The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  And to lose them both, as she’d lost Emily and Andrew. She shook her head. But what did she want? She found she hadn’t the slightest clue.

  Yesterday’s tension was still there. Not quite as bad – she was on the new dosage now – but it hadn’t gone. The silence waited to be broken, the shadows to give birth.

  Alice grabbed her coat and went outside. The air was cool and damp, scented with wet earth. She looked up the road towards the line of trees, hesitated, took a breath, then walked up to Browton Vale.

  The fear passed quickly in the woods. She followed the winding paths through the trees and drifts of fallen leaves, and the tension ebbed. In the woods themselves, she’d been safe; it was only when she’d walked out onto the open heath that things had gone weird.

  She found an old wooden bench on one pathway. The wood was black with damp and green with moss, but she sat there anyway. The path overlooked a long slope that led down to the river; a thin streamlet zigzagged down it, through banks of earth and stone. Crisscrossing tree branches and the wet leaves that hung from them blocked the Irwell from view; a few dull glitters of light, glancing off its surface, gleamed through the vegetation.

  She sat there for a while. It felt safe. No place for whispering ghost-children, and no sign of the modern world; if the cars and houses of Collarmill Road wanted to wipe themselves from existence again, she wouldn’t notice, nor see the fire on the hill. But in any case, the dual carriageway was above and behind her and the traffic drone from it was almost soothing. Alice relaxed, drifting, until the first cold specks of rain landed on her face.

  She stayed put at first, until the rain picked up, going from a light drizzle to a downpour. She pulled the hood of her coat up; the rain drummed lightly on her head. She started when she heard something crashing through the undergrowth, a voice cursing in the distance – then realised it was just another nature-lover, running to get out of the rain. And yet here she sat, because – why? Because she thought her house was haunted?

  Sanity is as sanity does, Alice told herself. She got up, flipped back her hood to feel the rain on her face, and jogged home.

  AFTER THAT THE spell seemed broken. Self-care was the prime concern again, and she slipped back into her normal routine. She didn’t even think about the children until quite late in the evening, close to the point where she was ready to go to bed, when she realised how utterly normal a day she’d just passed.

  She hesitated at the door to the hallway, then opened it. It was empty; so were the stairs and landing, and the bedroom. She smiled, went to bed, and slept without dreams.

  THE NEXT DAY, Alice began the process of redecorating. A trip to B&Q netted a haul of dust-sheets, paint, wallpaper and tools. She stripped the faded wallpaper from the attic room walls, hung fresh woodchip paper and painted over it with warm, mellow colour – a rich burnt-orange that evoked either autumn leaves or a Caribbean sunset.

  She bought carpet tiles and used them to cover the bedroom floor – it would do for now, anyway. For the front room and hallway she bought laminate flooring. She repainted the front room, bought lamp-shades for the bare bulbs, knick-knacks for windowsills and mantelpiece.

  Now and again, of course, a little worm of fear twitched – children’s voices in the street outside, before she placed where they were coming from; the occasional twinge of irrational dread when she stripped paper from rotten plaster, that a chunk of the wall would fall away to reveal some hidden cavity with a tiny skull grinning out of it. But as those days passed, the fears were fewer and further between, and never justified.

  She started with her bedroom – new curtains, a double bed – and the front room as they were where she spent most of her time; next came the kitchen, then the bathroom. The bath was a heavy enamel job, old but in good condition; at some point, she’d have to buy a new one, but for now it would do. She settled for a new shower curtain, a new toilet seat, fresh linoleum for the floor.

  Little by little, 378 Collarmill Road was changing, from a house into a home.

  The engineer from Virgin Media finally came by, put in an internet connection and installed a wireless router. His name was Ron; he was good-looking in a rumpled, companionable sort of way, and a couple of years older than her. He was also married – “since we were twenty-one,” he told her – with two grown-up sons. One had graduated university, and the other would next year.

  Alice made him a cup of tea, and they chatted a little. All warm and friendly enough, until she mentioned Emily. A divorcée is one thing, but there really is no name for a parent bereft of a child. It put a shadow over things, and Ron left not long after. Alice was briefly and cruelly tempted to shout, It isn’t catching, you know after him as he walked, a little too quickly, down the drive to his van.

  Still, she now had internet access. She passed more time that way, in between the decorating jobs. She kept looking at John’s friend request. If they’d married as they’d planned to, she’d have been a bride at twenty-two or three. And yes, there’d have been children, nearly as old as Ron’s by now.

  Where would she be, if she’d done that? Less well-off, perhaps. But happier? Well, that was hard to tell. If they’d had a child and lost it – but there’d have been plenty of time to heal, and then try again. Alice had had Emily pretty late, and – she might as well face it – there wasn’t much time left for her try for another child. Perhaps with IVF and donor sperm – but that sounded clinical, and selfish too.

  The fruit of our love, Andrew had called Emily; it was pretty much the only thing she could recall him ever saying that had been remotely poetic. But it was right, too; it summed up everything motherhood was supposed to be, as far as she was concerned. It was an organic thing, coming naturally out of a couple’s love for one another, their devotion made manifest. Artificial insemination from some unknown donor was something different – to her it would have felt cold and bought and fake, like a nip-and-tuck or breast augmentation. Not about love or devotion, but vanity and ego.

  That wasn’t fair, she knew, but for her, at least, it would be wrong. And that meant no children for her, no family – not unless her life changed radically within the next few years, and she couldn’t even imagine that happening. Over time, maybe, but not in time to beat the change.

  And despite herself, she found herself studying John Revell’s profile picture on Facebook. His page only showed non-friends the most basic information; if she accepted his friend request, what else would it tell her? That he’d married, had the children he should have given her with someone else?

  That he should have given her? “Jesus,” Alice muttered, and shut the laptop down.

  It was dark, it was late and she was tired. She turned off the lights and went upstairs.

  She flicked on her bedroom light and plodded into the room, peeling her sweater off over her head as she went. She tossed it over the back of her chair, grinned to herself, then turned and found herself facing the window. As usual, the light had turned it into a mirror; in it, behind her reflection, were the children.

  This time they didn’t vanish after a split second, didn’t go away when Alice blinked. They stood there, their eyes enormous and dark in unnaturally white faces, and fixed on her.

  It was an hallucination, she told herself; nothing that wouldn’t pass in a moment or that a trip to the doctor’s wouldn’t solve. But when their reflections reached out for hers with hands like pale, tiny claws she couldn’t keep still. She twisted away from the window and found herself staring down at them. They looked real; solid enough to touch, had she wanted to, although there was nothing she wanted less.

  She’d thought them all fair-haired, but saw now that it was like straw – bleached and faded. Their pale skin was dry and cracked, like badly-applied plaster or droughted earth. When they smiled at her, their teeth were sharp. And then they reached for her, and their fingers, where they gripped her flesh, those were sharp too.

  Chapter Five

  The Music Room

  The
Confession of Mary Carson

  HAVING BEEN ENGAGED by Mr Thorne, I soon settled into a steady routine. I rose at four each morning, made my toilet and presented myself at his study. From there, Mr Thorne conducted the majority of his business, venturing forth only when necessary.

  In addition to his mill, he owned tenements in Manchester and warehouses at Salford Quays. He was a shrewd businessman; he could hardly have been otherwise to attain his wealth. The world of commerce, he told me, was like unto that of Nature: red in tooth and claw. Softness or pity had no place in it, and could benefit no-one, least of all himself. On the contrary, it could only expose him to risk, that others would exploit. There could be no consideration other than whether an action brought him profit or loss.

  Mr Thorne had learnt to delegate, and picked his subordinates with utmost care. In them he sought two qualities above all. The first was a ruthlessness almost equal to his own; the second, even stronger quality, a healthy fear of his displeasure. These employees he handsomely paid, for they would save him the cost many times over.

  I had, of course, known something of Mr Thorne’s reputation when I came to Springcross House, but as his secretary – well, I need not tell you, Mrs Rhodes, how intimately one becomes acquainted with the workings of a business in such a role. Hardly a week seemed to pass without an appeal from some public-spirited body regarding the conditions at his mill or his properties. Even by the standards of the time, he was a harsh and pitiless taskmaster. The apprentices in his mills were brought from workhouses and orphanages in the South, paid a pittance and worked harshly. Having no family or friends here in the North, they had, therefore, nowhere to go.

  The only act of apparent generosity I saw him perform in relation to them was when two ’prentices ran away. He dictated to me a most full description, to be printed and disseminated across the city, of both boys, down to the very clothes they wore – even these, you see, the apprentices owed to him.

  The generosity was in the reward offered, which was handsome indeed. My father had, of course, taught me that no-one is beyond hope of redemption. Here was, I thought, some small seed of compassion and grace, one that might, if nurtured, bloom. But when I complimented Mr Thorne on his solicitude for the boys’ welfare, he only snorted. “They are mine,” he said, “bought and paid for, and I mean to have them, Miss Carson. There is a principle at stake, and in any case, such ingratitude cannot go unanswered – else every apprentice may try to abscond.”

  Thinking of all my father had striven for in life, I did not wish to think of how he would have viewed a man who believed himself the owner of the children he employed. Had he lived, I thought, he might have found new purpose seeking to ameliorate conditions at mills such as Mr Thorne’s.

  As it was, I closely examined my conscience on a daily basis. If truth be told, I hardly liked what I found, but what alternative did I have, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes? I could not afford grand gestures: my savings were, at long last, beginning to grow, but if I left Mr Thorne’s employ they would soon be exhausted on the simple costs of board and lodging. And what prospect of employment then? To leave suddenly might mark me as unreliable, flighty, and I would need a reference from Mr Thorne – one he might well refuse to give under such circumstances.

  As for the other servants – if they had ever been troubled by their employer’s actions, they no longer were; on the contrary, they were most at ease with them. Among them I found not one to call a friend: to a man and a woman they were base, greedy souls – and in Kellett’s case, I shuddered to think what else.

  And so my life at Springcross House, in its first phase, was a secure but solitary affair – my physical wants were taken care of, my savings steadily grew, but a deep loneliness soon set in.

  I spent my days at the house – even the days off. I knew neither Manchester nor Salford well – to the extent that I knew any city, it was Liverpool – and never quite found the courage to explore it alone. Besides, I had no wish to fritter away my salary on trifles. The great, rambling house, and its gardens, were room enough.

  Winter became spring, and the gardens of Springcross House bloomed. Winding gravel paths led through ranks of trees and flowers, some native to Britain, some not. There were forcing-houses, where delicate tropical blooms and fruits were cultivated, and little paved clearings with seats and statuary, ornamental ponds and fountains. Around the back of the house, a small stream ran, winding and glittering and foaming, through the grounds, before vanishing under the girdling wall in the direction of Browton Vale below. Yes, it was possible, on the whole, to find beauty, solitude and a substantial measure of peace in the gardens of Springcross House, and so, indeed, I did.

  A gardener – as unforthcoming and charmless as the other staff – maintained them, but to this day I think I may have been the only soul at Springcross to appreciate them. Mr Thorne never seemed to spare them a glance; perhaps his late wife had loved them, I thought, and he maintained them for her sake. But that was no more than a guess, for of her I knew nothing. No picture of her hung in the house; her name was never spoken. But for Mr Thorne’s single passing reference to her, she might never have lived.

  The gardens were particularly charming when it rained lightly, if one took a parasol, but there were days when it rained so heavily it seemed the Flood was about to come again. On those days, I could only remain indoors, where I spent my time reading, either fiction or instructive and improving works with which I might hope to extend my list of accomplishments.

  I have, Mrs Rhodes, led a somewhat lonely life – at least until I met my husband and found myself an anchor in this world – and so can attest there are few companions so constant and comforting as a good book. Reading is an addiction I have never outgrown; indeed, the ordering of new books was my one extravagance at Springcross House.

  However, one rain-filled day I finished the novel that had occupied me for the past week and found myself restless and dissatisfied; I possessed several unread books but none, just then, attracted me. I found I would rather be up and about – but the weather, of course, prevented it. The house being empty – it was the servants’ day off – I began exploring my new abode.

  ‘Rambling’, did I call it? A poor choice of words, perhaps; it implies something wandering and random, and Springcross House was never that. Every part of it had an intended function. However – since the death of Mrs Thorne, I suspected – many rooms remained unused. Most of the disused chambers seemed intended for entertaining guests – which Mr Thorne, I knew, had no interest in whatever. There were guest bedrooms, a ballroom, a drawing-room and much besides, including, I discovered, a music room, of which I shall say more presently. Having no need of them now, he had abandoned them to gather dust – out of sight, out of mind. It surprised me a little that he did not lock their doors, to seal away all memory of his loss – but he was but lately widowed, and perhaps not yet ready to put all memory of Mrs Thorne aside.

  It was difficult to tell, as Mr Thorne made it a point of pride to show none of the softer emotions; to the outward observer he seemed as unfeeling and pitiless as flint – indeed, so I had thought him at first, but now I wondered, a little. In any case, the doors opened readily into those forgotten rooms. For the most part I did no more than look into them, afraid I would disturb the dust and make it obvious I’d been in there. But then I found the music room.

  I opened its door just as the sun broke briefly through the rainclouds and lit the room with a pale golden light, making the dust motes in the air glimmer. It was an arresting sight, so I stood and viewed the room more fully. It was fitted with a pale green carpet, walls punctuated with fluted columns and adorned with floral wall-paper, rows of chairs, and – the feature which caught my attention most – a large pianoforte.

  It was this that sealed my fate, in a way. My father had had one at the vicarage in Burscough. He had played passably, and had instructed me. And, in all modesty, I can say that the pupil outstripped the master. It had brought cheer and gladness to
our home, admiration from our few visitors, and had been a pastime in which I’d taken both pride and enjoyment. Doubtless some would say that those sins brought about my downfall.

  I looked up and down the corridor to ensure that no-one was there, then slipped into the music room, letting the door swing shut behind me.

  Thunder rumbled. A wind moaned, dashing rain against the windows. The gap in the clouds closed, and that pale golden light dimmed and faded. But the pianoforte... the pianoforte remained.

  I had had no opportunity to play since we had left Burscough, but now I lifted the instrument’s lid, perched myself on the stool and ran my fingers lightly over the keys before attempting a few brief chords – low, hesitant, casting nervous glances at the door lest the unaccustomed sounds bring someone running, even though the house was empty. The pianoforte was a little out of tune – only to be expected if it had been left unused so long – but otherwise in reasonable condition.

  After a few moments had passed, I ventured to play the first notes of a piece by Beethoven. When no thunderbolt came to smite me, I continued, feeling my confidence grow. I was surprised at how readily my fingers found their way across the keys, how easily skills I had almost forgotten returned.

  I played, faster and louder and more fluently, and as I played it seemed the room brightened once again. The piece was the 14th Sonata and it had always seemed, to me, filled with a kind of aching, ungraspable melancholy, for something that once had been and now was lost. Perhaps it was about love. I would not know; other than my father I had never really known it, and if the tune was about any kind of love, it was a different one from that.

  But, like all young girls, I had been in love with the notion of being in love – indeed, I blushed to recall how in my youth I had conceived grand passions for the unlikeliest of men. (Although this, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes, had more to do with the paucity of remotely eligible bachelors in my immediate circle of acquaintances than any perversity of mind on my own part.) While we all collude in the fiction that a good woman has no such thoughts, a fiction it is! And so I could, perhaps, feel something of the melancholy Beethoven’s music seemed to hold – not for a lost love, but for the lost possibility of it.