by C D Major
The house seemed to take up even more space; the turrets were taller, every corner more pointed, every stone darker. She shuddered as she stepped forward, pulling her coat around herself.
The covered portico smelled damp. Muddied wellington boots were the only sign that someone was around. There were no lights showing inside and the tiled hallway was almost dark in the fading light. She imagined the bear waiting around the corner just before she knocked loudly. Would he be surprised? She stamped her feet, her toes tingling, hands thrust into her pockets. Her bump was so big now that her winter coat didn’t quite do up and her body was soon shivering. No one was going to let her in.
This now seemed like an insane move and yet she wasn’t ready to turn back towards her car. Now she was here, she felt an irresistible urge to see it all, to see if anything had changed, if it still felt the same. The light had almost completely gone now and some stars were visible over the trees as she moved tentatively towards the bridge. She swallowed. There was still something inexplicable in the way the ground seemed less sure beneath her, in the line of the stones, crooked and shifting, when she looked up. It was as if she had never been away, as if months hadn’t passed, as if the bridge had simply been waiting for her.
This wasn’t why she had come, she reminded herself. As if in agreement, the baby inside her kicked and somersaulted against her, pressing back on her spine, urging her not to go forward one more step. Something moved across the sky, a shooting star – a blink and then gone.
Near her, the stone steps led down. Her gaze shifted to the window, almost entirely black, buried beneath its ivy cloak. An idea formed. The things she wanted would be in there and she had seen the sliver of a gap at the bottom of the casement window – a broken catch, perhaps? She swallowed once more, her mouth and throat dry. She walked down the stone steps, her feet sinking into the damp spongy patch that was more weeds than grass as she moved towards the window.
It was as if no time had passed. The words scratched into the surface were still visible. Darting a glance over her shoulder, she saw the bridge was still empty. Why then did she feel as if it had eyes that followed her every move, that the wind had claws wanting to grab at her, lift her hair? She clenched her teeth as she reached forward to push back the ivy. The crackle of the leaves and the feel of insects on her skin made her heart beat faster. The smell of damp and neglect overwhelmed her and she knew she should turn back, should not forge on.
And yet since that moment in the living room with Liam, the half-formed thoughts nudged at her, random words now took on new meaning. The answers were here in the house, in this room, under the bridge – in that place where she now knew babies were buried. There had been a child, and that child had slept and lived in this room. That child had written those letters on the windowsill, Ava was sure of it. She was dead, Ava knew that too, but she wasn’t forgotten. She looked inside at shapes leaping out of the grey: the bed, the chair, the doll, the picture of the mountain, the trunk.
Years of damp and neglect meant the wood had swelled, putting pressure on the catch. There was the thinnest gap along the bottom of the window, which her nails now inched along. She lifted the catch, tiny, dry flakes of paint fluttering down as she pulled the window towards her. It opened. A cloud of fetid air reminding her of damp, day-old socks made her nose wrinkle.
With a huge effort, she lifted herself backwards onto the ledge on her bottom, her feet scrabbling against the stones of the house as her body protested. Bringing her legs up, her stomach pressed uncomfortably into her, squeezing her lungs. She twisted and hauled herself through the narrow space. Something caught as she tumbled inside. Fear coursed through her – what was she thinking? Her body smacked against the wooden floor, her breath expelled in one shocked huff.
It was impossibly dark and the floorboards were coated in dust that stuck to her cheek and clothes. As she got to her feet slowly, the outlines of furniture and things took shape. She saw the doll on the shelf, its glass eyes winking in the darkness as she took a step forward. Somewhere nearby, on the other side of the door, came a low gurgling sound – then silence. She was rooted to the spot, her breath suspended, her ears straining for more. The sticky warmth of the room seemed suffocating, so at odds with the temperature outside. Her skin was now sheened with sweat in her thick woollen coat. She resisted a craving to stick her head back through the window, to suck in the air. Another step . . .
What was it she was searching for? There was a chamber pot, a bed, books tilted on a shelf – children’s stories, the Bible – she squinted, trying to read the titles in the darkness. The bed was still made and she rested on it a moment. As she gazed across to the other wall and the picture of the mountain, she was assailed by a sudden stench of vomit that made her cover her own mouth. There was another sound from the corridor – she was sure of it. Her hand dropped; her head snapped around. Though no light showed beneath the door, she imagined someone on the other side, breathing in and breathing out.
Her mobile rang, sudden, loud and insistent, making her gasp and convulse. She’d thought she’d put it on silent mode for Tommy’s party. She pulled it from her coat pocket: a no number given. A work call on a weekend? She pressed to receive it, would make her excuses. Her whispered ‘hello’ was barely there. What if someone was in the house after all? She couldn’t hear steps but she could feel something, something on the other side of that door, waiting . . .
‘Hello?’ she repeated.
There was no one on the other end.
Then, a sound that made her whole body freeze, the faintest squeal, a bark. She fumbled with the phone, its light cartwheeling as it slipped from her grasp, throwing up crazed shadows on the wall.
Bending, she snatched it up, her knees scraping the wooden floor, heart hammering. The weight of her stomach almost pinning her to her spot. She inched towards the trunk on her knees. There was no key in the trunk’s lock. She put both her hands onto the catches and lifted. The lid began to open and there was a smell like old libraries and damp paper. But before she could push the lid fully open, it was as if someone had sat suddenly on it and her hands shot away as it slammed closed.
Ava jerked backwards, her breathing heavy now. It was darker as she fumbled again for the catch, the lightest wings fluttering on her cheek making her swipe at her face with her hands. It was a moth, she told herself, just a moth. She wanted to stay calm, could feel her body reacting. It wasn’t just that she was breaking and entering or that someone could be still be there; it was as if the house was trying to stop her, too. Her chest tightened at the thought, palms clammy. There was a sudden pain in her abdomen as her baby dug into her insides with an elbow or a knee.
When she looked ahead, she could still make out the white snow on the mountain but it seemed for a second that there was a figure clinging to the rock face, dangling by their fingertips, seconds from oblivion. She blinked. It was just a mountain, nothing more. Oh my God, Ava, why would you come here? Help me. Help me, on the windowsill. Think.
She turned back to the trunk and prised up the lid, reached an arm inside, moving her palm across the bottom. The lid pressed heavily on her arm, then up, then down, buffeting gently. Her breath sounded loud in her ears as her fingers plucked at the things inside. Something skittered across her skin and she curled her hand into a fist. There seemed to be very little inside the trunk but, underneath its thick paper lining, she felt some loose sheets and drew them out, crumpling the pages, the lid snapping shut once more.
She stumbled up and backwards, wanting to leave, beads of sweat at her hairline, between her breasts, her bump sticky with it. The smell of vomit, curdled milk and a terrible stuffy warmth made her turn too quickly for the window. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She stuck out a hand, grabbing at the windowsill. She noticed the wheelchair in the corner. She had to get out, or she felt the window would slam closed and keep her there forever.
She groped wildly, lifting herself carefully back out of the window, metal or wood pressing
into her coat, painful even through the layers of clothing. Outside, the air was no longer still and rancid but whisking round her, faster and faster, the cold entering every pore, stinging her cheeks. Her feet sank into the spongy grass as her baby bucked in her stomach. She had only taken a few steps, the papers still scrunched in her hand, when the most unworldly roar lifted her hair, her whole body, pushed her away. It was as if the house was furious with her. The jabs from her baby made her eyes sting as she stumbled up the stone steps. She looked up and her blood ran cold when she saw her.
Chapter 48
CONSTANCE
Crumpet has been gone for more than a year now and Mother took all the furniture out of my room. My room looks like the rest of the house, with gaps where things used to be. Now all that is left is my bed, my shelf, my picture and a trunk with all my clothes and blankets. Most days I see the lost things as if they are still there after years and years of staring at the same shapes. My wheelchair is kept outside and Mother brings it in when I ring a bell. I can’t see the edge of the bridge any more and I am glad of it. Every time I see the grey stone I am reminded of that day. That bridge is cursed.
I am always locked in my room now. I think the house likes it like that. It makes the corridor colder. A wind that sounds like whispering voices presses into the keyhole, makes my eyes dart to the door, makes me clutch at my bedclothes, makes goosebumps pop out on my skin. It likes me in here, as if it has Mother all to itself.
I sleep when it’s light or dark and eat when I like, trays coming and going. Sometimes I walk back and forward, back and forward, imagining myself preparing to climb the mountain in the picture. I run on the spot and I don’t care if someone sees me. Mr Hughes drew back the ivy and peered inside once, which made me gasp as he cupped his hands to the glass. I did a star jump with a defiant tilt of my chin as I met his gaze.
He stepped backwards, disappearing around the side of the house.
Another time, I heard Annie in the corridor, the shock of her voice so close.
‘I thought I could go in and sit with her, Lady West. She might enjoy the company . . .’
‘You cannot,’ Mother said. ‘Her health is so precarious. We must limit her contact.’
‘I could read to her from outside the door, perhaps? Talk with her?’
‘You have more than enough chores, Annie, and a family of your own to look after.’
‘But . . .’
‘I will hear no more of it.’ Her words were final, cutting through to me in the room.
The tiniest sigh, footsteps, a line delivered from a distance.
‘Lady West, my David’s worried someone’s been at the supplies again. He’s missing a bottle of lead arsenate for the garden.’
A pause.
‘What a bother.’ Another pause, and then Mother’s voice once more. ‘I was stopped by Iris the other day. Asked me if I had a position for her. She’s had a little girl, Mary. Needs the money. Work is so hard to find these days.’ The words came slowly.
‘It is, Lady West.’
‘It is, Annie.’
More people drop in gifts and treats and Mother shows them to me. At Christmas she is sent homemade jams, chutneys, honey from a neighbour. Cards line the mantelpiece and she reads me the messages. ‘Our prayers are with you . . . Bless you both . . . For two special ladies. Isn’t that nice?’ Her face glows in the candlelight in the dusty mirror. Beside her I see myself, cheeks hollow, pale, my legs like yellow bones in my chair. Yet I feel the blood pumping to them.
I rarely eat what I am brought and Mother chews her lip and talks about seeing the doctor if I lose more weight.
We go to the hospital and I am admitted – very underweight.
‘I can’t get her to eat, Doctor.’ Her eyes sparkle.
‘There, there, we’ll take care of her. You did the right thing to bring her to us.’
I stay for three weeks this time. Mother takes a room there and visits me much more than she does at home. ‘We don’t normally let people stay, duckie,’ says one of the nurses, ‘but your mother couldn’t bear not to be by your side. Aren’t you lucky?’
I am fed through a tube at first and I put on weight. My throat aches, lips cracked, agony the day they remove it. My voice is a whisper. I feel so bone-tired but sit, propped up on thin hospital pillows, the smell of disinfectant as they mop the ward floor. The food is simple and I nibble at it, listless, chewing long after I’ve swallowed it.
The doctor visits me at my bedside. Mother smooths her hair as he approaches.
‘You look so tired,’ he tells her.
‘I just can’t leave her.’
‘You are so good. What a Christian lady!’
‘Do you think, Doctor, she will be able to be healed? Perhaps if there was a way to be rid of the limbs that hold her back?’
‘We can certainly observe muscle weakness.’ He feels over my flesh and my leg jerks in response.
‘I’m feeling a little better, Doctor,’ I rasp.
But then at night, Mother cuts across. ‘Oh, the pain she is in, Doctor. Perhaps you could give her a stronger dose of medicine? To help her sleep?’
‘Yes, you might be right. We need you to keep your strength up, don’t we, Constance?’
‘And, Doctor . . . I did read more about amputation. Heaven knows it sounds an extreme measure, but if it will cause her to be in less difficulty . . .’
The doctor strokes his chin. ‘Perhaps. I think we are right now to consider it.’
I watch them talk over my heads once more as I lie helpless in the grey, sterile room.
But I am getting older now.
I know what amputation is.
I know my legs can be strong.
I know my mother is bad.
I know I must escape.
Chapter 49
AVA
‘Mum?’ Ava gasped, squinting up at the figure standing at the top of the stone steps staring down at her.
Ava staggered forward, her breathing still ragged as she put distance between her and that room. ‘Oh my God, you terrified me.’ It was a half-laugh, half-sob. Shakily, she climbed the shallow stone steps towards the still figure of her mother. ‘I thought . . . I thought you were the White . . .’ The blood drummed in her ears as she reached the top. The bridge, her mother; everything blurred as her body swayed.
‘Ava?’ Her mother stepped forward as Ava lowered herself onto the top of the steps, the cold shocking as she sat and closed her eyes. ‘Ava, are you alright?’
‘I’m just a bit dizzy,’ she mumbled, bile rising in her throat. She swallowed down the nausea. ‘You scared me. I was . . .’
Her mother crouched down to look at her, one hand on her forehead as if she was a small child. ‘You know you need to take it easy. Fraser told us about your blood pressure.’
Ava tried to push her hand away, slow her breathing. When she finally opened her eyes it seemed as if the air was throbbing, as if the earth was tilting, her body insubstantial, unable to orientate. The edge of the bridge was a few paces away, the noise of the water a perpetual reminder of what lay fifty feet below them.
The sounds seemed suddenly to crank up: the hurtling burn, the hoot of an owl, her mother’s voice. Then the world calmed to a stop. She could see individual stars emerging in a dark blue mackerel sky, could make out her mum’s pale hand now on her knee, her wedding band glinting. To her left, the house watched them both as she felt the nausea subside. ‘Mum, what are you doing here?’
‘Fraser told me you were coming here. This house.’ Her mother had stood up, faced away from Ava, staring up at the nearest tower with its conical roof, her eyes tracking down, many of the features lost to the fading light.
‘Yeah, it was for work, it was—’
‘What were you doing down there?’ Her mother pointed at the window.
Ava followed her finger to look, the ivy disturbed, the diamond glass panes grubby, blank.
‘You’ve got ivy all over you.’ Her mum plucke
d a piece from her hair.
Ava lifted a hand and brushed at it. She would have made marks inside the room, disturbed things. Would Keven guess it was her? Would he notice?
‘I . . . there was no one in the house and I . . .’ How could she explain? What she’d done would sound absurd. She had broken in, for God’s sake. The urge to come, though, the gossamer thread she’d been tugging on had been so irresistible. ‘I had to see. I needed to find out more.’ She remembered the sheets she had stuffed in her coat pocket. What had she found?
She stood slowly, refusing her mum’s help, moving away from the top of the stone steps in the direction of the bridge. Her mum stayed back, watching her.
‘You went inside?’ Her mother looked appalled.
Ava lowered herself onto the low stone wall next to the bridge, palms flat as she gripped the edges, barely feeling her numb hands.
‘What were you thinking?’ Her mum stood with arms folded. Ava only just noticed that she wasn’t even wearing a coat. She was in the same grey-silver jumper and black trousers she’d been wearing for Tommy’s party.
‘Mum, why do you care? You’ve barely spoken a word to me in weeks so why have you chased me up here for a lecture?’
‘You shouldn’t be here, sneaking around in the dark. Chasing a fairy tale when you should be preparing to start your own family.’
‘I had to come.’ It was true. Overtoun had never left her. These last few months she’d been fooling herself that the bridge and house were forgotten. Sitting here on the low stone wall, she felt tied to them, something deep inside her needing to be here, to dig, to search. A patch of light flashed in one of the top windows, as if the house had blinked, reacted to her thoughts. She tipped her chin towards it, refusing to feel afraid even as her heart hammered from the memories of that room, of the roar when she had left it.
‘You should be at home. You should be focused on your life, on your child.’
A shot of fury forced Ava to her feet. ‘You can talk, Mum. How about you focus on your grandchild? I’ve hardly spoken to you in three months.’ She gestured to her stomach. ‘I’m about to give birth in the new year and it’s been like . . . you don’t even care.’