Larkin was fifty-one now, almost the same age as his father was when he’d died a quarter century before. And in the last while Larkin had been thinking about his own mortality. About how the past could feel more present the further away you got from it.

Larkin turned and stood motionless, looking at the dark that hid the open fields and beyond them the dense bush surrounding the farm. He was remembering. Entering the house from the back door—the only door that ever got used—Larkin walked straight into the kitchen. The room astonished anyone who saw it for the first time, painted as it was entirely in a shocking, rosy pink. It had been his Ma’s choice, and she’d loved it. His Pa had done it up for her one winter before Larkin was born. The shelves, the cupboards, and even the chairs were painted to match.

“It’s a wonder,” his Pa once said, “that she dint want the floorboards done as well.”

Larkin had laughed. “Shush now, Pa, you’ll be givin’ her ideas.”

He kicked off his boots impatiently and headed upstairs to his bedroom. There he moved across the floor in his stocking feet and knelt down stiffly beside his bedstead. Reaching beneath the overhang of the quilt, he withdrew a flattened flour sack from under the bed. Then, leaning heavily upon the mattress, he pushed himself upright and made his way downstairs again to the kitchen, where he lay the sack and its contents upon the table.

Seated now in a chair thick with paint, he pulled the sack closer. He glanced around quickly. Then, slowly and tenderly, Larkin inserted his hand into the sack and drew out a large scrapbook, its deep blue cover marked at each corner with a delicate pattern of winding vines. Hesitating for only a moment, he opened the cover and pressed it down before him. Larkin nodded, as if to acknowledge a familiar friend. Finally, he began to read the yellowed bits of newspaper that had been carefully glued to brittle, unbending pages.

The clippings came from The Murton County Chronicle. Beside each was the date, written in his mother’s flowing hand, the ink faded now. The first was dated August 8, 1871, almost forty years back.

FIRE BLAZES IN MURTON!

Volunteer firefighters were out in full force Sunday night two miles west of the village after neighbours spotted a blaze. The coroner’s office has stated that two bodies were found in the burned-out farmhouse while another man is under doctor’s care with serious burns to his hands and feet. The fire department continues to investigate.

Then, on August 15th:

SKINNERS LAID TO REST

Funerals were held in Murton for Silas and Elgin Skinner. Both men, father and son, died on Cemetery Hill the night of August 7th. The Skinner farmhouse and barn burned to the ground on the same evening. On the night of the fire, flames from the barn were seen to soar sixty feet in the air. The funerals were well attended by community members who recalled the Skinners as “nice, old-fashioned folk.” They were laid to rest in the Murton Memorial Cemetery. A luncheon was held following the service at the United Methodist Church Hall.

And February 13th, six months later:

MURDER IN CEMETERY HILL!!

Investigators now confirm that they are building a case for murder concerning the suspicious deaths of two men in a farmhouse fire near Murton. The community was shocked to learn that Silas and Elgin Skinner suffered stab wounds prior to the tragic blaze in which the family home and barn were consumed six months ago. A thirteen-year-old boy was badly injured in the fire. He has not been charged with any wrongdoing but remains under the watchful eye of the police.

Larkin sat back from the table and groaned softly. Paul Skinner—the thirteen-year-old who’d remained carefully unnamed in the story, the younger son of Silas—had been his childhood friend. He hadn’t seen or heard from him for twenty years. In their youth, however, they had a closeness he’d not known with anyone else.

Closing the scrapbook, Larkin slid it back into the flour sack and stood stiffly. After pushing aside the chair, he stepped across the kitchen to stow the sack in the sideboard. The face of the north wind puffed at him from the wooden chair’s pressed back. He grimaced at the carving as he hobbled from the room.

It was a bright-lit night with the moon almost full, casting a white glow inside the house. Larkin looked around at his surroundings and smiled. Sure, it was too large for an old bachelor living alone, but it was where he’d been born, and felt as much a part of him as did his legs or arms or feet.

He’d been told that his Pa had ordered the fine red brick from a brickyard near the town line, and that the men had dragged skids of it across the county as soon as the ground froze hard. The windows and quoins were of a soft butter-yellow brick, edging the structure with elegance. Apparently, his Ma had always wanted a “bay winder,” and so Pa had managed two of them, one on top of the other.

The house was built tall, three storeys high, with steeply pitched gables. His father had been a tall man and didn’t want to be stooping over in the rooms. The ceilings on the main floor were fifteen feet high, ten feet on the second, eight feet on the third. There were two parlours, one at the front of the house and one at the back, providing an escape from the blistering sun depending upon the time of day. Upstairs were five bedrooms as well as a little room for washing up and personal conveniences. The third floor had never been finished; it remained an open, expansive attic with unspoiled views stretching across the countryside.

Larkin especially loved the third floor. As a boy he would climb upstairs during a storm to hear the rain pounding overhead. He took a secret delight in being seated close to the raging tempest while the house protected him from the elements. The attic was where he often played his solitary games, wondering what it would be like to have a brother or a sister to share in his childhood.

Another baby in the house was not meant to be. His Ma’s stomach was swollen from time to time with a promise of sorts but nothing ever came of it. When he was young he had wondered aloud, “Why doan Pa reach in and pull it out by the leg like he do with a calf?” When his folks heard this he was given only a vague answer about “God’s timing” that made no sense to him.

*A Quilting of Scars* by Lucy E.M. Black (Now or Never Publishing)

About A Quilting of Scars:

Filled with the pleasure of recognizable yet distinctively original characters and a deftly drawn sense of time and place, A Quilting of Scars brings to life a story of forbidden love, abuse and murder. Pulsing with repressed sexuality and guilt, Larkin Beattie reveals the many secrets he has kept hidden throughout his lonely life. The character-driven narrative is a meditation on aging and remorse, offering a rich account of the strictures and rhythms of farming in the not-so-distant past, highlighting the confines of a community where strict moral codes are imposed upon its members and fear of exposure terrifies queer youth. As Larkin reflects upon key events, his recollections include his anger at the hypocrisy of the church, and the deep grief and loneliness that have marked his path. There is a timelessness to this story which transcends the period and resonates with heart-breaking relevance.

About Lucy E.M. Black:

Lucy E.M. Black (she/her/hers) is the author of The Marzipan Fruit Basket, Eleanor Courtown, Stella’s Carpet, The Brickworks, Class Lessons: Stories of Vulnerable Youth and A Quilting of Scars. Her award-winning short stories have been published in Britain, Ireland, USA and Canada in literary journals and magazines including Cyphers Magazine, the Hawai’i Review, The Antigonish Review, the Queen’s Quarterly and others. She co-ordinates Heart of the Story, an author reading series in Port Perry, writes book reviews for The Miramichi Reader, serves as literary chair for Scugog Arts, is a dynamic workshop presenter, experienced interviewer and freelance writer. She lives with her partner in the small lakeside town of Port Perry, Ontario, the traditional territory of the Mississaugas of Scugog Island, First Nations.