Holt House

by L. G. Vey

  I’m an idiot.

  If I overbalanced him, if I was too keen to get him to touch that coat, then I’m sorry for it, more sorry than I can say. It makes me wonder: am I so unlovable, so ugly inside? If I am it’s because of her. Because she makes me that way. She won’t love me.

  No, I didn’t mean to push the boy, I’m certain of it. It was an accident, and he’ll realise that when he thinks about it. I do feel for him, though, for he lost his mother that night too. His father told him when he came to pick him up, and I thought back to those first otters, in the traps. Suffering together.

  The endless days in this house. I have to leave.

  I have to leave.

  I have to leave.

  *

  She is something not human. She sucks all time and hope and love out of me.

  I told her I was going, and she patted my hand, and said – how would you do without me, dear? She looks at me and I feel weak. Everything I have made for her, tried to be for her, she destroys with her words. I go to the shed and keep the lawn every day, and I get nothing for it.

  But when I look through the hole in the fence I don’t recognise the wood any more. I whisper to it – help me. Help me. But it’s not my friend. It’s been my enemy. I made an enemy of it, for her.

  And, in return, she’s made me so old. My hair, my face, my body – how can an elderly man survive out there, in that strange world?

  Where did the time go?

  *

  I heard her get up in the night, and go downstairs. I’d been awake for hours, thinking things through, making my plans to leave. Often I think about how different our married life would have been if she had simply and clearly told me no the first time I squeezed her throat. Because I think that is when she first started to hate me, and cast her spell. If she had said no, I would have stopped. It would have been that simple.

  I don’t know what made me get up and go down to her. Perhaps I thought we could talk to each other, in the dark, properly. Like people.

  When I got down to the kitchen, walking past the beady eyes of all those painted otters on her precious plates, she was sitting at the table with a glass of water in front of her. She’d turned on the parlour light but the kitchen was still in darkness. I couldn’t see her face, her expression.

  I asked what she was up to.

  It’s funny, how I whispered that question. Something about the tick of the clock, the blackness of the night outside the window, made me keep my voice low. And when she replied, her voice was very soft, too.

  I was thirsty – she said. I couldn’t sleep. I suppose I’m worrying about things.

  Like what? – I asked her. I pulled out the chair opposite, and sat down. The house was cold, what with winter approaching. I wished I’d put on my dressing gown.

  Oh Fred.

  That was all she said.

  I couldn’t bear it. I still can’t. It was pity I heard, in her voice. She pitied me. I got up and went back to bed.

  So I’ve made plans to leave. I’ve put together some things, and I’ll go. I’m going. Before I’m no longer a man at all.

  *

  The remaining pages were blank.

  Ray put the book down on top of the fur coat. For all of Fred’s words, it was obvious that the man had never left. He was still there.

  There was Ernie, too.

  And the others.

  He got up and crossed to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to see down into the garden. It was empty. The blades of grass that made up the lawn were upright and keen, and the weeds did not dare intrude amongst them.

  A flash of blue caught Ray’s eye, moving fast, beyond the line of the fence. An animal? No – a man, walking in a crouch, almost hidden by the dense summer foliage of the cherry trees except for his blue football shirt.

  The man disappeared from view.

  He had been at the fence line. He had been using the hole to look at the house. To look at him and Gwen.

  Ray dropped the curtain, stumbled back to the bed. His breath wouldn’t come easily.

  ‘Breakfast!’

  Gwen’s voice broke through his thoughts, dragged him back to the morning. But it made no sense that it was already breakfast time – he hadn’t even heard her get up, and just a moment earlier it had been dawn. Time was a muddle. Time was under her control.

  His hands were trembling. He clasped them together in his lap, and saw deep wrinkles in the skin, and a bluish tinge to the blunt nails. They were the hands of an old man.

  ‘Breakfast, dear!’ There was an unmistakable edge of irritation to her voice.

  He pushed the coat and the journal under the bed. He would find a better hiding place for them later.

  *

  ‘Oh good,’ she said, as he took his seat opposite her. The toast was in the rack and the teapot on the table, waiting for him. She poured as he took up the butter knife. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ he said.

  ‘I thought I heard you moving about early.’

  ‘Just a visit to the loo.’

  ‘Will you mow the lawn for me today, dear?’

  ‘I did it yesterday, didn’t I?’ he said, but the memory wasn’t clear. He couldn’t keep his voice even, but she gave no sign of hearing anything unusual.

  ‘It gets straggly so quickly. I don’t like it when its straggly. It grows so fast, doesn’t it?’ She turned in her chair to look back towards the sink, and out of the window. Although he couldn’t see her expression he had no doubt she was frowning.

  ‘It’s the summer,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ She swivelled back to face him, and poured herself more tea.

  ‘What year is it?’

  ‘Goodness, what a question. Do you know, I want to say 1946. That’s the first one that comes into my head. But that was the year we moved in here, of course, so. That must be why.’

  ‘You and Fred moved in here.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Not Ernie.’

  ‘No, of course not Ernie, dear.’

  ‘And Fred died. What year was that?’

  ‘Are you finished with that, Raymond?’ She stood up, and took his plate to the sink. She was an expert in stonewalling him; what had once seemed like the confusion of a little old lady now struck him as a deliberate attempt to avoid questions she didn’t care to answer.

  ‘How did Fred die?’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early in the morning for all this? Let’s have a glass of sherry tonight and then we can have a good old natter about it all, can’t we?’

  ‘Just tell me how he died.’

  ‘A heart attack, I think they said. The men who came to take him away.’

  Ray got up, and joined her at the sink. The shed was still in the shade, but the lawn was in full sunlight. It was going to be a glorious day. Too hot for sitting on the bench, mowing the lawn, being brought endless cups of tea... He felt a vast pit of frustration open inside him for this life, this sham of life at Holt House. The Holtwood would be cool, shaded. The river would be running, winding its way through the Meon Valley, all the way to the sea, the blue, open sea.

  ‘A heart attack,’ he repeated. ‘By the outhouse.’

  She was very small beside him as she looked up and said, ‘No, no. In bed. In your room, dear. Well, that was his room, back then. We had separate rooms, you see.’

  ‘He died – in that bed?’

  She nodded, and turned the tap to run water into the sink.

  ‘So... who was the man who died by the outhouse? On the path that morning?’

  There was a flash of recognition in her eyes – a glimpse of the sharp mind underneath her act, he thought. ‘That was Ernie. Number four. No, number five, excuse me, I’m losing count. It’s the old age, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ernie. Number five.’

  The five men in the garden. The ghosts. So alike.

  ‘First there was Fred,’ she said. ‘Then George. Philip, then Josep
h. I don’t care for shortened names. I made an exception for Ernie, only because he was so adamant that he hated being called Ernest. He said his ex-wife used to call him that when he’d done something wrong, deliberately, knowing how it wound him up. And now you. Raymond.’

  ‘So I’m – number six?’

  ‘You are, dear.’

  ‘How do you know? I just – I just turned up on your doorstep. You barely knew me, but you let me in, you let me in, but I’m not, I’m not–’

  ‘You were watching,’ she said. ‘Weren’t you?’ Her hands were busy in the sink, washing the plate, the same plate, over and over. ‘The hole in the fence. You saw Ernie die. And then it was your time to come. The young one comes because the old one calls through the fence. They think I don’t see them, crowding there, putting their eyes and mouths to that hole. But I do. I see all the things they get up to.’

  ‘I’m not–’ he said again. Not what? He could leave, walk out. He wasn’t a wild animal, caught in a trap, drawn to this place by the cries of another like him. He didn’t have to be here.

  ‘You want to go,’ Gwen said. ‘I wish you would. Go away. Go on. Leave me alone, all of you. But you can’t, can you? I know what you are. I know your nature. All I wanted to do was keep it out, keep it at bay, but no, you have to bring it in. You have to bring it in with you.’

  ‘Stop it,’ he said. ‘Stop it.’ But she worked on at the plate, washing, the water sloshing in the sink. He lifted his hand and put it on her throat, just above her collarbone. Her skin was cold, loose. It repulsed him, but he did not take his own hand away – so wrinkled, spotted brown, the nails thick and ridged, Jesus, he was aging before his own eyes – nor did he apply pressure. It was enough to touch her, to know he could touch her. He could make her be quiet. It was within his power.

  She did not move away. She did not look at him. She put the plate on the drainer, softly.

  ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  He dropped his hand and stepped back.

  ‘I’m going,’ he said.

  ‘That’s good. See if you can do without me.’

  He walked, fast, to the hall, his thoughts focused on his tent in the Holtwood. He could return to it, crawl inside it, be safe and small and alone, like a dormouse. He didn’t stop to collect his backpack; he simply opened the front door and found a grey, unremarkable day happening outside. It was cool and threatening rain, and was nothing like the sunshine he had seen pouring through to the back garden.

  He walked down the path and out of the gate. Then around the house, thinking it looked small, dull, in profile. Moss and lichen had spread over the brickwork on this side, where the sun did not shine. His footsteps squelched on the dirt path, lined with abundant weeds which must have sprung up quickly; he could not remember seeing them when first approaching the house.

  The Holtwood came into view, as beautiful and tangled as ever, thick with cherry trees, but the leaves were brown and limp on the branches, and many had fallen to coat the ground. It was cold. There was a nip in the air, to the drops of rain, that he associated with late autumn. And yet in the house it had been summer, high summer, warm and bright.

  Don’t turn back, he told himself.

  He pressed on, into the woods. His breaths came fast, his lungs hurting from the effort of walking. Onwards. Leaving the fence behind, refusing to look back at the spot where he had once crouched, imagining himself inside. He retraced his steps and found the small clearing where he had left his tent, packed up and stowed under a small leafy bush.

  Except the bush wasn’t so small any more. He recognised the dark green foliage, but it had spread into the clearing, growing over the available ground, so he found a stick nearby and hacked, making a path through it. Tightness in his chest, dizziness, forced him to stop. He bent double, his hands on his knees, and tried to control his growing panic. His stomach pressed against the top of his jeans; he undid the top button and the zip, and felt the curve of the flesh there, loose, saggy.

  Deep, slow breaths.

  Eventually his vision cleared and his lungs stopped hurting.

  Ray inched forward through the bush to reach the spot where he had left his tent. There it was, nearly buried under old, wet leaf and mould growth, the canvas packed tight, the small bag that held the pegs still attached.

  He pulled it from the bush and clutched it to him, fighting back tears of relief. What a bloody idiot, he thought. To be so pleased to see a tent.

  A scream cut through the air.

  No – a siren. Another siren, just like that morning he had seen Ernie dead on the path. Were they still searching for him? Caught in the grip of memory, he set off for the river once more.

  *

  The siren ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving the wood silent and watchful around him.

  The water flowed, winding its way down through the valley to join the sea. Ray wanted his father. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his father had simply walked out from the trees to stand beside him, and tell him that they would surely see an otter today. He should be watchful, and keep his distance. He felt so young, as if he had learned nothing from that moment to this.

  He reached up to his hair, smoothed it back, and felt how brittle and thin it had become. He had not shaved in months, had he? But when he ran his hand over his cheeks there was only a downy fluff rather than a beard.

  There were no otters to be seen, of course.

  A twig snapped, close by; Ray jerked his head around to the sound, on his side of the river, and saw a flash of bright blue. His first thought was of the kingfisher, but no – this was bigger, moving up and down in jerky motions. It took him a moment to realise he was looking at a blue shirt. A man was walking away from him, through the wood.

  A blue shirt. Just like the one the man he had seen from the window had been wearing. Like the one Jimmy had worn.

  Ray followed, trying to keep pace, puffing with the effort, keeping that glimpse of blue at a decent distance. The temptation was to call out a name: Jimmy. But this was a man, not a boy. Jimmy had been a boy a few days ago. It was too much; Ray pushed the name out of his mind, refused to speak it. They were drawing closer to the edges of the wood. The trees came to an abrupt end and Ray hung back as the man stepped out into the grey light, and stood beside a road that had simply not been there before.

  Ray edged as close as he dared, then hid behind a tree, clinging to the rough reality of the bark, and watched the man pull out a small box from the pocket of his jeans and tap on it.

  A car arrived at a speed that was breathtaking. It came to a halt easily beside the man. But it wasn’t exactly a car; more like a cross between a car and a motorbike: two wheels, with a domed roof and no doors, only big enough for one person. The vehicle itself made no noise – there was no low idle to the motor. Nobody was driving it.

  Ray shook his head in disbelief.

  The man climbed in and spoke, apparently to the vehicle. ‘Intruder spotted at the Holtwood reserve. Possible poacher. Elderly,’ he said. ‘There’s been a spate of it recently, since the new rationing came in.’ There was a pause. ‘It could be Latch, although they’ve been told they’re only allowed to stay on the condition they don’t enter the woods. I know the family, a little. I grew up around here. I’ll check in on it.’

  The vehicle sped up as quickly as it had arrived, taking the man away.

  Ray moved to the very edge of the woods and looked out at the road, fighting down his fear of it, of the speed at which the vehicle had travelled. In the distance was the village, so silent. On the other side of the road was a white sign with red lettering upon it:

  Holtwood and immediate surroundings

  EVACUATED AREA

  via 1992 Wildlife Pollution Protection Act

  Unique intact environmental region

  No entry permitted

  Private security forces operate in this area

  He turned and plunged back into the woods, moving as fast as he could. The tent was too
heavy to carry so he dropped it, left it behind without hesitation, and only stopped running when the river came back into view and his lungs and legs screamed to rest.

  The water flowed on: he had the idea to follow it down to Portsmouth, out to the sea. Would the world make any more sense to him there? A sudden movement made him spring back from the bank; he stared into the undergrowth, but could see nothing.

  It wouldn’t hang around for you to point him out. Otters are fast. So fast. All the other animals are afraid of them, did you know that? They’re carnivores, with teeth that can go through bone.

  The fallen leaves trembled with the breeze. The branches swayed overhead.

  Move, he told himself.

  He started forwards, taking small steps, scanning the ground. Were they behind him? He refused to give into the instinct to turn around. The wildness was everywhere, surrounding him. The Holtwood was alive, full of animals, and he did not belong. Nobody did, any more.

  Keep going.

  There, in the distance, was the strong straight line of the Latches’ fence – the same as it always was. Ray picked up his pace, reached it, put his hands upon it. He pushed a finger through the hole, then put his eye to it. It was light, and still, and perfect inside. The lawn was green and freshly cut, and the bench was waiting for his return.

  He edged around the fence, making his way towards the front of the house, unable to turn and face the woods.

  The gate, the path, the front door.

  He turned the handle and, thank God, it opened, and there he was, back in Holt House, and as soon as he closed the door his fear, that emasculating fear, began to ebb away. All he could hear was the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the darkness of the hall. He took deep breaths, in time, until he was calmer.

  In the kitchen, glorious sunshine poured through the back window.

  Gwen was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps she was upstairs. How much time had passed since he left? He moved to the back door and out through the porch, then along the path to the shed. It was the only place left where he belonged.