The Girl at the Window

by Rowan Coleman

  ‘Ugh, Daddy!’ I’d giggled and Dad had waggled his eyebrows like he always did when he was making dad jokes.

  ‘Our tragic heroine, young Lily Cove, had been booked to appear at the Haworth Gala, but on the day the weather meant she could not ascend. And yet, to be paid, she had to perform, so on this fateful day, with just a few bystanders watching, and the mayor and her manager, Lily went up anyway.’

  ‘Poor Lily,’ I’d whispered, and even though I knew the end of the story, still I had hoped for a happy ending.

  ‘A sudden change in the weather saw her being blown off course,’ Dad had continued, enjoying hamming it up. ‘She was carried away from Haworth and towards Ponden Hall so fast they had to chase her in the milk cart.’

  ‘She was so afraid,’ I’d said, and Dad hadn’t argued with me; we’d both known it was true.

  ‘No one knows why she cut herself out of her parachute harness and plummeted to her death, head first,’ Dad had said, shaking his head sadly. ‘Though they did say she was terrified of drowning and might have thought the parachute was going to take her into the water. Either way, if Lily Cove hadn’t sealed her own fate, she would have landed safely on land instead of becoming the crumpled and bloody mess they found folded into the ground of our backyard, on this very spot. They carried her into the house and laid her out on the kitchen table, and it was there, on the very same table you eat your breakfast at, with her insides pulverised and every bone broken, that she breathed her last, tragic breath.’

  Dad had leaned towards me, close enough that I could see the fire dancing in his eyes. ‘And they do say, that on quiet nights like this one, if you listen very carefully, you can hear her terrified screams echoing across the reservoir.’

  We’d sat there for a moment, with just the sound of the trees bending in the dark and the crackling of the fire, listening for poor dead Lily Cove, when Dad had suddenly gone, ‘Boo!’ and I’d shrieked, and then laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. But as our laughter had died away, the strangest thing had happened, something I’ll never forget: we’d heard a bird calling in the night, shrill and high, a repetitive, plaintive call, unlike anything I’d ever heard before, echoing like a misplaced apparition.

  ‘What’s that?’ I’d asked Dad, wide-eyed. He’d shaken his head and spent the next few months trying to identify the call, with no success.

  Lily never made an appearance that Halloween night.

  But then, as now, I didn’t need there to be an apparition for me to believe that she was still here; it seems obvious and logical to me that a trace of her remains. That the atoms of energy that had once made her into the kind of fearless girl she was would still exist at Ponden, along with all the other lives that had passed through here, along with Dad’s and, one day, mine.

  Because Ponden Hall is a kind of living time capsule, retaining just a fraction of every moment that there has ever been, and every moment there will ever be, constantly looping and retelling every single story written within its walls, refracting each one back into this present moment, making it every moment.

  It’s that which makes the silence seems so alive, that makes the stillness full of energy, makes me look at this photograph of long-gone Lily Cove and sense her moving in the air around me, as much a part of the fabric of the house as the limestone that built it and the floorboards under my knees.

  Carefully, I lift her photograph out and put her away with Dad’s crossword, feeling some small satisfaction at the idea that these remnants of them have been keeping each other company.

  A few more minutes of hard labour, careful tearing and cutting, saving anything that looks interesting, and at last I am down to the bare pitched-pine boards, broad and strong. Although I’m no expert, they look sound to me.

  Kneeling on all fours, I run my hands over the ancient wood, made of trees that were probably several hundred years old when they were felled, so much time running through every grain and knot. So many feet would have walked over them; every Ponden Heaton that’s there’s been, that’s for sure, and Emily Brontë, too, when she came into this room to read by the fire … probably her siblings as well.

  Folding over onto my side, I lay my cheek on the wood, giving in to my exhaustion, seeking out the different shades of ruby-red and amber embedded in the wood, feeling for each fingerprint swirl and loop in the grain. Running my hand along the grooves where the boards meet, a great sense of warmth and peace trickles through me and I know that, if I close my eyes, I will fall asleep right here on the bare floorboards of this empty room and then—

  Something jolts my eyes open.

  Something rough and irregular under my palm catches my attention. It’s hardly more than the breadth of my finger and yet … Sitting up, I can make out markings on the wood, but it’s more than just scratches or wear and tear. They have shape and purpose. Scrambling up, I reach for my torch and search out my magnifying glass, holding it over the marking – and catch my breath.

  It’s a word. Four letters scratched into the wood, letters so small that you would never see them if you weren’t almost nose-to-nose with the floor.

  Four tiny letters that remind me of something I’ve seen somewhere before and which spell out one word.

  Look.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Heart racing, I crouch on all fours and peer into the narrow gap between the boards that the word is etched along and, yes, yes, there is something there, a wedge of wood, maybe?

  Grazing it with my little finger, it feels smooth to the touch, though. Maybe leather?

  Reaching for my box of gear, I find my long tweezers and shine the torch deep into the crack. I am barely conscious of the constant thrum of wind dropping suddenly, and then the utter stillness, the sense of being watched.

  Lying on my stomach, I slowly ease the packet out, one excruciating millimetre at a time, until it is released.

  This thing, this curious, dull object that has been hidden for so long, seems to absorb my torchlight. Turning it around I can see it is made of thin leather that has been tightly folded into a packet that would fit in the palm of my hand.

  Retrieving my book pillow from my kit – a specially made beanbag designed to support old and fragile documents – I place the object on it.

  The leather looks very old, greying and ingrained with black. It’s secured with a tightly knotted cord; possibly it’s also leather, but so stiffened with age and dirt it’s hard to tell.

  I know I should wait for daylight, but my heart is fluttering with excitement and I don’t care that I am breaking protocol. Whatever this is, it’s been waiting to be discovered for so long that to make it wait another moment seems unimaginable.

  How long it takes me to painstakingly ease apart the knotted cord, I don’t know, but time doesn’t seem to matter very much. I know the night is darkening outside and that the moon is rising.

  Far away I can hear Will’s voice and Mab’s bark, and somewhere in my chest I am still aware of that constant sense of loss and longing for Abe.

  But just for now, however long now is, all of those things are pushed far away and I am lost in discovery. Using a stainless steel spatula, I encourage the leather to fall open along its fold lines, careful not to stress it with any sudden movements until, at last, the two pieces of writing, one folded inside the other, are revealed.

  The papers are from two distinct ages, centuries apart; I can tell that right away from the quality of the paper and the style of the handwriting.

  Once each layer of leather and paper is sufficiently unfurled, I lay them side by side.

  ‘Oh dear God!’ I can hear the amazement, the thrill and excitement, in my own voice, as if someone else has spoken the words aloud.

  I know the handwriting on the second piece of paper. And as I look at it I know what the letters etched into the floorboard reminded me of. A sloping ‘E’, carved into a table.

  I know this handwriting as if it is my own, because it belongs to someone I’ve loved since I was old
enough to know her name, someone whose every last detail of their left-behind life has become as familiar to me as my own.

  This handwriting belongs to Emily Brontë.

  PART TWO

  O God within my breast,

  Almighty, ever-present Deity!

  Life – that in me hast rest,

  As I – Undying Life – have power in Thee!

  Emily Brontë

  Tru and Abe

  Those first months, it felt like summer lasted for half a year. We’d hide away, deep in the heather and bracken, under the dapple of the sparse beech trees, allowed to grow tall and straight only by the good grace of the sheltering valley. When we were together there, under the arc of the sky, it felt as if we were part of the earth itself, making new discoveries of each other every time we met. If I close my eyes I can still feel it, the scratch of the gorse on the bare skin of my back, the scrape of Abe’s cheek on my thighs, the tiny constellation bruises left by the rocks we rolled over, the way his fingers would encircle my wrists, not in dominance, but completion. When we were joined together, with the wind all around us, beetles crawling over our bare toes, we became infinite. Me, him, the earth, the air, the sound of the water collapsing down the mountainside and the iron-rich scent of the soil so strong you could taste it with every kiss.

  That was all I’d wanted, then. I’d yearned and ached for his body and the ground underneath it, just as hard. It had been Abe who’d wanted more, who’d taken me once to his flat in Leeds and out for coffee with Unity, who’d fretted about my age and low expectations from life, but who’d been kind and hopeful, too. It had been Abe who, on meeting me at our usual places, had asked me to show him around the inside of the Brontë home.

  I’d hesitated, worried he’d ruin everything by not loving the sisters like I did. My young and tender heart had kept the piece of it devoted to the Brontë sisters back, locking it away for safekeeping so that, at least, remained only mine.

  It was only after I’d been fully satisfied that Abe had truly understood how wondrous the sisters were, how they’d defied every expectation of their age to set the world on fire, that I had let him into their home.

  So that when he’d stood behind me in the small, roped-off area, looking at the table they’d sat and written at, I’d known he’d understood that this wasn’t just a room, that wasn’t just furniture. To me it was a kind of temple.

  ‘They were so fearless – and because of that courage, some of the greatest stories ever told were made here. Isn’t that magical? Draw in a deep breath and you’re breathing them in. Think about that.’

  Abe had nodded and listened as I’d led him from room to room, never looking at him, telling him every little thing I knew about the Brontës and every relic on display, until half a dozen more people were following us around, listening too. And when we were finally outside again, in the dreamily warm afternoon, I’d realised I’d had been so nervous, more nervous even than if I’d been taking him home to meet Ma.

  ‘Thank you,’ Abe had said as we’d walked down Main Street towards his bus stop. ‘I really enjoyed that.’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ I’d said, laughing.

  ‘I’m not,’ he’d said, taking my hand. ‘If you’d asked me a year ago about the Brontë sisters, I’d have thought about three boring women, who’d written three boring old books. You opened a door for me into something really wonderful – and watching you talk about them, all this knowledge and excitement pouring out of you? It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.’

  ‘Shut up,’ I’d said, but I was grinning anyway.

  ‘I wonder if I could have the same effect on you if I described the study of the central nervous system?’

  ‘Maybe you could.’ And I’d laughed. ‘Although I learn quite a lot about my central nervous system just being around you. Do you have to go now? We could find a place—’

  ‘Wait, don’t distract me for a minute.’ Abe had removed my hands from his chest. ‘I need to say this. I’ve been meaning to, and now I realise exactly how much.’

  ‘Say what?’ I’d become suddenly nervous.

  ‘You are so smart, Tru. Your A levels are coming up, but you haven’t applied to any universities yet. You don’t even talk about it, and I guess I want to know: why not?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I’d said and shrugged. ‘We’re not a family that goes to university, I suppose. Besides, I like my life like it is, and anyway, I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up. I might not even need a degree to do it, so what’s the rush?’

  ‘The rush is that your life won’t always be like it is now,’ Abe had said, pulling me to a stop on the cobbles. He’d tried to meet my eye, but I’d refused, looking past his shoulder to the mosaic of people in their summer colours and patterns rising up the steep incline after me.

  ‘All right, Dad,’ I’d said. ‘Loads of people take a year out.’

  ‘A year out to travel,’ Abe reminded me. ‘Not a year out to stay at home and work part-time in a pub. Look, it’s up to you, but everything I know about you, listening to the way you talked in there, there’s so much more in the world to know and understand, to discover. You’d love university life; you’d love meeting new people, discovering more of the world. And you are worth so much more than …’

  He’d trailed off, perhaps seeing the frown that had set between my eyebrows.

  ‘My life is worth a lot to me,’ I’d told him. ‘It might not be big or grand or ambitious, and I’m not going to learn how to save a life like you are. But I love this place, and I love my home, and Ma is … well, I’m all she’s got. And I have you. I’ve got everything I need.’

  Abe had looked away from me, digging his hands into his pockets. I couldn’t understand how what I’d said had had that effect.

  ‘I do have you, don’t I?’ I’d asked him uncertainly. ‘Or are you ashamed of me?’

  ‘It’s just … you and me … it won’t work if … it can’t be like that,’ he’d stumbled over every word.

  ‘Like what?’ I’d asked, laughing, but he hadn’t smiled in return. ‘Like what, Abe?’

  ‘I love you, Tru, but I won’t be one of the reasons you don’t do something with your life.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What I do is nothing to do with you, and I am doing something – this is something.’

  ‘Something more, Tru. You could do a whole lot more if you just let yourself be free of who you expect to be. Who cares if Heatons have lived at Ponden Hall for five hundred years, or if that was the house you were born in? It doesn’t mean it has to be the house you die in. There’s a whole world out there, so much more for you to find.’

  ‘Can you hear yourself?’ I’d asked him. ‘You’re talking to me like I’m a child who doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘Because sometimes you act like a child!’

  I don’t know what he’d said after that, because I’d turned on my heel and marched back up the street, hearing him calling my name, waiting for him to arrive at my side, to have come running after me. But he hadn’t. I wouldn’t let myself look until I’d reached the top of the hill, and when I had, he wasn’t there any more.

  ‘Trudy Heaton.’ I’d stopped dead at the sound of my name being spoken by Erica Sadler from the art shop. She was a woman who loved to talk. ‘Lover’s tiff, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I’d said, trying to walk on, but she’d spoken again.

  ‘I’ve seen you about with your young man. Where’s he from?’

  ‘Leeds,’ I’d said, crossing my arms.

  ‘Originally, I mean.’

  ‘Putney,’ I’d told her, daring her to ask me again.

  ‘Oh, well, I bet your Ma likes him, does she?’

  ‘Loves him,’ I’d said. ‘He’s the apple of her eye.’

  ‘Just don’t let young love get in the way of your exams, OK?’ Erica Sadler had laughed then, and I’d smiled as I’d watched her go on her way. But I’d known that sometime, before the end of today, Ma woul
d find out about Abe because Erica Sadler wouldn’t be able to wait to see the look on Ma’s face when she delivered the news.

  And no matter what that old bag Erica Sadler might think, it wouldn’t be the colour of Abe’s skin that would upset Ma.

  No, it would be that I’d kept something so important a secret from her, that I’d taken something special and made it mine alone.

  And it would mean that I didn’t belong to her any more, that I never really would again, and I’d known – I had always known – how much she would hate that, how much it would kill her to let me be free.

  I could have gone home then, gone to find her and see her and explain before Erica Sadler got into her Honda Civic and dropped in, telling Ma she was just passing.

  I could have, but I hadn’t. Instead, I’d taken the long way home, letting the summer sun burn the backs of my arms and make my head swim as I’d walked up to Top Withens, picking my way in and out of walkers, until I was alone with the wind and the clouds at last.

  It wasn’t until I was on my way down the steep and rocky descent and almost home that it had occurred to me that it wasn’t that I didn’t want a life outside of the one that I knew, it was just that I didn’t know of anything else that I wanted more.

  I’d known that if I stayed where I was, in this place, I’d be content.

  But, for the first time in my seventeen years, I’d wondered if content was enough. If it was, it wasn’t going to matter for very much longer, because when I got home Ma was waiting for me and Abe had been right. Nothing stays the same forever.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘You must be Trudy Heaton?’

  Marcus Ellis catches me pacing up and down outside the house, caught between watching Will and Mab play an approximation of fetch and glancing up at the window of my bedroom, where yesterday’s find is carefully concealed in a box folder.