The Girl at the Window

by Rowan Coleman

  Reaching out, I rewind the footage and freeze on the image of Will’s face looking up the hill. He’s smiling.

  I hear the sound of the gates being locked behind me and I take a moment, walking down the hill towards the park, taking refuge among the neatly ordered flower beds, even though they are dormant now, leaves scattered across the grass like bright sparks. I’m trying to pinpoint this sense of unease that has taken up residence in my gut. There is sadness there, of course, the deep and pervading loss of Abe that I can never imagine receding. And there is worry – for my son, for my mother, for my home that is slowly falling apart, for myself. There’s this thrill, at finding the Emily paper and Agnes’s diary and the promise of something incredible, all swirling around, scattering any emotional stability I might have found to the wind. The honest truth is, I don’t know if I am coming or going, and I have a son who talks to invisible girls and a mother who believes in ghosts.

  There might have been something on the video, but it’s much more likely to have been an anomaly, a flash of light, directly on the camera; maybe an insect. How Will got through a locked gate, I don’t know, but he is a resourceful boy and he reads a lot. I have to be careful, in this state, not to fall into a fairy tale of my own making. Ma might be willing to talk of ghosts and omens, and maybe Will needs a fantastical friend right now, but not me. My job is to keep a grip on reality, to keep my feet on the ground and my focus on my son, and to search the house for more evidence of Emily and Agnes. Real evidence, of real people who lived and breathed, not spirits, not ghosts, not wraiths that come in the night. And I need to find a way to get back to Peru, and for that to happen, I need a job. I need to focus on practical issues. When my son looks at me, he has to see a woman who is in control of both our lives, who is keeping his world as safe as it can be, not seeing phantoms in every shadow.

  The world seems to settle and solidify around me as I walk back to the car and I feel a sense of purpose. I had thought I came back to Ponden because I had no choice, but that isn’t true. I came back because it’s my home, because I love it; and I knew, somehow, that it would be here that I’d be able to find a sure-footed path through life once again.

  Taking my phone out of my pocket, I find Marcus Ellis’s number. I need to ask him about fixing a tarpaulin over the roof before the worst of the weather sets in.

  ‘Trudy?’ He answers on the first ring.

  ‘Marcus, hi! I was just wondering if I could … oh!’ As I walk into the car park he turns the corner, almost walking into me, and we laugh, my cheeks flushing.

  ‘Hello, what a strange coincidence,’ I say, pocketing my phone.

  ‘Not that strange in this place,’ he responds, laughing. ‘Sometimes I meet myself going. Anyway, I was going to drive over with the costings report this morning, then I saw your car, so I was going to ring you but you beat me to it.’

  He hands me an A4 brown envelope and then, with his hands free, looks rather lost; he shoves them in his pockets, adding to his rather sweet, dishevelled-schoolboy demeanour.

  ‘I hope it’s not presumptuous, but I wanted to ask you about my roof,’ I begin, feeling a little awkward to be reminding him of his offer. ‘You know you mentioned helping us weatherproof it?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ Marcus says and nods. ‘Yes, so sorry, Trudy, I meant to tell you, I have a team coming out tomorrow; should only take half a day at most.’

  ‘Oh great, will you send me a bill or …?’

  ‘No, no bill – plenty of local builders owe me favours.’

  ‘I can’t let you do that, Marcus. I have some savings, so please, let me know what I owe you.’

  ‘How about a walk?’ he says with a smile.

  ‘A walk?’ I shake my head no.

  ‘Well, it’s such a lovely day; sun’s out, air’s fresh after the rain. How about we go for a stroll up onto the moor, before the last of the autumn colour is gone for good?’

  I look regretfully at the car and think of Will waiting at home, of all the other places I haven’t looked for more of Emily yet. And deeper still, under all that surface reluctance, is something more. Going for a walk with a man who isn’t Abe, treading the same paths we once walked hand in hand, looking at the same views without him? I don’t want to go – and I don’t know how to say no.

  ‘I can see you’re reluctant,’ Marcus concedes. ‘It really is just that I might be able to offer you some employment and I didn’t want to discuss it in a car park.’

  ‘A job?’ I say, unable to imagine what I might be able to do for a restoration building company. ‘I’ve only got an hour left on the car, though.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you’re back in time, I promise.’ For a moment I expect him to offer me his arm, in that slightly off-kilter, mannered way of his. But instead he walks on, a little haltingly, and we take a series of mismatched steps until at last we find some kind of uncomfortable rhythm as we go up behind the Parsonage, up onto the top of the moor; and it’s true that with every step I feel a little lighter, as if I’m leaving everything heavy in my heart in the valley.

  ‘How are you managing, Trudy?’ Marcus asks me after a few minutes of silence. ‘Sorry, stupid question, probably.’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t really know how to answer that question,’ I say, turning my face into the cold air. ‘We are doing OK, me, Ma and Will. Finding our feet, I suppose, in a world without Abe. A job would help.’

  Marcus smiles ruefully at the not-so-gentle reminder.

  ‘I’m hoping you can help me sort out my library. A few years ago I inherited – well, a couple of thousand books, I’d say at a guess, from my father, who inherited a few from his, and so on and so on, and they were kept in storage until my house was built. I’ve now got them shelved in my library but I have no idea what is in the collection.’

  ‘Really?’ He’s got me interested.

  ‘You remember I told you I looked you up? Well, imagine my excitement when I discovered that you were an archivist.’

  ‘That’s not something that gets many people excited,’ I say.

  ‘Well, an archivist is exactly what I need. It honestly feels like fate, Trudy. After my wife and I divorced I renovated a house for myself, a totally burned-out Edwardian manor called Castle Ellis. It’s hard to describe to someone who hasn’t seen it, but anyway, it’s my dream house. I built it just for me, and part of my dream was to have an amazing library to house the collection. I suppose I could have just sold them on, but there’s something about books, don’t you think? So personal. I couldn’t quite bear to. If you would take a look at them, assess the time it would take and your fee to archive and collate the collection, I’d be eternally grateful.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, half laughing. ‘It’s my dream job to organise a library from scratch! However, I need time for Will, and for Ponden …’ I’m careful not to mention the papers I have found. ‘So it would be kind of ad hoc hours, but if you are OK with that, then yes, thank you, yes!’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes light up. ‘I can’t wait to show you the library. Sometimes I take dates back there, but you know, if you aren’t a book person it’s just a big room. I’ve been dying to share it with someone who will love it. This is going to be great.’

  ‘Marcus, I hardly know you and you’ve been so kind to me,’ I say. ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ he replies. ‘I get to work on a house I’ve always been fascinated with, and to finally have all my books curated. And more than that: make a friend.’

  He offers me his hand and I shake it, sealing the deal.

  ‘Come out to my house,’ Marcus says, smiling as we begin to walk back to the car. ‘How about tonight? I’ll make you dinner. I have this state-of-the-art kitchen that I barely use, but I do know how to heat pizzas. And bring Will; I have a games room, and proper ramparts like a castle – he’ll love it. We can eat, you can have a look at my library, and Will and I can play the latest Mario Kart.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Yes, that’d
be great.’

  ‘Right, we’d better get you back to your car,’ he says, and turning on our heels we head back the way we came. I look over my shoulder once, at the path that stretches away behind me, with a vague sensation that there is someone else on the path behind us. But there is nothing but a sky that is now full of the promise of thunder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Ma had not liked the idea of us going out.

  Night is already crowding in around the house as we get ready to leave, and the chill in the air seeps in through the leaky windows and doors.

  ‘You’d think you’d have had enough of going out,’ she complains as she buttons up Will’s jacket, winding his scarf around his neck and tucking it in. ‘Only yesterday you lost your son, and now you’re gadding off, spending an evening with that man.’

  ‘I didn’t lose Will, Ma,’ I tell her, with emphasis. ‘And Marcus is a nice man; he loves this house. He loves it and understands it. You should be pleased it’s him that’s working on it. He’s local and he’s offered me some work, and I need work. We can’t live off of my savings forever.’

  ‘But if your discovery is authentic,’ she lowers her voice, ‘well, that’ll be worth a pretty penny.’

  ‘Ma, if it is authentic, I would never sell it. I’d lend it to the Parsonage and lecture about it, but I couldn’t sell it, not ever! It’s a part of Emily, in this house, in our house. It belongs to Ponden.’

  Ma stares at me as if I’m mad, and I suppose I am, but that scrap of paper is about so much more than money to me; still, although she bristles, Ma doesn’t bite back.

  ‘Do I have to come?’ Will complains, scuffing his feet in the gravel. ‘I’m tired, and I want to stay with Mab. And Granny.’

  Ma twists her mouth wryly and kisses the top of his head.

  ‘Prefers dogs to people,’ she says. ‘Boy takes after me.’

  It would be better to let him stay, I suppose; he’s exhausted after yesterday, but the truth is that I want him by my side.

  ‘Marcus has a games room,’ I say, ‘Internet and a huge screen. He’s even got a PlayStation.’ Will’s internal struggle is completed pretty quickly.

  ‘But why can’t we take Mab with us?’ he asks, adding a fraction too late, ‘And Granny?’

  ‘Because we’re not invited.’ Ma makes a face at Will, who grins in return. ‘And anyway, you can tell a man that dresses like that wouldn’t welcome a smelly old girl in his house. It’ll be all white rugs and glass and art.’

  ‘You shouldn’t talk about yourself that way, Ma.’ I risk a joke and am rewarded with a small smile from Ma and a guffaw from Will. ‘Anyway, you’ll be glad to have the place to yourself for an hour or two, won’t you?’

  ‘Suppose I’ve gotten used to having company here,’ Ma says, wrapping her thin arms around herself and shuddering.

  Without thinking, I put my arms around her and hold her small, brittle frame. ‘We won’t be late,’ I promise.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ Ma calls after me.

  I see her in the rear-view mirror, her tiny frame in the great doorway as we pull away. I pretend I don’t see the shadow that passes behind her, the flicker of light that comes on in the upstairs room, the midnight-dark cloud that gathers overhead.

  I pull the car to a stop at the top of the drive, as it wends its way down towards Castle Ellis, just to catch my breath. Marcus wasn’t exaggerating when he said it was best first viewed at night.

  ‘It looks like a spaceship coming out of a castle,’ Will says, leaning forward in his seat, his interest in the evening suddenly invigorated.

  And he’s not wrong. Most of the original building is a ruin, a good portion of it still burned and blackened. All that remains is a faux medieval turret and part of the wing that supports it, blind stone windows shining with the electric light radiating out from inner construction. For in amidst the skeleton of the old building, an incredible modernist glass structure soars upwards, at least three floors high, with very solid walls, and it seems as if each room is ablaze with light, illuminating not just the bones of the old house, but the grounds it sits in, the sweeping drive and terraced gardens, now broken and crumbling, like a long-forgotten Camelot.

  ‘Want to go and look inside?’ I ask Will over my shoulder.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, eyes shining. I put the car into gear and we head down into the natural dip in the landscape where the house is situated, descending until the stars are blotted out by the hulk of the land. I grin at Will as I pull up on the gravel drive where a huge fountain sits, illuminated by floodlight. A great decorative stone bowl, its weight is supported by four huge dogs, each staring outwards, forever on guard.

  ‘This is quite something, isn’t it?’ I say to Will, opening the car door for him.

  ‘I like it,’ Will says. ‘I want to go up the tower.’

  The front door is from the old house, a huge high Gothic affair of carved oak, set with deep iron hinges and a sturdy lock. Best of all, as far as Will is concerned, is the great cast-iron door knocker, made in the image of the fountain’s dogs’ heads, the ring of the knocker held between this one’s clenched teeth.

  Standing on his tiptoes, Will grabs the knocker, cheerfully thundering it against the wood, and we both grin at the booming echo it makes.

  I’m half expecting the door to creak slowly open to reveal a hunchbacked butler, but it’s Marcus who opens it, wearing a white shirt tucked into the kind of pristine deep-blue jeans that Ma would despise.

  ‘Welcome, Heatons,’ he says, standing aside to reveal a glass connecting corridor that leads into the main part of the modern house. ‘Will.’

  He offers Will, who takes it very solemnly, a hand.

  ‘Hello,’ Will says. ‘Mum says you have a PlayStation.’

  ‘Will!’ I laugh then, and so does Marcus.

  ‘Follow me, Will,’ he says, and we obey, our heads craned upwards at the spectacle of light around us.

  ‘Your electricity bill must be huge,’ I say, looking up at the floodlit interior of the old ruin as he leads us into a great glass hall.

  ‘Well, all the glass I used is state-of-the-art solar glass that harvests the heat of the sun, which contributes more towards the bills than you might think, in Yorkshire; also, the house is insulated to the highest standard, and I installed a geothermal heat pump that makes use of the Earth’s heat, so it’s almost eco-passive.’

  ‘Really, that’s amazing,’ I say. ‘It’s … Well, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he says and smiles proudly, as though I’m complimenting his baby. ‘It’s not the only one of its kind, but I like to think it’s the best. It was quite a feat to get planning permission for it, as you can imagine, but in the end, this was the best option for the original building. During the Second World War explosives were stored here, and an accident set off a catastrophic fire. Building an independent dwelling inside the shell – along with my turret, of course – was the best way to preserve it.’

  ‘I’m honestly speechless’ I say, as Will’s hand steals into mine and we enter a huge, internal central courtyard.

  ‘That fireplace …’ Marcus gestures at a beautifully tiled and arched Arts and Crafts era fireplace ‘… that’s left from the original building, and the central staircase was rebuilt using as much original stone as possible. What do you think of it, Will?’

  ‘Mum says you have Wi-Fi,’ Will states.

  ‘Indeed I do. Would you like to see the cinema and games room?’ Marcus asks.

  ‘Yeah!’ Will’s eyes shine and he hops and skips behind Marcus as he leads us deeper into the house, opening the door and standing aside to let Will get the full impact of the wonderland he is about to enter.

  Will yelps for joy as he runs into the room, spinning around while he takes in three old-fashioned arcade games, which are lined up against the wall, and a huge screen with various games consoles at its foot, the controllers resting on a series of brightly coloured bean bags. The
back wall of the room is made of rough brick and dark-wood panelling that Marcus must have saved from the original building. Through the slanted glass ceiling, the dark silhouette of the turret peers down at us.

  ‘In his defence, he has been very deprived of technology,’ I say, looking up at Marcus, who is smiling fondly.

  ‘It’s a treat to have someone to share it with,’ he responds. ‘Will, do you want to come and see the library with us, or would you rather stay here and play?’

  ‘Play!’ Will picks up a controller like it’s food presented to a starving man and flops happily into an oversize beanbag.

  ‘Come this way …’ Marcus walks away, but I stop for a moment and look at my son, anxious about leaving him alone in any part of this great big building. Seeing my hesitation, Marcus says, ‘Will, we’ll be in the room right across the hall, OK? I’ll leave the doors open, so shout if you need us.’

  But Will is already lost in Mario Kart.

  Following Marcus across the tiles, I can’t stop looking up at the night, the moon perfectly framed by the glass.

  ‘Are any of your rooms private or are they all made of glass?’ I ask.

  ‘Some of them are walled – bedrooms, bathrooms.’ Marcus has one hand on a double door of light oak, carved with three-dimensional images of books. ‘Most of the internal walls are traditional in construction because I want the house to feel cosy as well as light, and the bedrooms are designed to be private. But actually, the geography of the house, where it sits in this dip, means that it’s pretty hard to pry into, even if you wanted to.’

  ‘I’m glad. I was worried it would be like living in a fish tank,’ I comment.

  ‘There’s no one out here to spy on me,’ Marcus says. ‘That’s one of the reasons I like it. I guess at heart I’m a bit of an introvert and I like my own company a lot. Except …’ He grins at me, opening the door. ‘Except I’ve long wished for a friend who would really appreciate this particular room. Trudy Heaton, may I present to you … my library?’