Lady
of the water
On that day, the torrents arrived without
warning, causing ditches to rise and many of the tiny country roads to become
impassable. Rain flung itself like knives at the cloudy windows, hammering down
on the old Police station as though it was building a new roof. The wind
whipped and howled, rattling the old metal window frames and punishing the
ancient brass door knocker until it finally crashed onto the doorstep; it’s
ringing reverberating beneath the stone floor. The winter darkness closed in at
four which made storms like these seem endless.
I’d expected rain in that part of the world but had no idea how
dramatically and relentlessly it could fall. My journey to these remote parts
had been a long and arduous one, including a new career move; but I was
determined to leave the past behind me and make a new start. I was really
looking forward to retreating to my little rented cottage at the end of my
shift. As isolated and lonely as it was, I knew I could sit comfortably with my
Kindle before the reassuring wood burner.
At precisely five o’clock, the old station door suddenly flew
open, allowing in a deluge of water, born on the wind, which saturated the
lobby. A woman appeared from the darkness in a shiny black oil-skin raincoat,
wearing a matching southwester hat and red wellington boots. She marched over
to the reception desk and stood directly in front of me, her drumming finger
nails on the wood sounding like raindrops. Just behind her appeared a scruffy
old Airedale terrier who, after a vigorous shuddering, succeeded in shaking a
shower of rain droplets from its coarse curly coat, before sitting quietly by
the door.
“I’m having trouble with my front door key,” she said. “It doesn’t
work in the lock.”
I opened the case book in front of me and started to write the
date, asking politely for her address and other details.
“Look, isn’t there a male on duty here as I’m not sure a female is
quite up to this task?” she said impatiently. “I’m obviously locked out of my
home and my husband isn’t due back tonight. Tula and I have been walking for
hours and both of us need a hot bath … can’t someone just come and open the
door for me?”
She glared at me before ripping off her hat to allow her long
amber hair to cascade across her wet coat and shiver down her back. Her
features were refined, with porcelain skin and the darkest of sea green eyes.
She could have just stepped out of a John Waterhouse painting.
“Of course,” I answered nervously, as any green-horn would. “I
just need to take a few details first, madam.”
She groaned and gazed impatiently up at the ceiling, crossing her
arms in an exaggerated sulk. I thought it strange that there were still strands
of liquid trickling down her forehead like worms and that water was seeping
from inside her raincoat onto the floor. Clearly not wearing fully protective
rainwear I observed self-righteously.
I quickly jotted down as much information as I could extract from
her … Delores O’Brien … without angering her any further. I then retrieved our
lock equipment whilst quickly heaving on my waterproof boots. I shouted out for
Mavis, the telephonist, to man the desk until my return. As usual Mavis was
filing her nails with the phone glued to her ear, whilst having a conversation
with her husband about what he’d like for tea.
The dog jumped quickly onto the rear seat of the car whilst
Delores slid into the passenger seat. Her perfume was unusual; a combination of
sweet musk and countryside heather.
I was still a novice to the country roads and, despite the rain
having suddenly ceased, found it difficult to navigate through flooded tree
laden lanes in the dark, especially as the car windows were misted with dog
breath. I increased the heater blowing system to high, but Delores
sarcastically suggested I’d do better to put my blue light on to guide the way.
“You’re new here, aren’t you?” Delores asked, without looking at
me.
I nodded and told her I’d recently moved from the city to start
this new job; in truth, I needed to restart my life.
“A man, I suspect,” she detected sourly. “Why else would a pretty
young thing like you come to this god forsaken place!”
Ahead we could see Pump Cottage, which was built in flint and had
tiny lattice windows peeping shyly over a neat privet hedge.
“Well, there are some lights on!” I said optimistically.
As the car pulled up to the gate, Delores’ head suddenly jerked
toward me as she grabbed my arm, gripping it tightly. Her deep green eyes
focused intently on mine.
“Run, Jenny,” she
whispered, her face erupting into a deep frown. “Get away from this village as
quickly as you can … it’s a frightful place and you’ll be as good as dead if
you stay here.”
I felt like a rabbit startled by headlights. Embarrassed, I stared
at the floor where a pool of water was welling up in the footwell around Delores’
red wellington boots. She released her grip and continued looking straight ahead
again. After a confused silence, I grabbed my lock equipment and headed for the
front door, prompting the security lantern to flick on.
As any good bobby would, I rang the doorbell first before fiddling
with the lock. My heart skipped into my mouth when the door suddenly flung open
and a small blonde woman with rosy apple cheeks appeared. She looked at me
puzzled; then looked beyond me towards the car.
“Oh, thank you officer … you’ve bought Tula home!” she said
cheerfully.
The little dog, now almost dry from the aggressive car heating
system, trotted arthritically past the woman and into the welcoming warmth of
the cosy cottage.
“She’s been gone for days this time, poor lamb. I’ve no idea where
she goes, but at least she returns to her home eventually.”
“But there’s this woman …,” I began, gesturing back to the car;
but Delores had disappeared from the
passenger seat.
“I must give her a warm bath,” the woman went on. “Thank you so
much again, PC Davies,” she added sweetly, scrutinising my badge under the
porch light. She gently but firmly closed the door, leaving me standing
bewildered on the door step.
The car was still fragranced with Delores’ perfume but there was
no sign of her, just a pool of water in the footwell where she’d previously
sat. I searched the front garden and a nearby copse with my flashlight, calling
her name into the wind; but there came no response.
By the time I got back to the station it was well after six and
Amanda from the night shift had taken Mavis’ place at the desk. She’d been
reading my notes.
“So, it was Delores, was it then?” she said with a grin.
Before I could answer she suggested I sit down and take a few deep
breaths.
“You look very pale, Jenny,” she said.
For no apparent reason my body began to shiver and shake, and my
teeth started to chatter loudly.
“I’ll put the kettle on my dear,” she said, pushing me down into
the seat and patting her hand on my shoulder.
As the kettle began to purr, Amanda began to relate a story which
still confuses me to this day.
“Delores was a city girl like you Jenny,” Amanda began. “Her husband
‘dumped’ her in a country cottage when she became pregnant. He had no time for
her really. She was so lonely, poor girl … missed all the hustle and bustle of
the city you see and sadly none of her so-called friends ever bothered to visit
her. She wasn’t interested in making any new friends here of course; we were
beneath her, you understand.”
She proceeded to make a jug of coffee and landed two mugs on the
table.
“The one thing she did like about this place though, were the long
country walks. Yes, her and her little dog, Tula, were often seen trekking in
remote places – she was an artist you see; funny lot they are!”
I clutched the steaming brew, feeling the warmth bite at my cold
palms.
“Apparently, she’d sometimes walk all day long … loneliness can do
that to a person, you know. She didn’t seem at all excited about having a baby
either.”
“What happened to the baby?” I asked, burning my tongue on the
scorching liquid.
“It died with her I’m afraid.”
It took a long time for those words to sink in. I suddenly felt
light-headed as the events of the evening began to spin around in my head.
“Apparently she was walking around one of the deep quarries,” went
on Amanda, sipping her coffee. “When a violent squall came over and they think
she was swept in. But talk has it,” her voice lowered to a whisper, “that she’d
tried to take her own life many times before, poor dear.”
A vision popped into my head of the sad, pregnant Delores sinking
gently into a deep pool, her auburn hair
floating briefly like a lily on a pond.
“Tula spends most of her days in the churchyard lying on her
grave. Obviously, Frances has been very kind to the little dog and adopted her
when she bought Pump Cottage; but Tula still pines for her Delores.”
We finished our coffee in silence. Although I’d stopped shaking, I
felt freezing cold deep into my bones and totally bewildered.
“So, what you’re basically saying then, is that I’ve just met a ghost?” I said as everything began to sink
in. “How many others have seen Delores?”
“A few people say they have seen the woman with beautiful red hair
over the years, but no one has ever spoken with her. It seems that not everybody
can see her. They usually only notice the dog; you’re obviously a sensitive
soul … or psychic maybe? Every October fourteenth on the anniversary of
Delores’ death, little Tula turns up at the station door, just like she’s done
for the past five years and whoever is on duty returns her to Pump Cottage at
the end of their shift. I’ve never seen Delores myself, but there are many
stories about her around here.”
“But one more question Mandy … how did Delores know my name?”
She paused for a moment, seeming puzzled.
“Easy dear … she saw your name badge!”
But when I glanced down, my badge just said PC J Davies … no
mention of Jenny.
I did leave the village eighteen months later. I only stayed on in
the hope that I’d meet poor Delores again, but it never happened. When out and
about doing my duties, I occasionally visited her abandoned grave and, as
usual, little Tula lay curled up there, barely visible amongst the long unkempt
grass.
However, on the next October fourteenth, I’d ensured I was on duty
again. At about five o’clock there was a strange scratching noise at the door.
I opened it anxiously, allowing a sudden gush of wind into the station. It was
thick with the fragrance of Delores’ perfume but there was no sign of her. Then
in from the blackness trotted Tula and the fragrance gradually faded. At the
end of my shift, somewhat disappointed, I dutifully returned Tula into Frances’
safe hands at Pump Cottage.
I moved back to the city and became part of the Metropolitan
police force. I didn’t miss the bleakness of the landscape, nor the recurrent
gunmetal skies. I met my soul mate, Andrew, and we married within a year. It
was a busy life and I’d almost forgotten about my ghostly experience, when a
flyer came into the station with the normal influx of mail. I snatched it off
my assistant’s desk and a tingle of excitement whizzed down my spine … it was a
photograph of the lovely Delores. I took it home that evening to show Andy, who
I felt had never quite believed my eerie little story. There was an exhibition
of her paintings at a gallery nearby and I dragged my dubious spouse along to
see it that weekend.
I was mesmerised by Delores’ rich dark oil paintings. You could
track the course of her life from her busy London high society life with
elegant parties, where her paintings depicted women holding cocktails and
cigarette holders, to her confinement in the bleak countryside of North Wales.
There was one particular painting in her collection, a bright
water colour that immediately brought tears to my eyes. It was of Pump Cottage,
where her key wouldn’t work in the door that day. The front garden was full of
summer blooms and an abundantly flowering deep pink rose climbed in an arch
over the doorway. In the garden was an old Silver Cross style pram and beside
the handles sat Tula, upright and protective on a little wooden stool.
My hands instinctively went
to my belly and I cradled my small bump as I realised that, if it hadn’t been
for dear Delores’ haunting visit, I’d still be stuck in that god forsaken
place.
About the Author
Jeanne Davies
has always enjoyed writing fiction and her children grew up with ad-lib stories
(sometimes
scary!) at bedtime. In recent years more and more of her short stories have
been published in anthologies, including some award-winning flash fiction and
even poetry. One of her stories was recently included in an anthology published
in the USA, with another being taken for their next publication.
