Seeing how Ellie had trembled, her father explained, ‘These big old houses are draughty… need a lot of heating.’
‘I’m hungry!’ Johnny was fidgeting from one foot to the other. He had watched the others perusing the paintings, and it had irritated him. He saw nothing unusual or magnificent about the woman there; only what he had said: that the woman had a look of Ellie. The same colour hair and eyes. Something else, too. Only he wasn’t certain about that. Not yet. He might look at the paintings again. When there was no one else around. But no! He would never look at the paintings again. He had seen them this once, and he had seen Ellie in them. No one believed him. No matter. It would not change anything.
For a house of such great size, the kitchen was surprisingly small. ‘Not much bigger than the one back home,’ Ellie had remarked. The remark brought back memories and with them came a rush of pain and regret.
‘It’s usually the way,’ her father said, moving his gaze about the room; a long, narrow place with high ceilings and big wooden cupboards placed here and there. The floor was cold, uneven stone, and the sink by the window was a huge square thing, its dirty white surface eaten with myriads of fine, meandering cracks. The window was small and facing the barn wall; consequently the kitchen was dark in comparison to the room they had just left. From the centre of the ceiling hung a solitary bulb, the incoming draughts causing it to swing gently back and forth on the brown, twisted flex. ‘In the days when this place was built, the gentry were not concerned with staff quarters or kitchens… only with their own creature comforts,’ he added, absent-mindedly opening cupboard doors and peering in. He paused to glance at Ellie, who was stooping to look beneath the sink. ‘There’s barely enough food here to stop a baby from starving!’ He thrust his hand into the cupboard and withdrew a huge platter; on it was a small cooked bird, pale in colour. Stuck to the congealed rivulets of juice were a few dark plumes. ‘Fowl… pheasant, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Jack Armstrong declared, setting the platter onto the square oak table against the wall. ‘I expect it came from the forest on the estate.’ He chuckled, ‘The gamekeepers chase off the poachers from outside and, like as not, the worst ones are right under their noses.’ He glanced at the door. ‘No doubt that Harman fellow keeps his “friends” well supplied.’
‘Don’t make rash judgements,’ Ellie told him. She had sensed his dislike of the young man, and she was instantly defensive.
‘Hey!’ Her father had seen that look in Ellie’s eyes before. ‘And don’t you go getting ideas regarding that one!’ he warned, cursing himself for putting the fellow down. It was a sure way to make Ellie jump to Harman’s defence.
Ignoring his warning, Ellie rose from her half-bent position and, pointing to the underbelly of the sink, she said, ‘It smells bad down there… like something crawled behind the pipes and died.’
‘Here… let me take a look.’ He lost no time in getting to his knees and examining the area beneath and behind the sink. At first, he reeled back; Ellie was right. The smell was rancid. A thorough investigation revealed only the ancient pipes, corroded with rust, but nevertheless intact. ‘Nothing here, sweetheart,’ he told her, clambering to his feet, ‘the plumbing is ancient, though… the entire system needs updating, I expect. All in good time… all in good time.’
The cupboards were found to be empty, except for the platter of meat, half a loaf and a basin of margarine. There was nothing to drink. Even the tap refused to part with a single drop of water. ‘Not to worry, folks… once I’m let loose in the place, I’ll soon have it ship-shape.’ Jack Armstrong eagerly tucked into the meal Ellie prepared – a few slices of bread, dressed with a helping of the succulent meat. The food was divided equally, half for them and half for the old ones. The meal was sparse, but it was enough to revive all their flagging spirits. Afterwards, Ellie recruited the boy to tidy up the dishes and pile them neatly on the draining-board. ‘I’ll wash up later,’ she said, suddenly remembering the outside pump near the washhouse. She toyed with the idea of taking a pan out to fill, but thought better of it. For now – like her father and Johnny – she would rather not leave the house, in case the doors were bolted against them for ever. The thought was disturbing. But, not so disturbing as being locked inside with the demented George. She wondered whether the wife was just as batty. At once, she chided herself for such uncharitable thoughts.
It was only a matter of fifteen minutes or so before the three of them returned to the big room. Ellie was the first to come into the room, and almost at once there was a scuffling and the sound of raised voices coming from the door near the fireplace.
‘They’re back!’ Jack Armstrong grabbed his children and quickly ushered them to the long wooden settle. ‘Mind your tongue!’ he warned the boy, who was glowering at the door with a look of defiance. The scuffling intensified. Suddenly, the door burst open to admit a woman of about seventy years. ‘He’s a bugger!’ she laughed, coming forward at a strange, hopping gait and swinging her two crutches along as if they were a natural extension to her capable, big-boned body. One of her legs was a fine, straight limb, encased in black mesh stocking and wearing a pretty navy-blue shoe with a crossover strap fastening at the ankle. The other leg ended in a thick, shapeless stump some way below the knee; a brown sock had been pulled over it but now it had slipped and hung like a deflated balloon as the stump was whipped back and forth by the urgency of the woman’s passage across the room. Behind her, and out of sight, the uproar continued.
‘Hello,’ she said, flashing a smile that enveloped all three, ‘what a shambles, eh?’ She laughed aloud. ‘What a bloody way to greet the new caretaker! Still… it’s all right now, eh?’ She tucked the left crutch further under her arm, then, leaning her weight onto the good leg and the right crutch, she extended a hand to Jack Armstrong. ‘I’m Rosie,’ she said warmly, ‘I’m told that you’re the fella who’s going to put this old monstrosity back together again?’ She looked around, clicked her tongue and returned her attention to the man. ‘You won’t do it,’ she said simply, ‘it’s a physical impossibility.’ When she realised that her warning was falling on deaf ears, she shrugged, shook his hand vigorously and said, ‘Never mind all that for now… we’ll talk later, eh? No doubt there’s a great deal you’ll want to know.’
‘A great deal!’ he assured her. Quickly and with pride he introduced Ellie and the boy. ‘These are my children.’ He paused, then, ‘I’m a widower,’ he said, quietly.
Ellie had taken an instant liking to Rosie. Their smiles mingled now, and she thought the woman must be in her seventies, but, in spite of the wrinkles and the severed leg, there was a delightfulness about her, a deep sense of joy and youth, and humour. She put Ellie in mind of a faded Hollywood film star, with her long, grey-streaked peroxide hair swept up in a coil on the top of her head. The thick make-up fell into the crevices of her face, and the crimson lipstick painted a mouth far larger and more sensuous than the thin, narrow lips which Nature had endowed her with. Her teeth appeared too white and even to be real, although when she smiled, her whole attractive face was lit from within. It was her eyes that captivated Ellie. Deepest brown they were; akin to those of the woman in the painting, and, for an old lady, they were stunningly alive. Ellie thought they were Rosie’s best feature. Obviously, Rosie thought so too, because she had taken immense care to accentuate their beauty; this was evident in the fine, dark pencil lines that traced right round the almond shapes; the lashes were generously coated with black mascara, and above each lid was a brushing of colour. ‘So, you’re “Ellie”, are you?’ Rosie took Ellie’s small, slender fingers into her own gnarled hands. ‘So lovely,’ she murmured, her jubilant mood suddenly subdued, ‘so very… young.’ For a brief second, there were tears in her eyes, but then she visibly shook herself, saying brightly, ‘You and me, Ellie… I hope we’ll be good friends?’
‘I hope so, too.’ Ellie’s response was warm and genuine. She really liked Rosie. In fact, she felt so at ease with her it was almost as th
ough they had known each other for years.
‘Good! Good!’ She winked boldly before turning her attention to the boy, who was quietly skulking in the corner of the settle. ‘My word!’ she exclaimed, making an expression to match his own, ‘it looks to me like you need cheering up, young man!’ She raised the tip of her crutch and prodded his shoe with it. ‘There’s good fishing in the lake… I’ll show you the best places, if you like.’ She frowned, raising her voice slightly to counter the sounds of the struggle still being enacted out of sight. ‘Bloody fool!’ she muttered now, slewing round and almost losing her balance when Alec Harman came into the room, urging his reluctant quarry before him.
A few moments later, they were all seated, as Alec Harman – occasionally interrupted by the effervescent Rosie – explained the events of the past two days.
Ellie was not altogether surprised to learn of the deep-seated resentment at her father’s appointment here. That, in itself, had been painfully obvious from the moment they had arrived. Apparently, old, senile George had tricked Rosie into the cellar on some pretext or another, then had snatched her crutches and scurried away with them, locking the door behind him. Ever since the owner’s representative had called, instructing them of the new caretaker’s appointment and telling them that they must move into the cottage straight away, old George had been like a soul tormented. ‘The old sod even attacked the poor fellow who brought the message,’ Rosie told them, ‘scratched him real bad, he did… swore he were the devil “come to get me”… the bloke weren’t frightened though, I’ll give him that. He stood his ground and said what he’d come to say… albeit it were our bloody marching orders!’ She lowered her voice and excitedly tapped her crutch on the bare floorboards. ‘George were right about one thing, though… that fella were a vindictive sod, and no mistake… eyes that smiled straight at you, while his hand were plunging a blade through your heart, if you know what I mean.’ She clasped her crutches to her, glared at the boy, and shuddered mischievously, making a ghostly noise. When he stared back at her, she chuckled aloud, while secretly thinking the boy’s cold eyes were not all that different from those of the man whom George had attacked.
‘So, the sound we heard was Rosie… down in the cellar?’ Ellie asked, growing more relieved by the minute.
‘That’s right.’ Alec cast an accusing glance at the old man.
‘The daft bugger!’ Rosie burst out. ‘I’ve a good mind to lock him in the cellar… see how he likes it!’
‘That explains why nobody answered the door to us,’ interrupted Ellie’s father, ‘but… why didn’t the keys fit?’ To his consternation, no one had the answer to that.
‘You were obviously sent the wrong keys by mistake,’ Alec Harman suggested. ‘But there is a spare set hanging by the front entrance. You’d better keep them safe.’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Armstrong… or can I call you Jack?’ enquired Rosie with a disarming smile. When he merely returned her smile, she went on. ‘Right then… Jack, what I was about to say was that me and George here… we’ll be gone soon – into the cottage.’ She cast a cursory glance towards the bent head of the old man. ‘Isn’t that right, George?’ He was slumped in a deep, floral armchair close by, rocking himself back and forth, frantically grabbing little clutches of his grey, wispy hair and making small, unintelligible sounds. He did not look up when Rosie addressed him. Sighing loudly, she turned away. ‘Poor George,’ she said, travelling her eyes round the gathered group, before bringing her gaze to rest on Ellie. ‘You don’t know half,’ she said, her mood suddenly serious. There was pain in her voice as she went on. ‘To look at him… you’d think he was older than me, wouldn’t you, eh?’ She scrutinised Ellie through quizzical brown eyes.
‘Isn’t he?’ Ellie could not disguise her surprise. She looked again at the old man, thinking how desolate he seemed. How beaten.
Rosie smiled sadly at Ellie’s response. ‘No, dearie,’ she said, gently shaking her head. ‘I’m seventy-two… and, it will be another twenty years before George is that old.’ She saw the look of astonishment on Ellie’s face and heard the gasp that went up from Ellie’s father. ‘That’s right,’ she said, addressing herself to Jack Armstrong. ‘George is not far past the age of fifty… perhaps not many years older than yourself, eh?’
‘Not too many,’ he conceded, thinking it incredible that there were only some eight years between himself and the pathetic, wizened creature who, even now, was wailing like a lost soul.
He exchanged glances with Ellie; his own surprise was mirrored in her face. In a low voice, she asked of Rosie, ‘How did it happen? Has your husband suffered an illness?’ She found herself intrigued also by the vast difference in the couple’s ages. Twenty years was a long time, and, though it did occur more often where a woman might marry a man who was that much older, it was more unusual for it to be the other way round.
The ensuing silence was uncomfortable. It seemed an age before Rosie chose to answer. When she did, it was to deliver yet another surprise. ‘George is not my husband,’ she informed the newcomers. Her voice was sharper. She rose instantly from the chair and, tucking the crutches securely beneath her armpits, she turned to the dark-eyed young man. He appeared apprehensive, uncertain. ‘I think we’ve talked enough!’ she said, wagging her head in Ellie’s direction, yet still speaking to him. ‘Have you time to show the girl the route to the estate… the shortest route, through the spinney?’ She turned her head to look on Ellie, who was flustered by Rosie’s abrupt change of mood. ‘No doubt you’ll want to stock up on food and the like?’
Ellie replied, ‘Yes… that’s a marvellous idea.’
Rosie was pleased. Her smile returned and the tension relaxed. ‘Good girl.’
Jack Armstrong could not help but feel the situation was being taken out of his control. ‘I don’t think that’s such a good idea,’ he objected. ‘I’m sure Mr Harman here has other duties to attend to.’
‘None that won’t wait,’ returned the young man. ‘The spinney… and the route to the shops, are all part of the area I patrol. I’d be glad to show your daughter the quickest… and safest… path to the estate.’ His dark eyes flashed up to meet Rosie’s gaze. Ellie had the uncanny feeling that they were silently communicating.
Sensing her father’s increasing anxiety, Ellie realised that, if she was to have any measure of freedom whatsoever, then she had to put her foot down from the outset. ‘It makes sense,’ she told him, ‘I can order the provisions we need… and you can take stock of the place… assess the extent of work here… begin to make plans.’ She saw the twinkle return to his eyes. ‘You said yourself there’s so much to be done… “can’t wait to be let loose” you said. We each have our work cut out, Dad. You get on with yours, and let me get on with mine.’ Anger was beginning to bubble up inside her. When would he stop treating her like a child!
‘All right. All right!’ He clapped his hands to his knees, nodded his head and, with a sharp glance at the young man, he said, ‘I’m trusting you, Harman… against my better judgement.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Dad!’ Ellie hoped he was not going to embarrass her in front of everyone.
‘That’s settled, then!’ Rosie declared, manoeuvring herself round on her crutches, and addressing Ellie’s father. ‘You and the boy come with me. I’ll take you on a tour of this old mausoleum.’ She laughed aloud, a look of conniving in her face. ‘Show you what you’ve let yourself in for!’ She raised one crutch and prodded the bowed figure in the chair. ‘Are you coming?’ she asked impatiently. When there came no reply, she raised her voice. ‘I’m taking Jack Armstrong and the boy on a tour of Thornton Place. Are you coming with us?’
‘No.’ The bent figure made no move, keeping its gaze down to the bare floorboards.
‘Please yourself, then,’ Rosie retorted, adding, in a softer tone, as she leaned down towards the stooped shoulders, ‘I’ve forgiven you, you know… for shutting me in the cellar.’
‘Won’t punish me?�
� The voice was like that of a child.
‘No. So, are you coming with us?’
‘To… the cottage?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so. It’s all part of Thornton Place.’
‘Don’t want to!’
‘All right, George.’ Rosie was exasperated now, and rapidly losing her patience. ‘But, you’d better get used to the idea of the cottage, because… from tonight on, it will be our home.’ No response. ‘George! You do understand what I’m saying?’
The wizened figure remained motionless, but – though he appeared oblivious to the woman’s warning – his mind was in turmoil, quickened by Rosie’s words… ‘the cottage… it will be our home’. The thought terrified him, because even here in this big old house with the doors secured against the outside world, he never felt safe. In his heart of hearts, he knew that one day it would find him, punish him, kill him. He knew it would happen, as sure as the sun came up of a morning. And yet, he still prayed that he might be spared. The cottage was small and vulnerable to those who would tear it apart to get at him. Rosie knew. The darkeye knew. He was sure of it! And yet, they still intended to make him leave the sanctuary of this house, this fort, where there was no easy way in. They hadn’t punished him, though, had they? Not even when he did the bad things. Maybe they really were his friends after all. Surely they would not let it find him? He looked up and saw the smile that passed between them. Maybe they had a plan! A crafty plan to capture that devil and make it pay for the suffering it had caused him. He chuckled inside. Yes! That was it! They had a plan, his friends. He must believe that. He had to trust them. The fear in him subsided a little, but it did not go away. It would never go away. Now, what was it that pursued him? He thought hard, until it seemed like his mind was crumbling. What pursued him? Oh! The devil, of course. But what did ‘the devil’ look like? Why did it mean to harm him, to torture him… do away with him? Why. Why. Why. Oh, if only he could remember! Why couldn’t he remember? He could hear them talking now. It made him curious. And what about her? The young one… the pretty thing. Cunningly, he raised his head just enough. His eyes locked onto her; secretly regarding her through frowning, rampant brows. He was at first intrigued. Then he was afraid. There was something about her; something. Something? The paintings? Was it the paintings? It was no good. He could not remember. Fear would not let him remember. He sighed inside himself. It would get him. One day, it would get him. Oh, how he prayed that when the moment came, it would not be too agonising.
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