by Rachael King
All these sounds invaded my dreams, which swirled and spun with images and colours that I couldn’t catch onto. I lay in bed listening to the walnut branch, and yet I knew I was still dreaming because the room was filled with outlandish shapes and shadows cast by a light I knew didn’t exist. The tapping advanced and receded, and finally came closer, until it reached my window. I thought the sound would drive me mad, so I went to find some way to stop it. The clasp wouldn’t budge but, seized by the need to silence the tree, I knocked my elbow through the glass and reached out into the night to grab the branch. Instead, my fingers closed over an ice-cold hand. I tried to draw my arm back, but the hand clung on. A girl’s face swam into view before me, but before she spoke, I knew what she was going to say, for I had read this scene many times.
‘Let me in, let me in!’ the girl sobbed. Her face was pale and her dark eyes squinted against the rain.
‘Who are you?’ I asked, even though I knew what she was going to answer — Cathy Earnshaw.
‘Why, Rosie,’ she said, and her grip on my hand tightened, ‘don’t you remember me? Have you forgotten already?’
I stared at the girl, floating there in her nightdress, and it seemed impossible after all these years. I wrestled with her, trying to make her let go, and then I did the only thing I could: I pulled her towards me and rubbed her wrist across the broken window pane, so that the glass sliced through her skin and the blood ran down into the room, washed by rain.
The girl didn’t cry out. She merely pleaded again: ‘Let me in, Rosie, it’s freezing out here.’
I screamed. I had never felt such intense fear and frustration. I hated myself for what I was doing to her, and as I dragged her wrist back and forth I felt and heard the sawing of bone. ‘Let me go! Please!’ I cried. Finally the fingers unlocked and she was gone, as if the wind had picked her up and whipped her away. And yet still, when I returned to my bed, I could hear her calling, ‘Let me in!’
‘Go away!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll never let you, not in twenty years!’
‘But it has been twenty years,’ she called back. ‘I’ve been a waif for twenty years.’
The knocking on the walls began again in earnest. I yelled, threw my face into the pillow and woke up.
I lay on my back. Sweat pooled between my breasts. I looked at the window but it was intact, and the tapping sound was once again just the walnut tree. I was breathing heavily, and I wished I wasn’t alone.
In the morning, I woke with a start to see sunlight spilling through the curtains. I thought for a moment there had been another earthquake, that this was what had disturbed me. But as I lay there, getting my bearings, I heard the front door close with a bang. Voices. Deep. A guttural laugh.
I leapt out of bed and opened the curtains to look outside. The back end of a shiny SUV was visible below my window. I crept to the top of stairs and listened. The voices — two of them, male — drifted up from the direction of the kitchen, but I couldn’t quite make them out. I hesitated, unsure what to do — to get out now, or to find out who the casual intruders were. I decided to be brave.
The two men stopped talking and just stared at me when I appeared before them. One of them, short and weathered-looking, flinched a little as though he had seen a ghost. I guess I must have looked unusual, to say the least — still dressed in old-fashioned black clothes, my face drawn from lack of sleep and crying.
The other man, taller, with a sheepskin jacket over a dress shirt and pants, spoke. ‘I’m sorry, we didn’t know anyone was here. You are?’
‘Who are you?’
‘Andrew Preston. This is Bill. We’ve been asked here by the family.’ He was looking at me as though I didn’t belong, as if I were something that had crawled up from the river and taken shelter in the house. He held a large roll of paper in both hands, and a briefcase was propped beside him on the kitchen bench.
‘Well, I’m the family. Can I help you?’ It was less a polite offer than an accusation.
‘Look, I think there’s some kind of misunderstanding here.’ He moved towards me. Bill hung back, still eying me warily. ‘We’re here to look at the house. I’m the architect the family’s employed to do the renovations. Bill’s here as project manager. We’re due to start next week, and just need to take a look around if that’s okay …’ He searched the air for my name.
‘Rosemary.’ I was stunned — I hadn’t realised it was all happening so soon.
‘Right. Are you Joe’s daughter? Or Brian’s?’
‘Joe’s.’
‘I’m sorry, he didn’t say you’d be here.’
That was because I hadn’t told them I was coming. Any of them.
‘It’s not a good time now,’ I said. ‘I’m working. You’ll have to come back another day.’
Bill gave an explosive, nervous laugh, then went solemn again. Andrew turned to look at him, then back at me.
‘I don’t think you understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve come from the city. That’s a two-hour drive. I left at dawn to get here.’
‘That’s not my fault.’
He stared at me, unsure what I was going to do next. I saw him looking at my wrist, at my magpie, and I covered it with my hand.
‘Look,’ he said eventually, ‘I’ll just give Joe a call. We’ll get this cleared up.’ He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and I couldn’t help but smile as he flicked it open and looked at it. He sighed and looked at Bill. ‘You got any reception?’ Bill went through the same process and shook his head.
‘Got a landline?’ asked Andrew.
‘Sorry, no,’ I said in a sing-song, innocent voice.
It was a stand-off. They glared at me, I glared at them. Finally Andrew started to move towards me. I stood aside as he went through to the hallway. Bill took the opportunity to scan the walls and ceiling, turning to look at the spot where I expected french doors were going to go.
‘Right,’ he said when he saw me watching him. As if he couldn’t help himself, his meaty fist came out of his pocket and knocked on an internal wall as he passed. He joined Andrew in the hall and I herded them towards the front door. I could hear them murmuring to each other.
‘Got our work cut out, mate,’ said Bill, ‘but she should come up nice. All original?’
‘Pretty much. Some of these rooms were reconfigured about the 1930s, but those walls’ll be coming down. Get some light into the place.’ Andrew glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice even more, but I still heard. ‘It’s a big job just to make it habitable. Don’t know how anyone could live in it like this.’
‘I can hear you, you know,’ I said. ‘And you can just fuck right off.’ My voice was rising; I had no control over it. ‘You don’t know anything about this house. You’re just going to come in and butcher it with no regard for its history. Just piss off. Go!’
They were at the door now and couldn’t open it quickly enough. As they scampered for their four-wheel drive, Andrew flipped his phone open again, and for a moment I thought he might be trying to call the police, though he’d have no more luck out there than inside. He pocketed the phone and roared off, wheels spinning in the gravel.
Magpie Hall. That is what he will call it, for the black and white birds that lurk inside the ruined corner of the house. It will signify a new beginning, both for the house, and for Henry.
It was the earthquake that brought the house to him. Part of it had fallen down, killing its owner, and the family, which consisted only of married daughters, was selling it for a good price. He wrote to his father and told him of the opportunity: If you can see your way to making the purchase on my behalf I can assure you that I will not attempt to return to England. It was a risk, but eventually a letter arrived from his father in which he agreed to the terms.
Now he stands before it: a small house by the standards he is used to in England, with only two storeys, but the rooms are large and there is plenty of space for the two of them and some servants — after all, he doesn’t plan to stay here too long
, or to start a family soon.
He wants to surprise her with the additions he has planned. He will rebuild the crumbled part of the house, making it sturdier than ever before, strengthening its walls and chimneys. No earthquake will shatter it again. The brick exterior lends itself perfectly to the Gothic style of architecture he admires, and knowing how much Dora loves Gothic novels, he will make it a miniature castle for her. He will add arched windows and a tower; he closes his eyes, sees turrets and ramparts stretching into the sky. He will create a walled garden for her, with a gazebo, just as his mother has at home, and where he lost himself as a child, hiding from her and collecting beetles and caterpillars for his fledgling collection.
He will retain the staff of the station as they are. He has made enquiries and discovered it is in good hands. The land is returning a profit. But the very best thing about this property is the presence of limestone caves over the crest of the hill. He is sure that with some digging they will yield all manner of curiosities, animal or mineral. Or perhaps human. When he questioned the daughters about them, they shrugged and said they had never even seen them, so who knows how long it is since they have been investigated, if at all.
A river runs through the property, and he has already discovered a perfect bathing place, not far from the house. The daughters have described with nostalgia the many picnics they have had along its banks, and how in stormy weather it swells dramatically. They are never short of water, although the presence of limestone can clog the pipes sometimes and he will have to take proper care of them. A trifle, really.
Yes, he and Dora will be very happy here, he can tell. His engagement to her is not something he had originally planned, but the more time he spends with her the more he discovers that she is the perfect companion for him. He is charmed by her lively and enquiring mind, her hunger for travel and the fact that she can both hold her own in polite society and shoot a rifle (her father insisted she learn, for her protection). He has never come across a woman like her, in London or New Zealand, where the ladies are universally silly and interested only in fashion and gossip. Dora, his Dora, is different. And there is no denying the calming effect she has on him. In her presence, his anger at last appears to be under control.
He’d had too many drinks the night he proposed to her and was perhaps a little carried away by the moment, but after the earthquake, he knew he had no regrets. And the fact that, for the moment, she was the sole heiress of her father’s estate did nothing to diminish his ardour.
As he turns to leave, he disturbs the magpies that have gathered to investigate the intruder. They are different from the curious birds with the glossy feathers and long tails he knows from home. These birds are bullish black and white crows, and their presence, he confesses, makes him a little uneasy. But he admires their gumption. They may be sifting through the remains for shiny treasures to take back to their nests, but it is as though they are staking their claim on the house. They remind him of himself. He must remember to shoot one for his collection when he gets the chance.
She wears white silk and orange blossoms in her hair. As they say their vows in front of a gathering of well-wishers, the sun breaks through the clouds and pours through the stained-glass church windows; the patterns dance on her body, colouring her dress.
And later they are finally alone, in the house he has restored for her. There are two bedrooms with an adjoining door, and a large bed in each. One will be hers and one will be his.
He was so proud the day he brought her to inspect the property and its restoration.
Look, my dear, he said, his hand resting lightly on her waist. He pointed out the turrets and the tower. A team of gardeners was planting the walled garden; by summer it would be alive with colour and the hum of insects. He stayed close behind her as she ascended the narrow spiral staicase to the tower and stood by, looking pleased with himself, as she surveyed the view on all sides, feeling the light on her face. The river glinted through the trees.
I love it, she said finally, and she did. She loved the effort he had poured into it on her behalf. The house felt uncannily cold, but she was sure once the fires were lit and the servants had moved back in it would be as warm as a beating heart.
He leaves her in her room to get ready for bed. She sits at the new dressing table and looks at her face, pale in the lamplight. Her hand shakes as she pulls the pins from her hair and watches it fall about her shoulders. Next, she takes her brush and runs it through her curls so they fly away and fan about her face. This mundane routine calms her, as if it were any night. Her maid waits patiently nearby, and when Dora nods, comes over to plait her hair, then helps her take off her wedding dress. It rustles about her ears as it lifts over her head and the loss of its weight makes her body light. Next, the maid unlaces the corset. Dora takes a deep breath and sits down, suddenly dizzy. Thank you, Mary, she says. I can manage now.
She removes her remaining undergarments and lays them on a nearby chair. Her nightgown lies fresh and new on the bed. She pulls it over her head and breathes deeply again; its newness smells like a spring lawn. Then she slides under the covers.
She lies with the sheets pulled up around her ears, listening for signs of her husband. She hears him bump into something, and laugh gently to himself, which makes her smile. If she didn’t know better she would think he was drunk, but he has hardly touched a drop all day and night. As she waits, she looks around the room, at the lamplight shadows flirting with the walls. Henry has had the room decorated just for her, with rich burgundy floral wallpaper and heavy velvet drapes over the tall arched windows — only the finest for my bride, he said. A collection of beautiful blue butterflies decorates the wall. All different sizes, their wings catch the light and glow like waterfalls. Her trunks sit by the wardrobe, waiting to be unpacked. Her new home.
A gentle knocking comes from the door between their rooms.
Come, she says, but her voice is a whisper. Come! she says again. The door opens and Henry pokes his head in.
She is relieved at first that he seems as nervous as she is, pacing around the room in a silk jacket, smoking the last of his cigarette. But the smell offends her suddenly and she becomes irritated. He is supposed to be the man; he is supposed to put her at ease and guide her on their wedding night.
Please put that thing out, she commands him and he stops pacing and stands erect. He looks at her in surprise then bursts out laughing.
Yes, madam! he says and disappears back into his own room for a moment, before emerging empty-handed. She has broken the ice and feels the irritation subside. They are both smiling now.
He sits on the opposite side of the bed.
Dora, dear, he says. There is something I need to show you.
She bites her lip. A disease, she thinks, a horrible deformity. He is not as other men. He is a eunuch. But all of these thoughts peel away as he opens his jacket, and then the neck of his nightshirt. He pulls it to one side and reveals a picture on his chest — a rose.
What is it? she asks. She leans over the bed towards it. A tattoo?
He nods.
She has never seen one before, only heard of them. May I? She reaches out towards him. The rose feels slightly raised on its stem, but otherwise it is as smooth as if it weren’t even there.
You’re not angry? he asks.
Angry? No. I think it’s … I think it’s lovely.
She is not lying, not trying to put him at ease. The red blooming against his pale skin is as arresting as a real rose would be, had she come across it in the snow.
That is good, my love. He raises the covers and slides into bed beside her. Because there are more.
He shuffles around beneath the bedclothes, and then his nightshirt is travelling up his body and over his head. He drops it on the ground.
She gasps.
How had she not known about this? A dragon wrapped around his forearm — intricately drawn, breathing hot fire; a mermaid with long golden hair covering her nakedness; an insect she d
oes not recognise, with a long tail and pincers like a crab; a springing tiger. In the golden light they emerge from the shadows of his body as he lies down and turns over for her. She runs her hands over the snake on his back and his skin shivers under her touch.
She hasn’t even registered, until now, that he is naked beside her and she pulls her hands away sharply.
She surprises herself by saying, I have never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.
He turns and pulls her to him and she allows herself be encircled by his tattooed arms. He kisses her and kisses her and kisses her.
They don’t sleep all night. He is gentle with her, but still the pain is too much this first time. He holds her instead, and they talk until a finger of light tries to pull back the curtains. She asks him about his tattoos, tries to understand how they came to be. He tells her about his first visit to Hori Chyo, in Japan, shows her how the dragon dances when he flexes his forearm.
But you have to hide your body all the time, she says.
It is not hard, he says. I bathe alone. The only people who usually see them are … he hesitates.
Women, she thinks. His other women.
The tattooers. But I didn’t need to hide them back in England. Many of my friends have tattoos. Even the Prince of Wales and his sons have been tattooed, by the same artist that tattooed my dragon. Once they had tattoos, everyone wanted them. You should see them all, trying to outdo each other. And the ladies, too.
She sits up. The ladies? she repeats.
He laughs. Yes, my dear. They are quite fashionable among the ladies of London society. You will see. I will take you there. There is a famous London beauty, Lady Churchill. She has a snake tattooed around her wrist.
But what if she ever wants to hide it?
She simply wears gloves, or a bracelet. But she has no need to hide it. All those women, they copy each other.
Dora thinks for a moment, stroking the colourful patterns on his arms.