A Keeper

by Graham Norton

  The wind was strong, but after so long in the car she enjoyed it rushing across her face, tasting the salt from the sea. The road curved slightly and the trees became a little thicker, but then she came to a gap that was filled with dead grass. Pushing forward she saw the rusted remains of a gate leaning against the wall. This was the entrance to a lane or old driveway. Elizabeth hesitated for a moment, thinking how underprepared she was for this sort of exploration. Her sneakers and thin jeans would be soaked. Maybe she should wait until she had got some wellington boots from somewhere? No. There were dry clothes to change into back in the car. It wasn’t ideal but it would have to do. Taking high steps and trying to flatten the grass, she continued. Back from the road the lane was slightly less overgrown and she found she was able to pick her way along a single track, avoiding most of the puddles and patches of mud. To her right behind a low stone wall were some geriatric apple trees. On the left was a sloping meadow that looked as if it had been used for grazing fairly recently. She could hear the sea but wasn’t able to see it until the lane climbed gently and all at once there it was, stretching out in front of her. Elizabeth gasped, it was so beautiful. A couple of lines of a Keats sonnet she had been teaching that semester popped into her head.

  ‘Oh ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,

  Feast them upon the wideness of the Sea.’

  The sea. The sound of it, the smell, the ragged white edges as it met the distant cliffs. She scanned the horizon, wondering about her mother Patricia. Had she stood here? Was this the first time Elizabeth had looked out at this view or had her infant eyes already soaked it in just to forget it all? It was only then that she caught sight of the house wedged between the sea and the ruins of a castle. That must be it. Castle House. With a burst of enthusiasm, she made her way as quickly as she could down towards her legacy.

  Elizabeth wasn’t exactly sure what she had been expecting but this house wasn’t it. Not grand enough to be a country pile, but not small enough to be considered a cottage, it was a nondescript two-storeyed house that had clearly seen better days. Faded blue paint was cracked and peeling off the windows and doors. Behind the glass, net curtains hung grey and exhausted. The path from the small gate to the porch had disappeared under a carpet of weeds. Behind the house loomed the castle with its ghostly outline. The wind seemed to be pursuing itself around the walls and Elizabeth felt oddly ill at ease. She wouldn’t have said she was frightened but nor was she sure that she wanted to let herself into this house alone. A few small clouds of spume danced on the air and the roar of the waves sounded almost threatening. She felt for the key in her bag and held it for a moment.

  At first the lock seemed so stiff that Elizabeth thought the house had made her decision for her: she wouldn’t be going inside. But suddenly it had a change of heart and the key lurched to one side. She twisted the handle and the door swung open with a long creak. Peering into the gloomy interior Elizabeth could see the dusty floor covered in a scattering of dead flies and bees, with a staircase leading up into darkness. She found a light switch and to her great surprise it worked. A weak bulb illuminated the hall and Elizabeth stepped fully inside and pulled the door behind her. A room on either side. She opened one door and then the other. Both rooms were more or less the same apart from the wallpaper. Newspapers were scattered on the floors. Only a single wooden chair splattered with paint remained of the furniture. Small drifts of soot lay in front of the fireplaces. She was struck by how loud her footsteps seemed. Moving past the staircase she went through an open door into the kitchen. A few of the cupboard doors were hanging open as if abandoned and small piles of dusty crockery were dotted along the counter tops. Against what must be the back door a broom was resting, as if someone had decided to do some cleaning but then thought better of the idea. Again, the light switch worked and the bare neon tube on the ceiling flickered into life. Somehow the brightness made the room seem even colder. Elizabeth shuddered and stepped back into the hall. She examined the staircase. Would it be safe? She wondered if the floors upstairs would hold her weight. Did she need to go up? What was she looking for? This was just some abandoned house with no trace of the people who had called it home. She wondered how long it had been empty.

  Unwilling to admit defeat and determined to find some trace of her father in this house, she tentatively started up the stairs. The creaking floorboards joined in with the rattle of the window frames and Elizabeth realised she was walking on tiptoe, sneaking her way around the house as if she was afraid to disturb it. Upstairs it was almost dark. She felt for the switch but it clicked ineffectually. Turning to go back downstairs towards the light she thought she heard a noise. A clicking sound that stopped and started with no sense of rhythm. It seemed to be coming from the bedroom door opposite the top of the stairs. Somehow her curiosity was stronger than her fear and she stepped across the landing. Silence, but then there it was again. Tap, tap, tap. Silence. She put her hand on the door knob and twisted. A pause. Two deep breaths and then she pushed open the door. She saw the long-toed feet moving across the floor and then a whole flapping pigeon hurled itself at her in an explosion of feathers. She felt the heavy warmth of its body graze across her face. Elizabeth screamed and fled down the stairs and out of the front door only to find her way blocked by a man. She screamed again.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ The man took a couple of steps back. Her heart pounding wildly, Elizabeth tried to examine her would-be attacker. He was a little taller than her but around the same age, she guessed. He had short dark hair and was wearing a tattered green V-neck jumper over a collarless shirt. He didn’t look particularly dangerous.

  ‘You gave me a shock,’ she said, still panting slightly. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone and I’ve just been attacked by a pigeon.’

  He smiled and Elizabeth was struck by his white even teeth. In fact, now that she looked more closely, all his features were fairly uniform. She might even have described him as handsome.

  ‘I just saw the lights on. I was working on the fences below.’ He indicated the field between the house and the sea. ‘My name is Brian, by the way.’

  ‘I’m Elizabeth.’ They shook hands and she was shocked by how rough his skin was. It was more like hide or leather than someone’s palm.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Elizabeth. What brings you down here on such a bad day?’

  ‘Well.’ Elizabeth realised she was still holding the key. ‘This is where I was born.’

  ‘Really? That’s amazing.’

  ‘Yes, it was my father’s house. Edward Foley, I never knew him or this place. He died when I was very little.’

  ‘Edward Foley? Sure, he’s not dead.’

  From inside the house came a crashing sound as the pigeon tried to make good its escape.

  THEN

  It was like a switch had been turned off. Mrs Foley stopped speaking. The sluice gates had been shut and the torrent of words ceased. She still brought in the trays – there had been no more sightings of Edward – but she did so in silence. No platitudes, no weather updates, no bland reassurances, she was just thin-lipped and expressionless. At first Patricia was unnerved and then as she grew stronger and wanted answers she realised she couldn’t get them from a woman who refused to speak.

  ‘I need to phone home.’

  ‘Where are my clothes?’

  ‘Why can’t I leave?’

  The truth was that Patricia was still very weak. Now that she had stopped drinking the tea she had become nervous of everything on the trays. She left soups or stews untouched. She nibbled at bread, imagining the butter had an odd taste. The less she ate, the smaller her appetite became. She did get out of bed occasionally, but her steps were slow and uncertain. Any sudden movements and she was overcome by dizziness. She found an old blanket in the wardrobe and, wrapped in it, she would sit very still by the window. Somehow the constant howl of the wind and the rattle of the window frame became more bearable if she could see the dark clouds mov
ing across the sky and watch the mammoth rolling sea swell and crash against the cliffs.

  Pressing her forehead against the cold glass she dreamt of escape. Jumping from her window onto the porch below and then to the ground. Overpowering Mrs Foley and racing down the stairs to leave the house through the kitchen. Of course these plans would never come to pass. She knew she didn’t have the strength and even if she did, how far would she get wrapped in a blanket with nothing on her feet? The pub was too far and she didn’t know the way to the village. She remembered what Edward had said about the Foleys building the castle on this spot because it was so difficult to reach. Hard to get in, hard to get out. She daydreamed about Buncarragh and what was going on there. Where did people think she was? Did anyone care or were they so involved in their own lives that they hadn’t really noticed? Oddly she only cried when she thought about Convent Hill. Wept, imagining the empty rooms, the pot plants going unwatered, the block of Cheddar growing dark and cracked in the door of the fridge. She longed to return to her lonely life. The loneliness that had driven her to this awful place now seemed like a state of bliss.

  One afternoon she was lying in bed drifting in and out of sleep when a noise caught her ear. It wasn’t coming from inside the house. She listened more closely. It was an engine and it didn’t sound as if it was at the back in the farmyard. A car engine! She jumped out of bed, almost falling, her body unused to such exertion. At the window she pulled aside the net curtain and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the drive at the side of the house. Jutting out in front of the wall she could see the bonnet of a car. It was a little blue Fiat. Rosemary had a car like that! Patricia pressed the side of her face flat against the windowpane to try and see more. A coat flapped. Mustard. Rosemary’s coat, the one with the brown velvet collar. Rosemary had come to rescue her! She rapped her knuckles as hard as she dared against the glass. ‘Rosemary, I’m up here! Rosemary!’ she called out. The coat stayed where it was, being played with by the sea breeze. She banged on the window again. ‘Rosemary. It’s me, Patricia. Rosemary! Up here!’ The coat moved and for a moment the face of her friend was visible but then she waved a hand and ducked down to get back in her car. She was leaving! ‘No. Rosemary! I’m here. I’m up here.’ She raced across the room and tried the door handle in vain. Still locked.

  Frantic, Patricia picked up the chair from beside the bed and rushing at the window smashed a leg through a pane of glass. The noise and violence shocked her, and she stood still for a moment, before dropping the chair and rushing to the broken window. ‘Rosemary!’ she howled into the bitter breeze. It was too late. A horrified Patricia watched the blue bonnet inching backwards. ‘No. I’m up here,’ but her voice was little more than a whisper now. She pressed her palm against the window and sank to the floor. Her body was convulsed by weeping, her mouth stretched wide by gasping sobs. So close, but her tears weren’t just for her missed opportunity to escape, they were the relieved tears of a woman who had discovered that somebody truly cared about her. Rosemary, silly, funny Rosemary had driven all the way from Buncarragh all by herself because she was so worried for her friend. Patricia threw herself onto the bed and let her tears soak into the pillow, until eventually she fell asleep.

  She was woken with a start by a dishevelled Mrs Foley bursting into her room, a red and white tea towel flapping in one hand. She picked up the chair that was lying on the floor and put it back by the bed. Then she turned her full attention to Patricia. Mrs Foley’s face was crimson with rage and spittle flew from her mouth as she spat out her words.

  ‘You’d better learn to behave, Missy. Any more nonsense like that, I will tie you to that bed. Do you hear me? Hand and foot! Your precious Edward won’t save you! Do you understand?’

  This was a Mrs Foley that Patricia hadn’t seen before. She seemed crazed and unpredictable. Dangerous. The tea towel was twisted tightly between her fists and Patricia was reminded of the night she had seen the old woman wring the chicken’s neck in the outhouse. ‘Do you understand me?’ she asked again.

  ‘Yes,’ Patricia whispered and then a little louder, ‘I understand.’

  ‘Good. And maybe that will blow some sense into you.’ The old lady waved a hand, trembling with anger, at the broken window, ‘because I won’t be fixing it.’

  She slammed the door and turned the key.

  Patricia didn’t know how long she had been left alone for or what time it was, but it was dark outside when the door opened again and Edward inched his way into the room. He was carrying a sheet of cardboard. She knew her eyes must be red and swollen but she didn’t care.

  ‘I’ve come to fix the window.’ He was speaking in a whisper. Patricia wondered if his mother knew that he was doing this.

  He crossed the room and began to tear out a square of cardboard.

  ‘It was my friend Rosemary. People are looking for me. You are going to have to let me go. I have to go home, Edward,’ Patricia implored him. ‘You can’t just keep me here. It’s wrong!’ She had to make him understand.

  He turned and walked to the bed. ‘You’re not to upset Mammy. Please. You don’t understand, Patricia. Don’t rile her. It will only make things worse for you.’

  He sounded deadly serious. Patricia wasn’t sure if it was the cold from the broken window or fear, but she was shivering. What was Mrs Foley capable of?

  More days went by. How many? Patricia couldn’t be certain. It became light, it got dark, the days crept past her window. Sometimes the wind whistled around the eaves, or she might wake to hear it roaring past the house, rattling the windows, but it never seemed to stop. Patricia struggled to remember what silence sounded like. Once or twice she thought she heard a car or voices but it was just the crashing of a high tide or the wind in the branches. She found some old magazines in an otherwise empty wardrobe, and dutifully flicked through them. The People’s Friend. Woman’s Weekly. Not magazines she could ever imagine Mrs Foley buying. She read stories of romance. Nurses falling in love with doctors while they saved lives in Africa, Scottish chieftains grabbing red-haired farm girls roughly and throwing them down on banks of heather, but always with a happy ending. Patricia had no idea how her strange tale would conclude. They couldn’t keep her here forever and why would they want to? It made no sense.

  One morning Mrs Foley came into her room as usual and placed the tray along the side of the bed. Patricia ignored her. There was nothing to be gained from asking questions. How many times had she pleaded with the old woman to tell her about Rosemary, what she had said to her friend? But nothing. Just the plates of barely touched food collected at regular intervals.

  Mrs Foley jabbed a finger at the tray. ‘Some post for you there.’ Patricia jolted with the shock of hearing a voice and rattled the cup and saucer. Before she could gather her thoughts and respond, the old woman had left, turning the key in the lock.

  There were four envelopes. Two were white, one blue and the other a sort of pale yellow. They looked like Christmas or birthday cards. She opened the first one and pulled out its contents. On the front of the card was a picture of two birds, doves perhaps, using their beaks to tie a knot in a long piece of red ribbon that spelled out in its curves and folds the word, ‘Congratulations’. How odd. She opened it up. In black print it said, ‘Congratulations on your wedding day’, and below that was a handwritten note. ‘We are all so happy for you. Many congratulations to yourself and Edward. Please come and visit. Love from Gillian, Jerry and the family.’ Patricia didn’t know what to think. She felt as if she was going crazy. Her stomach tightened and her breathing had become swift and shallow. The next card showed some wedding bells in a throng of roses and inside was a note from Carol Daunt. Carol Daunt? They hadn’t even been friends in school. Why would she send a card? The third one was a cartoon of two rabbits sharing a carrot. Inside it said, ‘May there be more than fences running around your garden!’ The message was from Rosemary. ‘Sorry to have missed you. Hope you are feeling much better. I’m so happy for you a
nd Edward. I wish you a long and happy life together.’ This was madness. Impatiently she ripped open the fourth envelope. It was from Rosemary’s parents. They too shared her joy. Pushing the tray aside Patricia got out of bed and began to hammer on the bedroom door. ‘Mrs Foley! What is going on? Mrs Foley!’

  The sound of footsteps on the stairs followed by the familiar sound of the lock and then Edward’s mother stood before her. She looked defiant. She smoothed her apron and in a perfectly calm voice enquired, ‘What can I do for you, dear?’ Patricia didn’t know where to start. Her mouth opened and closed but no words came. Finally, she grabbed the cards and held them up to Mrs Foley’s face.

  ‘What are these? Why are people sending them?’

  ‘Well, I suppose people are happy for you.’

  ‘Happy? What for? I’m not married. You are keeping me a prisoner. What lies have you been telling people?’

  ‘Edward loves you very much and the sooner you understand that then the sooner we can all carry on as normal.’ She paused and the women stared at each other.

  ‘This is madness. Madness! You are out of your mind!’ Patricia screamed and then, breathless, crushed the cards into her fist. She stood barefoot, wearing nothing but a nightdress that wasn’t even her own. Mrs Foley’s face was steely as she met the young woman’s eyes. Slowly she moved one foot away from the other, bracing herself, almost challenging her young charge to try and get past her. ‘It’s up to you, my dear.’ And with that she turned on her heel, locking the door behind her.

  The hours passed. Bouts of crying were interspersed with sleep. Darkness came but Patricia didn’t bother with the light. Mrs Foley had turned it on when she had delivered the dinner tray but Patricia had quickly extinguished it, preferring to lie forgotten and unseen in the night. Her dinner sat on the floor, untouched. Patricia wondered how long it would take her to starve to death. Would Edward and his mother allow that to happen? Surely they would take her to the hospital before she died? Then she could raise the alarm and this torment would be over. Maybe they would just tell the doctors that she was crazy and the more she insisted she wasn’t, the madder she would seem. That happened in films all the time.