‘Oh nothing,’ Deidre replied, ‘it’s just an old bag.’
‘Aye, ah can see dat,’ Stuart said, stepping aside to allow her entry.
Deidre stepped into a small foyer dominated by a staircase marching its way to the second floor with blunt, no nonsense angles. Worn floorboards, highly polished and decorated by an oriental mat welcomed the visitor, the plastered walls and architraves painted white and beige softening the space that funnelled to a hallway leading to the back of the house. A door partially open on her right, showed a lone chair and a round wooden table supporting a couple of large, hardcover books. A sideboard sat under the window displaying a series of black and white photos of Stayne House from bygone eras. Polish and smoke from a fire perfumed the air, and something cooking smelled delicious. Her mouth watered, she hadn’t eaten anything since the ferry across to Yell.
‘I’ll take ye up t’yer room an’ ye can settle in while I’m getting’ da tea ready,’ Stuart said, nodding his woolly head towards the staircase before heading upwards. Deidre followed, the old wood creaking beneath their weight. ‘Did ye come aw da way from Lerwick da day?’
‘Aberdeen. I flew in from Aberdeen this morning.’
‘Aberdeen?’ Stuart said over his shoulder in surprise, arriving on the first floor where a small alcove opened up with space enough to accommodate two comfortable looking armchairs staring vacantly out a large arched window displaying a view across the hills to the coastline. The window, its shape, was familiar to her, the chairs, the view beyond, because she’d looked at pictures of Stayne House on the internet.
Deidre followed Stuart around the wide landing, dark wooden doors standing to attention. Words had been inscribed onto the doors in small gold lettering, she noticed. Dreich. Drookit. Smirr. Stuart stopped outside a door with the word ‘Gandiegow’ scrolled in ornate lettering.
‘What do the names on the doors mean?’ she asked.
‘Rain. Ye get aw different types o’rain here. Dat’s da batroom, der,’ Stuart said, nodding his head at the door on the other side of the landing. ‘Der’s anodder one upstairs and anudder one under da stairs on da grun floor,’ he said, opening the Gandiegow door and pushing it wide. ‘Aunty Mavis said ye were here fur a munt?’
A munt. A month.
‘Yes,’ Deidre replied, stepping into the room, floorboards creaking beneath the carpet. The walls, bare of any framed adornments, wore a warm beige coating. A simple wooden mantelpiece took up one wall, a basket of dried heather sitting in the pristine hearth. A small double bed, a bedside table and a large wardrobe all looked old and sturdy, worn with age, as if they’d always been there. A small desk and a wooden chair sat under a tall narrow window, deep-set into the heavy stonework of the walls, dark wooden shutters clutched at its sides framing a view of the bay looking across to the Kirk and Walters Store. It was a quiet room, calming the nerves.
‘Aunty Mavis tells me we’re related,’ Stuart said.
Deidre turned around to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Aye, da McLennans. Aunty Mavis says dat her grandfadder wis married t’your great-grandmudder’s sister.’
Deidre regarded him silently, making the family connections in her head, completely surprised by this revelation. ‘Are you sure? How do you know that?’
‘Ask Aunty Mavis. She’ll tell ye some stories aboot da Harts.’
‘She knew the Harts?’
‘Aye, so did Ma. Dey were only wee lassies at da time. Dey’re looking forward t’meeting you. Anyhow.’ He clapped his hands, rubbed them together. ‘You settle in an I’ll get dat tea on. Da kitchen is doon past da stairs at da back o’da hoose.’ He smiled, nodded his woolly head and closed the door behind him.
Sunlight spilled across the floorboards at the end of the hallway highlighting the lustre of their polish and the depressions in the wood worn down by centuries of footsteps. Deidre headed past the stairs towards the source of the light stopping outside an open doorway at the back of the house. A large glass extension reached out beyond the back wall of the room; curtainless and sun-filled it exposed a view looking out across to the headland and to the blue frothing sea beyond.
‘Go in an’ make yerself comfortable?’ Stuart said and Deidre whipped her head around surprised by his voice calling to her from the kitchen across the hallway. ‘Da fire’s on’ he said, ‘I’ll bring yer tea in.’
A long coffee coloured sofa and two winged backed chairs encircled a large fireplace, the flames flickering lazily in the warmth of the room. Framed photographs and hand painted pictures, mostly of boats and fishing scenes broke up the starkness of the white walls. A figurine, a small crystal vase and silver framed black and white photograph of two young women dressed in a fashion from a different era spread themselves across the wooden mantelpiece. Deidre headed into the glasshouse. Four large cane chairs stuffed with billowing pillows took up various positions of the space. A round table and accompanying chairs sat in a back corner of the room in front of a small bookcase, the shelves crammed with books, magazines, newspapers and two stacks of board games.
Looking out to the view beyond, Deidre recalled the moment she’d crawled out of her wardrobe in Annandale, drawn to the shattered window, sick with dread and fear, the street below a war zone, dark pools of blood on the pavement, smoke still billowing from burnt out cars, one of them hers. Police and news crews crowded the street, crowds of onlookers held at bay further up ogling the carnage. She remembered the feelings she had then, the desperation to be away from there. To be somewhere safe. To be somewhere like here.
The rattle of crockery brought her back from her musings and she turned to see Stuart make his way across the sitting room with a fully loaded tray in his hands.
‘Wid ye prefer t’hiv yer tea in der?’ he asked, indicating the glass room.
‘Yes, that would be nice,’ Deidre replied, reaching out to help with the tray, eyeing the plate of scones. She took a seat at the table, her mouth salivating as Stuart placed mismatched cups and saucers, a teapot, a small jug of milk, scones, jam and cream in front of her.
‘Vee’s usually here t’dae dis. She’s does da cookin’. Dat’s her hoose oer der,’ he said with a casual nod out the window, pouring black tea into the cups. ‘Mines da udder one oer der.’
Deidre looked out to the green rolling expanse behind the house noticing two small, whitewashed buildings a distance away. To live like this, in a place like this, she wondered, marvelling. ‘You’re so lucky. This is a beautiful house,’ she said, ‘this room. The view is spectacular.’
‘Aye its showin’ aff da day,’ Stuart said, ‘it’s no always dis sunny. Wid ye like some milk in yer tea?’
‘No, black’s fine thanks,’ she said, accepting her cup from him.
He poured milk into his tea, stirred, delicately tapping the teaspoon against the cup.
‘So tell me about the Hart’s,’ Deidre said, reaching for a scone, trying to be neat, dainty as she slopped on the condiments, a large splotch of cream and jam running down her thumb. She licked it off before stuffing half the scone in her mouth, jam and cream bursting from her lips.
‘Tell ye aboot da Hart’s,’ Stuart repeated, sitting back in his chair, the wood creaking as he settled into it. ‘Well ye wid know dat George Hart had da madness.’
‘The madness?’
‘Aye, da Erdin Madness. Da Curse.’
‘The Curse?’
‘Ye don’t know aboot da curse?’ Stuart queried, the pitch of his voice slightly higher.
‘I know George Hart spent time in Inverhall Asylum. Lunatic Asylum,’ she corrected.
‘Well,’ Stuart said, his brows rising above the curly wool of his fringe. ‘Aunty Mavis n’Ma can tell ye some stories aboot George Hart. Dey used t’see him aboot when dey were lassies.’
‘Is Hart Croft near here?’
‘It’s aboot tree oors t’walk from Haardale, but ye can get in closer noo dat dey put da new road in. It cuts in closer t’Ayres Kame.’
<
br /> Ayres Kame. She knew that name; she’d seen it written on the hand drawn map.
‘I’ve got drawings and a map I think George drew. I wanted to see the place for myself.’
‘Drawings an’ a map?’ Stuart queried.
‘That’s what’s in the old briefcase I was carrying. I think it belonged to George.’
‘George Hart’s bag?’ Stuart asked, looking at Deidre in astonishment.
‘Yes.’
He placed his dainty teacup onto the saucer. ‘How did ye come t’be in possession o’ George Hart’s briefcase, lassie? But more interestingly, whit’s in it?’
‘Well, I’m assuming it was George’s, just going by the drawings I found in it. They look kind of… mad. Intense.’
Soft old voices with a suede-like timbre could be heard from the hallway. ‘She’ll be tinking der’s naebody here,’ one said.
‘Stuart’s here, Dot, fur goodness sake, jist settle doon,’ said the other.
‘Aye. Aye.’
‘We’re in here, Aunty Mavis,’ Stuart called, standing, as two elderly women entered the sitting room, both small and identical, dressed in buttoned up beige coats that covered them to the shins of their thick stockinged legs.
‘Hello Deedree,’ they both enthused as they came fluttering across the sitting room towards her, aged but lively, their snow white hair messed about by the wind, one with a large bald patch where the wind had been blowing hard against her head, exposing delicate pink scalp. Deidre fought the impulse to reach out and smooth it down.
‘Hello,’ Deidre replied, smiling as their bony hands reached out grabbing an arm each, their watery blue eyes looking up at her through large framed glasses, their faces identical, their thin lips smeared with the same rouge coloured lipstick.
‘You’ve grown up to be a fine big lassie,’ one said.
‘Aye,’ said the other, Deidre looking at them perplexed.
‘Ye were only a wee bairn da last time ye were here.’
Deidre looked down on them, confused and amused as the twins simultaneously began to unbutton their coats, Stuart helping them discard their outer layer.
‘I’ll put da kettle back on,’ he said, throwing the coats over his arm and taking them away.
The twins had dressed differently, Deidre noticed, relieved, as they moved to the chairs closest to the fire and sat down.
‘I think you must have me mixed up with someone else,’ she said, sitting on the long couch.
‘Och, get away wi ye lassie. Ye can never mix up a Hart wi anybody else. Ye’ve got da look o’a Hart aw o’er ye.’
‘We thought yer Mammy n’Daddy might’ve come wi ye.’
‘My Mum and Dad?’
‘Aye, Patricia an’ Douglas.’
‘You wouldnae remember coming here when ye were a wee bairn. Ye were just starting t’take yer first steps.’
Deidre regarded them, puzzled. ‘I don’t think-‘
‘How is yer Mammy n’Daddy?’
Deidre stared the old women, both looking at her, both waiting expectantly for her reply.
‘They died.’ She watched their faces fall. ‘Mum died in car accident when I was eight. Dad died about nine months ago. A heart attack.’
‘Och, we’re sorry Deedree, we didnae know dat,’ one said, wearing such a pitiable forlorn expression that on a younger face would have appeared slightly mocking.
Stuart entered laden with another tray of tea and scones, placing it on the coffee table in the middle of the room. ‘Would ye like anudder cup o’tea, Deedree?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine thanks. So you’re saying that my mum and dad - and me, have been here before?’ Deidre clarified.
‘Here ye go Aunty Mavis,’ Stuart said, handing a cup and saucer to the old woman dressed in a lilac twin set and straight brown skirt that fell to her shins. She sat with her heels crossed, her feet dressed in sensible black shoes.
‘Aye. Yer Mammy an’ Daddy came t’hiv a look at da croft jist afore dey immigrated t’Australia. Yer Mammy loved it here,’ Mavis said, sipping at the tea. ‘I tink she wid like t’hiv stayed on da isle but yer Daddy had nae inclination fur dat at aw. He had his mind set on Australia.’
‘Aye, he wis afeard o’da curse,’ her twin added. ‘Ye could see it in his eyes. Dat’s how he immigrated t’da udder side o’da world. T’get far away from here.’
‘Don’t tell lies Dot, he never said dat at aw.’
‘Naw, dat’s what you said Mavis.’
Mavis graced her twin with an irritable glare.
‘You’re telling me I came here as a baby with my parents and we all went to Australia because Dad was afraid of this curse thing?’ Deidre turned to Stuart sitting at the other end of the couch. ‘The Madness?’
‘Aye.’
Deidre swung her head back to Mavis, the old woman nodding her head in one definitive dip.
She felt she’d just been fed a raw potato; it was juicy and crunchy but it just wasn’t right, it wasn’t digesting well in her stomach. To Deidre, her father had always been more suspicious than superstitious. He didn’t trust lawyers, mechanics, salesmen, particularly those cold calling over the phone, and surprisingly, nuns. Deidre had never delved into Douglas Hart’s strong dislike for the brides of Christ and didn’t like to think about it too much, but she’d never considered him to be overly superstitious, although she did know he had a thing about putting new shoes on a table. She wasn’t sure what that had been about either. But for him to leave his country of birth, uproot his life and family and travel to the other side of the world to escape a curse? This was the part that was giving her a pain in the belly.
‘Dad never said anything about any of this,’ Deidre finally said. ‘Never. I still wouldn’t have known anything about this place if I hadn’t found George’s briefcase in Dad’s wardrobe.’
‘George’s briefcase?’ Mavis questioned, sitting forward in her chair. ‘George Hart’s briefcase?’
‘I didnay tink George Hart would’ve been da type to have a briefcase,’ Dot commented, lifting her teacup to her mouth.
‘Well I think it’s George’s,’ Deidre replied. ‘I assumed it was. There’s receipts and things in it, letters from Inverhall Lunatic Asylum with drawings on the back. There’s a couple of photos, one of two boys and the other is of two men, standing near an old stone cottage. I’m guessing that’s Hart Croft.’
Mavis remained poised on the edge of her chair, her eyes staring hard into Deidre’s. ‘Was der a cross in da briefcase?’ she asked, a flinty, hard-edged tone to her voice.
‘A what?’
‘A cross,’ the old woman stated impatiently. Her eyes, faded with age and magnified behind her big framed glasses, stared back at Deidre, demanding an answer.
‘No, no cross,’ Deidre replied, confused by the sudden change in the old woman’s demeanour. ‘There’s a couple of hand drawn maps. Landscape sketches,’ she offered as recompense for the lack of any crosses. The old woman maintained her hard gaze, studying, judging. Deidre felt her face redden, hot suddenly under this cold stare. ‘That’s why I’m here’ she continued, uncomfortable, diffident. ‘I wanted to see these places for myself. I wanted to find out more about George,’ she stammered, neglecting to mention anything about the chimney.
‘Da bags upstairs. Deedree brought it wid her,’ Stuart said from the other end of the couch, lobbing this comment into the conversation like a grenade, attracting the old woman’s stare.
‘Here? In dis hoose?’ Mavis asked, her tone sharp.
‘Aye, in her room,’ Stuart confirmed, Deidre picking up a distinct tone of mischievousness in his voice. ‘I tink she should go an’ get it so we can have a look. Make sure she hasnae sneeked da curse cross in da hoose, eh Aunty Mavis.’ He winked across at the old woman who shook her head irascibly in response.
‘Dis is no joking matter, Stuart,’ she replied gravely.
Like a chastened child, Deidre collected the briefcase from her room, returning promptly to the
sitting room downstairs, where they had retired to the table in the sunroom, sitting, waiting expectantly for her return. Deidre placed the battered briefcase on the table in front of them, Mavis staring at the bag with apprehension as if she expected a snake to come slithering out.
‘Aye, well dat looks like someting George Hart would’ve had,’ Dot remarked. ‘Look at da state o’it!’
‘Yer sure der’s nae cross in der,’ Mavis confirmed, glancing up at Deidre standing at her side.
‘I’m sure. I’ve been into every nook and cranny of this bag,’ she said, unbuckling the briefcase, extracting the wad of papers and placing them on the table.
The three white heads bent down towards the pile, Mavis, appearing reluctant to touch anything from the briefcase, sat with her hands in her lap as she perused the top page, a letter from Inverhall Lunatic Asylum. She shook her head, emitting an almost inaudible tutting sound. Deidre pulled the hymnbook out, removed the photographs from the back and held them out to Mavis forcing her to take them. Dot leaned closer, oohing, taking one from her sister, the picture fluttering slightly in her shaky hand. Stuart moved around the table to study the photos over the twins’ shoulders.
Mavis lifted a hand to her throat, tapping it lightly as she studied the photo of the two men. ‘Dis is George and Thomas Hart,’ she muttered quietly.
‘Which one is George?’ Deidre asked.
Mavis turned the photograph towards her on the table, a bony un-manicured finger pointing to the figure on the left. Deidre looked at it. It was hard to tell how old he was, the eyes hidden in shadow. He looked old. They both did. Old and worn out. Poor beyond her comprehension.
The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love Page 6