The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  She would need new shoes, she decided. Her plain brogues had been too loud against the flooring, the dead sound echoing around the hallway and up the stairs. She would need silk stockings, not cotton lisle like her mum’s. And then the rattle of the cart cut into her reverie. It meant her dad had finished his rounds with the milk and eggs and vegetables. Sure enough, she heard his voice in the room below.

  She frowned. There was something wrong with his tone. He always sounded gruff, but now his voice was clipped, too, as if he had news he didn’t want to impart. The door banged and Will’s louder voice rang out, and he was hurriedly shushed. She knew that something had happened even before her mother started to call her name.

  Later she sat with the plate in front of her, stirring the rich stew with her spoon. Around her, the others chewed. She stared down at the food. She was no longer hungry. She didn’t know what she was supposed to think. No one else seemed to be thinking about it at all; they just went on eating. There were so many questions tumbling over themselves inside her mind and she didn’t know if she was allowed to ask them. It didn’t seem right, but all she could feel was overwhelming disappointment. She looked around at the small room. She couldn’t remember a time when the kitchen wasn’t full of some kind of noise, her brother’s talk, her mother’s washing or cooking or mending. There was always something to be said, but now everything was silent.

  Mrs Hollingworth had gone back to London for her lying-in and the time had come and they weren’t sure what had happened, other than that there would be no baby. That was all anyone seemed to know: her dad had heard it from the landlord of The Horseshoe in the village, and he had heard it from the stonemason. No one knew when they might be coming to take up possession of the house. Or if, Aggie thought, and pushed the idea away.

  She imagined taking cups of sugared tea to the lady as she sat alone in a grand chair. In her mind she stood at her side while she drank it, uttering soothing words. Her imagined self knew exactly what to say. She would be a helpmeet and a comfort; there would be no parties, not for a while, but she could still be there for Mrs Hollingworth. They might even develop a kind of friendship, built through adversity, even though one was a mistress and one a housemaid. Such things could happen where the need was great. She found herself smiling wistfully as her dad said, ‘You’ll not be going, then, Aggie.’

  She turned and looked at him. Everyone fell still; no one was eating. ‘Of course I’ll go,’ she said. ‘I’m needed.’

  Nothing else was said. Instead everyone returned their attention to their plates and continued to eat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The harvest was almost over when Aggie heard the strike of metal on stone travelling across the hillside from the big house. She stopped at once. She had been tying a strand of wheat about a sheaf and it slipped from her fingers, but she didn’t care. She stared up into the light, her eyes wide open, and a voice shouted something, but she didn’t hear the words. Now, she thought. She’s coming back now.

  She had almost set off to run in the direction of the house when everything came back; not the stone and cool hallways that had been in her mind but the scratchy stalks and the binder’s rattle and her father’s glare. It didn’t matter, though. The lightness was rising inside her. It was all going to happen, her whole future. It did not matter if she could not yet run to meet it.

  *

  The little lane seemed longer than it ever had when Aggie finally hurried to see what was happening at the house. The building had been done in a fine old style and it had a look about it as if it had always been there, as if it belonged to some earlier era. It certainly appeared to have been finished some time ago. The windows had been painted, the door boarded over with forbidding slats that surely would not be there forever. But the sound had meant something, and if work was beginning over again that must surely suggest that the house would be occupied at last. Perhaps some last-minute alteration was being carried out to the mistress’ satisfaction.

  When she reached the gates she was disappointed to see that the slats were still in place. No lights shone in the windows; no smoke rose from the chimneys. Then she saw the man standing on the lawn, one foot resting on a ladder that lay uselessly on the ground. He hadn’t seen her either and his head was tilted back, as if he too was examining the building.

  The silence stretched out while she looked at him, as if it were spreading from the dark building. He slowly turned his head and for a moment, he stared back at her. He started and touched a hand to his cap and bent to his ladder, only pausing when she called out a ‘hallo’. He wore dark overalls, not too dissimilar to her own, save that hers were covered in chaff and his in pale dust.

  ‘Are they coming back?’ She blurted the words as she stepped towards him. ‘I beg your pardon. I meant the lady of the house – Mrs Hollingworth. Has she come back?’ Her gaze shifted and she saw, as if in answer to her question, the closed door.

  He shook his head and gestured at the building and his mouth moved but she hardly heard the words. She looked at where he’d pointed, at the roof over the porch. She didn’t know what he meant, but it hadn’t been an affirmative and the disappointment was growing in her, stifling everything. She swallowed, realising with surprise that she was close to tears.

  The man pointed again, down at the ground this time, and she saw a stone globe nestling in the grass. When she looked back at the house she saw others matching it set above the upper windows. She saw what he meant.

  ‘It’s not for me to ask why,’ he said, ‘but it dun’t seem right to me.’ He shrugged. ‘Still, what do I know? I’m on’y t’ stonemason. I does as I’m told.’ He picked up the ladder, hefting it towards the porch.

  Aggie went towards him, not quite knowing why, and not knowing what on earth he would think of her, a ragamuffin girl appearing from nowhere, dressed as she was, intruding on his work. She stood next to the stone globe, the last piece of a puzzle perhaps, the final touch that would make the house ready to occupy. The stone looked solid and heavy, too heavy for her to lift. Then she saw there were letters cut into the stone, wrapping around it. She twisted, reading what was written there, then she caught her breath and took an involuntary step backwards.

  ‘Like I said, it’s not what I’d ’ave on me ’ouse.’ His voice was close at her ear and she jumped. She hadn’t been conscious of his approach. For a moment they looked down at the globe together. She read the words again, thinking that she must have made some mistake, but there they were, carved clear and true, and still with the same meaning:

  Eli Eli lama sabachthani?

  Something inside her turned cold. The last piece of a puzzle? No. She shivered. She had heard the words before, in the Sunday Bible classes held in church; she knew exactly what they meant.

  ‘’Appen I’d best get on, miss,’ the man said. His voice was lower. ‘Missus is keeping an eye out. I’m almost done, an’ all. My lad’ll be back in a sec to ’elp lift. We’ve put ’er bench in, an’ now this. I’m lookin’ forrard to getting ’ome, if I’m ’onest.’

  She stirred, already forming an apology for disturbing him, when something he had said sank in. ‘Keeping an eye out?’

  He looked surprised. ‘Aye.’ He cocked his head back in a sharp gesture. ‘Ower in t’ chu’chyard. She’s mekkin’ sure I’ve done that bench right, I’ll warrant.’

  She looked over his shoulder, across the lawn and through the trees towards the church. Beneath one of the bordering yews, standing under its shadow and dressed entirely in black, a lone figure looked back at her. Suddenly there didn’t seem to be any air.

  Then the woman raised a hand and beckoned, and Aggie didn’t feel as if she was being invited into her future after all; she felt as if she’d just been trapped.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The walk into the lane towards the churchyard seemed even longer than it had on the way to the house. Aggie had been there many times, to go to church services or weddings or christenings or funerals, but it was the
latter she was reminded of when she glanced up and saw Mrs Hollingworth in her black gown, the veil pulled once more across her face. She was dressed all in mourning, just as if she had stepped out of some earlier time. No one heeded that formality any more, did they? But this woman did. She didn’t appear to be watching Aggie. She stood facing the house, keeping perfectly still, and she didn’t turn when Aggie drew close.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Her voice was smooth and cultured, just the way Aggie remembered. She had a fleeting image of the interview, the way the lady had looked upon her and hadn’t smiled. The way she’d been preparing for so many things – her house, her new housemaid, her child: her life. Aggie’s gaze flicked to her belly just as she turned around.

  She saw only the veil and not her eyes but she felt the woman’s look piercing her anyway. She was straight and unbending and she gave the merest nod towards the bench. The new stone was pale and didn’t look as if it belonged in the old churchyard. Aggie read the words – twice, just to be sure. She had known it wasn’t going to be a good thing, a nice thing, but she still felt dismayed. The verse was written quite plainly this time, the larger surface allowing for the full translation: My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?

  Inwardly she shivered as the woman who would have been her mistress – should have been – slowly raised her hands and drew back her veil. Her healthful complexion had faded. Her face looked grey and her cheeks were sunken and her lips were almost blue. They had thinned to a narrow line. Only her eyes held any brightness, and Aggie found she could not look away from them.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Mrs Hollingworth asked.

  Aggie nodded, but she couldn’t meet her gaze.

  ‘No. Nor did they.’ She made a quick gesture towards the church. ‘But it is Scripture, is it not? How could they argue with Scripture? And of course, they could not deny me – a woman in my circumstance. In my condition.’ She stroked her belly, her eyes unfocused. Aggie wasn’t sure what she meant by her condition – surely her condition was past? This woman was in no condition at all.

  ‘And how do you like my house?’

  This was safer and Aggie took in a deep breath, stepping forward so that she could see it better. The house looked solid and fine and unbearably lonely, but still she couldn’t help but compare it with her own home: the low ceilings and narrow rooms that were always crowded and full of noise and where something always needed to be done. Then she realised: my house, the woman had called it. Hope rose and she smiled in spite of herself. ‘It’s beautiful, ma’am. I’m looking forward—’

  ‘Looking forward.’ Mrs Hollingworth drew in a long breath.

  ‘It will be lovely,’ Aggie blurted. ‘It’s so fine. You’ll – I mean, it – will be happy again …’ Her voice tailed away. The woman was silent, looking out on nothing, and the words hung in the air between them. ‘It’ll be lovely, ma’am. And you can have—’

  She turned her head. ‘Another?’

  ‘I mean – I didn’t mean—’

  ‘No. Naturally, you didn’t.’ She sighed. ‘But I do not believe I will. One cannot account for the fickleness of man, my dear, and I find I cannot account for my husband’s preference at all. This – this would have saved all, but – another child, you say? Not from my belly, I doubt.’ She stroked it again and Aggie tried not to focus on her pale, claw-like fingers. ‘I shall not live here. I shall not set so much as a foot in the place again. Did you know, I built that house for love?’ She gave a sharp laugh. ‘For love. But love will never come to fill it.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Such is my wish. There will be no laughter, no light, no life in that house. Do you hear me? And no children, not ever.’

  Aggie had no answer. She shifted her feet, suddenly wishing she was a long way away, in their own little kitchen perhaps, squeezed in at the table as her mother’s cooking bubbled on the stove, surrounded by noise and busyness and her brother’s laughter. Life.

  Mrs Hollingworth drew her lips into the semblance of a smile. ‘And you, my dear. Do you think you’ll have your heart’s desire?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  The almost-smile turned into an expression of scorn. ‘Go home,’ she said, ‘go home and stay there. Be content.’ She sighed, and when she spoke again her voice was distant. ‘I fear it will not be, however. You will never be content. You shall never be happy. Never in this world.’

  Aggie stared at her. She didn’t think to be hurt by what the woman had said; she couldn’t take it in. All she could think of was how she had been set to be a maid, at her service, to do what she might and bring comfort where she could. Now there was only the hard, too-bright stares, the strangeness of her words. She wanted to say something that would make it all right again, but she could not think of anything. She remembered the image of herself as the one bringing sugared tea and knowing exactly what to say. Now she knew that nothing was all right, that perhaps it would never be all right again. Her skin felt chilled under the woman’s stare, as if it froze her where it touched. She only knew she didn’t want to be here any longer, or to have this woman looking at her that way.

  She took a step back and paused to give an awkward curtsey before she walked back the way she had come. She didn’t look around again – she didn’t dare – until she had passed under the lych-gate. She needn’t have been afraid to look, however. Mrs Hollingworth was sitting on the bench again. She had turned away from her and was staring down once more towards the house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  No one at church had mentioned the words carved into the bench, though it was all Aggie could think about. She wasn’t sure they’d even noticed it; the mothers had gathered around the church door as usual, the men standing a little apart, talking about the weather or politics, neither of which she found of interest. She did see Will, though, standing with his friend Eddie Appleby from the next farm, and she found herself blushing when he winked at her. She didn’t know whether she should laugh or be outraged, but the smile had broken out on her face before she’d really had the chance to decide. She had known him for years; he’d played sardines with them around the barn and the fold and the hayloft, before she’d grown too old to run about with the boys, to be teased and have them pull her hair. He had other brothers and a sister, but it was Eddie she knew best. He was nearest in age to Will, and the boys had always had some scheme or other to occupy them.

  Now she was older, quite sixteen, and she stood a little more stiffly. She turned away from them, looking through the rows of gravestones. It was a sombre place to have so nearby, she supposed, though it had never occurred to her to think of it until today. It simply was. Now, with Mrs Hollingworth’s bitter words carved in stone at the top of the hillside, it was more sombre still. At least her recent meeting had tempered her disappointment over her position. That future may not be hers, but surely another would soon begin, and anyway, before long there would be marriage and children and she needn’t worry about going into service at all.

  She frowned, unconsciously touching her hand to her belly. It wasn’t something she’d considered before, although she supposed it would happen sometime. Would she have a boy or girl? How many? Would she be a good mother? If she had them, she would be kind. She would listen to all their little worries and she would understand; she would never wear a hard expression like Mrs Hollingworth. And then she remembered the woman making a similar gesture, touching her hand to her belly in just the same way, and she remembered her words: I built this house for love. And then: But love will never come to fill it.

  She let her hand fall to her side and turned to look at the new house. She didn’t know how she felt about it any longer. She noticed that beyond the deep green yews, the trees in the garden were beginning to turn. Was it autumn already? It didn’t feel like it. Last night there had been rain; she had woken and heard it beating down, drenching the yard, but now the sun was shining, the air was clean, everything clearer after the storm.

  A hand caught her arm an
d she jumped. She turned to see her mother, her eyebrows raised, amused at her reaction. Her dad and Will were with her and Aggie realised the gossips by the church door had dispersed. It was strangely early, and her mother’s smile, when it came, was serious, as if there was no room for gossip in it. ‘Come along, Dolly Daydream,’ she said. ‘There are things to do. And we don’t want to miss the eleven o’clock.’

  Aggie frowned. She couldn’t think what her mum meant – then she shrugged. They were all so serious these days, her dad even more so than her mother. He scowled at all the broadcasts on the wireless and she couldn’t think why on earth he troubled to listen if it upset him so. She glanced into the sky. It was blue and peerless, dashed with scudding clouds. It didn’t matter if the trees in the garden told of the end of summer; it was clinging still, even if there was a cooler note in the air, a breeze shivering the hairs on her arms.

  *

  Once inside the kitchen, the others sat at the table. Her dad actually reached out and straightened the wireless before switching it on, as if that mattered. It filled the kitchen with hissing and then a voice started talking about how to make the best of tinned food. Aggie looked over at her mother; she knew exactly what she’d think of that. Aggie breathed in the smell of her mother’s roast, the air filled with the warm heady aroma. Will would be hungry, she knew – he’d been up since dawn feeding the critters, as her dad always put it, and he loved a Sunday roast – but when she glanced at him, he didn’t even look at her. He was watching the wireless, his gaze serious, as if he knew something she did not. She frowned. They were always listening to the wireless – why should today be any different? Anyway, it was she who knew something they did not. She could see it whenever she closed her eyes, those words carved in stone, the woman sitting in her black clothes, besmirching the churchyard with her despair. Why hast Thou forsaken me? It felt almost blasphemous, and yet the woman had been right: it was Scripture, after all.