House of Recovery

By Christine Holt

Present Day
A young couple buy a dilapidated house at auction to get on the property ladder. As derelict as the old, detached villa looks on the outside, the interior is like a time capsule, and other than years of silent neglect, the house has been preserved, waiting for new occupants. As renovations commence, the house begins to reveal secrets to its gruesome past and why it was abandoned nearly two hundred years ago.
1844
An undertaker and a volunteer nurse at a hospital for contagious diseases become acquainted through the victims of a murderer creating chaos within the medieval walled city of Carlisle. The unlikely couple, a hunchback and a wealthy young lady, learn about each other’s professions, realising the cloak between the living and the dead is a very thin veil. They question why fate has brought them together, yet cruelly keeps them apart.
The tangled web of past, present and future interferes in all their lives, yet all they strive for is happiness. Will fate be kind to those who do the wrong things for the right reasons?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528946902

Christine Holt

Christine Holt has a BSc Honours degree in Physiotherapy, from the University of Northumbria and a Postgraduate Diploma in Driving Assessments, from Chester University. She has worked for the NHS for nearly thirty years. She lives with her family in Carlisle and enjoys walking in the surrounding fells.

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About The Author

Christine Holt has a BSc Honours degree in Physiotherapy, from the University of Northumbria and a Postgraduate Diploma in Driving Assessments, from Chester University. She has worked for the NHS for nearly thirty years.

She lives with her family in Carlisle and enjoys walking in the surrounding fells.

Dedication

To my dear family in heaven, I love and miss you all.

To my dear family on earth, you are my world.

Copyright Information ©

Christine Holt 2022

The right of Christine Holt to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781528942539 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528946902 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Present Day

The present is a gift unless ghosts from the past threaten to haunt the future.

*

Jack barged through the front door, barely able to contain his excitement. He shouted out for his wife and found her in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Come on then, come and see this surprise. Jack held out his hand. Intrigued, his wife happily obliged and placed her hand in his, but when he led her outside, she started protesting.

Where are we going? I haven’t even got shoes on, said Millie with an exasperated tone to her voice. They looked down at her pink, furry slippers.

With a frustrated tut, Jack asked, Did you not get my message? Millie shook her head. Okay, just trust me, you don’t need anything, you look beautiful as you are, just grab a coat, get some shoes on, get in the van and close your eyes.

Millie heard the water bubbling and the kettle switched itself off. She sighed; she had been looking forward to a cup of tea after finishing a shift at the infirmary. After putting on her blue boots, she grabbed her blue jacket and then sstarted searching for her handbag. Like an excitable puppy, Jack joined in the game of hide and seek for the handbag, throwing cushions around from the sofas, creating a mess with his frantic search. Millie found her handbag in the kitchen.

Buzzing with excitement, Jack ran ahead, started the van’s engine, got back out and held the white passenger door open ready for Millie. He could not get parked outside of their house, so he was a little way down the street, but he could now see Millie standing at the closed front door. She was tapping her pockets, then searching her handbag. She went back inside the house and disappeared for another few minutes. Jack was rolling his eyes and tutting with frustration. Millie reappeared having found her keys, locked the front door and was now sauntering towards her husband. Jack carefully helped her climb into his van but secretly he wanted to shove her backside into the cab to hurry her up. He grabbed hold of the seat belt, passing it to her for ease and for speed, then he closed the door. Jack ran round the van and got in the driver’s seat.

He glanced at his wife. Her hair was stunningly messy with a natural wavy kink to her bobbed golden locks. Close your eyes! He put on his seat belt. Come on, otherwise I’ll have to blindfold you. This time he winked with a mischievous smile on his face.

She replied with a flirty smile, Okay, I’ll be a good girl. She closed her eyes.

Jack drove along familiar streets, but Millie knew where they were going. With each left or right turn she stated the street name, giggling with her cleverness. Frustrated, Jack tried to confuse her by driving in circles and doing numerous turns which eventually disorientated her. With Millie dizzy and no longer correct with her road names, he drove to the surprise with the biggest smile on his face.

He stopped the van and switched off the engine. Don’t spoil it! Keep those gorgeous, green eyes closed! He pulled a few funny faces, contorted his mouth, stuck his tongue out at an odd angle but failed to get a response so he was confident she was not peeking.

Jack dashed around to the passenger side and opened the door for Millie. He carefully helped her out of the van. Slowly, they walked a few steps and Millie could feel the ground underneath changing from relatively even paving stones to a smooth, concave terrain. This changed to sharper little stones and finally morphed into an uneven surface with the sounds of snapping twigs underfoot. Her stiletto heels were at times sinking in the soft earth, so she tried to remain more on her tiptoes. She could smell greenery, not pleasant like flowers but earthy. Millie could feel and hear the swish and sway of foliage. Eventually, they stopped walking. Jack turned her slightly and positioned her for what Millie thought must be the grand reveal. She really had no clue as to what the surprise could be.

She heard her husband take a deep breath in and then a slow sigh out. Jack held her hand, gave it a little squeeze, then said, Okay, Millie, you can open your eyes.

Millie did as she was told. Immediately in front of her eyes was an overgrown wilderness. She visually searched for clues as to the surprise. They were surrounded by trees, shrubs, nettles and those long green weeds that kids love to secretly stick to your clothes. Millie was confused and rather disappointed.

With a quizzical look on her face, she asked, Is it a wildlife garden? She shrugged her shoulders as she knew this was probably not the reaction he was expecting.

Jack was exasperated, Look closer, what else can you see? He was still holding her hand. There, through that little gap, look! Millie was still searching for the surprise. In order to see from his wife’s perspective, he flexed his knees, so their eyes were level. He specifically pointed to a small opening through the undergrowth.

Millie peered in the direction he was indicating. Is it a derelict building?

Annoyed by the negativity, Jack stated rather abruptly, No. It’s our new home. His wife looked on in bewilderment. He tried to lighten the mood again, so with renewed animation he shouted, Surprise! He wrapped his arms around her and went in to kiss her. She accepted the kiss on her cheek, not turning her head to reciprocate.

What, you bought this? Her eyes were wide in disbelief.

I bought it at auction and just got the paperwork through today. It’s ours, a grand Victorian villa with nearly an acre of land and in Scotby of all places! A house of this size, normally you’d be looking at half a million in this village. We’ll make it our home. I promise.

Millie stood there, not sure what to say or do. How much did you get it for?

Eighty thousand pounds. Twenty grand under the starting price. Can’t actually believe it, total bargain! Jack was once again buzzing with excitement. He gazed at the house and sighed with complete adoration.

Millie was not impressed. Using her fingers, she started to count the number of problems. One, from what I can see, it looks spooky. Two, it looks like an old, dilapidated wreck. Three, we can hardly see the house because of the wilderness. Four, it’ll cost us a fortune. Five, it might even need bulldozing. She moved onto her other hand, Six, it’ll probably be infested with plagues of locusts, rats, spiders—

Jack interrupted her rant, Okay, stop right there. You’ve been watching too many daft celebrity TV shows. I know you’re worried, but I promise you, I will work evenings, weekends, bank holidays, any spare time I have to make this place special for us.

You’d better! She stormed off in the direction of the van and stumbled over the uneven ground, briefly going over on her ankle. Stiletto heels were not the best choice of footwear for the surprise. She mumbled something under her breath.

Jack smiled to himself at her clumsiness. He loved her little strops; they were always amusing. He would prove her wrong, he vowed to himself that this would be his best project yet, it would certainly be the most challenging.

Chapter One

1844

Catherine was in a panic. As dignified as she could be in the situation, she hurried to get a nurse. It’s Mr Docherty! His breathing is rather peculiar. Please come quickly! She did not wait for a reply but scampered back to the ward. Sitting in the chair next to the patient’s bed, she held his clammy hand, to reassure him he was not alone. His hand was limp, almost lifeless.

Noticing a neatly folded cloth on the top of the bedside table, she stretched across to retrieve the item without letting go of the old man’s hand. Catherine gently wiped away the dewy droplets of sweat from his brow. A yellowy purple hue was starting to discolour his face which could not be washed away. Each breath he took was laboured, coarse and uncomfortable to hear. Mr Docherty seemed oblivious to his situation, showing no signs of consciousness.

Catherine heard footsteps so looked along the ward and saw Nurse Agnes meandering towards them. She’s here now, Mr Docherty. She’ll know what to do. Nervous tension was seeping out of Catherine’s body for she was tapping his hand as if trying to dictate a faster rhythm. Catherine was internally pleading with Nurse Agnes to show a little more urgency.

Nurse Agnes was smiling at the other gentlemen and occasionally saying, ‘Hello,’ as she sauntered towards the emergency. Although her long grey hair was tied back, many a strand frizzed around her face and white cap. Her supposedly white apron was a dirty shade of grey but various stains detracted from the discolouration. Her shoes had dried clart around the edges. On one occasion, Nurse Agnes stopped to straighten some bed covers that were crumpled. Catherine was frustrated, almost verging on furious, that the nurse only seemed to give the impression of caring and orderliness.

Catherine spasmed with fright when Mr Docherty suddenly started to gasp, and she felt guilty that she had recoiled her hand away from him. She tried to reassure herself it was a reflex action to an unexpected event rather than revulsion. However, she knew she was lying to herself, for the sound emanating from his lungs was a gurgling, like he was drowning in his own secretions.

Nurse Agnes glanced over his frail exhausted body. She looked at Catherine and with brutal honesty said, Pet, he’s dying. As if trying to move a sack of potatoes, the nurse rolled Mr Docherty over onto his side and propped him up with pillows, so he remained in position. To demonstrate some nursing skills, she gave him a couple of quick pats on his back, to loosen the phlegm that was gurgling inside his lungs. Come on Mr Docherty, have a good cough. She continued to slap him between the shoulder blades. Other than making him comfortable, there’s nothing we can do.

Mr Docherty started coughing but his body was so weak there was not enough force to clear the secretions. Whatever he was trying to clear from his chest was now lodged in his throat and he started to gag, unconsciously threatening to be sick on his pillow. His body was failing fast, life was fading from his exhausted bony frame.

Please, there must be something we can do? Catherine’s sorrowful eyes fixated on the experienced nurse, pleading for some snippet of hope, some morsel of aid to ease the man’s suffering.

Pet, he’s an old man. He’s been ill for a while. It’s his time. We have to let him go. With an annoyed tone to her voice, Nurse Agnes whispered into Catherine’s ear, And try not to show your ignorance by panicking, it upsets the other patients. Nurse Agnes stood there with a smug smile on her face.

Inwardly fuming at the nurse’s attitude, Catherine tried to remain calm, forcing herself not to retaliate and focused on her priority, Mr Docherty. Does he have any family? She gazed towards his deeply unconscious face. I can’t leave him all alone.

With her hands on her wide hips, Nurse Agnes abruptly stated, If you can be bothered to walk the mile or two at this time of day to go get his wife, then feel free. She walked away, obviously not wanting to engage in further conversation.

Mr Docherty, I am so sorry for this. I wish I could magically summon your wife for you, but I do not want to abandon you at this time. I promise to stay with you, to see you through this and be here for you should you need anything. For something to do, Catherine combed his thin hair and tidied his bedsheets, all the while either talking to him or singing gently to him. His breathing was louder and less frequent with each passing minute. Rather than slap his back like Nurse Agnes had done, with as much tenderness as getting dust off a rug that was hanging over the washing line, Catherine gently rubbed his back, as if trying to soothe his aches and pains away. His ribs were devoid of any muscle or fat, the bony contours feeling like black protruding piano keys.

His body had not moved for a while now, only his gasps of breath indicating life was still fighting death. When Mr Docherty suddenly stopped breathing, Catherine placed both of her hands on his arm hoping he knew he was not alone. He gasped for air, his face contorting and she could see his gums, with spaces where teeth should have been. She was about to squeal and pull away again but then focused on remaining calm, wanting to be there for him for his passing.

Mr Docherty took his last breath at twenty-five minutes past four on 6th November 1844. Catherine was distraught, having sat with him for over an hour. She covered his face with his bed sheet and solemnly walked out of the ward to inform someone.

After telling Nurse Agnes about his passing, Catherine made her way to the small staff room to get herself ready for going home. Not that she was expecting gratitude or sympathy from Nurse Agnes, but she would have liked some support. She had never witnessed a person’s passing moment. Tears were emerging from her eyes, so she closed them to stem the flow, taking a moment to reflect on his final few moments. How he had suffered, struggling for every breath, the spasms and facial contortions.

Catherine needed to distract herself from these disturbing and melancholy thoughts, so she sourced clean water from the white jug, poured it into the empty washing bowl and proceeded to scrub her hands vigorously to rid herself of any bodily fluids that were lurking on her skin or underneath her nails from working at the House of Recovery. The remains of death could not be washed away, those stains were deeper seated on her soul. She gently patted her hands dry on the left side of her white apron, which appeared clean, for the towel hanging by the water bowl was filthy and she could not bear to touch the putrid fabric. After removing her apron, she neatly folded the outside of the fabric inwards and hid it from immediate view in her wicker basket.

Her deep blue cloak stood out amongst the more plain and dowdy attire of the other staff. A few of the cloaks were patched, some were threadbare, and some had holes. She felt guilty about her family’s wealth. The staff were the ones who deserved to be richly rewarded. Catherine admired their strength and endurance, working night and day, venturing out in all weathers to care for the infirm.

The blue cloak perfectly framed her shoulders and she tied the ribbons in preparation for the long walk home. Standing in front of the mirror, a sad soul was reflected. Glossy, auburn hair framed her creamy skin, but her pale, blue eyes were now puffy, red and teary, revealing her suffering. She felt so conflicted to have such a rich life with beautiful clothes, a warm home, a comfortable bed and caring parents, yet she still did not feel happy. Her tears were for Mr Docherty, but also of guilt, as if she was somehow ungrateful for her seemingly perfect life and she felt awful for having all this wealth when others suffer so much. She placed her hat, followed by her shawl. Her hands were still visibly shaking from witnessing his passing.

There was a knock at the staff room door then the handle slowly turned, and the door hinges creaked open sounding like worn out knees. Matron Stubbs peeked her head round the corner. Nurse Agnes told me about what happened. Are you alright?

Catherine nodded then her gaze dropped to the floor. Yes, thank you, Matron, but this is the House of Recovery. I did not expect death. I felt so helpless.

As a sign of compassion, Matron Stubbs gently rubbed Catherine’s shoulder. For such a large, motherly figure, almost cumbersome in her ways, the Matron’s voice and touch were tender. The House of Recovery is for those deemed likely to recover from their illnesses given time, but we are not miracle workers. We do our best but sometimes God has another path for folk to take. We did everything we could. You should be proud of yourself for helping him in his final moments.

Catherine nodded again for she could not find appropriate words to describe her feelings other than numb or lost. She expected death to visit one day for she knew people had to die eventually but this was a horrendous experience. She wondered if a career in medicine was a hopeless dream.

As if reading her mind, Matron Stubbs continued, Are you sure this is what you want to do? You have so many choices being wealthy, intelligent, you’re a fair, bonny lass and kind and thoughtful too. Why do you want to work here? Vomit, pus, blood, oozing wounds, miasmas all over the place. Why put yourself through this?

Catherine replied, You sound like my parents.

Matron Stubbs gave a little titter, Do they know you volunteer here? Catherine shook her head, then held it low in disgrace.

Oh lass, I can’t believe it. Actually, I can believe it. It’s all starting to make sense now. You’re a lovely lass and such a credit to the team but you need to tell your parents. You can’t keep lying to them. They deserve a bit of respect, don’t they? The matron was trying to get eye contact with the girl, ensuring Catherine was listening and to try and focus her attention away from wallowing in sorrow.

Catherine’s tears started flowing. She started telling Matron Stubbs about her dream of being a Doctor of Medicine, but her parents were adamant this was not an option for a ‘respectable young lady.’ Aware of disrespecting her parents, she changed the subject. Anyway, please excuse me, I know you are busy, and I should not be taking up your valuable time. The patients need you more than I do. She walked to the door in preparation to leave.

Due to her right hip being riddled with pain, Matron Stubbs hobbled over to the dresser, Will you be in tomorrow? I understand if you do not feel up to it.

I would be honoured to but as usual I cannot promise. Catherine was now putting on her gloves. Her hands were still shaking.

Laughing, Matron Stubbs replied, Honoured, ha-ha, my, you’re a strange one but thanks for your help today. Matron Stubbs proceeded to wash her hands in the same bowl of water Catherine had used. It looks bitter out there so safe trip home, lass. She dried her hands on the grimy towel.

On stepping outside, the cold air immediately hit Catherine and she shivered, dreading the long uphill walk home. Mr Docherty had been too ill to abandon when in such a state and she would have felt guilty leaving him to die on his own. It was a decision she was now slightly regretting as the dark sky was threatening to snow. She prayed she would avoid confrontation on arriving home. Currently, she had no idea how she could explain coming home this late. One of the many rules was, ‘Be home before darkness falls.’

Catherine usually walked the brighter, busier but longer way home down Botchergate with its grand hotels and public inns, rather than taking Collier Lane which was seedy and devoid of streetlamps. Only the weak seepage from the rear windows of the business premises provided any source of light. Nobody was milling about. She guessed the weather was keeping folk away so as it was late and with snow potentially due to fall, she decided to take the chance on Collier Lane which would save her some time.

As she walked along the back alley, she heard strange noises, a moaning sort of sound with a rhythmic rubbing. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted two men huddled in a shadowed corner. Whether out of curiosity or a protective instinct, she had to chance a peek. One man was standing, stroking the back of the other man who was bent over. Catherine averted her eyes with speed and hurried along the lane. She heard an awful retching sound then sensed a spray of vomit, landing with a splatter on the already putrid back lane. The upright man said, Sorry about that miss. He’s had too much of the good stuff. Seconds later, his friend retched again and projected what could only be described as a pauper’s vegetable soup.

Keeping her head down, she picked up her pace, wrapping her shawl closer around her neck and covering her nose and mouth, trying to avoid the smells and bitter cold weather.

A creaky back door to one of the public houses opened, catching her attention. Singing and raucous laughter reverberated within the enclosed lane, as well as a fiddler’s merry tune. The yard door swung open with force and slammed against the wall. Oblivious to Catherine’s presence, a drunken reveller staggered along the lane, unbuttoned his trousers and urinated against the stone wall. Catherine scurried along the lane, wishing she had never ventured down there.

Nearing Crown Street, she was thankful to soon be clear of the cess pits when she spotted a man huddled in a dark recess. As she got nearer, she could hear him breathing heavily. So as not to offend, she had been discreetly diverting her path away from the stranger. The lane was narrow and there was no real option of avoiding him, without turning back. She came this way to avoid the longer walk home and was now regretting the decision. Catherine huddled over, pretending to use her shawl to protect her face from the stinging chill but she was only trying to avoid eye contact with the man. She scurried past him and felt some relief that nothing had happened when she was grabbed from behind.

Catherine panicked, letting out a shriek and tried to wriggle away from his grasp. He was laughing, not loud, but in a menacing way. She could smell his breath, she almost retched with the smell of stale beer that oozed from the depths of his insides.

What’s … what’s a nice girl … like you … doing down ’ere? His voice was lecherous, the alcohol stuttering the cadence of his speech. The many jugs of beer he had consumed made him feel irresistible and he was in an amorous mood.

He continued to grope Catherine and pulled her closer to him. He grabbed at her shawl, exposing some of her neck which he sloppily started to kiss. His hands moved around her body to her breasts, clamping her in a vice.

She shouted, Please get off me! She squirmed at his vile touch, trying to free herself from his clutches.

My, my … a fighter … I like that. He spun her around. His words slurred out from between rough chapped lips and sores collected around the left side of his mouth. She felt spittle on her face as he said, Ya like a trapped eel, all wriggly. I hope ya all wet … an’ slippery inside. A guttural laugh escaped his