The Girl at the Window

by Rowan Coleman

  Moments after I had realised, or thought I’d realised, what I was looking at, Will had arrived in the room, filling it with his kinetic energy, and the clocks had started ticking again.

  ‘Mummy, it’s nearly ten o’ clock and I haven’t gone to bed!’ he’d told me, his eyes shiny from too much screen time. ‘Gran says she’s had enough of my goings-on for one day and to come and fetch you.’

  ‘Oh, Will, sorry.’ I’d looked again at the words on the page before they’d floated and merged, and I’d realised how exhausted I was, not just from this one day of work, but from months and months of just keeping going. ‘I took up the carpet from this room, though; what do you think?’

  Will, who had tipped into the kind of frenetic overtiredness that only children can truly achieve, had delighted at the sound of his bare feet on the boards as he’d run around and around and around, while I’d safely delivered the papers to a cardboard folder.

  ‘Careful, Will.’ I’d forced myself back into reality, like dragging myself out of a vivid dream. ‘We haven’t had the surveyor in to look at the floor yet!’

  ‘What does he need to know, apart from that it’s a floor?’ Will had asked me, laughing and flapping his arms as if he were about to take off. With trembling hands I’d slid the folder, along with the leather square, into the box with Dad and Lily Cove.

  Had I really seen what I thought I had? Perhaps it was exhaustion or even hope, filling in the unknown with the impossible because I needed something, anything, to hold on to.

  ‘Can we have more Secret Garden?’ Will had asked. ‘I like it.’

  ‘Did you eat?’ I’d asked him, appalled with myself for not knowing.

  ‘Yes, jam sandwich and cake,’ Will had told me.

  ‘Then extra teeth cleaning and bed – and stories,’ I’d said, feeling the shame of wanting so badly to look again at what I had found above putting my son to bed. I’d pushed the box file onto the highest bookshelf in my bedroom, shutting the bookcase door, and pulled myself out of that bubble and into the now. I’d laughed as he’d made faces at me while he brushed his teeth, and watched the top of his head as he’d burrowed into my side as I’d read. I’d waited as he’d fallen asleep in my arms, his head on my chest, and I’d said a prayer to the star that rose into the precise position above the hole in the roof, thanking God for my son who refused to give up hoping and laughing and living, until, at last, I’d slept too. And for the first time in months the night flew by in an instant, without a single dream, and when I’d woken, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, I’d felt as if my body and mind had really rested.

  Now, as the sound of his voice, high and happy, is carried away across the hills along with the scuttling leaves and any last traces of summer, the papers remain unread.

  Last night I was desperate to know if I really might have come across something new that had been penned by Emily; now I’m afraid to look again and discover that it isn’t.

  ‘Trudy Heaton?’ He says my name again and I smile automatically, extending my hand.

  ‘I am, and you must be Marcus Ellis.’

  He is archetypal country money; fair, thinning hair, pale-skinned, blue eyes, waxed jacket and jeans that look brand new – exactly the kind of person that Ma hates on sight. But then again, when he looks at me he’ll see an unkempt woman, wearing yesterday’s clothes, covered with dust and with cobwebs in her hair, so I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

  Marcus grins and nods, and he can’t stop looking at the house behind him, like he’s desperate to get in. I think I like him.

  ‘And this is …? He smiles at Will, who ignores him.

  ‘My son, Will, and Mab, my mum’s dog.’

  ‘My dog,’ Will says, without looking at either of us.

  ‘Will, come and say hello, please,’ I prompt him firmly, but Marcus shakes his head.

  ‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘What self-respecting kid wants to make conversation with an adult? I know I barely do, and I’m nearly forty.’

  ‘I like to think I brought him up to have good manners,’ I say, loud enough for Will to hear, dropping my voice to add, ‘But he’s dealing with a lot of change, right now, so thanks for cutting him some slack.’

  ‘Can I stay out here and play with Mab?’ Will asks.

  ‘Yes, but go into the garden, not on the track, OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Will gestures enthusiastically to Mab to follow him and, after a moment, she heaves a shuddering sigh and waddles after him.

  ‘I have to tell you I’ve been dying to get inside this building for years,’ Marcus tells me, his eyes sweeping every surface as I lead him inside. ‘Brontë mania rather runs in our family; Dad walked me past this house when I was a kid, at least two dozen times, and told me the actual Wuthering Heights box bed was inside. Once, back then, I even sneaked inside to try and get a look, but this terrifying woman threw me out on my ear.’

  ‘Oh, that will’ve been Ma,’ I say, unconsciously lowering my voice as I lead him inside. ‘You broke into my house?’

  ‘Well, not exactly; the door was open.’

  He pauses as we step in through the front door and a huge grin spreads across his face, compelling me to return his delighted smile.

  ‘This is going to be wonderful,’ he says, his eyes alight. ‘Very ancient buildings have a way of talking to you that means you have to stop and listen and work out what they want to tell you, don’t you think? So many secrets waiting to be uncovered.’

  ‘I’ve always thought that, too,’ I say. ‘Actually, I’ve always talked to Ponden since I was little; it feels impolite not to.’

  I stop outside the kitchen where I can hear Ma banging around with the Sainsbury’s delivery and hope that my demeanour is enough of a signal to Marcus that it’s best that we don’t attract Ma’s attention just yet.

  Perhaps remembering the woman who threw him out once before, he’s quiet as he follows me up the stairs and along the hallway to where I open the door into Cathy’s room for him, watching with interest as he walks in. He laughs with sheer delight, and that makes me laugh too.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m actually standing here,’ he says. ‘I’ve known about this room for years, since I was a schoolkid. My dad was a collector and dealer in rare and antique books – my family has been for generations, in fact – and of course it was the law that I had to have read all of the Brontës’ books by the time I was twelve. When he told me about this room, and that window here, I was desperate to see the place that inspired that scene in Wuthering Heights. It might have been one of the reasons I got into renovation, and a couple of times I tried to offer my services here, but never got any uptake. Now I’m here and … it’s magical, Trudy. It’s astounding.’

  I watch his face as he walks into the middle of the room, slowly turning around, taking in each beam and block of stone, seeing his smile deepen.

  ‘This is incredible,’ he says. ‘And the box bed! The box bed is a treasure. I can’t believe I’m looking at it at last. May I?’ Nodding, I watch as he walks over to it rather hesitantly, before resting his hand on the dark wood, sliding the door open. I hear his breath suck in sharply as he sees the small, square window.

  ‘Amazing. It’s like stepping into the novel. And it looks entirely original, too.’

  ‘It’s great to meet someone who feels the same way about this place as I do,’ I tell him on impulse. ‘Ponden is quite choosey about who she likes and who she doesn’t. I have a feeling you are just her type.’

  ‘Well, she is certainly mine.’ Marcus turns to smile at me, and the warmth in his eyes is reassuring. A sudden impulse to rush and grab my finds to show him almost overtakes me; I know he’d almost certainly feel the exact same excitement and thrill about them as I do if I were to share them with him. But something stops me, something like a hand on my shoulder, an unexpected sense of caution and a strong urge to keep my treasure as secret as it has been for at least two hundred years. I’m the only person in the whole world who knows i
t exists. There’s power in that.

  ‘We must have both grown up around here at the same time,’ I say, ‘but I don’t remember you from school?’

  ‘No, I was sent away to school.’ Marcus’s smile fades just a little. ‘My father thought it would be more character-forming and all that. I hope you don’t mind, but I looked you up and discovered that you used to work at the Lister James Museum in London. I visited there last summer – it’s an incredible place. The hall of death masks was unexpectedly moving.’

  ‘That’s how I feel about it,’ I say. ‘Funny, because most of our visitors have nightmares about it afterwards; they don’t understand how familiar Victorians were with death.’

  Marcus takes an iPad from his briefcase.

  ‘So, what I need to do is to make an initial assessment, which will be based on historical dating and structural integrity. Whatever we can save that is original we will, and we’ll also know exactly how to renovate and repair anything we can’t save in a way that will please English Heritage. It will take me most of the day to complete the whole of the sixteenth-century wing and then, once I’ve compiled all the data I need, I will write a report and then we can talk about the cost and the requirements of a Grade II star listed renovation and—’

  The sharp sound of a frightened cry darts in through the open window. It’s Will.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I explode into the outdoors, and tumble into the wide grey sky. My feet hit the stony ground and I run, breathless, racing towards the sound of Will crying, long grass tufts and dips under my socks, whipping and grabbing at my ankles. I run like someone who knows that the worst can happen, does happen – full of fear and expectation.

  My little boy is lying under the great old oak, curled into a foetal position, sobbing and rocking his way into the soft earth. Mab stands over him, like a bridge, four paws planted firmly on either side of his skinny torso, guarding him from further harm. Only when I’m near does she move aside.

  ‘Oh baby, what happened, what happened? Can you move this, and this?’ I run my hand over his limbs, searching for any obvious injury as I gather him into my arms.

  Finally his cries subside. One shoe lies a few feet from us, turned on its side, his face is buried in my neck.

  ‘I was in the tree, climbing it like you said you used to, and I – I fell out of it.’

  ‘Oh baby,’ I say, pressing the back of my hand against his hot cheek. ‘I bet that was frightening.’

  ‘It was a shock more than anything,’ he says, parroting back at me a phrase I’ve spoken to him a hundred times before.

  ‘So, where does it hurt?’ I ask. ‘Arms? Legs? Head?’

  ‘Ankle,’ Will says. ‘Only a bit. Maybe so much that I might not be able to go to school tomorrow?’

  This takes me aback. I study him, as his chin dips. Did he …? He wouldn’t have … not just to get out of starting a new school, would he? Am I that out of tune with his worries and fears?

  ‘Hello, there,’ Marcus greets us as he walks across the field and Will scowls as he settles down in the wet grass, not seeming to care about staining his pristine jeans.

  ‘Now, I know a thing or two about first aid; I’m in the Territorial Army – well, it’s the Army Reserve, now – so do you mind if I look you over?’

  ‘Do you have a gun?’ Will asks.

  ‘I do.’ Marcus answers him very seriously. ‘But not because of the Reserve. I shoot for a hobby, so I have a couple. Can I check you out?’

  ‘Do you shoot animals?’ Will narrows his eyes.

  ‘No, never.’ Marcus smiles. ‘Just targets. Now, can you wiggle your fingers?’

  Will obliges.

  ‘Toes?’

  Will’s toes ripple under his socks.

  ‘OK, I’m just going to test the range of movement in your ankles and knees, arms and wrists, OK?’

  One by one, as he tests each joint, Will calms further, observing Marcus with naked curiosity. I have to admit, I feel the same, watching this well-spoken, well-dressed man kneel in the boggy grass, his fine fair hair falling into his eyes; there’s a familiarity about his sense of certainty that tugs at the centre of my chest – and then I realise, though he couldn’t look more different from Abe, he reminds me of him. His manner and quiet assurance are as soothing as balm. The flash of recognition hurts so much it takes my breath away, and it takes a concerted effort to fold away the desire to just lie down with my face in the soil and cry.

  ‘Which branch were you in, mate?’ Marcus asks, looking up at the tree.

  Without thinking, Will stands up and points to a lowish branch.

  ‘Must have been scary,’ Marcus says. ‘But at least you had a soft landing. I think you’re OK.’

  ‘Will you show me your guns?’ Will asks.

  ‘I don’t have them on me,’ Marcus says, and laughs. ‘I keep them locked away.’

  ‘Come on,’ I say, collecting Will’s shoe. ‘Let’s get you inside. How about a movie on the sofa, and I’ll make you a sandwich.’

  Will makes a point of hopping ahead, one hand on Mab’s collar, as we head back towards the house. I look up at the window of the room I was just in and see the window blinking back at me, patiently waiting.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to Marcus as Will hops into the house. ‘For checking him over. My husband is a doctor—’

  ‘Oh, then you didn’t really need me wading in, did you?’ Marcus says with a smile. ‘Is he at work? You could give him a call?’

  ‘He’s …’ I sigh; it never gets any easier. ‘I thought everyone knew.’

  ‘Knew what?’ Marcus turns to look at me.

  ‘He’s missing, after a plane crash eight months ago. What I mean to say is that he’s dead. He is dead. His body hasn’t been recovered, but … he is dead. There is no chance he could be alive and so … well, and so …’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Marcus stops. ‘Trudy, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, this is so awkward for you. I thought someone in the village would have told you. Or you would have just known, somehow. It doesn’t normally take long for word to get round Haworth.’

  ‘No.’ Marcus’s smile is sweet and sad. ‘No. But I’m not really in on the local grapevine. My ex-wife was; she worked at the Parsonage and always knew everything that was going on, but not me. Sometimes I think I’m just a natural outsider. But in this case, I wish I’d known; I’d have been more … well, more something.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind,’ I say, looking at my knotted hands.

  ‘Who is this?’ Ma stands in the doorway, barring Marcus’s entrance. ‘What did you do to my grandson?’

  ‘Mrs Heaton? You won’t remember me, but we met before, a long time ago. I’m Marcus Ellis, here to survey the sixteenth-century part of the house before we begin phase one of the renovation work.’ Marcus presents the same smile and extended hand as he did to me and Ma looks at him like he’s something she just trod in.

  ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse who you are, I never said you could come in my house.’

  ‘Ma, I told you I’d arranged for Marcus to visit,’ I say, quietly. ‘Something needs to be done, remember?’ I glance back at Marcus, who is looking distinctly uncomfortable. ‘It has to happen whether you like it or not; I need to make sure Will has some security in his life and Ponden is it. It’s a special place, Ma; it needs looking after and I really don’t understand why you are against it.’

  ‘I—’ Ma shakes her head. ‘I’m not discussing it with him here. I just want to wait, that’s all. I have my reasons.’

  ‘Then can you check Will?’ I ask her. ‘He was shaken up when he fell out of the tree.’

  ‘He fell out of a tree? Dear God, lass, why didn’t you tell me?’

  I rub my hands over my face as she hurries inside.

  ‘Sorry.’ I look at Marcus from between my fingers.

  ‘I normally make a better impression on mothers,’ Marcus says.

  ‘That’s Ma for you.�
�� I smile. ‘She’d die before admitting she’s wrong.’

  Will is lying on the sofa, blanketed by Mab, his chin on the top of her head, hands tucked under her ears, eyes fixed on a movie on my laptop. I can hear Ma banging around in the kitchen, complaining to her pots and pans.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask Will, sitting next to him.

  ‘Good,’ he says.

  ‘No headache, no sickness?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Will, before, when you said you might be too hurt to start school tomorrow?’

  ‘I might be,’ he says, twisting to look at me. ‘I might be in shock.’

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I know it’s weird starting a new school, so far from home, halfway through term … You must feel really worried, but you can tell me if you do.’

  Will regards me for a long, sombre moment.

  ‘I don’t want to go to school tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Or ever. I don’t want to go to school around here. What if I’m the only kid that looks like me? What if everyone hates me? Can’t I just stay at home until it’s time to go back to London? Or, you know, in Australia, some kids are taught over a two-way radio. Couldn’t I do that? Like with Skype or something? Miss Andrews wouldn’t mind, I bet, if we ask her. I could be a head in a laptop on my desk.’

  He smiles at the idea.

  ‘I wish it could be like that,’ I tell him gently. ‘I wish we hadn’t had to go through so much change in the last few months, baby, but—’

  ‘I’m not a baby!’ He squirms away from me. ‘And I don’t want to go to school here, in this place.’

  ‘Why not?’ I ask him. ‘After a day or so you’ll like it, make new friends, join some clubs. I bet they have a football team.’

  ‘I don’t like football, and everything is different. And I don’t want any more different. Not yet. I’m not ready for more new things, Mummy. Maybe, when Daddy gets here … Can’t I just say at home until Daddy gets here?’