by Susan Hill
‘You are from there?’
‘No, from t’other side.’
‘But you know the place?’
‘I do.’ The older man spoke, looking at me with a keener attention.
‘I plan to walk up there later to visit Kittiscar Hall.’
‘If you’re a sightseer, you’ll find it closed.’
‘You mean empty?’
‘Not so to say.’
‘And what would there be to see?’
‘Oh,’ he said carefully, ‘’tis famous, in its way.’
‘And grand once,’ added the other, swirling round the dregs of his beer. I fancied there was more that they might impart if I pressed them, and I asked them if they knew the present owner.
‘Miss Monmouth?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve business with her then?’
‘I may have.’
‘Well then.’ He finished his ale methodically, and set down the tankard. ‘You’ve a climb,’ he said.
‘So I’m told. Well, it’s a good day for it.’
‘Last I heard,’ the other said, ‘t’old woman was bad. It could be true, I don’t know. Nobody much goes.’
‘I’m told that also.’
‘She’d be old, that’s certain, but as to her health …’ He shrugged, and made to put on his hat, as they went towards the doorway. I was beginning to find the half-finished sentences and vague, dark, muttered hints about Kittiscar irritating.
‘Then I had better go up there and find out for myself,’ I said shortly. ‘Good day to you.’
The bar was empty again, the landlord tidying away glasses. A shaft of sunlight illuminated the top of the moor, as I glanced through the window, softening and lightening the contours.
‘I plan to return for supper,’ I said, ‘if it will be convenient.’
‘To suit, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Take no notice of what’s said, is my advice to you. They like to make a bit of a mystery and it’s true there’ve always been tales, but to my mind they’re nowt else. And t’present lady’s old, and not much seen. I had heard she was ill, but then, I’ve heard t’same on and off most winters.’
‘Thank you. But, now it is spring,’ I said, ‘and I intend to visit her.’
‘Good luck to you then – and there’s pigeon pie for supper.’
He came to the front door of the Inn to set me on the road, indicating that I should retrace steps through the main part of the village and then strike directly east, over the moor.
I took my leave of him cheerfully, the sun high overhead and my step light, and began my walk to Kittiscar.
The previous night I had been exhausted and confused as to direction, now I felt fresh and vigorous and the way was not only signposted, I could see the path I was to follow, a clear, pale line up the slope and, when I reached the top, unrolling far ahead of me. Last night I had been afraid, feeling the old familiar terror of eyes upon me, footsteps behind. Now, I saw only beauty all around, the dark brown face of the moor bathed in sunlight, the deep shadows on the opposite slopes purple as grapes. I climbed steadily and the world was at my feet, I seemed to feel it turn beneath me. At one point, I saw an eagle, gliding on lazy, outspread wings above the highest peak; at another, when I sat resting on the short turf, larks spiralled up and up, pouring out their streams of pure song high above my head. The grass smelled pungently of some herb as I got up, the sun was warm now on my back and the track rose steeply, steadily away. But I had no tiredness at all in my limbs today. This was a world in which I felt at home, these were places I knew in my bones; I had seen them before, I felt exhilarated beyond expression.
It was six miles before I saw a wooden signpost. Kittiscar ½. The track became a rough paved road again and dipped steeply between high banks before rising up towards the grey cottages. At the point where the lane was lowest, a stream flowed over pebbles right across my path, and, when I reached it, I stood transfixed, looking down into the transparent water, for here, surely, I had stood, this I knew, the gentle sound of the running water was long familiar.
I went on very slowly, up the last slope, towards the houses. They were plain, grey stone and set right up to the lane. Here and there, a gateway led to a yard. A hen strutted. A mangy cat sat, eyes half-closed, on a window-ledge. But there was no one about, and no sounds at all, save for some birdsong, and the far-off barking of a dog.
Several times I stopped to stare at closed doors, at gates, at fences, willing the door to the past to swing open.
At the top of the one lane that was all of Kittiscar, a single cottage was set a little back and apart from the rest, and beside it stood a separate stone building with an open doorway. Within, all was dark as a cave, and for a few seconds until my eyes adjusted themselves from the bright daylight outside, I saw nothing. But I smelled, smelled the pungent, ancient smell of horse, of dry hay and blackened iron and cold, damp stone, and another acrid smoky smell. The stable was empty, the forge cold and lifeless. But, if I closed my eyes, I saw it all, the white core of the furnace and the showering, golden sparks, heard the whinnying of the horses and the clang of hammer on anvil, and the blacksmith whistling through his teeth, heard the sizzling hiss of water onto white hot metal. I was a small boy again, staring into the blacksmith’s den, half captivated, half afraid, wanting, but never daring, to go closer. And it was here, here in this doorway.
I opened my eyes. The forge was long cold, the floor bare and dirty, the metal restraining hoop and the iron hay rack rusted over. There was silence.
I shivered and retreated, back into the lane.
My feelings then are difficult to convey, they changed and shifted from moment to moment, like the fleeting sunlight as it moved over the moors. I had no clear or definite memories, but I recalled, as I stood still in that deserted place, a sense of dissolution, of loss and sadness. I had been here, of that I was now quite certain, and I thought I had been happy, but then things had changed, shadows had fallen.
It was all vague and unsubstantial, but my mood now was considerably affected.
I walked on up the steep slope of the village lane, and came out beyond the last cottages and a farm. Below, I could see for miles, across the whole, beautiful, bare moorland landscape. But to my right was a path, leading to an open gateway between overhanging trees. I turned and walked up to it. On the gate, just discernible, though faded and half worn away, was the name KITTISCAR HALL.
My heart seemed to be squeezed tight within my chest and then to leap, almost to stop, as I looked at the old letters.
The path, narrow and overgrown, though it had clearly once been a drive, went up through the trees into what seemed dense woodland, but I followed it, and saw that it was cleared of undergrowth after some distance, and clearly not unused.
At Pyre, it had already been early spring, with the snowdrops and crocuses almost over, and the daffodils ready to break, but here in the north there was scarcely a sign of it, the trees were still quite bare and the grass shrivelled and flowerless.
I heard nothing save my own soft footsteps and once or twice the sudden rustle of branches as some creature fled away from my approach. The path climbed a little, and then opened out.
The house was before me, a plain, old country manor. It was large, and dark, and it was neglected, the paint peeling at the windows, paving cracked and sunken. It seemed empty, the shutters closed in several of the upper windows, and the whole place silent.
I had expected it to be familiar to me, to give a cry of recognition. But I did not, I might never have seen it before.
I wandered along the side path that led to an entrance through a high wall, where once a gate had stood. But the hinges were broken off and the entrance gaped. I went through. And came into a derelict and empty garden, with a small pond in the centre, that must once have held fish and been bright with lilies, but whose water was stagnant now. Beyond this was a yard, empty outbuildings, disused stables, with cobblestones sprouting grass and slipper
y with moss. I crossed it to a second gate, set in a high wall, but this was firmly in place, padlocked and held with a rusty chain. I peered through. I saw an ancient yew hedge, over which the tangle of an old rose had climbed and scrambled, and a brick path leading around the edge, towards a broken stone seat at the far end. Behind it, elm trees rose, with dozens of crows’ nests in the high, still branches.
In the centre of the garden, on the overgrown grass, was a leaden statue; it was of a graceful boy, raised on one foot, with an arm outstretched. The forefinger which pointed up was broken off. And, then, another flash of clear memory came to me; I knew the statue, every curve and line of it, I had stood in that garden, I had woven stories to myself around the figure of that solitary, leaden boy.
I turned and looked back to the house, and then I saw that a thin plume of smoke rose from the chimney. Someone was living here then, Miss Monmouth must be at home, an old recluse, who had been left in the midst of this wilderness that had once been a great house.
I also saw, to my left, another path leading off towards a clump of yew trees, and at the far end could glimpse the wall and roof of what seemed to be a building, rising slate-grey and sombre against the sky.
But, for the moment, my interest was in the house, and its inhabitant. I made my way back across the yard and through the open archway, to the front door.
Some cloud had blown up from the west now, covering the sun; it was dark and gloomy, as I pulled on the bell and heard it echo within. No place for an old woman alone. I myself would have been glad of any cheerful voice or presence, glad of any human company at that moment.
I rang again, and eventually heard footsteps, and the sound of bolts being drawn back. I stood my ground, but with rising apprehension, as the door of Kittiscar Hall was opened.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I said, ‘I have come to see Miss Monmouth.’
She nodded, and moved back, to indicate, in silence, that I should step into the hall.
My feelings as I did so are indescribable. I stared in wonder, slowly all about me, at the heavy tapestries covering the stone walls and the dark pictures that loomed above me, at the oak doors and uneven, flagged floor, the huge hearth, with the coat of arms carved over it, and, as I stood there, the gate swung wide at last and the past came flooding towards me like a river, so that I almost drowned in it. I was a small boy again, standing here gazing about me in awe and apprehension, and clutching onto old Nan’s hand – involuntarily now I clutched my fingers and felt it, dry and with knobs at the joints and a roughened palm.
The smell of the house, a mingling of stone and damp, ancient wood and dust, was the same, overwhelming, pungent smell, I had known so well, then.
‘If you would like to come this way, and wait a few minutes. I will take you up directly.’
The woman was whey-faced and soft-voiced, without the local accent. She wore a plain apron, and rusty black dress, her hair was streaked grey. I went through the door that she held open, but she did not follow me in, only closed it behind her, and went off.
I was in a long, panelled drawing room, with leaded windows, the ledges lined with plants, old and untamed, struggling, climbing, creeping things thick with dust, that crowded out any light. There were more worn tapestries and dark pictures and in the centre of the room a long refectory table lined with pewter candlesticks, and an oak sideboard laid with heavy pewter jugs and dishes. The floor was stone-flagged, save for some threadbare carpet beneath the table, and laid before the cold, empty hearth. It was a cheerless room, overbearing and gloomy, and quite without comfort, soft chairs or window-seats or small personal possessions. I had memories of it, the same feelings swept over me as in the entrance hall, memories of being intimidated by this room, and of trying to shrink back from it, towards the door again and the safe, bright, outside world.
I walked up and down, my own steps hard and clear on the stone floor. It might have had no occupant for months, and seemed to have little to do with everyday, human existence. I supposed that Miss Monmouth had been more ill than was generally known, perhaps for a long time, and was now bedridden and no longer able to use these great, formal rooms.
The woman who opened the door had seemed quite unsurprised by my appearance. It was possible, of course, that word of my arrival had already sped around the countryside, but more likely that Miss Monmouth had spoken of my letter, in which I had proposed to come to Kittiscar.
She returned after some while, and gestured for me to follow her toward the dark staircase, and as I did so my head was crowded with the questions I wanted to ask about the house, and my relative, but, most of all, about myself and my memories of childhood, for it seemed likely that she would be the only one to enlighten me, whether or not we had ever met or were, perhaps, only very distantly related.
As we reached the landing, and turned, I saw a passageway leading off ahead, presumably to another part of the house, and, looking down it, I felt again most vividly what I had been dimly aware of that night in the Cross Keys Inn, and knew that at the end of this passage lay a room reached through a beaded curtain, on the far side of which would be sitting an old woman in a gypsy shawl, with a parrot swinging in a cage that hung from a hook beside her. I shuddered, remembering, though now there was nothing, there was only darkness and a closed door.
I would have asked questions, would have said, ‘I have been here. Who was it? Whose room? Who lived here then?’ But I saw that the woman was waiting for me – and, besides, she would almost certainly not have known.
I turned and followed her, our steps sounding hollow on the bare oak boards of the landing, until we stopped outside a door.
So, now, I was at last to see Miss Monmouth, my only living relative. My mouth was dry, my heart beating hard in my chest.
It was a bedroom, long and low-ceilinged, with bare floorboards and some simple, dark pieces of old country furniture. The shutters were closed, so that at first I hesitated, unable to see into the gloom. But the woman stepped quietly across to the windows, and folded the shutter back, and, glancing put, I saw that the sky had clouded over and was heavy and blue-black.
Then, she left the room, closing the door very softly behind her, and I was alone with my relative.
A carved oak bed stood opposite to me, without curtains or pillows, and I went forward quietly, preparing my first, gentle greeting, for I was anxious not to startle or worry an old woman.
She wore a bone-coloured cotton gown and her grey hair was pulled back from her forehead and dressed in a thin little plait which rested in the crook of her neck. Her arms were folded, hands together on top of one another. The flesh, what little there was – for she seemed immensely old, and wasted – had sunk back into the hollows of her eyes and mouth and below the cheekbones, and her nose jutted up, hooked and sharp as the beak of a hawk. Her eyes were closed, her skin was dull and waxen.
Miss Monmouth was dead, and I, the visitor, had been allowed in to view her corpse, and pay it my first, and last, respects.
It was only by a supreme effort of will that I managed to stand my ground firmly, for my limbs felt as if they would dissolve, the whole room seemed unsteady, the floor to shift like the sea beneath my feet.
In panic, I looked up from the dreadful still figure laid out before me, and my eyes found the wall behind the bed. On it was an elaborately carved mirror, with faded and cracked gilding, and dark streaked glass, the exact counterpart of the mirror that had been hanging in the bedroom at Alton, and as I stared into it, my own face, pale and with terrified, haunted eyes, looked back at me dimly, through a grey, swirling mist.
Rain rattled suddenly against the casements, and in the distance, from over the moors, came the sound of thunder.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To my sole surviving relative,
Mr James Monmouth
The woman had returned, and led me back down through that oppressive old house, not to the gloomy room in which I had first waited, but to a small parlour, where a b
leak fire had been recently lit and smouldered sulkily in the grate. The room smelled of damp, everything seemed as though undisturbed for years, but there were at least a few trinkets and books to soften the bareness. A tray, with a decanter of sherry and some plain cake, stood on a small table. Propped up against it was the letter.
‘So you knew that I was coming here – you know my name.’
The woman inclined her head, but I noticed that she stood back from me, as if afraid, and her eyes were wary, she did not readily meet my glance.
‘Miss Monmouth received my letter.’
‘She did.’
‘But, by then, I suppose that she was too ill to reply?’
She cleared her throat, her hands fidgeting on her apron.
‘She’d been ill a good long while. Only …’
‘Yes?’
‘It shook her.’
‘My letter?’
‘There was no thought that anyone else was left.’
‘Indeed not. I know of no other relative myself – that is why I am so anxious to come here and find – find Miss Monmouth passed away. There is so much we might have talked about, so much that she would have told me. I know little about my family – and Kittiscar – my own self. Perhaps you …’
‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘I came from away. To Miss Monmouth. She was to be looked after. But none of the rest of it is my concern.’
‘Did she speak of me to you?’
She indicated the letter beside the tray. ‘What she wanted to say she said there – though she was dying then, and knew it. But clear in her mind. When you’ve taken your refreshment and read what she had to say, I expect you will let me have your instructions.’
‘Instructions?’
‘As to the arrangements.’
‘Oh, I would want to leave everything to you or to anyone else local who knew her. I don’t expect to interfere with the funeral in any way.’
She nodded, unsmiling. ‘And, as to the rest, perhaps you will say in due course.’