The Little One [Quick Read 2012]

by Lynda La Plante

  ‘NO!’

  Barbara put her arms around Margaret, who resisted at first but then leaned against her and started to speak.

  ‘If you only knew how much I want to share what is happening in this house. But I can’t. I’m so scared. If I tell you I would be sent back to that place. I’m not mad, I’m not. I so badly want it to end, but I promised.’

  Barbara said nothing. She simply held her, until Margaret had calmed down, and then together they returned to the kitchen. She helped Margaret off with her wet coat and settled her into a chair by the fire.

  Margaret sat staring into the flames, her hands clasped together. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with weeping, but she was calmer. Shaking her head, she apologized for the way she had behaved.

  Barbara found a half-bottle of brandy and poured a big measure.

  ‘Here, drink this. You must be so cold.’

  ‘You have no idea how cold I am. Thank you.’

  As Barbara busied herself finishing their supper, Margaret sat silently sipping her brandy. Barbara wondered again if there was someone else living in the upstairs rooms. It could be a mad relative. Perhaps they were violent … Again she remembered that push down the stairs.

  ‘Supper’s ready,’ she called a few minutes later.

  Margaret slowly got up, placing her empty brandy glass on the table. Her shoulders sagged.

  ‘It’s probably not as good as you intended. I think the rice is overcooked,’ Barbara said, serving out their meal.

  Margaret gave a wan smile. She picked up her fork, took a small mouthful and poured herself a glass of wine. They continued to eat in silence, Margaret picking at her food but continuing to drink. Suddenly she focused her attention on Barbara.

  ‘Tell me about your family.’

  Barbara cocked her head to one side. She explained that there was not a lot to tell. She had been an only child, her mother falling pregnant in her late forties. Her parents were moderately wealthy and lived in a very comfortable house in Pinner, but her father had died when she was seven. His death had left her mother deeply depressed and unable to cope with a young daughter. She in turn had died when Barbara was thirteen.

  ‘So I went to live with my aunt in Harrogate. I couldn’t wait to leave Yorkshire. Then I lived in a horrible shared flat with six other students and I had to get work to supplement my college fees.’

  Barbara had not been asked about her life before. Now, as she talked, she realized that she’d never had a loving relationship with anyone. To her astonishment, she started crying as a terrible wave of sadness swept over her.

  From being the comforter, she became comforted as Margaret got up and put her arms around her.

  Barbara sniffed and wiped her eyes on the napkin.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m crying. I seem to have done a lot of that lately. I’ve never really thought about what a non-existent family I had …’

  ‘Do you want a family of your own?’ Margaret asked, pouring more wine.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. It’s just never been a choice I was in a position to make. I never met the right person like you did.’

  ‘So you’re all alone?’

  Barbara drank her wine and nodded.

  ‘Yes. I don’t make friends that easily … maybe because I’m not a very nice person to be friends with.’

  She started to cry again, on the verge of blurting out why she was there, when Margaret interrupted.

  ‘I’ve had many friends. I have shut them out of my life. I think seeing so many of them at the party has just made it even more unbearable.’

  ‘Why are you hiding yourself out here?’

  Barbara wished she hadn’t asked, as immediately Margaret tensed.

  ‘If I was to tell you, you would not believe it.’

  ‘Why don’t you try? I’m a very good listener.’

  Margaret gave a false laugh and rose from the table, stumbling.

  ‘Whoops. I’ve had too much to drink. I need to go to bed. You will be all right sleeping down here again, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course. Leave all this to me.’

  As Barbara cleared the table, Margaret paused and gave a sad smile before leaving the room.

  Barbara began washing the dishes and stacking them on the draining board. It was still only eight o’clock. When she tried to find a programme on the radio it was full of static. She had finished the bottle of wine and was looking for something to read when Margaret walked in with a quilted dressing gown and a white cotton nightdress. Barbara jumped with fright.

  ‘It’s Victorian,’ Margaret said. ‘I used to collect them.’

  She was wearing a similar high-necked nightdress, with an old velvet dressing gown.

  In strained tones Margaret went on, ‘Don’t worry if you hear noises. This old house creaks and groans, and with the snow on the roof you’ll hear the pipes banging. If the snow melts, you’ll hear it falling from the gutters. The generator is ancient and the lights often fail, so you might need these candles.’

  Margaret had lit two candles in carved wooden candlesticks. Rattling a box of matches, she placed them on the table.

  ‘Sometimes the house seems to have a mind all of its own.’

  Barbara felt uneasy and asked Margaret not to lock the kitchen door in case she needed to use the bathroom. Margaret turned and paused. ‘If you stay in the kitchen you’ll be all right.’

  Then she was gone.

  Disturbed by this odd behaviour, Barbara was even more certain that there was someone else upstairs. The kitchen was warm, the fire was blazing, but the big room was full of shadows and strange shapes.

  She washed her face in the kitchen sink, cleaned her teeth and changed into the nightdress. She was unfolding the blanket when she heard footsteps.

  She expected Margaret to walk in, but nothing happened. She crossed the room and listened, easing the door open a fraction. It was pitch dark in the hall and there was a blast of freezing air. The further she opened the door, the colder it felt. By taking one small step into the hallway she could see that the front door was wide open.

  Margaret was coming in. She had on a long cloak with a fur-lined hood and looked very angry. Afraid that she would be seen, Barbara pulled the door shut. She stayed by the fire for almost half an hour. Then she simply had to go and have a look.

  The house was silent. By the light of the candle, Barbara crept out into the hall and went to the window by the front door. She peeked out. Another soft flurry of snow was sweeping over the driveway. Just as she was turning away she saw something that chilled her.

  Footprints were plainly visible: not one set, but two. One was larger than the other. They were quite clear. Two people had been walking side by side. The prints led to a little snowman, about a foot high, with pebbles for eyes and a button for a nose.

  ‘I was right. There is someone else in the house,’ she whispered.

  Barbara hurried back to the kitchen. She left the candle burning as she thought about what she’d seen. Had Margaret had a child, one that was sick and needed to be locked up? Was this what she was so afraid of anyone finding out?

  Barbara could feel herself dozing. She’d had a lot to drink. Why hadn’t she brought her laptop, or anything on which she could write down what was happening? She really wanted to talk to her editor. This would make a fascinating article.

  She fell into a deep sleep dreaming about her successful series, ‘Where Are They Now?’. It featured sad, lonely Margaret Reynolds, who was destined to live out her life as a recluse to care for a sick child.

  Chapter Seven

  It was midnight and the kitchen was dark. From the dying embers of the fire came shadows that made eerie shapes on the walls.

  The sound of a piano being played very badly woke her. Tink-tink-tink. Then there was the sound of the lid being banged shut. Next came the light running footsteps, like a child’s. This was followed by Margaret’s voice, muffled and indistinct, obviously having a conversation.

/>   Barbara could hear a nursery rhyme, ‘Three Blind Mice’, repeated over and over again. She decided that she would go upstairs and see for herself.

  She put on the dressing gown. Lighting her candle, she silently eased open the kitchen door. She crept along the hall and made her way upstairs. There was no sign of Margaret. She tried one of the other doors that had been locked. This time it opened.

  A child’s bedroom was painted pink, with a pink duvet and pillows. Nothing frightening whatsoever. The pink-and-white wardrobe was filled with velvet party frocks, patent-leather shoes, kilts and sweaters and blouses. Hats, coats and more shoes were lined up on one side.

  Barbara had to hold her cupped hand to the flame, afraid it would splutter out or drip wax. She quietly closed the door, then froze. From above on the second floor she heard the same light footsteps. Someone hopping and skipping and then Margaret’s voice, clearly this time.

  ‘Stop it! Now just behave. You have to practise. I mean it, so do as I ask. DON’T TRY TO GET OUT! STOP IT! STOP IT!’

  Barbara was afraid to go up to the next floor. The candle flame was low. It had burned right down to the rim of the candlestick.

  The sound of the piano started again. Now it was even louder, as a duet began. ‘Chopsticks’. Margaret must be playing too. Then came clapping and Margaret saying, ‘Good. Very good. Now practise some more.’

  Barbara made her way downstairs. She looked into the large drawing room with all the drapes over the furniture. She moved to the mantelpiece and held up the low flame of the candle to see better. There was a portrait above the fireplace, obviously of Margaret’s sister. She had one hand resting on the arm of a chair. The other held the hand of a small child who wore a white muslin dress. She had flaxen hair in lovely natural curls.

  Holding the candle closer, Barbara tried to see the girl’s face, only to almost drop the candlestick in shock. There was no face, just a shape of where it had been. Someone had painted it out.

  The flame wavered and died as Barbara crept back to the kitchen, her heart thudding. She stacked up more logs to create a blaze, but her feet were freezing cold and she felt chilled to the bone. It was so cold she eventually took the cushions off the sofa and piled them in front of the fire.

  Barbara woke with a start, her heart pounding. Margaret was rattling the grate and clearing out the ashes.

  ‘You were dead to the world,’ she said, smiling.

  Barbara felt stiff all over and moaned as she stretched.

  ‘Is your ankle hurting you?’

  ‘Er, no. It’s much better. Just a bit of cramp.’

  ‘That’s good. You do have a little bruise on your forehead.’

  She touched Barbara’s face gently, then brightly suggested they have some bacon and eggs.

  ‘It’s stopped snowing and the sun looks as if it might come out,’ she continued, sounding very happy.

  Eating a full breakfast even though she didn’t want it, Barbara was sure the ‘happy’ act was exactly that. Margaret looked tired, with dark circles beneath her eyes, and she was very pale. She hardly ate anything but chatted about how she wouldn’t be able to function without her precious gas-fuelled Aga.

  ‘I think I’ll have a walk. Why don’t you come to church with me? It’s not far.’

  Barbara refused, saying that it would not be a good idea in case she slipped, especially as her ankle was healing.

  ‘I’ve left sweaters and a tracksuit with some underwear in the bathroom for you to use,’ Margaret said, pulling on her wellingtons.

  ‘Thank you. I really appreciate it. You’re so kind.’

  As soon as Margaret left, Barbara hurried up to the bathroom and ran the tap. The water was not that hot, but it was warm enough.

  Dressed in a green sweater and the grey tracksuit left for her, Barbara made her way to the stairs leading up to the second floor. There was the same rather threadbare carpet. The sun streamed through the windows, making long shafts of light. Barbara peeked into two rooms that were clearly used for storage. At the end of the landing were double doors painted white with wooden doorknobs.

  Barbara winced as the doors creaked loudly, then they swung open easily. They revealed stripped pine floors and a large blackboard with sticks of chalk held in a net bag. There were simple sums on the board. Around the walls were childish paintings in bright colours. A desk with a small chair was placed in front of the blackboard. Exercise books were stacked neatly beside a row of sharpened pencils. An upright piano was against a wall, music left open on the stand.

  There was nothing frightening here, although it was a little strange. She went out and closed the door. Leading off the same corridor was another small winding staircase up to the third floor. There was a child’s gate across the stairs. They were uncarpeted, but stained in whitewash that looked as if it had been done many years ago.

  Barbara wondered if these stairs led up to whoever she suspected was living in the house. Just as she was about to unhook the child’s gate, she heard the sound of a car drawing up. She panicked and hurried back along the landing.

  She ran downstairs and opened the front door just as the milkman was making his way down the drive. He turned and waved, apologizing for being late. Barbara smiled and bent to pick up the milk, but then she hesitated. The footsteps she’d seen the previous night had melted. The snowman was just a little pile of slush.

  Returning to the kitchen, Barbara checked her mobile, but the battery flickered and she got no signal. Of course Margaret wouldn’t have a charger. She tried the landline, but there was no connection.

  It was strange to be so isolated. No mobile, no telephone, no television, no newspapers even. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d been without these everyday things. No people, no contact with anyone apart from Margaret.

  Surprisingly, she was beginning to like the feeling.

  ‘I’m home,’ Margaret called, coming into the kitchen with her cheeks rosy red once more. She threw off her coat and warmed her hands in front of the fire.

  ‘The trains will be running again tomorrow morning. There’s one at ten that goes directly to Waterloo.’

  She turned to Barbara, pulling off her hat, and added, ‘I might come with you.’

  ‘Oh, that would be nice.’

  Margaret gave her a radiant smile.

  ‘Yes. I have made some big decisions. First, I need to settle some important business.’

  She pulled the big armchair closer to the fire.

  ‘I talked to Alan this morning.’

  Barbara began to feel worried.

  ‘The vicar is such a sweetheart and let me use his phone. Anyway, I told Alan that you’d catch the train.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  There was an awkward pause. Then Margaret said, ‘I also spoke to Kevin. He’s back earlier than he expected from his photoshoot.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yes. And he said that would mean it wasn’t convenient for you to stay on any longer with them. He’d be grateful if you moved your things out.’

  Barbara sank down on the sofa as Margaret went on.

  ‘It’s such a little house. I often went there for dinner with them. Such nice people, and very good cooks.’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was another pause.

  Barbara began to wonder if Kevin had said something else.

  ‘You’re a journalist, aren’t you?’

  Barbara flushed.

  ‘Er, yes, I am actually.’

  ‘And you’re planning to do a series about famous soap stars from the past, is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you had an ulterior motive for coming here.’

  ‘No, that isn’t true.’

  Margaret looked at her directly and Barbara couldn’t meet her dark bright eyes.

  ‘You want to write about me, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I really don’t.’

  Margaret gave a soft laugh, then said, ‘I sort of suspected you were up to somethin
g.’

  Barbara burst into tears.

  ‘It’s all right. Meeting James, Alan and the others that night made me even more certain. There is no way I could even think of returning to show business. The truth is, I never really fitted in. I did enjoy the fame for a while, but then it was hideous and intrusive. Losing Armande and then my sister and …’

  She stopped and sighed deeply.

  Barbara wiped her face with the back of her hand. She felt dreadful. She didn’t know what to do or say.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Margaret went to fill the kettle.

  ‘Margaret, I’m really sorry to have lied to you. I’ll leave tomorrow. And I promise I won’t even consider writing anything. I have never known anyone like you. You have been so kind.’

  ‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that.’

  Margaret put the kettle on to the hot plate of the Aga.

  ‘Do you like it here?’ she asked, fetching the teapot.

  Barbara went over to her, wanting more than anything to put her arms around her.

  ‘I do. I really do. Just before you came in, I was thinking how comfortable I felt.’

  Margaret patted her cheek.

  ‘I know you have no work and no place to live, so it’s perfect that you like it here. Maybe you could even begin to write that book.’

  She opened a drawer and took out an old Bible, which she placed on the table.

  ‘This belonged to my sister Julia.’

  The air in the room grew charged as Margaret stared at Barbara.

  ‘I want you to put your hand on it, because I’m going to tell you things that no one else has ever heard.’

  Margaret caught Barbara’s hand and held it tightly.

  ‘What I’m going to tell you must never be repeated. If you swear to do this in good faith, then your promise is binding.’

  ‘I promise. I won’t ever write about you, I swear.’

  ‘No, it’s much more than that. What I’m going to tell you will frighten you. It’s about this house. You might think I’m crazy, but I know you feel it. When you know it all, you will have to swear never to tell another living soul.’

  ‘I’ll do it, I’ll swear.’