Weird Sister (31 page)

Agnes settles on the bed and nods as though she is ready to listen to what Jenny has to say.

‘Once upon a time,’ starts Jenny, ‘there was a family called Throckmorton; Robert Throckmorton, his wife, their five young daughters and one small son. They lived in a tiny village called Warboys on the edge of the fens in Cambridgeshire. They were the wealthiest family in the village and also the most powerful. Their grand house with its beautiful ballroom and intricately worked plaster ceiling was famous throughout the region.’ Jenny stares at Agnes as she speaks and Agnes returns her gaze. It’s a long story.

‘The Throckmortons lived next door to the Samuels. Alice and John Samuel were an elderly couple with only one child, a young woman called Agnes. They were poor people, they owned no land. It was said that John Samuel was lazy. Alice Samuel – Mother Samuel – was a frequent visitor to the Throckmorton house, often taking on small bits of paid work – sewing, some laundry, caring for the children.

‘One day Jenny Throckmorton, who was ten years old, fell into a strange kind of sickness. Sometimes she would sneeze without stopping for half an hour. Other times she would fall into a trance from which her parents were unable to wake her. Her body would become completely rigid, her arms and legs unbending. Sometimes one leg would shake uncontrollably, then the other. Or an arm. Sometimes her head would shake violently, as if she had some kind of palsy, her eyes rolling back in their sockets.

‘One day, during one of these fits, Mother Samuel came to visit. She was taken in to see the sick child. Suddenly, Jenny sat up on her bed and pointed at the old woman and said, “Look at the old witch. Did you ever see one more like a witch than she is? Take off her black cap, for I cannot abide to look at her.” Jenny’s mother rebuked the child for her rudeness, apologizing to Mother Samuel.

‘The illness continued and the family became increasingly worried. When not even their family friend, the respected Dr Barrow from Cambridge, could begin to understand what was making her sick, they called in a second doctor. But he was unable to discover what was wrong with the girl. And not long after that, two more of the girls, both older than Jenny, also fell into fits and prolonged bouts of shaking. The next time Mother Samuel entered the house, they cried out, “Take her away, look where she stands, there in her black cap. It is she that has bewitched us and she will kill us if you do not take her away.”

‘Robert Throckmorton and his wife found their daughters’ accusations deeply shocking. They were new to Warboys and had no knowledge of the village and whether it had a history of witchcraft. They prayed that the girls were mistaken. But soon the two remaining daughters in the family also fell ill; the oldest girl, Joan, most seriously of all. She would sneeze and screech and groan fearfully, sometimes she was shaken by convulsions so strong that her body would bounce across the bed she lay in, or almost break the chair in which she sat.

‘It seemed that nothing could be done. During these fits the girls were unable to see, hear, or feel anything or anyone; all they could do was cry out “Mother Samuel, take her away! For God’s sake, take her away in her black cap and burn her or we shall all be killed.” Sometimes these fits lasted an hour, sometimes the day and they caused the whole family, indeed the whole village, great anxiety. Experts were brought in, from Cambridge and further afield.

‘Soon the sense of the girls’ allegations became inescapable: it was witchcraft, it had to be. Mother Samuel was responsible for the illness afflicting the Throckmorton children.

‘The fits continued. In desperation, the Throckmortons took their daughters to another village, in the hope that they might recuperate. And, indeed, whenever they were not in Warboys, the children stopped having convulsions as abruptly as they had started. And when they returned, the fits returned with them. The sickness did not require the presence of Mother Samuel, but the children blamed her, they blamed Mother Samuel. “Burn her or we shall all be killed!”

‘Time passed, and this dreadful pattern repeated itself over and over again. The children’s uncle, Gerald Pickering, came to visit and, appalled by the state of the household, decided to bring Mother Samuel into the house to test out the allegations. Mother Samuel refused to enter, she said she knew what they intended to do to her: they wanted to submit her to the test of scratching. She was right, this was what they wanted to do, scratching might bring the children some relief.

‘It was said that if you scratched a witch, and let her blood, you would recover from her spell, and in doing so, prove her a witch. The demon she had let loose would come out of your body to suck on the blood of its mistress.

‘They brought Mother Samuel into the house, and the children immediately fell into violent fits, Jenny the worst of all. It took several men to wrestle the writhing child onto her bed; she was blinded and she could not hear. In her trance she began to scratch the cover of her bed, saying “Oh that I had her! Oh, that I had her!” So Master Pickering put his hand before the child in order to test her but, her eyes still closed, she would not touch his hand. Other people present put their hand in front of the child but she would not touch them either. Then Master Pickering told Mother Samuel to give her hand to the child. She refused. So Master Pickering took hold of Mother Samuel’s hand himself and thrust it to the child, who no sooner felt it than began to scratch with such vehemence that her nails broke into bloody splinters with the force. While the child was scratching Master Pickering forced his own hand forward, but Jenny would not scratch it, only Mother Samuel, who was by now weeping with the pain of the blood-letting.

‘Then the other girls began to clamour “Oh, that I had her! Oh, that I had her!” and when allowed to touch Mother Samuel who was forced near them, they too began to scratch.

‘Mother Samuel was taken away and the children were as though fully recovered.

‘But not long after that the convulsions grew worse. The children were afflicted at night as well as in the day, at the house as well as outdoors, even on the Sabbath.

‘Lady Cromwell, a friend of the family, came to visit the children and comfort their parents. She had Mother Samuel brought to the house and, tiring of listening to the old woman’s protestations of innocence, snatched Mother Samuel’s kerchief from her head and clipped a lock of her hair and gave it to Mistress Throckmorton to burn. That night Lady Cromwell dreamt that Mother Samuel came to her as a cat and tried to pluck off all the skin and flesh from her body. The next day Lady Cromwell fell into an illness, from which she never recovered, languishing until she died.

‘The learned men in the village took every opportunity to confront Mother Samuel and question her about what she was doing. But Mother Samuel would not answer their questions and, instead, claimed that the children were wanton and that if they were her own she would have punished them long ago.’

‘Jenny,’ Agnes speaks, suddenly impatient. Throughout Jenny’s narration she has sat at the end of the bed, collected, unastonished. Now she is agitated. ‘We both know this story. You tell it well. But get on with it.’

‘You know the ending, don’t you?’

‘You can’t tell a story without telling the ending.’

‘All right.’ Jenny still feels very calm, she finds the sound of her own voice reassuring, she feels safe in the muffled quiet of the house. ‘The fits continued. The situation grew worse. The children began to see evil spirits – they were called Blue and Catch and Pluck – and these spirits bartered and fought over possession of the Throckmorton souls. Over and over again, Mother Samuel refused to acknowledge the truth in the allegations of witchcraft. The Throckmortons came to realize that the force of evil in Mother Samuel was so great that her daughter, Agnes, and her husband John, must have been witches as well. When Agnes was brought into the house one of the daughters, Elizabeth, fell upon her, scratching ferociously, exhorting her to amend her evil ways. Jenny scratched Agnes on her left cheek, and then on her right, causing her to bleed copiously.

‘All three Samuels stood accused.’ Jenny’s tone becomes flat now, she has lost her momentum. ‘None of their defences were accepted and, in the end, they confessed. They were, indeed, witches, all three. There was a trial with a judge and jury at which the confessions were read. The Samuels were sentenced to hang.’

Agnes looks at Jenny evenly. ‘Top marks,’ she says. ‘Ten out of ten. And did they hang?’

For the first time that night, Jenny feels afraid. ‘Yes,’ says Jenny, ‘yes they did. And from that day forward the children were in perfect health.’

‘Perfect health,’ says Agnes. ‘I love a happy ending.’ She gets up off the bed. ‘Well, thank you Jenny. I knew I could count on you. Thank you for that lovely story.’

Jenny doesn’t reply. She is hot; she feels the molten heat of Agnes’s anger. ‘Don’t go,’ she says in a small voice. ‘Don’t leave me.’

‘I’m already gone,’ says Agnes. And she closes the door and walks away.

Jenny lies awake for a long time. How long can one night last? she wonders. She hears the voices, the moaning voices that sing every night like a chorus of grim fallen angels. After a while she gets up. She makes her bed. Then she sits down at her desk to read the book,
The Most Strange and Admirable Discoverie of the Three Witches of Warboys
. . . as if reading it again will help her understand what it might mean.

Jenny’s no tomorrow

Graeme crashes into the house at daybreak. He has risen from his nest and come into the kitchen to forage. He fumbles around in the cupboards, the fridge; everything in the house feels different, everything has changed. Nothing is in the right place. He is full of agitated energy, the lethargy of the past few weeks gone. He eats two bowls of cereal and a quantity of toast. He can hear sounds emerging from upstairs, the voices of Andrew and Francis. He will see the little boys, he will see them and he will know whether they are still his, whether they have gone from him permanently.

They rush into the kitchen shouting ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ and attempt to scale his legs. He lifts them up and gives them kisses, crumby kisses, coating them with butter and honey, filling up with their embrace. He sits them at the table and makes them breakfast and they talk at him, Andrew single-mindedly interrupting Francis until the smaller boy shouts with frustration. They make him feel needed, his little boys.

Robert comes in, wearing pyjamas, rubbing his eyes. ‘Oh hello there,’ he says, surprised to see Graeme, surprised to feel pleased to see Graeme.

‘Brother dear.’ Graeme ruffles Robert’s hair like he used to do when they were kids.

‘Stop it,’ says Robert, laughing, mock-aggrieved. ‘I’ll go get Dad.’ He pauses. ‘He’ll be glad to see you.’

‘I’ll get him,’ says Graeme and he stands and stretches hugely, roaring with it to amuse the boys. He goes into his father’s bedroom.

Martin’s eyes are open, he is staring at the ceiling. Graeme leans over him, sliding into his line of vision. ‘Morning Dad,’ he says. ‘Come on. Let’s get you up.’ He can smell his father’s nappy, it needs to be changed. Graeme fills a bowl with warm water from the sink in the corner. He lifts the night-shirt over his father’s head, takes down the nappy and cleans his father’s bottom, his genitals, and gives the rest of his bony body a sponge bath, turning him over, gently massaging his limbs, following the intimate routine. New nappy, fresh set of clothes, the old man like a big and placid baby. Karen used to perform these tasks every day, Graeme thinks, and he wonders for a moment who does it now, this as well as all the other things, but this thought doesn’t stay with him for long. Martin stares at Graeme throughout, Graeme smiles and chats amiably. He slips his arm around his father’s waist, the other under his knees, and lifts him into his wheelchair. He wheels him to the sink, ties a towel around his neck and gives him a careful shave. His skin is like paper leaves, the shed coins of an honesty tree. As Graeme works he remembers how his father used to look before he was invalided. ‘Just like me,’ he mutters under his breath, ‘you used to look just like I do now.’

Graeme wheels Martin through to the kitchen and parks him next to the fire, his usual place. The two boys are mucking about on the floor, Robert is drinking a mug of tea. There is no sign of Agnes. Graeme is relieved. ‘Jenny up yet?’ he asks.

‘No,’ replies Robert.

So Graeme bounds up the stairs. He knocks on Jenny’s door, softly at first, then more loudly. ‘Jenn?’ he says. ‘Wake up. Jenny?’ No sound. He pushes the door, it swings back easily.

Jenny is hanging from the curtain rail.

She is absolutely still. Graeme notices several things: the noose is fashioned out of the belt from Jenny’s old dressing gown, the one he has out in the cottage. Her bed has been neatly made. The curtains are open. She is wearing her night gown and her hair hangs down over her face. When did your blonde hair get so long, Graeme wonders. When did your blonde hair get so long?

He drops his cane and goes toward her, her name stuck in his throat. His eyes fill and begin to sting. He puts his arms around her body and lifts her so that she is no longer hanging. He raises one hand to bring down the noose. Her body flops over his shoulder. She is cold. He looks out the window.

Agnes is standing in the gravel drive, staring upward. When she sees Graeme she waves.

Warboys is in overdrive

Robert hears Graeme wail, a long and pitiful cry. He runs to the stairs to find his brother falling down shouting, ‘She’s dead, she’s dead,’ in his harsh man’s voice.

Robert halts. Everything stops moving. After a long moment, Robert says, ‘I’ll call the police.’ It’s the only thing he can think to do.

‘No,’ says Graeme. ‘Don’t.’

‘We’d better.’

‘No,’ says Graeme, ‘what’s the point?’ The last thing he wants is his ex-colleagues here again, looking him over, looking the house over, looking them all over. Looking at Jenny.

‘I’m ringing them,’ says Robert, stepping toward the phone. He hasn’t seen his sister’s body, he doesn’t need to, he sees her – it – every detail – in his brother’s face.