Doctor Morgan Black’s return to Monksford went entirely unnoticed, at first. Although, in time, it would change everything. The driver who brought him from Newton station didn’t recognise him and tactfully realised his customer did not wish to engage in small talk, a fact which earned him a generous tip. Morgan did not recognise the owner of the bed and breakfast but the way she glanced at him from time to time as she dealt with another guest made Morgan wonder if she knew him. He checked into the modest lodgings at eight in the evening, took a hot shower to wash away some of the fatigue of over thirty-six hours of travel and retired to his room, not emerging until breakfast the next morning where he grazed on two poached eggs on toast and a cup of tea whilst reading the manuscript for a book on African folklore, which he had been asked to write a foreword for.
Morgan returned to his room and attempted to cobble together a suitable outfit from the clothes in his suitcase. He settled on some dark trousers and a shirt and blazer combination that had been out of fashion for almost a decade. He attempted to comb his mop of brown hair with little success and made his way downstairs, leaving his key at reception before heading out into the morning sunshine.
His intention was to take a walk through the nearby Corley Woods but he was advised by a passer-by that recent heavy rains had flooded the path so opted to visit the churchyard instead, where he studied the familiar Norman stonework for a time. Morgan stopped short of entering the church and sat on a damp bench underneath a tree and watched the magpies hopping from grave to grave in the soft morning sunlight.
When the hour of his appointment neared, he took the riverside path towards a small shopfront where a faded gold on green sign read ‘E.R. Erwig - Solicitors’. He entered and was quickly shown into an office, where a man in his early sixties dressed in an impossibly immaculate suit stood to greet him.
‘Doctor Black, I assume?’
Morgan cringed internally as he shook the proffered hand wondering whether this phrase was a reference to his extensive time in Africa or a simple pleasantry.
‘Morgan is fine, it’s a pleasure to meet you Mr Erwig.’
The solicitor offered Morgan a large comfortable chair in front of the great oak desk and sat himself down in a larger, even more comfortable chair behind it.
Morgan was struck by how much Mr Erwig resembled a Dickens’ character when he removed his glasses, with small eyes, a large nose and hair that had obviously been dyed black. His facial appearance made him look a serious and austere man, in sharp contrast to his warm smile and friendly demeanour.
‘Please, call me Eric. Let us dispense with the formalities, your aunt was a friend of mine and I assisted her when she became your guardian. You were just a child, of course, and probably don’t remember.’
Morgan looked at his feet and momentarily felt like a child again instead of a doctor of anthropology, ‘I have some recollection.’
‘Let me start by offering my condolences, your aunt was an incredible and inspiring woman and, as I said, a good friend of mine. I am sorry that news did not reach you in time for you to attend the funeral.’
Morgan recovered his composure enough to politely thank the gentleman sat opposite him.
‘Your Aunt Eliza was well thought of in the village; a prominent member of the local history society; a regular speaker at the Women’s Institute and a friendly face at many village events. She will be missed. She was very proud of you, Morgan, and your work. I know you wrote to her as often as you were able and she was always keen to let people know how your travels were going. We tried to hold off on the funeral but it becomes difficult after a time. I am sorry. If it is any consolation, she had everything planned and it was a beautiful tribute to a great woman.’
‘Thank you, that’s good to know.’
‘As for the matter of the will,’ Erwig continued, glancing at the papers in front of him, ‘Your aunt’s academic career brought her a fair income. She lived within her means and amassed some savings, as well as her cottage and antique collection. There are a few small legacies, a donation to the history society, the RSPB and a gift for Mr and Mrs Cartwright, her neighbours, who cooked and cleaned for her and maintained her garden when she became unable. Everything else she has left to you. She writes that she looks upon you as if you were her own child and that she is proud of the man you have become.’
Morgan’s hazel eyes filled with tears, ‘Thank you. She was a wonderful person.’
The solicitor pushed forward a box of paper tissues he produced from somewhere.
‘She was.’
After his meeting with the solicitor Morgan walked across the village to Mr and Mrs Cartwright’s house for his second appointment of the day. The doctor sat at their kitchen table while Mrs Cartwright, Cathy, insisted on making him lunch and chatted incessantly at him about his aunt, how good a woman she was and how proud she was of Morgan. Mr Cartwright, Tom, sat quietly drinking cup after cup of tea and flicking through the newspaper, occasionally attempting to add some detail to one of his wife’s stories before being interrupted.
Morgan had known the Cartwrights since he moved to his aunt’s house as a boy and he’d always known that Mr Cartwright was a quiet man but the thought only now occurred to him that it was because he could never get a word in edgeways. The couple had always been old to Morgan, but Cathy seemed thinner and paler than he remembered and Tom had less hair and more wrinkles.
It was a pleasant enough afternoon, even if he had little interest in the adventures of Mrs Jenson’s cat, Doctor Black was pleased to hear some stories about Eliza that he’d never heard before, some because they were so recent and some because they were so old.
‘Martha and Harry got married last Spring,’ Mrs Cartwright continued, ‘and they’re expecting their first baby any day now. Do you remember little Jimmy Smith? The butcher’s son, you used to play together when you were young.’
Morgan nodded lazily as Mrs Cartwright continued to list half a decade’s worth of comings and goings.
‘Well, he’s moved up north somewhere, working for British Rail – or what is left of it. Young Simon is back from university, doing well I hear. Shirley and Ken broke up, she’s living on St Peter’s Close now. Her sister is off somewhere.’
The clock in the hallway chimed three and, as she had each hour before, Mrs Cartwright exclaimed, ‘Is that the time?’. Mr Cartwright declared that he was going to the pub. Although Morgan turned down Tom’s offer to join him, he did take the opportunity to suggest that he too should be leaving. It was another half an hour before he was able to leave with the key to his aunt’s house.
He contemplated heading straight over but decided to delay such a potentially painful task until the morning, instead choosing to take a walk downriver from the village towards Prince’s Wood, which he had explored many times in his youth, before returning to his lodgings for a light dinner and the final few chapters of the book on African folklore.
It was in fact two days later that Morgan finally entered his aunt’s house for the first time in five years. In the intervening time he took trips on the bus to Newton to re-register at the library, purchase some new shoes and visit his Aunt’s grave. He also took numerous walks in Prince’s Wood and at one point even contemplated visiting the village pub, The Devil’s Due, but decided he couldn’t face that yet either.
When he finally found himself devoid of further excuses, he walked through the village to the cottage, where he stood in the garden for several long minutes admiring Mr Cartwright’s handywork. Just as he was about the head inside, he heard the neighbouring cottage’s door swing open and the voice of Mrs Cartwright emanate from the porch.
‘They’ve been up on the heath every night this week, making fires and all sorts,’ she was explaining to her husband.
‘Who has?’ said Mr Cartwright as he stepped out onto the path.
‘Yobs. They’ve got nothing better to do than cause trouble.’
‘It’s just boys being boys,’ Tom replied, before glancing over at Morgan and rolling his eyes.
‘I saw that!’ Mrs Cartwright declared, ‘Who’s out there?’
She emerged from the hallway, the stern look on her face turning into a big smile when she saw Morgan.
‘Oh, Morgan. Good afternoon! How are you? Old Mrs. Green from the shop said that she saw you in town yesterday’
Mr Cartwright tactfully interrupted his wife, ‘I’m off then.’ He whistled and Bruce, his ever-loyal spaniel, emerged from the house to follow his master down the garden path.
‘He taking Bruce for a walk?’ Morgan enquired.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Mrs Cartwright replied, ‘He’s off down the pub.’
After a slightly protracted conversation about village affairs, Mrs Cartwright returned to her housework and Morgan was finally able to head inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell of stale air and old books. Mrs Cartwright had given the place a dust and vacuum a few days before, in preparation for his arrival and the entire house was clean and tidy with everything in its proper place – just the way he remembered it. The smell, however, was all wrong. No fresh flowers; no faint traces of Aunt Eliza’s perfume; nothing cooking in the kitchen. The odour was more reminiscent of the archives of his old university than of his childhood home. He found himself thinking about Howard Carter’s diary, which he’d read in his youth, and how the famous Egyptologist recalled the stale scent of time on first opening Tutankhamen’s tomb. Morgan pushed the thought aside; he must not think of this place as a tomb – this was his Aunt’s home and had once been his home too. Instead, he walked through the small house, opening every window and door and pulling back every curtain, filling the place with light and fresh air.
He lingered in the living room for a long time. Above the fireplace, there were pictures of Eliza’s friends and family and chief among them, in the very centre was a picture of him and his Aunt outside the Dome of the Rock in Jerusalem. The frame sat on top of a copy of Morgan’s book on ancient fertility cults, elevating the picture above the others. This symbol of his Aunt’s pride in him filled his eyes with tears and he retreated back into the hallway.
He hesitated at the closed door to his Aunt’s room, his hand hovering over the handle. He stepped back and decided that this was a challenge for tomorrow. Instead, he went upstairs and into his old room and sat on the bed for several long minutes before looking through the cupboards and drawers in wonder at possessions he’d forgotten he’d ever owned: an old atlas, long out of date; some once beloved vinyl records and an old notepad full of the thoughts and sketches of his teenage self.
Hunger roused Morgan from his memories, as did the cool evening wind blowing through the house. He closed all the windows and doors and drew all the curtains, pleased that the stale odour had departed. He stopped at the door to each room he’d entered to survey the seemingly impossible task of sorting through the contents of the house, even though he didn’t know what he planned to do with it. Finally, after turning out the last light, he locked the front door behind him and walked out into the cool night air.
The cottage sat down an old country lane, not far from the village centre. With the exception of the farmhouse next-door, it was the furthest house from the hub of Monksford where the village shops, the church and Morgan’s bed and breakfast were located. It had been a great spot to spend his youth, with plenty of fields and woods to explore and many local legends to learn about. As he walked, he recalled in his mind the great tales of witch trials and haunted woods that had thrilled him as a boy, alongside the region’s role in the English Civil War and the battle that had taken place on the nearby heathland.
Morgan chuckled to himself at the sight of Mr Cartwright stumbling down the lane, presumably on his way back from the pub, accompanied by his faithful spaniel Bruce, who was now looking old and weary. Tom grinned at the site of Morgan and stopped when they reached each other.
‘Good evening,’ the old man said.
‘Evening,’ Morgan replied.
‘Heading back to digs?’
‘Yes,’ the doctor said with a smile as he bent down to pet Bruce, ‘How was the pub?’
‘Still there, still there. Though I feel it will be my duty to check up on it tomorrow, just in case,’ Mr Cartwright replied with a smile, ‘Did she keep you long after I left?’
‘Not long,’ Morgan replied, ‘I think she felt dutybound to tell me about each of Monksford’s comings and goings in my absence.’
Tom nodded knowingly, ‘Just remember,’ he said with a sparkle in his eye, ‘Mrs Cartwright doesn’t know about everything that happens in Monksford.’
The old man turned from Morgan and continued down the lane, the old dog following closely behind him. ‘Goodnight,’ Morgan called out. The old man raised his hand, smiled and disappeared into the darkness.