Hobb's Cottage: A Short Story Read Free

have been there for years.  I thought that it would be kind of fun to string the bones together for a display, have a séance, do the old Most Haunted thing.”
    “But how did she get here?” wondered Phoebe. How did this young girl become a pile of bones in a box?  The thought made her nauseous.
    “I think she originally came from Bodmin Gaol.  Possibly hanged for something and then the flesh would have been boiled from her bones and the skeleton used for anatomy.” Lucy shook her head. “Don’t look so shocked, it isn’t so unusual.  How else do you think doctors learned back then?”
    Phoebe shuddered.  “It’s totally wrong.  She shouldn’t be in there.  She should be…” For a moment words failed her and she struggled to capture her whirling thoughts before finishing, “She should be free.”
    Unbidden suddenly in her mind’s eye was an image of a girl white as marble floating in the dark sea, her face raised to the silvery kiss of the moon.  Then it was gone, flickering out of sight like a fish back diving beneath the water, and she shivered.  Where on earth had that come from?
    Lucy was pulling a face. “To be honest I never did like the thing very much and Dan’s been obsessed with it ever since he read that book I gave you.  He thinks we ought to bury her.”
    “He’s right.” Phoebe put her drink down. “She needs to be buried, whoever she is.”
    Lucy nodded. “When the joker who’s pinched the rest of her puts it back, I’ll get on the case and we’ll see what the procedure is for burying unknown seventeenth century bones.  Hey!” She nudged Phoebe and grinned. “Maybe it’s your Tilly?”
    But Phoebe wasn’t laughing.  She was far too busy thinking about flesh being boiled from pearly bones. 
    She felt ill.
     
    No longer Maiden now but mother.
    I am not ready to be a mother!  I can’t be a mother.  Not like this, alone and friendless.  My belly swells and I loosen my stomacher hoping that the sharp- eyed villagers are fooled.  I send word to James and wait for him to come while I huddle in my cloak and count the tides, hours, days and weeks of endless shifting seas.  My belly stretches, moves with tides of its own and grows hard and pink. 
    James doesn’t come.  I tend my animals, bake bread and harvest my herbs, all the time waiting for him.  Four more moons wax and wane.  I cast bones and peer at water in my silver dish.  All these things tell me what is already in my heart.  He will not come.  As I abandoned my mother to her accusers James will abandon me to mine.  A widow with a six-month belly on her.  I shall be ruined.  They will see Satan’s mark and they will hang me.  I clutch the cat for comfort and weep endless tears into his soft fur.
    I try not to visit the village but I need meat, I need milk.  The babe sucks the very marrow from my bones and I feel dizzy and sick by turn.  I try to gather wood but my belly renders me cumbersome and soon I have only kindling to cook upon.  The gruel I make is thin, my limbs wither and I grow wan.  My tears are spent and I feel only relief that James doesn’t arrive.  This hollow eyed spectre with distended stomach and stick like limbs is far removed from his soft skinned love.
    I don my cloak and walk down to the village.  I carry a basket filled with dried roots and herbs, perhaps I can trade these for what I require?  As I descend into the village my breath rises like incense in the sharp winter air and the damp seeps into my bones.  Slowly I walk to the harbour, hoping that a boat is in with fresh fish.  The babe needs goodness.  He has been dangerously still these last days.  I need a fisherman who requires salve for a wound or cloves for a toothache.
    But as I make my way to the quay, my feet skidding in muck, the cold comes from more than the frosty air.  In doorways goodwives stop their conversations as I pass, their eyes burn into my back and their animosity is palpable.  I hear the