The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  The door opened and Mrs Holroyd came in, ushering Sam and Jeff ahead of her. Sam’s face was pale, his lips tight; Jeff looked as if he were trying not to cry. She pushed them towards the corner where Frank stood, and he heard: ‘You make sure you stay put.’ Sam had seen him, was coming over. Frank stood his ground. He wasn’t going to look as if he was afraid. There were worse things: he had seen them.

  ‘All right,’ said Sam in greeting.

  ‘Right.’ Frank didn’t say anything else. He was surprised when Sam shuffled awkwardly.

  ‘Sorry.’ The word was barely audible.

  He turned and looked the taller boy in the eye. ‘He’s dead.’

  Sam wrinkled his nose and turned away. ‘Ah know.’

  ‘Tha shouldn’t ’ave done it.’

  Sam looked angry. ‘It wan’t me. You’re t’ one who went in to t’ ’ouse. Does everythin’ tha’s told, does tha?’

  Frank could feel his cheeks growing hot. ‘You …’

  ‘That’s our Frank.’ It was his mother’s voice, raised now, loud in a room full of whispers. He looked up to see her talking to the two women he’d never met, still clutching those silly little glasses as they walked towards him. ‘That’s my lad. Frank fetched ’im cake, didn’t you Frank? Just the other week.’ She smiled at him. The strangers nodded and smiled too, as if they didn’t know what to say. Frank looked down at the floor. From the corner of his eye he could see that Sam was watching him.

  ‘He dun’t boast, our lad. But it were kind, a right kind thing to do.’

  He wished, more than anything, that his mother would shut up. Sam, at his side, let out a spurt of air. It seemed the woman with the red lipstick wasn’t really listening either. ‘I never imagined,’ she said under her breath. ‘I knew the house was bad for me, but if I thought that Lizzie … so much younger than him, and yet she died so soon.’

  The other woman nudged her arm. ‘Look there, Antonia. It seems someone likes it.’ She indicated the man, who was now running his hand across the walls and rubbing his fingers together.

  ‘Clarence.’ Antonia looked as if she’d smelled something bad. ‘Well, he would, I suppose …’

  Frank lost the thread as he felt a hand close on his arm. ‘Why don’t I watch ’im, Mrs Watts?’ He turned and saw Sam’s expression, his eyebrows raised, his eyes wide: all innocence. ‘I can do, if you need to get on.’

  She beamed at him. ‘Well, that’s right kind, love. I can see where our Frank gets it from. We ’ave to be getting finished up soon. Gettin’ to the church.’

  As they moved away, Sam’s grip tightened. Frank turned and stared down at his hand and Sam let go with an exasperated sound. ‘It weren’t my fault. I weren’t to know you was goin’ to nick summat.’

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. ‘You teld me ter …’

  ‘Jump off a cliff, would yer?’

  They were silent, staring at each other. After a moment, Sam’s lip curled. ‘Anyroad,’ he said, ‘wha’s this about yer being all pally like?’ He put on a falsetto voice, his head wobbling from side to side: ‘Our Frank fetched ’im cake, didn’t yer Frank? Just t’ other week.’ He leaned in close. ‘Bestest friends, was yer?’

  Frank pursed his lips.

  ‘You’ll ’ave seen ’im, then.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’ll ’ave seen ’im, you bein’ mates an’ all.’ Sam nodded towards the door that led on to the hallway. ‘You know what I’m on about.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ He leaned in closer so that Frank felt his breath against his ear. ‘Open coffin. I’ve seen ’im.’

  ‘You ’ave not.’

  ‘You ask our Jeff.’ Sam turned and gestured. His mother was standing with the vicar, nodding and talking hurriedly, and Frank noticed Jeff at her side, one hand curled at his mouth; he was sucking his thumb. Frank had known him for as far back as he could remember, but he’d never seen him suck his thumb.

  ‘He nearly wet ’is pants. Why’d you think ’e were cryin’?’

  Frank scowled. ‘Tha’s a git, Sam Holroyd,’ he said.

  ‘An’ thee’s a coward, Frank Watts.’

  The accusation was so unfair that Frank’s mouth fell open.

  But Sam hadn’t finished. ‘Tha knows nowt. If you’re such a big man, why dun’t you go and look? You know where ’e is.’ In defiance of his promise to keep an eye on Frank, he stalked off. He went to his brother and whispered in his ear, and Jeff turned and glanced at Frank and his lip twitched.

  Frank turned and looked at the door. He suddenly knew he was going to go through it, though he didn’t know why. It wasn’t because of Sam’s words; he didn’t care what he thought of him any more. He was going to look because of something in himself. He had been in this room when no one else was here. He’d talked to the old man when no one had been near him in years. Now it was between him and Mr Owens, it was as simple as that. His feet were already moving, his hand reaching for the door. When he saw the old man – when he looked into his face, saw what he had done – he wouldn’t be afraid. He was going to say that he was sorry. Mr Owens had died and Frank couldn’t do anything about it. The man had been away from his house and the memory of his wife and he hadn’t even been able to look at her face when he died because Frank had taken that away from him. The urge to cry was gathering in his chest and his breath hitched. He was in the hall. It was full of other people’s shoes. The tiles, for once, were clean. He turned to the back room and saw that the door was ajar. There was a splash of light on the dark red wall.

  He knew he was going to look. He hoped, even after everything, that the old man would somehow understand. He was with the angels now, or wherever; he’d be able to look down and see Frank and know that he hadn’t meant to do the things he’d done. Everything would be all right. He had done something terrible and it would be forgotten. He wouldn’t have to think of the way the old man had chased him, his face turning red, his fingers clutching at his chest. He wouldn’t have to remember the sounds he’d made as he’d gasped for his last pained breaths on the old concrete bridge. He wouldn’t have to see the disappointment in his eyes. It would all be gone, and everything would begin again.

  Frank half expected the door wouldn’t open, but it moved easily under his hand. He listened for any sound from behind him but there was only the continuous drone of voices. The room was narrow and dark and smelled slightly of damp. There was another smell too, something chemical, and layered over that the too-sweet stench of lilies. The flowers were at the back of the room, blowsy white things that were already wilting. They sent spiked shadows across the wall. They were stuck in a tall fluted vase in a nasty shade of turquoise glass. Frank realised he was staring at it because he didn’t want to look at the thing that lay between him and the flowers. He could see it anyway, a dark shape like a long narrow table.

  He caught his breath then winced at the sound it made. This had all made sense a minute ago, when he’d crossed the hall. Now it felt wrong. It was as if his feet weren’t resting on the solid floor, as if there wasn’t any air to breathe. He looked down anyway. The coffin was half-open and the part that was open revealed a face and some shoulders and a chest. The colour of the face was wrong, like putty, and he had a sudden image of a smashed egg and the broken thing inside it, of eyes that wouldn’t open.

  He felt his legs take a step forward. He had no idea how to stop himself as he walked to Mr Owens’ side and looked down at his face. It had all gone flat somehow. The brows were lined but they weren’t creased into a scowl and his lips were slack. They didn’t quite seem to meet properly. All of the man’s anger had gone, everything had gone, nothing left inside him. Frank let out a noise. He felt suddenly glad that no one was near, to hear him make that sound. He took a deep breath and looked down at the old man’s hands, folded so neatly over his chest, and his mouth fell open.

  There was that smell again, stronger than ever. He could taste it. He felt sick. He put his hand to his mouth. The
suit the old man was wearing was brown, and hairy, and tweedy. It looked almost new. He knew at once who would have chosen it. His mother had been over earlier, to help out, she said, and he could picture her tut-tutting over the shiny black thing that Mr Owens wore. She would have found the second-best suit hanging in the wardrobe and held it out in front of her face. That’ll do, she’d have said, and that would have been that, they’d have dressed him, making sure they did it all just right.

  But it wasn’t just right. There was another funny noise in the room and he realised it was his breath, his throat constricting, the air whistling through it. Then he heard something else, the whispered echo of a sound: It’ll be t’ suit they carry me off in when I’m done, an’ all.

  Except it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

  Value in’t just in’t eye o’ the beholder, tha knows. No: this ’ere’s me best, an’ if other folk can’t see that, it’s their problem.

  A hand fell on his shoulder and he almost screamed. He tried to pull away and found he couldn’t. He twisted, barely able to see his mother’s face through the blur of his tears. For a moment it didn’t even look like her and he suppressed the urge to scream a second time. Her mouth was moving and he could smell tea on her breath but he couldn’t understand a word. He had no idea what he was going to say but anyway he couldn’t speak, because he was crying so hard.

  *

  The adults in the room gathered around him and the walls loomed over them all, shutting everyone inside. His mother knelt in front of him and Frank knew it was embarrassing, seeing her there like that, but he didn’t care. Behind her was the vicar, seeming taller than ever, his face thin and without expression.

  Frank couldn’t think. What was it he had been saying? Something about Mr Owens and his wife, about how the suit was meant for her, just as they both had been meant for this place. ‘It was the globe,’ he blurted out, knowing already it was the wrong thing, that he was only making it worse.

  He swallowed. ‘Mr Owens saw his wife’s name written on the globe.’ He pointed upwards and his mother glanced at the ceiling. He followed her gaze. There was only an old chandelier hanging from a hook that was thickened with layers of old paint. ‘Outside,’ he said, ‘the globe outside. And that was how he knew he was supposed to stay and he married her and they were going to have children, and that’s why he needs his suit …’

  The vicar frowned, shaking his head. Frank’s mother leaned in closer, blocking his view. She didn’t look angry, only full of concern, though he could feel the anger somewhere beneath it. When she’s afraid, he thought, and didn’t know why: She’s most angry when she’s afraid.

  She took hold of his arm, then turned to the vicar. ‘He’s upset,’ she said. ‘He should never ha’ been in that room. He shouldn’t ha’ seen what he saw.’ She started to straighten and Frank pulled away, but she wouldn’t let him go. ‘I’ll miss t’ funeral,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave it to t’ rest now. I’ll take my boy ’ome.’

  Frank noted in some corner of his mind that his mum must also be upset, that she had forgotten to say have and home, even though she was talking to the vicar. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Mum, no.’

  She leaned in, putting her face up close. ‘Now you listen to me, Frank Watts. You’ve shown me up enough and you’re coming ’ome wi’ me, an’ that’s that.’ Her grip tightened and Frank looked at his arm, at her fingers digging into his skin. Somewhere behind her was the blurred outline of a face: Mossy. This time his little brother didn’t manage to hide his fear.

  Someone put their hand on his brother’s shoulder and Frank looked up and saw Sam standing behind him. ‘No,’ he said again, though it was no longer the old man he was thinking of: there were more important things. It was only a suit, he thought. Could it really matter? But the old man had been kind to him. He had let him into his house. He had to try. He ignored his mother’s warning look. ‘It wasn’t the suit ’e wanted, Mum. Tha’ black one – that was ’is. He said it’d be the suit they carried ’im off in.’

  ‘Aye, well, folk dun’t allus get what they want,’ she said. ‘Now get a move on, our Frank. It looks like you an’ me’s going ’ome.’ And she started to drive him towards the door with little pushes, and he twisted and took another glance at her face, and he did not dare to contradict her.

  It wasn’t until they were halfway down the lane that he looked back at Mire House and saw the figure that was standing in one of the topmost windows. He couldn’t see its face but he thought he knew who it was, and he knew that he was looking straight at him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The yew tree was thick with berries. It wasn’t the one nearest to Mire House and Frank was glad of that. He stood underneath it, feeling the soft sliding needles beneath his feet. This yew was near the lych-gate and it felt comfortable and close around him; the branches seemed to be hiding him. He heard the sharp snick of metal blades snapping shut.

  When he emerged from the tree his mother was smiling and she brushed needles from his shoulders. ‘You ’ave to be careful wi’ yew,’ she said. ‘It’s all poisonous. The flesh of the fruit’s not but the seeds inside them are, and the wood is, and the leaves. They call ’em the death tree.’ She paused, then shook her head. She held up her hands, indicating the gloves she wore. In one hand she held a dark green sprig along with her snippers.

  ‘What’s it for, Mum?’

  She sighed, then shrugged. ‘It’s an owd custom, love. I don’t rightly know where it comes from.’

  ‘Was it that woman from t’ funeral who told you?’

  She gave a startled laugh. ‘Antonia Hollingworth? No. Not ’er, love.’

  ‘But you know ’er.’

  ‘I did that. A long time ago, it was, before you was born.’

  Frank frowned; it was odd to think that his mother had known people he never had. It made him think she’d had a whole other life he knew nothing about.

  ‘Now, this yew. It’s supposed to be a nice thing to do, tha’s all. An’ you said you wanted to do a nice thing.’

  Frank nodded. He had: he’d said he would like to visit the old man. A part of him had thought that meant he’d have to go back to the house, to face the old place once more – to face whatever lay in the house, now – and he had been relieved when his mother suggested cutting the yew. He hadn’t known what she’d meant; it wasn’t something they’d ever done before.

  But she hadn’t finished. ‘It’s supposed to be summat that’s right to do after the funeral,’ she said. ‘It’s an evergreen, see – it’s to do wi’ eternal life. And there’s something to do with spirits – or doorways, or something – it makes sure someone’ll help ’im cross, that sort of thing. Help him find the other side, rest in peace or whatever. Me nan told me about it once – it’s a proper old custom. Not many folk’ll ’ave ’eard of it these days. Goes back years and years, long as these trees, prob’ly.’ She smiled. ‘’Appen it means nowt at all. But it’s a way of payin’ your respects.’

  Frank didn’t really understand but he put on his own gloves and took the sprig from her fingers.

  ‘There was druids, see,’ she said. ‘They said the yew tree lived in three worlds: the world above, that’s the branches, and this ’un, and the one below – that’s the roots. Only the yew, see, it can make doors in between.’ She shrugged. ‘I know it sounds daft. But still. They built the chu’ch ’ere for a reason, din’t they?’

  She led the way up the path, skirting the church. Frank didn’t know where the old man’s grave was but he wasn’t surprised when they headed up the hill and towards the wall that divided the churchyard from Mire House. The other yew tree, the one on the border, was ahead of them and he could see its dark crown over his mother’s shoulder. He couldn’t see the bench and he couldn’t see beneath the tree. He wondered who might be sitting there, and he shivered.

  His mother huffed her way up the slope and then she stopped and stood aside. ‘Here, love.’

  The grave was close to the topmost yew, not far
from the bench with its despairing words. The grass covering it looked sparse and criss-crossed with lines as if the ground had recently been chopped into pieces. The headstone looked the same as all the others except that it stood a little straighter and the letters were etched a little cleaner. Frank wondered how long it would take before it greened over with lichen and time. At least, for now, the bench was empty; the dark woman had gone. Maybe she already had whatever it was she wanted. He fingered the sprig of yew and felt those poisonous needles poking through his woollen gloves as he looked up towards the windows of Mire House and he saw the figure that was looking back at him. And he heard the whisper of words on the cold air:

  This ’ere’s me best, an’ if other folk can’t see that, it’s their problem.

  Frank frowned. A dull fear spread through him, making him want to shiver. He had thought he knew what those words meant – had known – but now it occurred to him they could mean something else too.

  If other folk can’t see that … It’s their problem.

  ‘What is it, our Frank?’

  He turned and for a moment, he couldn’t focus. There was only a dark shape leaning over him, one arm outstretched towards his shoulder. He took a step back and felt the raised mound of the grave under his foot. He stumbled, almost fell.

  ‘What’s up, lad? What’s got into yer?’

  ‘Nothing, Mum.’

  ‘Summat has.’

  ‘It’s nowt.’ Frank sniffed, realising he was close to tears.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘I saw ’im,’ he said. ‘I saw ’im, Mum, the owd man. He’s up the’er.’ He pointed up at the window. Clouds were scudding across the sun and the glass was mottled and grey; impossible to tell if anyone was watching.