An Unexpected Visit

'An Unexpected Visit' - a short story


She looked in the mirror at the woman who stared back at her. The bruise on her eye had not yet disappeared. She dabbed a brush into her powder which sat open on her dressing table, and began patting it onto her eye. It was still very sore, and her finger traced the whirls it made around her skin. It was a rather beautiful bruise, she thought. How the purples and pinks seeped to the surface, as if her skin was made of delicate marble.

The church bell struck. She headed out to the village hall where the village committee was meeting. She was the village treasurer, and, as a result, had to attend meetings twice a month. Her husband had pulled some strings to get her on the committee, thinking it would make him look good to have a wife interested in village events.

It was a rather dreary affair, she thought. It was run by a ghastly boss of a woman called Lesley who acted as if the villagers lived in her village. Charlotte had once made the mistake of questioning one of her suggestions, and had received such a demeaning telling-off that she decided it would be far better to keep her tongue fastened inside her mouth in future - she liked to think of it as being on a verbal diet.

Charlotte politely knocked on the door to the village hall, despite it being open, and popped her head inside the door.

"Ah, it's you. Welcome," said Lesley, in her most un-welcoming voice, not lifting her eyes off her hands where she was filing her long nails. "Sit, sit," she said, beckoning Charlotte like a dog.

Charlotte sat in her usual chair at the side of the table, mostly as it was the furthest chair from Lesley, and made the point to keep her woolen hat on; it helped the hair stay in place, hiding the worst of the bruise.

Chatter around the table was the usual; the weather, what the children had been learning at school, and how well Mrs Carrington's new baby is doing.

There were five of them on the committee in total. The only other person she tolerated was a young, timid woman who was the teacher at the primary school. In truth, she hadn't wanted to be on the committee either, but had felt rather obliged after Lesley had mentioned that the previous teacher was a central part of village life and the children 'ought to have a teacher they can look up to.'

"I think we ought to begin," chimed Lesley, clapping her hands together as if she were in a class of school children.

"If I may chip in," came a voice from the side. It was the caretaker at the school. He was a very bitter man who rarely smiled, and always wore a shirt and bow tie, which smelt of stale beer. Charlotte knew this because he insisted on moving his chair closer to her at the start of every meeting, until he was so close she could hear his heavy breathing.

"Well, Mrs Harper, if I may.. we have a new member of the committee joining us today. His family used to be benefactors to the Church quite a few years ago. He specifically requested he join us for a few weeks.”

"Ah yes," said Lesley, the corners of her mouth turned down. Charlotte quite wondered if she practiced this frown in the mirror because it seemed quite unnatural. "Yes, the Reverend mentioned it in passing when I had him round for dinner last week. Well. Where is he then? If he's late then I shan't wait for him!"

There was a timely knock at the door. A man dressed in a smart coat stepped into the stone threshold of the hall, the scuffs of his shoes echoing around the high ceilings. He was a young man, with a very strong and handsome face, like that of a brave soldier. Just the look of him made you feel like you could trust him. As he took off his hat and held it in his hands, his eyes came across Charlotte, and took in her slight figure.

"You must be James," said Lesley, peering over the top of her glasses.

"Yes, I am." He strode over to where Lesley sat. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs Harper."

"Ms Harper, actually," she reminded him. "God bless my late husband. You may sit at this chair to my left, I'll introduce the others later, I'm sure. Now, where were we…"

The meeting was as dull as the last; Lesley and the caretaker bickered profusely about whether to replace the plaque on the village well which was getting rather rusted. The caretaker insisted it was part of the history of it and the money was better spent elsewhere, whereas Lesley was adamant she didn't want her village looking tarnished with old signage.

Charlotte scribed down what was discussed, as she always did, but felt a hot gaze on her. Her eyes flicked up and sure enough, James was staring in her direction. He had a piercing stare, and seemed to be taking in everything about her, from her laced shawl, to the silver necklace that hung between her collarbones, and even the faint shadow of a bruise on her eye. Charlotte adjusted her hat to hide it.

Everyone signed the minutes at the end of the meeting, and Charlotte tucked away her fountain pen. Before anyone had said goodbye, she slipped out of the front door to head home, when suddenly a large hand grasped her thin wrist. Instinctively, she raised a hand to cover her face.

"Lottie, Lottie," said James. He released his hand and Charlotte adjusted her hat and coat. "It's me Lottie. Remember?"

She quickly glanced up at him, and turned to start walking home.

"Hey, where are you going. Don't you know who I am?" He ran ahead of her and stood in front of her.

"I know who you are, James," she replied. Her voice was a majestic as he had remembered. She took a sidestep to the left. "Now if you do excuse me I need to get back."

"Wait, wait!" James cried. "Can't we have a walk? Or go for a jam scone? I know they're you're favourite." His smile seemed to creep from his lips up through his cheeks and into his eyes. She diverted her gaze to ignore it.

"They were my favourite. I have to go." 

Saturday 22nd October, 1948

"Bill said you was talkin’ to a man the other night after the meeting. 'e was 'aving his tea, and there you was in front o’ the window with a man, talking. Is this true?"

He was getting dressed, and had his belt in his hand, waiting for her reply before he put it on.

"New committee member. He was just saying hello."

"That better 'ave been it." He threaded the belt through his trousers, snatched up his hat and strode towards the bedroom door. "I'm out for the day. Make sure there's dinner on the table when I'm 'ome."

Her days usually started with a threat, so this was nothing new to her. Word always spreads fast in a small village, though she was hoping she had been short enough with James for anyone to realise they were old acquaintances.

Ten minutes after Henry left, there was a knock at the door. Charlotte ignored it. She had no one she needed to talk to, and after all, she needed to wash and dry the linen while Henry was out to make the most of the good weather. Three minutes later, however, there was another knock, this time harder.

The letterbox made a clang as something large and heavy was posted through it, landing on the cobbled stone hallway with a thud. Charlotte assumed it was for Henry, as all the post is - her husband had bribed the postman to ensure all deliveries for her were redirected to her husband first. 'Just to keep an eye on things', he had said, as if it was for her own safety.

However, as she neared the package on the floor she saw her name scrawled on the top of the brown wrapping paper. It hadn't come from the postman because there was no address on it, it had been dropped off in person. She quickly opened the front door and peered outside, but there was no one in sight.

It was a small tin box, and inside were two small items wrapped in newspaper. She unwrapped them slowly, and discovered a single scone and a small pot of blackberry jam. There was a piece of paper inside which simply had 'J' written on it.

"Oh James," she whispered.

Charlotte took it into the kitchen and sat it on the kitchen table. She hadn't been allowed a scone since she'd met Henry. He likes his women thin, bones showing and all.

'I'll just have a smell of it' she thought, and held it in her hand. It was still warm, fresh from the village bakery, and the smell trailed up her nose and down into her throat. She could almost taste it. She hadn’t eaten yet, and her small stomach grumbled, beckoning for a bite.

Charlotte decided to have a small taste of the jam. The lid popped off with ease, and she dipped in the end of her finger. It was a thick, pulpy blackberry jam, and was the sweetest thing she had tasted in years. She broke a tiny part of the scone off and dipped it into the jam - it fell apart in her mouth, crumbling into her hands as she chewed. She ripped off two other pieces and dipped each one in turn, licking her fingers after each mouthful. It was so delicious she felt like she were in heaven. 

A noise outside of a bicycle bell brought her to her senses. What was she doing? She felt sick. Sick with anticipation if Henry found out, because he always found out. Sick with so much food, sick with fear, sick with memories. She ran into the garden and threw the rest of the scone into the pond for the fish to eat, and doubled over, taking deep breaths. She'd throw away the tin, and pretend it never happened. Yes, that would be it. She'd pretend nothing had happened.

Henry sat down to his dinner at six o'clock sharp, like he does every night. There was something eerie about his wife tonight.  She was too attentive, she cut her food too many times, and she spoke more often than she was expected to.

After she had gone upstairs to bed, Henry began looking. He emptied her bag, went through the cupboards, and finally checked the bin – aha. He knew he would find something. He saw a scrunched up piece of paper with a J on it, and a tin box.

Sunday 23rd October 1948

James arrived at the committee meeting early, hoping to talk to Charlotte. She was sat in the back corner, wearing a a headscarf. She looked more disheveled than last time, and when he neared her, he saw her chin was a blackened-blue colour.

Charlotte saw him, and got up instantly to help make the tea. Lesley arrived and he had to sit down and make small talk with her.

What James found most peculiar about everything was everyone else's reaction - or rather, their lack of reaction. There she was, clearly in pain, clearly putting up with far more than she deserves, and no one batted an eyelid. It was as if this was the norm, as if Charlotte was always hurt, to the point where being bruise-free would cause more of a stir. Why was no one asking if she was OK?

"We have a unique opportunity which has arisen," said Lesley abruptly. Charlotte hurried back with the tea, and Lesley waited until there was complete silence, no chinks of teacups being stirred, until she continued. "The nearby town of Bottersby has asked if we would like to twin with them on their upcoming Christmas pantomime. I had a letter at the end of last week from their minister, a Reverend R Jones, and he assures me that their stage facilities are far bigger and more impressive than our own, and they also have more funding. They would provide a small bus to shuttle people to and from the village. 

“This means, however, that we must investigate it first. I shan't send the whole town several miles down the road if the amenities are not up to scratch. I need one of you to visit the Church and meet Reverened Jones. He has offered dinner and an overnight stay at the Antelope Hotel."

There was silence.

"Well obviously I can't go," said Lesley, as if everyone had known she would say no this. "I have far too much to do of an evening for such trivial affairs, and my knees are not what they used to be."

"Nor mine," grumbled the caretaker, clutching his umbrella tightly which everyone knew he used as a walking stick.

"Charlotte, you should go," James said, looking at her. Her stomach fluttered hearing him say her name. "I've got to tend to my father this week, he's not well."

"I'm sorry to hear that, James. That's settled then. Charlotte is to go - I'll send a letter to your husband and to the Reverend saying that you shall visit on Thursday. Now, this plaque, Mr Drew..."

Was she allowed no say at all in the matter? Surely Henry would not allow her to be out of his sight?

Monday 24th October, 1948

Henry was clutching the letter tightly in his fist as Charlotte served breakfast.

"Bottersby. I don't know many folks there," he scorned. "'oo's going with you?" he demanded.

"No-one. I am travelling alone."

"Travelling alone! Ha! It's not safe fer a woman like you to travel alone. I'll have our Bill escort you. Fer safety."

Charlotte placed Henry's food in front of him - poached eggs and two rashers of bacon, cooked until they were so crispy they cracked as he chewed. "Thank you, how kind," she replied.

Bill Hodgkiss was, by village standards, a very sinister old man. His wife was a frail woman who rarely left the cottage, and he found it gave him a right to delight on the beauty of every other woman in the village, as if he was missing out on God's fine creations. He also happened to be Henry's right hand man, reporting to him like a student, commenting on Charlotte's whereabouts at any given opportunity. Her bicycle once received a nasty puncture near the Post Office and when the Postman came out to help her fix it, Bill had reported  that 'she purposely rode into some shrapnel so she could be aided by another man and ogle at his muscles!' 

Bill was also one of the few villagers who owned a motor-car, which he kept under a large cloth at the front of his house. It was a monstrous thing which made the most awful of clunking noises, but Bill assured Charlotte 'it's as safe as Sally our dear horse.' Henry watched as Charlotte climbed into the back with her travel case and Bill sat in the front, adjusting his mirrors so he could look at her.

"Bill will pick you up at 7 tomorrow morning. Don't be late. I'm sure there's some gardening you needa' be doing tomorrow."

Charlotte dipped her head. "As you wish."

The Reverend was waiting outside the Church for her as they arrived, twenty minutes later. Bill insisted on holding her delicate hand in his sweaty palm as she climbed out of the car. He left, begrudgingly, when the Reverend approached them both.

As far as Church Halls go, Bottersby Hall was the most opulent she had ever seen. Her eyes sparkled as she stepped inside, feeling like she was entering a dance hall rather than a church hall. There was a hand-painted ceiling which had clouds and cherubs and saints, and oak floorboards lined the hall, looking as pristine as the day they had been laid. For a moment she forgot why she was there, it was as if all time had stopped. She let her imagination take hold, and pictured a grand ball taking place here, wearing her finest frock, being escorted to the centre of the hall for a dance for all to see, no longer hidden in the shadows. At first she thought of Henry being on her arm, as he should be, but the image of James came into her mind, dressed in his fine livery, and suddenly he was all she could think about. Him, and her, together, with no Henry in sight, dancing and dancing late into the night, him holding her close to his body, everyone laughing and clapping and cheering as they whirled round the room - what a happy thought that was.

"It's perfect," she said to the Reverend.

“I’m glad you think so. I’ll send the paperwork to Ms Harper first thing tomorrow.”

He made her a cup of tea in the kitchenette at the back, where they politely made small talk, and he then walked her round the village, past the school, until they reached her hotel.

Dinner was at the Antelope Hotel and she had a table reserved by the window for 7.30pm. It was strange opening her travel case in a bedroom that had no trace of Henry in it, but it made her feel remarkably empowered. This was her own little slice of heaven, and she had a solitary evening where she may do as she pleased. She decided she would savour every moment of it, because it very well may be the only one she has.

She unpacked a few of her things and laid them on the dresser – her powder, a small black and white photo of her mother when she was a young girl, and a silver hairbrush with a gilded handle. It felt like home already.

With half an hour to spare before dinner, she decided to examine herself in the mirror. The bruises were beginning to fade, as if Henry couldn’t touch her here and were merely a memory for the evening. She opened her case and reached for the few bits of make-up she owned, passed down from her mother.

She entered the small restaurant on the ground floor at exactly 7.29pm. As she was shown to her table, it caught her by surprise to see a man in a smart coat already sat there.

James stood up, pulled out the chair nearest the window and waited till she was seated before he tucked it in. 

She looked radiant, like a caged bird allowed to spread its wings, and James noticed the soft pink blusher on her cheekbones that gave her an air of elegance he had not seen since the first time he met her.

"I hope you don't mind me intruding," said James as he sat down.

She stifled a smile. "It appears I had no choice."

"I had to see you, Lottie," he said. He reached forward to take her hand in his but she withdrew it quickly.

"James, I can't. I'm a married woman."

"But you wish you weren't," he said.

"It is not for you to say what I do or do not wish."

He sat back in his chair, and his face changed. "What's happened to you, Lottie? You've changed."

Charlotte leant forward so that the other diners nearby couldn't hear her. She whispered, "I had to change, James. You left. You stopped replying to my letters! What was I to do? I didn't know if you had stopped loving me, or had met someone else, or.. god forbid, if you were dead. I had to let go, James. And I had done, until you recently appeared at the village hall!"

Their dinners were quietly placed in front of them, but neither of them made a move to eat them. The smell of hot sea bass crept up towards them, but their eyes were fixed on each other. Charlotte wasn't in the slightest bit hungry.

"How could you think I stopped loving you?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper. "There hasn't been a single day in the last four years I haven't thought about you. Not one day."

He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a small square piece of paper. When he showed it to Charlotte, she realised it was a photo of her.

"I've kept this on me ever since you gave it to me. I looked at it every night. I still do."

She felt the hairs on her arm stand up on end, a chill shiver down her spine. He loved her. After all this time, he still loved her.

They ate their meals in silence. There were so many things she wished to tell him, to ask him, but a lot of it she didn't want to know. If there was nothing that could be done, perhaps it was better not knowing.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he said, once they had finished. "You always were beautiful."

She smiled at him, and it lit up her whole face. In the few weeks he'd been back in the village, he hadn't seen her smile once. It was if she was suppressing it, not allowing herself to be happy. But this was a real smile, and it shone through her eyes. She looked dazzling.

"I have to ask," he said, breaking the silence. "Why did you ever marry Henry Marshal? I'm not saying you shouldn't have married, at all. But look how miserable you are, Lottie. I can't stand seeing you like this. You are such a beautiful, bright young woman, and here you are shut away from the world, holding your tongue like a child and being punished for trying to be yourself. Why, I'd march straight up to Henry and give him a piece of my mind, if I didn't know that he'd punish you for it, afterwards."

Charlotte gulped.

"I had to," she replied.

"I don't understand," said James.

"When my father passed away, after you'd left, he had a lot of gambling debts to his name. Debts which mother couldn't pay off. Henry paid for them, and in return, I agreed be his wife. He owns me."

James, halfway through taking a sip of his brandy, spat some of it out onto the table. "Owns you? Charlotte, you're not a slave! You can't be bought and sold like cattle!"

She shrugged her shoulders. "That’s not how he sees it."

There were a few minutes of silence, while James said nothing, but stared at Charlotte.

"Run away with me," he said.

"I can't. Henry would ma-"

"Oh forget Henry. This is about you. Your life. I can't stand to see you like this. I can make you happy."

A tear rolled down her cheek. How could he say these things to her, as if it were easy? As if she had a choice?

"I loved you, James, I truly did - and no doubt I still do - but this is my fate. I have to go."

She stood up and left the restaurant, hurrying up to her room, but James, quick on his feet, caught her on the stairs. His hand wrapped round hers, and he entwined her fingers into her small, delicate hands. She broke down in tears onto his shoulder, years of pain and guilt spilling out onto him, onto the one person she had ever loved.

He walked her up towards her bedroom, and when she finally stopped sobbing, he bent in for a kiss. She leant in slightly, so close that she could feel his hot breath on her lips, before realising what she was doing, pulling away.

“What is it? Come on Lottie, let’s have one night together. Henry will never find out. Just you and me, just like old times. What do you say?”

He reached down towards her waist, and pulled her closer to him, hearing a slight intake of breath.

“You always did amaze me, Lottie. You’re so beautiful, and yet you don’t know it. You do the strangest of things to me.” He leant into her neck and started kissing her, his hands wandering around her body.

She took a step back, and pushed him away from her.

“I can’t do this, James,” she whispered, staring at the floor.

He walked towards her and placed his hand on her cheek. In a soft voice, he said: “Of course you can – it’ll be just like old times. Remember how happy you were in my arms? I can make you that happy again tonight.”

It was very tempting, she had to admit. How hard she found to turn him down, when the lust was clearly still there between them. Some of the happiest moments of her life had been with him – would it be so wrong or so selfish to spend a night with him?

Without her permission, his left hand moved down towards her breasts, and she pulled away from him once more.

"No, James," she whispered.

"Oh come on, stop being like this. Let's go into your room."

"James, no, please." 

He took the key from her hand and unlocked the door, striding towards the foot of the bed. 

"Come here, beautiful," he said, his hand outstretched. Unwillingly, she took it, her heart thumping with excitement.

"You're mine for the evening," he said, but somehow, he didn't sound like James anymore. This wasn't the tender, caring man she had loved all those years ago. She felt like a piece of meat, like a trophy he wanted to gaze at for the evening before casting away. She couldn't give herself to him that easily after all the pain he'd caused her. He couldn't simply waltz back into her life and take her, like some cheap whore.

“I’m sorry James, I can’t do this," she said once more, this time more stern.

"Of course you can. I'll be gentle, honestly."

She began crying. "James, I can't. I’m pregnant. You need to leave."

Her eyes were glazed, wet from tears. There was no remorse in her eyes, no lack of certainty in her words. If she needed him to leave, if she thought her life would be easier without him, then so be it. 

As he left, he kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll come back for you one day, Lottie. I promise you.”

 _______________________________________________________

James Lance Glen did not keep to his word. He left the village the next day, and went back to his wife Isobel, who he had married two years previously.

Charlotte, unaware of this, named her child Henry James Marshal, and waited everyday by the letterbox for a sign that James would return. She never saw him again.