by R. P. Bolton
Keys? Wicker basket in the hall. Her fingers found two scratched and worn mortise ones and a Yale, rusting at the edges. They hung on her key ring between the silver E and the photo of her dad. Since she left home, it had only ever held rented keys, but these actually belonged to her. She clasped the bunch tightly. Her keys. Her house.
But as she stepped into the autumn sunshine, her confidence faded and a sliver of panic lodged in her chest. After weeks cooped up inside, the sky suddenly seemed too wide; the birds too loud. The breeze through the trees was a sinister whisper.
For a fleeting moment, she imagined unfastening the sling and barricading the two of them indoors. But then where would that lead? Keeping her daughter locked up forever, like a princess in a fairy tale?
She set her shoulders back. If she wanted Trinity to grow up fearless rather than fearful then she needed to lead by example.
‘Let’s be explorers,’ she said firmly.
Although Howard and Tom had cleared a path through the garden, the forlorn atmosphere lingered. Wet grass and brambles wound around her ankles and left streaks on her jeans. She stopped at the rose bed where the greened wood of the pergola had splintered into lethal, jagged spikes. An old plastic chair lay on its side next to a planter filled with blackened dead things.
Total eyesore.
Shielding the baby’s head with her hand, Ellie stepped hesitantly across the uneven stepping stones that created a makeshift path through the weed-filled rose beds. Slimy clods of vegetation coated their concrete surface and the whole shoddy thing was a death trap, never mind a mess.
Her dad had loved gardening. He would have known when to sow lawn seed and what to grow where. She pictured him teaching Trinity the names of the trees and flowers, just like he’d done when she was small. Peppering her daughter’s head with kisses, she let the wave of sadness break over her and recede.
Then she lifted Trinity’s legs clear of the nettles, carving a path through whorls of tall grass until she reached the fence that separated them from Mosswood.
‘Hold on tight,’ she sing-songed and carefully clambered over.
From the house, Mosswood was a uniform mass, but over the fence the trees revealed their unique personalities. Patterned bark, different-shaped leaves, multi-coloured moss. The sun shone through the canopy, dappling patches of late flowers and grass with light. Tiny birds chirped as they flitted from branch to branch. Nature, clean air, peace: this was what the move to Moss Lane meant.
Mum and baby walking in the woods on a crisp October day. What could be nicer? Twigs crunched underfoot as she headed to the sandy path, ducking under the low branches that blocked their way.
‘Follow the yellow brick road,’ she chanted, clicking on the Maps app. ‘We’re that blob and the other blob is home. Easy. We won’t need to drop breadcrumbs and we definitely won’t meet any big bad wolves.’
But it didn’t take long for the weight of the sling to grow more noticeable and only slightly longer before her back began to ache. The baby’s solid warmth made sweat pool between her breasts.
‘Mummy is so unfit,’ she said, wafting away a cloud of tiny black flies. ‘Shall we head back home?’
As she finished the sentence, they arrived at the edge of a fairy-tale clearing complete with wildflowers and a sparkling pond. Pine trees circled a patch of sunlit grass and in the exact centre, a dead tree held court, its bleached bone-smooth limbs lending it a skeletal beauty.
Trinity hadn’t uttered a peep since they left the house, but when Ellie stepped off the path her bottom lip began to tremble. Up close, the dead tree looked more sinister than sculptural and when she touched one of the thick branches, she was surprised by the cold that greeted her fingertips. Even the birds stayed on the margins, silent. Trinity wriggled, letting out a cry that echoed through the clearing.
‘Sssh, sweetheart,’ Ellie said. ‘Look at the pretty pond.’
On closer inspection, she saw that clusters of flies hung above the still water. Sunlight sparkled on stagnant depths and the reeds, green and healthy from a distance, were streaked with black rot. The pretty pond was actually pretty rank.
Some foetid smell – sewage or gone-off chicken – caught in her throat and suddenly, Ellie was certain they weren’t alone in the clearing. A shadow flitted across her peripheral vision and she snapped her head round to see a crow flap by on lazy wings. Goose bumps plucked her arms. She couldn’t see anyone or hear anything other than the whine of the wind in the trees, but something felt wrong. Peculiar. Nothing she could pin down, only an ancient do-not-linger that tingled her nerves, telling her to leave this place.
Now.
She wasn’t up to jogging, especially with a squirming, squealing baby strapped to her chest, but she moved briskly, crossing her arms to protect Trinity. The dark-green canopy of leaves stirred into ominous rushing, like a fast-flowing river carrying her away from home. Brambles and twigs grabbed at her clothes. Every snap, every rustle was a threat. Dread pushed her deeper into the woods. She blundered through a dense thicket of rhododendrons, only stopping when she tripped over an exposed tree root. With a painful crack, her knee hit the trunk and she shot her hand out to right herself against the rough bark. Black spots danced in front of her eyes, but the jolt had dislodged her phone from her back pocket, lighting up the screen.
‘OK, baby girl?’ she said, grunting as she stooped to retrieve it. Trinity howled in reply.
Thank you, Google Maps. The creepy clearing they had just left was called Moss Pond and, miraculously, they were heading in the right direction for home. Limping slightly now, she hurried along the route on the screen until she caught the first glimpse of the neighbour’s red-tiled roof followed by their own.
With every step, the baby had gained a pound and by the time she reached the fence, she had to grab her sore leg and physically lift it on to the bottom rung.
She retraced their steps through bent grass to the house, digging her keys out of her pocket as she stepped carefully under the splintered pergola. Once inside, she leaned against the closed door for a few seconds and caught her breath.
Home.
The kitchen was exactly as she’d left it: breakfast dishes draining on the rack. Laundry piled on the table. Floor in need of a mop. Wet washing in the machine.
Safe.
She took the baby from the sling and sat down. As Trinity fed, Ellie’s heartbeat slowly returned to normal. She blew out of the corner of her mouth to unstick a strand of hair glued by a trickle of sweat and briefly considered asking Tom to come home but then thought better of it. What could she say?
In the reassuring ordinariness of the kitchen, the spooked half-jog seemed a ridiculous over-reaction. After all, she hadn’t actually heard or seen anyone. And even if she had, why wouldn’t someone be in the clearing? Dog walkers, joggers and nature lovers flocked to Mosswood. In fact, it would be weirder not to bump into someone. Trinity flicked her little hands open and Ellie swapped her to the other side.
‘Your mum is such an idiot,’ she announced. ‘Scared of her own shadow.’
The kitchen was a mess. Muddy tracks across the lino mirrored a black smear on the back door and either she’d brought the rotting pond home in her nostrils or the house stank.
A plump fly buzzed over the nappy bucket and, not for the first time since leaving hospital, Ellie questioned her commitment to reusables. Another example of real-life experience kicking theory’s butt. She grimaced and opened the window, ushering the bluebottle out. The house needed a clean. She needed a distraction.
‘Come on. Be productive,’ she ordered herself, dragging a knotted assortment of wet clothes and nappies from the machine and sniffing. They’d have to do. Where had Tom hidden the pegs? She opened the cupboard under the sink, felt a twinge in the base of her back as she straightened and as she did, caught sight of a stranger’s face overlapping her reflection.
13. Now
The face in the window broke into a warm smile and moved to one si
de. Unlike hers, it wore make-up and was framed by neatly brushed hair. Smart-casual in a fuchsia bodywarmer over a Breton striped T-shirt, the owner of the face was younger than Mary Berry, but Tom had the comparison nailed. Through the glass, their new neighbour mouthed, ‘May I …?’
Ellie smiled and opened the back door. The woman held a newspaper-wrapped bouquet, water dripping from protruding green stalks.
‘Hello, I’m Diane from number five. Welcome to Moss Lane.’
‘Hi. Of course. Come in.’ Ellie stepped back.
Their new neighbour folded a corner of damp newspaper over the stems. Her nails were painted a subtle pink. ‘I could pop back later if this isn’t a good time?’
‘No, it’s fine. Honestly.’ Ellie smoothed her hair down. ‘Sorry, I’m just having one of those days.’
‘I was a health visitor for nearly forty years, so I can tell you “those days” are universal.’ She beamed down at the baby, eyeing her with curiosity. ‘And this beautiful young lady must be …’
‘Trinity.’
‘What a lovely name. Now, these are the last of the roses from my garden. I can’t remember them ever blooming this late.’
Ellie took the bundle and buried her nose in the sweet petals. ‘They’re gorgeous. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. I just wanted to introduce myself and to see how you’re settling in.’
‘Getting there, slowly.’ Ellie gestured at the boxes and balls of crumpled newspaper, clothes spewing from the washing machine. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No thanks. It’s a flying visit. I wanted to mention the playgroup my grandson, Freddie, goes to. My daughter-in-law is a volunteer there. Asha – she’s very friendly. Australian. It’s from ten every Tuesday and Friday at St Michael’s on the high street.’
Trinity sighed and bubbles formed on her wet lower lip.
‘That’s really kind of you, thanks.’
Diane stroked the baby’s cheek. ‘It is such a pleasure to see a family in this house. We’re such a lot of old fuddy-duddies on the Lane now all the children have grown up and moved away. I’m sure Mary would have been thrilled.’
‘Mary?’
‘The lady who lived here before.’
Ellie frowned, recalling the documents on the auction office desk. ‘Wasn’t she called Catherine?’
It was Diane’s turn to frown. ‘No, Catherine’s Canadian. They were cousins, I think. She inherited the house last year when Mary passed away.’
Ellie digested this new information. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Were you and Mary close?’
‘No.’ Diane paused a beat before adding, sadly, ‘I wish we had been. Maybe things would have turned out differently for poor Mary.’
Ellie waited for her to elaborate, but the older woman just fiddled with the zip on her gilet.
‘Different how?’ Ellie prompted.
There was a pause during which first confusion then shock crossed Diane’s face. Her hand went to her mouth.
‘Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. I assumed you knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘Dear me. I only meant that I wish I could have …’ Dismay clouded the older woman’s features. She cleared her throat. ‘Mary passed away in the house. Nothing sinister – she had a weak heart.’ She tailed off and edged towards the door. ‘I’m afraid I’ve put my foot in it.’
The poor neighbour looked horrified.
‘No, it’s fine,’ Ellie heard herself say.
But her mind reeled even as she tried to put Diane at ease.
Someone died here?
Diane gave a weak smile. ‘Please believe me when I say you are exactly what Moss Lane needs. Life and laughter. Children. And if there’s anything I can do, you know where I am. And again, I apologise.’
‘Honestly, there’s no need,’ Ellie said, mustering a smile of her own. ‘I’m not superstitious.’
A draught fluttered the baby photos stuck to the fridge and Diane left with a final promise she would speak to her daughter-in-law about the playgroup. Even before her footsteps had retreated up the path, Ellie had her phone out.
‘Tom Hartley is unavailable …’
She sucked in a deep breath. Held it. Ended the call without speaking.
This wasn’t information you could just casually drop into a voicemail. Hi, can you get some milk on your way home. Oh and by the way, a woman died in our house.
Holding the phone to her lips, she processed Diane’s revelation while her emotions shuttled through a range of reactions. Did she feel scared? Angry? Grossed out?
Shocked, definitely. But even as she registered that, her mind took her back to the viewing and the forlorn atmosphere of a home that had lost its beating heart. She had sensed, even then, a sadness.
And after all, this wasn’t the first time she’d lived where someone had died.
When the oncologist told them Dad’s lung cancer was no longer treatable, Mum drove him straight home. Spending his last weeks with them had felt natural. The best possible solution to the worst possible situation.
She unwrapped Diane’s roses and stuffed the wet newspaper in the bin. She couldn’t deny it was a shock. But plenty of people slipped away with no warning at home. And, given the choice, who wouldn’t die in familiar surroundings rather than a hospital or a hospice?
Every vase was already filled with flowers from family and friends, so she filled a pint glass at the tap and, without looking at Anita’s card, placed it in the centre of the mantelpiece. Had the previous owner died in here, watching TV? Or peacefully in her bed surrounded by family, like Dad?
A blast of wind moaned down the chimney, sending little puffs of soot onto the floorboards. She zipped up her hoodie. If this house had stood empty for a year, that explained why it was so bloody freezing. She found the dustpan and brush on top of Tom’s sports gear in the under-stairs cupboard and swept up what hadn’t fallen between the cracks in the floorboards.
Back in the kitchen, Trinity had nodded off. Ellie tiptoed across the floor and carefully picked up the laundry basket. Balancing the peg bag on top of the wet washing, she went outside.
The clothesline stretched between a tree and a rusty metal post. She slid a damp cloth the full length, cleaning off umpteen years of black and green gunk. A couple of greyed-out clothes pins, the old-fashioned dolly kind her nan used, spun with the vibration and Ellie considered them carefully. How many times had the old owner used those pegs to hang her own sheets and towels?
With clean whites flapping on the line, she set the empty basket on the kitchen table next to her phone. A notification from Tom had arrived while she was outside. She read it and bit her lip, snorting softly down her nose.
Typical.
Trinity twisted, clenching her fists like a miniature boxer. Ellie leaned over the basket saying, ‘Daddy’s going to be late because he’s helping the new lady at work.’
Trinity grumbled a response.
‘You’re absolutely right. Daddy should tell her to get lost and come home.’
No, that wasn’t fair. Especially as he had nodded off revising for his sergeant’s exams last night. The textbook lay splayed face down on the bedroom floor. She picked it up and wedged it against the nursery door.
Shafts of autumn sunshine lit the room and a few late insects batted against the window. The baby settled on the nursing pillow and within seconds, began to suck rhythmically and more importantly, near painlessly. Progress at last.
Diane was right. This house needed a family; Ellie had sensed that from the first time she saw it. And if someone died here, so what? Sad for the woman, obviously, but people had been dying in houses for thousands of years. Half of Manchester was built over defunct mass graveyards, for God’s sake. No point getting all Stephen King about it.
Still.
Despite her pragmatism she suppressed an involuntary shudder. Against her will, her brain picked over the conversation with Diane, filling in the gaps with speculative whens and wheres
and hows.
Stop it.
She shoved the macabre thoughts aside firmly.
The baby unfastened herself with an audible pop. On the changing mat, the tiny eyelashes fluttered and limbs softened while Ellie stripped, wiped, and changed. By the time the Velcro on the nappy rasped into place, Trinity’s muted whimpering signalled she was on the cusp of sleep.
With the baby snoozing in the Moses basket at her side, Ellie dusted the laptop screen with her sleeve then entered the wireless code the engineer had stuck to the router. Success. The screensaver was a happy blast from the past. A reminder of the Australian leg of their trip of a lifetime that seemed way more than a lifetime ago. They’d stayed on a campsite near Uluru infested with ghostly flying crickets the size of sparrows and a plague of flies whose sole purpose was to sip the moisture from your eyeballs.
In the photo, twenty-two-year-old Tom and Ellie radiated love. Fingers entwined, they bathed in the dying rays of a sun that cast bruise-coloured shadows on ancient rock and even after all this time, she recalled the deep spirituality that had flooded her veins. How standing in the presence of something so inexplicable, so sublime, so beyond the limits of human understanding had consumed her with total awe.
But sitting on the sofa eight years later, that total awe was directed at her younger self. She looked seriously amazing. Why had she ever wasted a minute on being self-conscious?
Reconnecting with the world of social media meant fielding a never-ending stream of other people’s sun-soaked holidays and heavily filtered nights out. Her world, too, not that long ago. But while their glamorous lives carried on unchanged, hers had entered a new dimension, one filled with dirty nappies and nipple balm. She uploaded some cute pictures of Trinity (‘sorry for the baby spam!!!’) and cringed at some shockers on Tom’s page. Her own head, blotchy and bloated, loomed over their daughter’s perfect peach of a skull. At least the comments were kind.
Her stomach growled. She ate a jam sandwich over the kitchen sink, watching the washing ripple in the breeze, obscuring the view of the garden beyond.
Was it previous owner Mary who had built the pergola and tended the rose beds around it? She must have picked out the pink bathroom suite, the bobbly wallpaper, and the crazy copper fireplace. The newsprint smudges around the front door, which at some point Ellie would have to clean, were made by her fingers. Or had there ever been a Mr Mary? Kids? If she left the house to her cousin, maybe not.