprisingly good selection.
“How’s the book coming along?” she asks when I pay.
“You sound like my agent,” I tell her.
The bell tinkles again and the door opens just enough to reveala middle-aged woman. She is dressed as though there is a blizzard outside, even though it’s pretty mild for the time of year, and is pushing a vintage-looking buggy, which she struggles to get inside the shop. I rush to help.
“No thank you,” she says curtly, with a determined shake of her head. She heaves the buggy backward up the step, then pushes it past me. I suppose some mothers are very protective of their children. But when I look inside the stroller, there’s no baby, just a pug dog wearing baby clothes. It stares back at me and growls.
Cora raises one of her barely there eyebrows. “And don’t worry about our Ada,” she whispers when the woman—and her buggy—have disappeared down an aisle. “She’s a funny one. Comes in every day. Sometimes she steals a chocolate bar and hides it beneath the baby blankets. I pretend not to notice.”
“Does shehavea baby?” I whisper back, wondering if I imagined seeing a dressed-up dog.
Cora shakes her head, leans closer, whispers again, “No. She did have a child, but she lost it. Lost the plot too, when it happened. Ada is harmless, just a bit broken is all.”
I know the feeling.
I need to find out what, if anything, Cora knows about my wife. And whether Cora Christie used to be Coraline Thatcher from the newspaper article. Looking at her now it seems like a bit of a stretch.
“Have you always lived on the island?” I ask, and the smile vanishes from her face.