Chapter One
It wasn’t quite the first day of spring, but the air had a softness, a promise of coming warmth, that made the people in King’s Cove want to do things. Tidy up the garden, go through the sock drawer, fling open the windows to air out the house. Nothing in the splashes of sunlight stretching across the dormant gardens suggested that it was a good day to be confronted with the spectre of death.
Gwen Hughes, a woman in her fifties, who had lived in the same house since she was a child with her sister, Mabel, and their mother, Gladys, stood in the root cellar, scowling in the dim light thrown by the single electric light bulb hanging from the wood joist on the ceiling. Her gaze was directed at the wooden shelves that lined either side of the cellar. Vegetables and fruit in tall blue-green glass canning jars stood on the top shelves, and jams and jellies in small jars occupied the bottom shelf.
On the other side, wooden boxes containing root vegetables and apples were arranged along two planks that kept them above the dirt floor. A bowl of eggs sat nearest the door. There was a funny smell, and it was this that was causing Gwen to search accusingly among the jars for the culprit, the eggs having already been exonerated. No one had given the place a good going over since the previous fall, when most of what was in there had been laid away to keep the Hughes women fed over the winter.
Much to the surprise of Gwen and Mabel, it was their octogenarian mother who had suggested the purchase of a small refrigerator a couple of years earlier, but they found very little use for it besides storing milk and setting butterscotch puddings, a great favourite of hers. The rest of their provisions they kept in the root cellar, as they had for over forty years, with no difficulty at all, thank you very much.
Gwen pulled jars of runner beans forward and shone her flashlight into the dark behind them, and with a small victorious “aha!” she found carrots labelled “1944” that they had not gotten to within the year, as they ought.
“I told her,” she said out loud. She took off her woollen pullover, set it on a box of apples, and began to rearrange the jars, moving those they had canned the summer before to the back. There were four jars of carrots from 1944. Three years before. She didn’t like to waste them, but didn’t like to eat them either. One year, that was her rule.
She put them on the floor by the door and went back to her arranging. As she worked her way along the shelf, she identified one element of the smell: vinegar. At the back-most corner she saw where the difficulty lay. Part of the sod roof had fallen through the beams that made up the wood frame of the cellar and broken several jars. Pickled beans and beets and some canned carrots lay quietly mouldering on the shelf among the broken shards of glass. Feeling sheepish about how quick she was to blame her sister, she removed all the sound jars, stacked them on shelves on one side, and contemplated the damage. The glass would have to be swept up and the sod repacked. Perhaps Robin could come and reinforce the roof a bit. She knew she or Mabel could do it quite well enough, but old Robin Harris would be hurt not to be called out for this sort of thing.
Gwen pushed open the cellar door, and the family’s two cocker spaniels rushed from where they were lying at the front of the house to the top of the steps, wagging expectantly.
“Get along with you!” she said, waving her arms at them. In the mudroom she found what she was looking for: a dustpan, a small whisk broom, and a pair of leather gardening gloves.
“Mabel,” she called into the kitchen, “the bloody roof has sunk on the back side of the root cellar and broken some jars. You didn’t notice it, I don’t suppose, last time you were in there?”
Mabel looked up from where she was kneading bread. “And I suppose if I had, I would have left it like that for someone else to clean up,” she said. “And mind the eggs when you’re in there. I put them up on the left next to the potatoes.”
“And I found four jars of carrots from nearly three years ago. I thought we agreed we had to get to the vegetables within the year. I don’t know why you bother canning carrots, anyway. We have a whole box of them. They’re a root vegetable. They keep perfectly well. God knows what other horrors I’ll find in there,” Gwen countered. “I’m going to sweep up the glass and the rotting vegetables, but Robin is going to have to come up and have a look. Can you telephone him?”
Mabel turned the mass of dough into a basin, threw a dishcloth over it, and wiped her hands on her apron. She did the baking and Gwen handled the contents of the cellar. “I heard him and his noisy tractor at the upper orchard not twenty minutes ago.” She pulled on a sweater and sat on the bench in the mudroom to thrust her wool-stockinged feet into her wellington boots. “I’ll go up and see if he’ll come look at it. Mother’s napping. You can give the carrots to the pigs.” She pushed open the screen door and called, “Come on you two!” to the dogs, and set off across the garden toward the orchard.
Gwen watched her sister and the dogs disappearing into the orchard, and breathed in. It was early March, and the world was beginning to wake up. There had been four fine days in a row, and the furrows left by Robin’s tractor in the ground, muddy from the early spring rains, were nearly dry. A few chives poked out of the soil in the herb garden, and the vegetable garden wanted turning over to ready it for the aged manure they had collected from the two pigs and the chickens.
She pushed open the door to the root cellar, propped it with a box of apples, and got to work. She had an old apple basket, which she perched on the shelf below the mess, and began to sweep the dirt, mouldy food, and glass into it. She would decide later whether to rescue the lids or throw the whole lot onto the dump. When she was reasonably sure of there being no glass, she reached into the back for what looked like a large, unbroken chunk of sod, but when she tried to move it she saw that it was a sizeable rock.
No wonder the jars had broken! With both hands she slid the rock toward her and could see the gaping hollow it had left in the dirt ceiling. She felt in her trouser pockets for her flashlight and shone it into the space between the beams.
Robin could put an extra joist in there. A cascade of soil fell into the beam of light. Gwen, peering closely with her flashlight, felt a sudden wave of horror sweep through her, and she stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth.
Because she could see, soil encrusted and stained the colour of dark tea, some delicate bones, shreds of some decaying cloth clinging to them. It took a moment to hit home, but when it did, she blanched and felt herself stagger uncertainly, clutching the shelves for balance. The bones were most certainly human.
Excerpted from An Old, Cold Grave (TouchWood Editions, 2017).
Gwen Hughes, a woman in her fifties, who had lived in the same house since she was a child with her sister, Mabel, and their mother, Gladys, stood in the root cellar, scowling in the dim light thrown by the single electric light bulb hanging from the wood joist on the ceiling. Her gaze was directed at the wooden shelves that lined either side of the cellar. Vegetables and fruit in tall blue-green glass canning jars stood on the top shelves, and jams and jellies in small jars occupied the bottom shelf.
On the other side, wooden boxes containing root vegetables and apples were arranged along two planks that kept them above the dirt floor. A bowl of eggs sat nearest the door. There was a funny smell, and it was this that was causing Gwen to search accusingly among the jars for the culprit, the eggs having already been exonerated. No one had given the place a good going over since the previous fall, when most of what was in there had been laid away to keep the Hughes women fed over the winter.
Much to the surprise of Gwen and Mabel, it was their octogenarian mother who had suggested the purchase of a small refrigerator a couple of years earlier, but they found very little use for it besides storing milk and setting butterscotch puddings, a great favourite of hers. The rest of their provisions they kept in the root cellar, as they had for over forty years, with no difficulty at all, thank you very much.
Gwen pulled jars of runner beans forward and shone her flashlight into the dark behind them, and with a small victorious “aha!” she found carrots labelled “1944” that they had not gotten to within the year, as they ought.
“I told her,” she said out loud. She took off her woollen pullover, set it on a box of apples, and began to rearrange the jars, moving those they had canned the summer before to the back. There were four jars of carrots from 1944. Three years before. She didn’t like to waste them, but didn’t like to eat them either. One year, that was her rule.
She put them on the floor by the door and went back to her arranging. As she worked her way along the shelf, she identified one element of the smell: vinegar. At the back-most corner she saw where the difficulty lay. Part of the sod roof had fallen through the beams that made up the wood frame of the cellar and broken several jars. Pickled beans and beets and some canned carrots lay quietly mouldering on the shelf among the broken shards of glass. Feeling sheepish about how quick she was to blame her sister, she removed all the sound jars, stacked them on shelves on one side, and contemplated the damage. The glass would have to be swept up and the sod repacked. Perhaps Robin could come and reinforce the roof a bit. She knew she or Mabel could do it quite well enough, but old Robin Harris would be hurt not to be called out for this sort of thing.
Gwen pushed open the cellar door, and the family’s two cocker spaniels rushed from where they were lying at the front of the house to the top of the steps, wagging expectantly.
“Get along with you!” she said, waving her arms at them. In the mudroom she found what she was looking for: a dustpan, a small whisk broom, and a pair of leather gardening gloves.
“Mabel,” she called into the kitchen, “the bloody roof has sunk on the back side of the root cellar and broken some jars. You didn’t notice it, I don’t suppose, last time you were in there?”
Mabel looked up from where she was kneading bread. “And I suppose if I had, I would have left it like that for someone else to clean up,” she said. “And mind the eggs when you’re in there. I put them up on the left next to the potatoes.”
“And I found four jars of carrots from nearly three years ago. I thought we agreed we had to get to the vegetables within the year. I don’t know why you bother canning carrots, anyway. We have a whole box of them. They’re a root vegetable. They keep perfectly well. God knows what other horrors I’ll find in there,” Gwen countered. “I’m going to sweep up the glass and the rotting vegetables, but Robin is going to have to come up and have a look. Can you telephone him?”
Mabel turned the mass of dough into a basin, threw a dishcloth over it, and wiped her hands on her apron. She did the baking and Gwen handled the contents of the cellar. “I heard him and his noisy tractor at the upper orchard not twenty minutes ago.” She pulled on a sweater and sat on the bench in the mudroom to thrust her wool-stockinged feet into her wellington boots. “I’ll go up and see if he’ll come look at it. Mother’s napping. You can give the carrots to the pigs.” She pushed open the screen door and called, “Come on you two!” to the dogs, and set off across the garden toward the orchard.
Gwen watched her sister and the dogs disappearing into the orchard, and breathed in. It was early March, and the world was beginning to wake up. There had been four fine days in a row, and the furrows left by Robin’s tractor in the ground, muddy from the early spring rains, were nearly dry. A few chives poked out of the soil in the herb garden, and the vegetable garden wanted turning over to ready it for the aged manure they had collected from the two pigs and the chickens.
She pushed open the door to the root cellar, propped it with a box of apples, and got to work. She had an old apple basket, which she perched on the shelf below the mess, and began to sweep the dirt, mouldy food, and glass into it. She would decide later whether to rescue the lids or throw the whole lot onto the dump. When she was reasonably sure of there being no glass, she reached into the back for what looked like a large, unbroken chunk of sod, but when she tried to move it she saw that it was a sizeable rock.
No wonder the jars had broken! With both hands she slid the rock toward her and could see the gaping hollow it had left in the dirt ceiling. She felt in her trouser pockets for her flashlight and shone it into the space between the beams.
Robin could put an extra joist in there. A cascade of soil fell into the beam of light. Gwen, peering closely with her flashlight, felt a sudden wave of horror sweep through her, and she stepped back, her hand flying to her mouth.
Because she could see, soil encrusted and stained the colour of dark tea, some delicate bones, shreds of some decaying cloth clinging to them. It took a moment to hit home, but when it did, she blanched and felt herself stagger uncertainly, clutching the shelves for balance. The bones were most certainly human.
Excerpted from An Old, Cold Grave (TouchWood Editions, 2017).
