Dr Gladys Lake had meant well, but then she allowed them to torture her; Mavis Williams had meant well, but she expected her to let men use her body; Stephanie Chalmers had meant well, but her husband had used her.
She hoped that Beatrice Castle meant well, or…
‘Call me Beaty, everyone else does,’ the old lady said.
‘Call me Cathy.’
A cat had climbed up on to Charlotte Hamilton’s lap. It purred. Charlotte felt calm. She had had a cat as a child, but her brother had teased it, and then one day it had been run over by a car. She remembered her mother picking it up and placing it in a hole in the ground, next to the roses. ‘It’s the best place for him,’ she had said.
Charlotte remembered that day well enough. She had made a cross out of two small branches that had fallen from a tree in the garden. Each day for a week, she visited the grave and placed a few flowers on it. Her brother had said she was crazy, and it was only a dumb animal and it had deserved to die. She knew from that day that she hated him.
It had been easy to hate him, to hate a lot of people, but she could not hate Beaty or her cat. She did not know why, but it was a good feeling; the best for a long time.
Charlotte could see that she had been running forever. First from her parents, and then from her doctor, and then from Mavis Williams and all those men. Gregory Chalmers had shown her love, real love, not just a drunken screw, but he had disappointed her. With Beaty and her cat, she could forgive him. She thought he had died, something to do with her, but her mind seemed unable to focus on negativity.
‘How long are you staying?’ Beaty asked. Charlotte had found the small cottage online.
‘As long as I can.’
‘Then I will make sure you have a special rate.’
Beaty showed Charlotte to her room. It was delightful, with a view overlooking the back garden. There was a small stream at the far end, and the sound of it lulled her to sleep at night. Occasionally Felix, the cat, would come in and curl up on the bottom of the bed.
The room, with its floral wallpaper, the morning sun streaming in through the bay window, the homely touches, reminded Charlotte of her childhood. She realised that for the first time in many years she was happy, and the negative thoughts that had plagued her had vanished.
She reflected on her life, and she could only remember the good; the bad, whatever it was, had recessed back into her subconscious.
Three years passed in an instant. A job in the local library, even a boyfriend, but it had not lasted long. For whatever reason, an over-amorous man only complicated her life, and all she wanted was simplicity. She had remembered her parents soon after arriving in the small town, and on Beaty’s insistence, she had phoned them.
It had been a short conversation, but Charlotte had been pleased to hear their voices, aware that she could not return to the family home. She did not know why, but it was something serious; she was sure of that. Her parents had been pleasant, but distant; not once offering to come down and visit her, not that she wanted to see them, but it would have shown the love of parents for their child. Their child who had been lost for so many years, but had returned.
It had been Beaty who helped her integrate into the town, and Charlotte grew to love her.
She realised that the medication she carried with her was not needed, and she rarely took it. She threw it in a dustbin.
It had been good with Beaty and the cat but it had ended, badly as always. The cat had strolled out into the lane at the front of the house. Charlotte had warned Beaty how dangerous it was.
‘Don’t worry, there’s no traffic. Felix will be alright.’
The cat did not see the delivery van, or if he did, he was too slow. The driver had not seen the cat, not that he was looking, as he was running late.
‘You killed him,’ Charlotte shouted.
‘Not my fault,’ the driver bellowed back from the safety of the vehicle. Charlotte moved her hand to the bag she carried, realised it only contained the day’s groceries.
The vehicle hurtled off and was out of sight within twenty seconds.
Charlotte picked up the dead animal and carried it back to the house.
‘Felix, Felix, what’s happened?’ Beaty screamed.
‘A van hit him.’
Beaty clutched her chest and fell forward. Charlotte phoned for an ambulance. It arrived too late.
Charlotte buried the cat in the garden, put some flowers on the grave, made a small cross and left for the railway station. Her memories had come flooding back.
She knew what she had to do.
***
The Duke of York in Dering Street looked suitable. Charlotte took a seat close to the bar. A man soon joined her. He was a banker, or at least he said he was. Not that it concerned Charlotte as she had no need of his financial advice, no need of a mortgage, and besides, if she wanted a house, there was one up in Newcastle. At least, once she had removed its two inhabitants.
‘Can I buy you a drink? the banker asked. Charlotte had to admit that he was not a bad-looking man.
‘Vodka and Lime.’
Charlotte knew that he was checking the goods on display. She had worn a thick coat and jeans to the pub but changed into a V-necked top and a short skirt on arrival. She knew that she looked cheap.
