by C D Major
‘Of course it will.’ Keven waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t all old houses come with a ghost or two?’ He was clearly amused.
‘Who’s the ghost meant to be?’
Keven gave a small shrug. ‘The Internet’ll tell you Lady West – otherwise known as the White Lady. Came here after the First World War. English. She wanders the estate, supposedly.’
‘You’ve never seen her?’
Did he hesitate a fraction or did she imagine it? ‘Aye, I’ve never seen her. And I’ve managed the place for years now. And I used to come up here with my mum. She’s dead now.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Long time ago, now,’ he said, yet his face still twisted with pain. ‘But I suppose, even at my age, you miss your mum. And my dad, he doesn’t know much these days but he knows he still misses her.’
‘I’m sorry about that, too.’
Keven shrugged. ‘I’m always a bit down after visiting him. He’s in his nineties now – care home down in Dumbarton. They’re looking after him well. You got kids?’ His tone suggested he was keen to change the subject.
Ava couldn’t help the warm flush as she nodded. ‘About to.’ She placed a hand on her stomach.
‘Congratulations.’ His beaming smile made her feel lighter.
‘Thanks.’ She felt a flicker of shame that she had barely thought about her pregnancy these last few weeks. She recalled the terse silence from Fraser the night before when he’d asked her about birth classes. He wanted to book them early so they wouldn’t clash with school commitments. She had fobbed him off, staring at a screen, numerous windows open: old photographs, reports on long-nosed dogs, Celtic myths. He had walked off with a muttered reply.
Keven moved back towards the door. ‘Shall I see you out?’
‘Did Lady West have any children?’ Ava tried to keep her voice level though her heart thudded erratically.
Keven’s mouth turned down. ‘She did. A girl. A very sickly child.’ For a moment the old man’s face looked stricken. ‘A terrible business. That’s why many say Lady West did it.’
Ava swallowed, her mouth dry. ‘Why she did what?’
‘Why she jumped,’ Keven said, his eyebrows drawn together. Ava felt her stomach lurch.
Keven bent to move a brush near the edge of the dust sheet. ‘It was more than sixty years ago, now. Ancient history.’ He straightened up. ‘Best not to stir things up in my opinion . . . are you from Glasgow, then?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Ava responded, feeling her window of questioning dissolving. ‘Is that why the dogs jump, do you think?’
‘There hasn’t been a dog jump in years.’ Keven dismissed it all with a wave of his hand. ‘Locals just enjoy riling each other up about the place. It would be a welcome change to have some positive stories, if you have to do something,’ he added, a note of hope in his voice. ‘Did you know the garden was designed by Edward Kemp?’
Ava let him continue, but out of the corner of her eye she could just see the top of the bridge. Behind these walls she couldn’t hear the water. She thought of the child. A sickly child. She thought of a baby’s insistent cries. And the woman who wandered the estate.
They say that was why she jumped.
Chapter 21
MARION
Hamish is not often at home. Work takes him to London. But I must not complain too bitterly. As Mother has advised in her letters, I am a wife now and must put the needs of my husband first. I think of Father in our darkened living room, the ashtray spilling over, the work she takes in, despite her arthritis, to make sure the bills are paid.
When Hamish is home it is wonderful, the gloomy grey stone walls touched by magic. Miss Kae has hinted that the house has made him sad, that he will be pleased to have a wife in it, a future now after all the tragedy. I try my very best to be cheerful, to arrange things well. Flowers in vases in the rooms we occupy, lavender sprigs on his pillow, polished surfaces and smiles.
I crave his touch, a hand on my shoulder as he walks by, an arm around me as we stroll through the grounds. These things don’t happen often, but when they do I feel such a lightness in my soul. The nights are easier now. I undress, I lie in the bed, pull the bedclothes over me and wait for him. He appears, drawing back the covers so that goosebumps cover my skin from the cold air and the shock of him. He has shown me what I can do to please him and I try my best.
I want him to stay afterwards. I want to rest my head on his chest, on the carpet of wiry dark hair. I want to hear the beat of his heart and fall asleep to it.
Stay, my love. He doesn’t hear it.
He doesn’t stay. He gets up, replaces his nightshirt, complains of the cold, pads back to the room across the hall. The door clicks closed and I lie, eyes open, unable to sleep, twitching with my loneliness, rolling over to breathe in the smell of him, pretending he is still there.
He has been gone for more than two weeks now. I move outside, the house watching me as I wander the estate, the hooded windows like eyebrows lifted. Summer has turned to autumn, the trees a riot of oranges and reds, leaves filling up the gurgling streams. I take care on my walks, shoes slipping as I step over tree roots and uneven ground. I descend into a ravine of rocks and leaves, looking back at the house watching me like a concerned mother. The air smells of bonfire smoke and damp. Mud sticks to the hem of my skirt, a sticky layer over my boots.
I return when the light touches the tops of the trees and I know I need to get back, muscles straining, skin damp, skirting puddles on the road. This side of the house seems always in darkness, the thick stone bridge between me and it. My pulse quickens as I approach, as I step onto the rough gravel, drawn to the far parapet. I peer over the edge, the water roaring in my ears. It is a long way to fall and for a second I feel breathless with the thought of it.
I received a letter from him this morning telling me he will be another week more. My shoulders droop and I return to my bedroom, to a book I keep picking up and putting down.
I miss simple things. My mother and I standing at the butler’s sink, staring out at the familiar patch of grass, washing hanging on a line as we passed teacups and saucers to be washed and dried. Leaving the house, basket over my arm, to the shops a short walk away: the butcher for a pie, the grocer for potatoes, the tobacconist’s for Father’s cigarettes, talks with Susan, a walk in the park, stopping on a bench, tilting my face to the sun, people passing.
Here you cannot step outside and see people; you need to navigate the long walk down into Dumbarton, the road pockmarked with deep puddles, wetting the bottom of my dress, stones digging into my boots. No passing traffic, just an occasional rambler. The motorcar is kept in Edinburgh, not that I would ever dare to drive such a vehicle.
I rest back on my pillows, stare at the heavy curtains of my bed. I hear a noise and frown; Miss Kae dusting in the hallway, perhaps, or even a noise I have simply conjured. Sometimes I believe my own mind tries to make-believe I am not lying here alone. I lay a hand on my stomach. My energy is depleted. Perhaps today I will not dress or go downstairs. I stare at the ivy that roams over the walls and imagine it reaching its tendrils into the room and stroking me before rolling me up and smothering me.
Chapter 22
AVA
Ava barely remembered the drive home, her head still back in Overtoun House.
That’s why she jumped.
Standing on the parapet, that crackle in the air, the feeling as she looked over the edge into the water below.
Fraser was waiting for her as she arrived home, an expectant smile on his face. ‘I thought we could go to the cinema tonight?’ He was in his sunny spot on the balcony, an open book abandoned.
‘Good idea,’ Ava said, relieved to be forgiven for working that weekend. ‘I’m just going to change into something else. I’m boiling.’ She needed a few moments to return to the present.
‘Notice anything?’ he called as she walked down the narrow corridor.
She looked around at their small bedroom; it all
looked the same: the king-sized bed made neatly, the grey and pink throw tucked in; both bedside tables tidy; clean glasses; a neat stack of books; a white wicker chair in the corner supporting a pile of laundered clothes.
‘You ironed?’ she called out.
Fraser appeared in the doorway. ‘Not here.’ He held out a hand to lead her into the small room next door that had always acted as an office.
She had walked straight past it and not noticed. The door was propped open with two bursting black bin bags. The room had been packed away, boxes filled with files and books, a desk dismantled and propped against the wall, barely used gym equipment piled up.
‘Oh!’ Ava turned to him.
He shrugged, looking around the small space. ‘I’ll keep the files and things at school and I’ve made a space for the cot, and a changing table could go here.’
A changing table. She hadn’t thought about a changing table.
‘I asked Pippa for a list of what we needed. She emailed me. It was . . . thorough.’ He laughed.
‘It’s great!’ Ava returned to the present as she stared around. It must have taken him all day. ‘Thank you.’ She gave him a hug, reminding herself of what was important. She had to concentrate on their burgeoning family, stop disappearing into the past.
And yet in the cinema, in the dark, she couldn’t concentrate on the storyline. Sitting stiffly in her chair as the movie blasted on the screen, the sound all around her, vibrating through her, she found herself returning to the darkened corridor, the locked door, the feel of the air standing on the bridge. She couldn’t taste the popcorn that Fraser passed her as she imagined once more peering over the edge.
That was why she jumped.
Was that why the bridge had such a nasty feel? Had others jumped from that height? Why did dogs feel lured to its edge? What would have happened to her if Keven hadn’t appeared? She gripped the armrests, her teeth grinding as her brain leaped from one thought to the next, as if she was physically restraining herself even now.
‘You OK?’ Fraser looped his arm around her shoulder as they returned to the lobby, the smell of hot dogs, popcorn and grease butting into them.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She hadn’t told him about her day; the very word Overtoun now seemed to make him bristle. She felt herself pulled deeper into the story, startled by Keven’s admission that there had been a child. Was that why she’d heard a baby? Had the baby grown up to be that sickly girl?
She felt removed from her surroundings as they left the cinema, blinking as Fraser asked her what she thought about the film. As he shared his own opinions, she made sounds of agreement, all the while distracted by other thoughts. They moved across an almost empty car park, Fraser ducking into the driver’s seat as she opened the door. Her hand paused on the handle as the same prickling sensation she had felt on the bridge itself returned. She twisted to look over her shoulder, convinced that someone was watching. There was no one there. A row of cars but no people.
The next morning, she woke knowing where she needed to go.
Fraser wanted to join some of their friends for a pub lunch. ‘We haven’t really seen anyone since the news got out,’ he said, his blue eyes on her.
‘It’s just that . . . if I don’t do this now, I know I’ll be sent out on another job tomorrow . . .’
‘Is this going to be like Kenny Watson?’ Fraser asked.
This was another story from five years or so before. A shop owner had called the police after a break-in. Kenny, a black man, had been arrested outside and had later died in police custody. She had talked to officers off the record. She had interviewed ex-police about the officers involved. Her dogged coverage, her insistence that his murder had been covered up, ensured the story remained in the local consciousness. Ava had become obsessed, barely sleeping, dreaming of the story, working all weekends, determined to help the family see justice. She had failed. She winced as Fraser reminded her.
‘No. This is different.’ How could she explain why this story had such a hold on her? ‘If I leave now, I could probably join you all mid-afternoon.’
Fraser just shrugged.
‘I really will race.’ She felt guilty as she kissed him goodbye. And his cheek was stiff.
She had exhausted the Internet for information on the house. The same websites gave her acreage, tree species, discussed the landscaped gardens, the architecture. She could have given a presentation on the intricacies of Scottish Baronial mansions. But what made that bridge so special? It wasn’t the masonry, the design or even the terrifying stone gargoyles that leered, almost leaping themselves from the stone to the river below.
She had stared at photographs of it taken from every angle. The previous night she had stayed up discovering more news stories, interviews over the years and tragedies, some avoidable, that plagued the area: owners of dogs who had jumped; a teenager who had toppled from a bank in the ravine, the ground giving way from under her; a local man found miles from where he was meant to be, dead, his shotgun beside him. She felt tugged back there with every story as the mystery deepened. The feeling when she thought of it was something she struggled to explain: dark undercurrents that swirled, the haunting sound of white noise, the insistent cry of a baby.
The drive to Dumbarton flashed by and she parked in a hurry, the back of her car at a slight angle. She scoured the high street for locals of a certain age, needing to know more about the child that Keven had mentioned, as if spurred on by the memory of that cry. No one knew about a child. No one wanted to talk. Hours passed with unreliable snippets and nothing else. The woman had lived alone. I heard she jumped . . . I heard she was pushed by a man who knew her . . . I heard she’s the ghost . . . No one goes there. No one likes to.
Finally, bone-tired, Ava returned to her car, her spirits temporarily lifting as she read the sign for a nearby B & B. Her pace quickened as she approached, her tiredness evaporating as she opened the low picket gate and turned up the short path to the little porch flanked by pots of lavender. Temporarily closed, a sellotaped note on the front door said. Family matter. Thank you for your understanding. Ava squeezed her fists in frustration, wanting to scream out loud. Wearily, she turned and headed back to her car, out of ideas, just a wasted few hours to show for herself.
One of the thin places, she thought as she left the town, passing beneath the shadow of the house. Fraser’s pub lunch was long over. She had missed it and she had discovered nothing more about Overtoun; her questions remained unanswered. What kind of things happened when this world brushed up against another? And why did she feel so compelled to discover that for herself?
Chapter 23
CONSTANCE
My wheelchair is folded by the door. Mother prefers it to my stick. The townsfolk raised money for it. I haven’t wanted to leave my room for days now. Mother insists on carrying me out sometimes, resting me in the wheelchair that she has opened at the top of the small flight of stairs. The bear watches me. I stare at his strong legs, thick and powerful, as I tuck mine underneath me and let her wheel me along, listening to the whir of the wheels on the tiles.
When she leaves me in it in the house, I feel afraid. The hair stands on my neck and arms. It’s always cold but now it seems as if the air is whipped up, carrying strange noises that rush round me – make me jump. As if the house is alive somehow, waking the moment I’m alone. As if it wants me back in my room or gone completely, to be left alone with her.
The big green room doesn’t feel as nice any more. I notice the patches on the walls, the faded marks on the floor, the empty space with no people, no voices, no one to play with. The babies on the ceiling seem to flutter above me laughing with each other out of my reach. How I wish Mother would have a baby, a sister or a brother for me.
I sit in my chair, always too cold, and listen to the distant sounds of pans clashing, footsteps, a voice. I see Mr Hughes working in the garden. I imagine what his voice would sound like if he spoke. I’d ask him stories about his
son, about the war that he was in and whether my daddy definitely got lost in it.
Today Mother leaves when I say I will stay here in my room. I sit kneeling up on my wheelchair that I have rolled to the window. There are tiny red circles on my knees where they press into the canvas. I watch walkers cross the bridge. I have to be careful to get down if she returns. I leave a book on the floor so that she will see I was just reading.
The weather is warmer now, my room stuffed with it, the days longer, and people walk early and late. I love to see them, to imagine their lives. They are so alive, so healthy. I hold my hand up to the glass, press my palm against it and wish I was one of them.
I have had my wheelchair for a year now. Mother took me back to the hospital in Glasgow when the doctor was worried my legs were getting worse. Mother told him that I was spending longer in bed, feeling more pain when I walked. He spoke to her about ‘muscular atrophy’ – from the polio I had when I was little. He spent longer with me. He liked Mother’s shortbread, warm from the oven. They talked over me as I sat in the room. He thinks she does so much. A good Christian lady.
She has a stack of medical books filled with strange diagrams and long words that she told me are Latin. I am not to mention the books to the doctor. Mother says it is better if she speaks to him because she can explain things better so I can get help. She’s right. Some days I just hurt everywhere and I can’t imagine not being like this.
When the doctor comes, she has a list ready of some of the things wrong with me and his thick dark eyebrows with grey strands poking out pull together into a frown as he tells her that she was right to request a home visit, that I am a ‘conundrum’. He is rewarded with her widest smile, her chin tilted higher as she offers him more tea, or a whisky before he leaves. She is a version of Mother I am not used to – her voice softer, lighter like one of the fairies in my books, flitting around the room as he taps and listens with his cold stethoscope and talks about more tests. I see Mother’s eyes flash behind him. It will mean another hospital stay, a long recovery.