The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  She shook away the thought and her mother grasped her shoulders, hard, as if bidding her to keep still. She wriggled in protest as the sound changed and the prime minister began to speak, and she listened in spite of herself because somehow Chamberlain’s tone was different to his other broadcasts. Now her mother seemed to have drawn in on herself, staring down at the table, which was notched with the marks from her knife and her mother’s before that. Her dad sat perfectly still. Only Will met her eye and as he did, he gave a tiny shake of his head.

  When she heard the words, she simply couldn’t believe them. The prime minister had said he was going to stop it all and she had believed him. Peace in our time, he’d told them, and now there was this, something she had heard the men speak of but had never quite believed: This country is at war with Germany.

  She had seen the gasmasks, those ridiculous bulky things that had been issued to them all, that were now stowed in the cupboard under the stairs. She had tried one on and decided it was nasty and smelly and made her feel sick, and she most certainly wasn’t going to wear it. She had seen her mother hiding away the public information leaflets about blackout regulations and the best places to shelter, and she had wondered why they troubled to send them all the way out here, miles away from anybody and anything that could possibly have need of them. Now her mum stretched out her hand across the table, finding her dad’s sleeve and dragging on it uselessly.

  ‘So,’ he said at last. ‘That’s that, then.’

  Will pushed back his chair and everyone jumped as the wood scraped against the flagstones. ‘They’ll need everyone they can get,’ he said. ‘They’ll be sending us to Germany.’ There was an odd light in his eyes, bright and cold all at the same time, and it reminded Aggie for a moment of the woman in the churchyard.

  Her dad raised a hand and slammed it down against the table. He pushed himself up from his chair and switched off the wireless, and silence came to fill the room. Then he said, ‘No one’s going anywhere.’ He looked around as if waiting for someone to contradict him, but no one did. He glanced at Aggie and then at Will, looking long and hard into his face. ‘We shall need everyone to do extra,’ he said. ‘We’ll get that top field planted again. Might get another crop o’ barley in, if t’ weather keeps. You can ’elp. So can Ag.’ He shifted his gaze to her but it was as if he wasn’t really seeing her, and it felt as if he was really saying something else. He curled his hand into a fist and rapped at the table as if he were knocking at a door. ‘They need farmers, times like this,’ he said. ‘They’ll need all of us, you’ll see – they dun’t just need soldiers. They’ll want all t’ farmers they can get.’

  He sat down again, all the tension going out of him. After a moment he waved a hand, like a teacher dismissing a class. They looked at each other. No one said anything. Aggie could hear words, though, in her mind, as close as if they were being hissed into her ear: You will never be content. You shall never be happy.

  She shook them away as if they were physical things. She felt the coldness as it spread into her bones. It was as if it were her sitting there on that bench in the first harsh breath of autumn and thinking of the loss of everything she’d ever believed in. It was as if the woman had reached out somehow and cursed her with her words: You shall never be happy.

  Aggie felt a pat on her arm and she turned, startled. Her mum was trying to smile but it looked as if she would burst into tears at any moment. ‘Of course we’ll all help, won’t we, love? You can do more about the farm, can’t you, Ag?’

  She remembered those days in the fields, the hot sun melting on her shoulders, the scratching of barley ruining her hands, the sight of the crop spreading almost as far as she could see. And the rabbits; she remembered the rabbits, the crunch of her brother’s pitchfork. She closed her eyes. If she’d gone into service already they could surely never have called her back. She would have escaped. She might not even be here, feeling the tension spreading over the room, the seriousness and the anger and the frustration – and yes, the fear.

  But she shouldn’t think about herself at such a time, couldn’t make a fuss. She nodded at her mother without really focusing on her face. It was her brother she wanted to look at, but somehow she didn’t dare; then she heard him make an odd sound in the back of his throat, as if he had something to say but didn’t know how to say it. She looked at him. She saw her brother was growing into a man. He had always been taller than her, but now he stood over them all. His jaw was clenched and his hands were curled into fists. He looked older somehow; he looked ready. When she looked into his eyes, she saw that he too wasn’t really seeing what lay before him: he was focused on something a long way away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Aggie saw Mrs Hollingworth again early the next morning.

  She’d been sent to collect the eggs, a task which sounded simple but which she knew would involve clambering onto the roof of the fold and into the hayloft and anywhere else the chickens may have chosen to lay. They were always coming up with new places: underneath the cart, among her mother’s prickly roses, even in the back of the sty where the sow lived. They had their own nest boxes with comfortable straw inside, but they didn’t seem to like them. They were shut up safe from the foxes at night but if they weren’t let outside early in the morning they wouldn’t lay at all. It was as if they were trying to protect them from anything that may come. This morning she had found two eggs in the boxes and had considered herself lucky until she’d seen one of them hop-pecking its way along the wooden ridge of the outhouse.

  The outhouse had brick walls and a wooden roof, and none of it was level. A clump of leaves was caught in the guttering and she knew at once that was where the egg would be. She sighed as she fetched the ladder from the barn, knowing her hands would soon be covered in mossy slime.

  The wooden ladder was heavy and the heat gathered under her bib overalls as she balanced it against the wall. She checked her pocket was empty for carrying the egg so that she wouldn’t have to climb down again one-handed and then she pulled herself up. She placed both feet carefully onto each rung, cursing the chicken under her breath. When she reached the top, though, her annoyance turned to pity.

  There was an egg, but it was broken. There was a shattered hole in the top and most of the insides had gone, probably stolen by a jackdaw or a magpie. She pulled a face. Then she looked up and over the roof, across the fields, and down to the church. A cool breeze lifted her hair. For a moment she thought she detected the flat taint of the river in it.

  She caught her breath. Someone was sitting near the top of the churchyard. She was perfectly motionless and dressed all in black and sitting on the bench – the cursed bench.

  No children, not ever.

  She looked down at the egg. It didn’t mean anything; it wasn’t as if the egg had ever been going to grow into a chick. She didn’t know why she’d even thought of those words. She reached out and before she could think about it she lifted the shell and dropped it to the ground, hearing it smash onto the cobbles below. She looked back towards the churchyard only once before she began her descent; the woman hadn’t moved at all.

  *

  Later, Aggie helped her mother sort through their things, finding old clothes they didn’t need or that were too small, blankets that had thinned in the middle, old knitting that could be unravelled. Her mother put it all in bags, adding the scraps she’d saved from her sewing for making into rag rugs or dolls. When they’d finished they loaded the bags into the cart and backed the quieter of their horses into the traces. Her dad usually did this, but he was busy in the fields; she knew he would be for ever pointing out how much more convenient it was to have horses than an engine that ran on petrol they didn’t have and couldn’t easily buy. The horse stamped and snorted at her. When they were ready her mother climbed up onto the seat and then she stared at Aggie, as if she was waiting.

  She frowned. Then she jumped up beside her mother and took the reins. She pulled on them and the horse turned into th
e lane as easily as it always did for her dad. She rather liked driving. There was something about the steady hollow clop of hooves on the road and the lazy way she swayed against her mother’s side, the sense of being in control, of being able to go wherever she wished.

  When they passed the church she turned her head and saw Mrs Tunstall from the village, just heading inside with a bundle of rags and a tin of Mansion Polish. She liked to ‘do’ for the place. Her mother nodded at her, keeping both hands primly clasped over her handbag on her lap. Aggie looked towards the bench. Mrs Hollingworth was still there. She didn’t look as if she had moved at all; she was still staring down at the house she had sworn never to live in.

  ‘Well, would you look at that?’ her mother said.

  Aggie didn’t reply.

  ‘’Appen she’s come to live ’ere after all. Mebbe she’ll make ’ersen useful.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Aggie said. ‘I think she’s just come – to watch, or something.’

  ‘Well, if she doesn’t it’s criminal, that’s what it is. Building a fancy place like that, like she’s some grand lady, an’ leavin’ it stood … I did ’ear ’er ’usband’s staying in t’ city now, though – God above knows why, wi’ bombs about to fall about their ears. Wicked to keep that ’ouse empty. They’re lucky it ’asn’t been commandeered. They should do – they should fill it wi’ folks that needs it, little mites bein’ sent away from their mothers, women wi’ bairns—’

  It was as if she’d realised what she’d said, suddenly remembering the woman’s own disappointment, and she softened her tone. ‘Well, ’appen she’ll sort herself out in time. Aye, ’appen she will—’ and she gestured towards the road, as if Aggie had been about to wander off the track, as if the horse would have strayed into the hedgerow; as if the mare hadn’t been this way a thousand times before.

  *

  The village hall was crammed. It looked like everyone Aggie had ever known was there – or at least the women. They bustled around, sorting wool and parcelling it out, cutting up old clothes, heaping scraps into a pile. The low whirr of treadles and the higher buzz of electric sewing machines came from the next room and everywhere was the press of bodies and the murmur of conversation, and an occasional whooping laugh drowning out the rest. Among them, those in Women’s Voluntary Service uniforms – smart green tweed with red piping and official-looking badges – oversaw the proceedings, ‘doing the national job’, looking stern when the laughter pealed too loudly.

  Her mother headed towards the sorting area as if she knew exactly where to go, and Aggie followed. She didn’t know when she’d ever seen such a horrid crush. She barely listened to any particular words amid the general thrum, but then she caught:

  ‘Aye, under t’ yew tree.’

  ‘It’s shameful, ’avin’ them words put there. Carved in stone, an’ all. Shameful. An’ ’er not even a local.’

  ‘She’ll tek sick, sittin’ there. Anyone’ll tell yer. Sittin’ under a yew, it’ll mek ’er sick.’

  There was a lull and Aggie looked for the speaker. It was Mrs Pinchbeck, the greengrocer’s wife.

  ‘She’s already sick, like as not,’ her mother said in a lower voice.

  ‘Aye, well. Forsaken, indeed. Someone wi’ them thoughts in their ’ead – bad thoughts – it in’t no wonder it were born dead.’

  Aggie stared. It was a thin-faced woman who spoke. She lived in a cottage at the edge of the village; had been a widow for as long as Aggie could remember.

  Her mother was staring too. Then she roused herself. ‘We’ll finish up ’ere,’ she said, ‘and then we’ll go back t’ long way. I need to call by Mrs Marsden’s. Her lad joined up four months back – I want t’ see ’ow she’s keepin’ on.’ Then she spoke louder, as if she wanted everyone to hear, ‘No ’arm in looking after our neighbours, is there, Aggie? No time for tittle-tattle.’ She straightened and shook out the bag she carried, which was now empty.

  Aggie sensed their eyes on her back as they walked away. She wasn’t really thinking about the things they’d said. All she felt was relief, not only to be leaving the noisy press, but because they would be going home the long way round, by the top of the hill and down the lane. They wouldn’t have to pass the house and they wouldn’t pass the churchyard; they wouldn’t need to see if the woman was still there, sitting all alone and perfectly still.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Aggie went into her room, ensuring the door had closed behind her. Slats of faint light from the kitchen below probed the gaps in the floorboards and she toed at her rag rug, trying to cover the worst of them. The light faded. She didn’t need it, not in here. She shuffled onto her bed and pushed the window open. Cold air rushed into her face but she leaned out, resting her elbows on the broad sill.

  It wasn’t fully dark but the sky was already the smudged grey of a charcoal drawing. When she looked up, she couldn’t see any stars. The sky looked impossibly far away and just as indifferent, and then she heard a cow lowing and the answering snuffle of a horse, and everything was familiar again, just her home once more.

  She couldn’t see the church spire or the house beyond it, but there was nothing strange in that. There was a blackout. Mum had even taken away her dad’s matches earlier that evening so he wouldn’t forget and light one of his Capstans outside. There were fines for such things; the newspaper was full of it. Besides, everybody had to do what they could.

  That made her think of Eddie Appleby. Before much longer he would be gone, and no one could say when he’d be coming back. When she imagined him, he looked different; she supposed he was different now. He probably didn’t think of her at all. He’d be standing tall in his uniform, his expression determined, and probably with that same distant look in his eyes she’d seen in her brother’s. She imagined him looking a little sad too, in a way she couldn’t define. She sighed. Until now she had only really thought of him as her brother’s childhood friend and now he was leaving, going to the front with so many other young men. She didn’t like to think of that, especially not now, looking out into the cold dark. She had wondered what a blackout would be like, but she realised that out here where there was nothing it all looked much the same as it always had. Nestled in amid the hillsides, it had always felt like they could be a thousand miles from anywhere.

  She jumped as a harsh banging sounded, not on her door, but through the floorboards. Aggie caught her breath; for a moment she thought her mother knew that she’d opened the window, then she heard: ‘Aggie! Downstairs – I’ve got summat I need you for!’

  She quietly closed the window and drew the curtains across the glass, covering the pale reflection of her face. She pulled the blackout curtains right up to the edges and went to see what it was her mother wanted.

  She was sitting sewing by the light of an old paraffin lamp. The electricity was off and there was only the lamp and the soft glow from the stove. Everything smelled of oil and Aggie wrinkled her nose. Did her mother think the house must be blacked out inside too? She did not dare to ask. Her mother had her things to be doing look on her face. She had snipped open some old socks and was stitching them together again. She was making little bags, sewing squares of paper to the front.

  ‘It’s for when they’re in ’ospital,’ she said, ‘so the soldiers ’ave something to put their things in. They can write their names on t’ front, see?’

  Aggie did see, and yet she had the feeling she didn’t. She hadn’t thought of it before, young men being in hospital after being shot or gassed. She swallowed and thought of Eddie. Her throat felt dry.

  ‘I need you to go over to that ’ouse.’ Her mother didn’t need to say which house; Aggie knew. ‘Yer dad’s ’aving a lie down and your brother’s gone to see Eddie before he leaves. That woman was there on ’er tod all day. If she’s in that ’ouse she might need an ’and, love. Wi’ t’ blackout, I mean. Just you run along and see if she’s all right.’

  Aggie thought of walking alone down the lane in the dark. She knew it
almost as well as the farmhouse, but suddenly it was different.

  ‘I’ll not ’ave ’em sayin’ mean things,’ her mother continued. ‘It’s for neighbours to ’elp each other, an’ that’s what we’ll be doing.’

  What I’ll have to do, Aggie thought, but when her mother lowered her sewing she saw how tired she looked. She couldn’t possibly refuse. She nodded.

  ‘Good girl.’

  Aggie still didn’t move.

  ‘It’s on’y going to get darker.’

  At that Aggie grabbed her coat and waited for her mother to cover the lamp before she slipped out.

  The sky looked featureless, yet it still held a certain diffuse light, as if a bright moon was hiding somewhere behind the clouds. As she crossed the yard a dark shape slipped from the shadow of the house and slid itself against her legs. Her heart leapt until she heard a brief purr. She put out a hand to stroke the cat, but it just as quickly slipped away. She peered across the yard.

  Everything was silent. She remembered the sound of the air-raid siren from when they’d tested it out, rising eerily from somewhere beyond the fields, and she shivered. She pulled her collar tighter around her neck. For a moment she felt suspended between going on and going back, and then she reminded herself her mother would be furious if she didn’t do what she was told. If Aggie complained of the dark, she’d only laugh and say she should eat her carrots. Anyway, she had been right: it was getting darker all the time. She went on, picking her way across the cobbles.

  The surface of the lane was smoother and she walked straight down the middle. She passed the lych-gate, all thick charcoal lines against the sky, nothing visible beyond it. A part of her was glad; she didn’t wish to think about what she might see there. Only stones, she thought. She had been there a thousand times before and she had never been afraid – only once, anyway.