Changing Grace Read online

  ********

  Grace ran her finger nervously around the rim of the glass. Her friend sat beside her, perched on the edge of the settee, lazily balancing the bowl of the glass between her fingers.

  “This is highly irregular. I don’t usually have other people sit in on a reading,” said the thin, wrinkled lady who had seated herself on the only single chair in the room.

  “Anything you have to say to Grace you can say to both of us,” said Kate firmly.

  The elderly lady raised her eyebrows at Grace.

  “I want her to stay,” Grace said to the medium.

  “As you wish, but I can’t be sure of an accurate session. It’s going to throw the vibes right out, you both being here.”

  “We’re willing to risk it,” Kate said, irritated with the old lady’s complaints.

  The medium pursed her lips and a thin line of disapproval spread over her face. “Highly irregular this is, and don’t you be coming to me later complaining the reading was wrong.”

  “We won’t,” both ladies chimed together.

  “First grease the palm of an old lady’s hand,” she said, stretching out her hand. Grace reached for her handbag and ferreted clumsily for her purse, but Kate beat her to it, placing two twenty pound notes into the upturned hand.

  “There you are old lady, now tell us what you can see,” Kate said, moving back onto the settee beside her friend.

  The medium stared at Grace, her eyes shifty and dark. Grace blinked and looked away. The old lady’s searching eyes made her feel uncomfortable. A tension fell over the room as the medium continued to stare at Grace. Enough now, she thought to herself as the minutes passed and the woman’s eyes remained fixed on her face.

  “Can you see anything,” an impatient Kate asked.

  The old woman ignored her.

  Irritated, Grace stood up.

  “This is nonsense, I’ve had enough.”

  “Sit down,” the medium said in a stern tone.

  Grace did as she was told and sat down but wondered why she had. She felt like an animal in an experimental laboratory. She turned her head to her friend and raised her eyebrows.

  “If you insist on moving all the time I won’t be able to do my job. The sooner you sit still the sooner I will be done.”

  Grace obliged and turned to face the woman.

  “You don’t belong here,” the old lady said abruptly. Grace drew a sharp breath. How could this woman know she had left Jack?

  “You are married but not to the one whose ring marks your finger.”

  Instinctively Grace looked towards her left hand, fearful that she still wore her wedding ring, but she had left it on Jack’s bedside table. Her fingers were bare.

  “What do you mean?” Kate asked.

  The medium ignored her question again, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

  “I told you this wouldn’t work, not with two of you here. This isn’t right, it's all wrong.”

  “Just tell us what you can see,” Grace blurted in frustration.

  “I can see you in your lover’s arms, but ... beyond that... I’m sorry...”

  “Sorry for what?” shouted Kate, “what is going to happen?”

  “She will not exist, is no more... that is what ... she is going to die,” the old lady said, clasping her trembling hands together.

  Both girls stared in shocked silence at the old woman as she stuffed the twenty pound notes into her bra and rose unsteadily from the chair.

  “Don’t call me again until you are prepared to have individual readings,” she said, making her way to the door. Without so much as a goodbye she opened the door and disappeared through it.

  Grace lifted her glass to her mouth and drained the content.

  “What the hell was that all about?” she asked, turning white-faced towards Kate.

  “I am so sorry, Grace. I can’t imagine what Harry was thinking getting you to see her. If I had known she was a nutcase I would never have gone along with it. Take no notice of her, Grace. It was rubbish, all of it. You said yourself you don’t believe in all this.”

  Grace rubbed her forehead. She felt emotionally exhausted and engulfed by an ache that filled her whole body with a deep sense of foreboding.

  “Kate I think it’s time I went home. It’s getting late and I’ll never be up in the morning if I don’t get to bed soon.”

  Her friend rested her hand gently on her shoulder. “Take the day off, Grace. We are on top of things; I will manage just fine tomorrow.”

  ********

  The moon glistened like a giant ball of crystal in the night sky, illuminating the ancient city as she traced her steps back to her hotel. The hotel manager was sitting at the reception desk, still reading his crime thriller. Grace nodded and smiled politely. His eyes peeped over the top of the book; she didn’t need to see his mouth to know it held a smile.

  “Good evening, Mrs Evans?”

  She had hoped he wouldn’t engage her in conversation but, now that he had, she found the sound of his voice reassuring.

  “Yes thank you. How’s your book?”

  “Oh it’s very good.”

  “Great things, books. I don’t know what I would do without them,” Grace said, thinking as she did how utterly lost she would be without her books.

  “That they are. The missus used to say they kept me out of trouble,” he said with a gentle laugh.

  The sound of his laughter lifted her spirits and she felt a smile creep on to her lips.

  “Good night, George. Enjoy the rest of your story,” she said, heading for the stairs that would take her to her room.

  “Night Mrs Evans.”

  ********

  Back in her room she enjoyed a warm shower and a cup of coffee before sliding into bed. Too tired even to read, she kissed the photograph of her daughter and let her head fall heavily onto the pillow. The room was dark save for a tiny thread of moonlight which beamed through a gap in the curtains.

  She lay staring at the light, replaying the words of the medium in her mind. What possessed the woman to say a thing like that she had no idea. If she had been trying to scare her, she had done a good job, but even as paranormal entertainment, Grace felt the old lady had gone too far.

  As for Harry, she couldn’t work out what he was trying to do. The man had seemed so kind, so eager to help her. It was all starting to look a lot like an old man getting his jollies by playing with other people’s minds. Grace had been here before, experienced firsthand the fear and confusion mind games caused. Jack was a master of them. He had frequently twisted reality to play with her mind. Did she wear a sign with the word ‘Mug’ on her forehead? Was it just a fact of life that some people were born to provide entertainment for others? She didn’t know, but as the hazy fog of sleep swept over her she decided that she would use her day off to find out once and for all who this Robert Hamilton was and what Harry and Kate were up to.

  ********

  She walked through a heavy dusk. Flakes of falling snow blew into her face. She lifted her hand to brush them away but there were too many. Her path ahead was clouded with a thick floating curtain of white. Gradually the dusk became evening and the city glowed an unearthly orange as each snowflake shone in the street lights. Her body surged forward, driven by a mixture of fear and excitement.

  She had to find him because her life depended on it. She searched the faces of the people around her, she checked down each tiny alley, every nook and cranny but he was nowhere to be found. The snow fell heavier and the pavements became covered until each step was laboured.

  Why hadn’t he come to her? Every other night, he had come, but tonight when she needed him the most he had left her to search alone for him. As dusk became dawn she plunged through the bitter wall of snow and fog. The air pierced her skin like a blade, her feet and hands numbed as darkness descended.

  ********

  Her eyes sprang open and she stared at the ceiling, gasping for breath. Her heart pounded and her h
ands trembled. She was alive but she hadn’t expected to be. There was an icy chill in the room which told her that either the radiator wasn’t working or someone had turned it down.

  She sat up slowly, pulling the duvet high under her chin to ward off the cold. She had slept late, later than she had in years. She slid out of bed and headed for the kettle. How much had she drunk at Kate’s last night? Too much judging by the way she felt this morning. Her dream, the medium, they had all merged together into one muddled memory.

  She poured her coffee and swallowed a painkiller with her first sip of the hot black liquid. Still trembling, she made her way back to bed. Never had she been so grateful for a chance to go back to bed. Her stomach churned and every movement brought her closer to being sick. Her head sank gratefully into the softness of the pillow and she closed her eyes tightly against the bright morning light.

  She watched him as he removed his cufflinks and placed them neatly on the table beside the bed. He removed his shirt and dropped it on the chair beside him. His movements were laboured and slow, his face drawn and tired. Her eyes travelled over him as he reached for a towel and rubbed it over his hair. Only then did she realise that he was wet. Suddenly he stopped and lifted his head toward her.

  “Come here?” he whispered.

  She slid across the bed towards him. The powerful muscles of his arms holding her tightly against him, she clung on to him so hard that she struggle to breathe. Her heart pounded against him as great rivers of tears flowed from her eyes.

  “Help me, please? I don’t know what to do.”

  “Have faith my dearest Grace, for I will come for you. As sure as the dusk that will fall tonight, I will find you.”

  Feeling infinitely better for her sleep, Grace showered and set out in search of some much needed food. A bowl of pasta later and she felt ready to face the world again. Her plans for the afternoon included a trip to York Castle Museum. She didn’t know why, only that it seemed a good idea. Life had become so complicated that reason and logic were long since forgotten.

  The museum was mercifully quiet as Grace made her way slowly past each exhibit. She savoured each one, trying to read as many of the information plaques as she could but the afternoon drew quickly to an end and the time fast approached when the museum would shut. She made her way quickly to the seventeenth century exhibits and displays. Most of the information was fairly generic but she scanned it all, eager not to miss anything. She was drawn to a small display cabinet tucked in the corner of the museum. It held a few items, none of which looked terribly unique or particularly interesting except for a pair of lady’s shoes which caught her eyes. They looked old but their design was modern. They might be four hundred years old but I wouldn’t mind a pair of shoes like that, she thought to herself. Curious about their origin she searched the cabinet for the appropriate information tag.

  ‘A pair of seventeenth century shoes worn by Grace Hamilton, wife of Robert Hamilton.’

  She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. Instinct told her to run. She felt exposed and afraid that someone would know who she was. Breathing deeply she told herself that she was being silly. No one was going to believe the ridiculous notion that she was Robert Hamilton’s wife. The man had lived four hundred years ago. His wife was dead and buried alongside him. The thought made her stomach lurch, fear rippled up her spine and the memory of the headstone with the missing inscription burned in her eyes. She rubbed her forehead thoughtfully, wondering if there might be more information on Robert Hamilton in the museum. Her search was quickly rewarded. A pewter mug stood proudly in a display labelled ‘Pubs of York’.

  ‘A pewter mug, believed to have belonged to Robert Hamilton.’

  She ran her fingers over the glass of the cabinet, tracing a slow line around the mug. She pictured his broad hand wrapped around the handle; his lips as the rim touched his mouth. She ached to touch him; to have him take her in his arms, as he had in her dream. But the ancient mug was a pitiful reminder that the man was long since dead and that her mental stability was very much in question.

  She had read about people whose minds created their own reality. Could she be imagining all this? Were Harry and Kate even real? Did that information card really have her name on it? She guessed that it was perfectly possible that she had had a breakdown of some sort after arriving in York. Perhaps this was her mind’s way of coping and none of this was real. She had to admit that the idea of a fabricated reality made more sense than anything else she had come up with. Grace shook her head in frustration. She wasn’t sure she cared too much anymore. If she were indeed going insane then she wasn’t about to die. Her dreams of Robert Hamilton were exquisite. She longed for the light they brought to her life, the happiness she felt when she was in them. The only thing that was destroying her life was her attempt to make sense of it all.

  Grace completed her tour of the museum in considerably better spirits than she had started it. Relenting to her madness had proved liberating and she embraced every mention of Robert Hamilton, allowing her heart to leap with excitement with each new discovery about him.

  She learnt that he was born in York and that he had two brothers and one sister and that one of his brother’s descendents still lived in York. She wasn’t surprised to discover that the descendent owned the same post house that Robert had. Of course, it was Harry. Her mind connected the dots and, as it did, her spirits lifted. Life had become a lot easier since she had ceased to question her sanity.

  She didn’t care if Harry or Kate were real; she had no idea whether her job was real or imagined or if she was even in York. Regardless, she decided it would be rude not to tell Kate that she wouldn’t be going into work in the morning. She knew it was a liberty to take another day off so soon after starting. But what did it matter if the job didn’t exist in the first place? She planned to spend tomorrow in the library where she intended to do further research on her Mr Hamilton.

  Back in her hotel room Grace reached across the desk and lifted the portrait off the wall.

  “Right, Robert Hamilton. Time to have a good look at you.”

  She rested the portrait face up on the bed. It looked no different to the hundreds of other times she had stared at it over the past few days. A smile curled along her lips as she ran her finger gently over his wide square jaw. He was a handsome man, no wonder she had fallen so hopelessly in love with him. She saw the twinkle in his eyes as they smiled back at her and she sighed softly to herself. Soon she would sleep and then he would come to her again and she would cling to the dream as sure as if it were reality.

  Lifting the portrait to the light she examined the frame. Even after so many years the gold leaf shone through. She turned it to the side and noticed some writing on the back of the canvas. Curious, she put the portrait back on the bed, face down. The writing was faded and difficult to make out so she reached for the bedside table lamp and brought it closer to the words.

  “Dear Grace,” it began. She recognised her own handwriting immediately. She had no memory of having taken this portrait off the wall and she certainly didn’t recall ever writing on it. Confused and frightened she continued to read.

  “Dear Grace,” she began again. “I know that you think you are insane, unstable and deranged and I also know that you won’t believe this when I tell you that you’re none of these things. You are having what you will know as a breakdown, but you will be alright in time with Robert’s love and care.

  “Today you went to the York Castle Museum. You found a pair of shoes that Robert will make for you. Trust me; they are even more beautiful new. Harry is real and so is Kate. They are your friends, Grace. They won’t hurt you.

  “I want you to go the shops tomorrow and buy the largest backpack you can find. Try a good camping shop, you should find something suitable there. Then get yourself a good penknife, a lighter and a bottle of gas, a box of candles, some ball point pens, a small sewing box, four hundred painkillers, (you will have to visit several chemists to get
these), antiseptic cream, vitamin tablets, a couple of packs of knickers (they just don’t have such things here and boy do you miss them when you don’t have them), a block of chocolate, sugar cubes and granulated coffee. See if you can find two hot water bottles. Oh and buy yourself some of those nice fleecy jim jams as well.

  “Grace I also need you to go and see Harry. Tell him to lift the floorboards in the small room next to the kitchen.

  “And you need to tell Kate to open the bottom draw of the desk. It has a false bottom to it. Tell her to look underneath it.

  “And Grace, don’t go and see the doctor.

  “With much love from beyond time,

  Grace Hamilton.”

  Grace stared at the writing in front of her, wondering how to cover up what she had done. Her heart pounded with the fear of discovery. What if George found this? She had defaced a four hundred year old portrait and didn’t have the slightest memory of doing it.

  Panicked, she lifted the frame and returned it to its place on the wall above the desk. She was going to have to register with a doctor; there was nothing else for it.

  First thing tomorrow, she promised herself that she would find some help. As she slid in between the crisp white duvet and the cotton sheet she wondered where the doctors would send her. She couldn’t possibly be allowed to roam the streets in this condition. She was a danger to herself and everyone around her.

  For the first time since she had left Jack, Grace fumbled in her bag for the anti-depressant tablets her doctor had prescribed. She popped the tiny tablet into her mouth knowing Robert would not come to her that night and she was right. He didn’t.