The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  The house was barely visible, just a slightly darker outline against the sky. Her mother needn’t have worried. Of course Mrs Hollingworth would never have stayed there. Aggie couldn’t imagine her even setting foot inside. The house had been abandoned and shrouded in darkness long before the blackout had even come to be. There was no light – No life, she thought – and no need to cover its windows.

  She turned to leave, and then she paused. She could already hear her mother’s voice in her ear: So there were no answer at t’ door then?

  Of course she would expect her to knock. If she didn’t, what would she say – that she’d walked down the lane and seen that the house was dark and simply gone home again? The house was supposed to be dark, everywhere was. Her mother had expected her to check on its occupant. If she didn’t she might even be sent out again a second time and by then the darkness would be absolute. Aggie grimaced. There was no help for it, so she walked up the drive, catching her breath at the sound of deep gravel under her feet. She thought she could see the darker rectangle of the door and she kept her eyes on it, and then her knee hit something and she pitched forward. She put out both hands to break her fall and sprawled across some object, its surface smooth and cold and hard.

  She made an odd sound, then smothered it, fighting the way her breathing threatened to run out of control. She ran her hand over the thing, squinting to make out its outline. How hadn’t she seen it? It was a car, nothing more – and why not? The woman must have got here somehow, and she had money; she surely wouldn’t always take the train. And yet it was wildly extravagant, when there was already talk of petrol running short. She knew exactly what her mother would say: It’s wicked, that’s what it is. A wicked waste. It was the same thing she’d said about the house, standing empty when it could have sheltered so many, providing a refuge to children and women from the cities.

  Aggie knew she was only delaying the thought that was in the back of her mind. She was going to have to knock after all, and the unthinkable might happen: Mrs Hollingworth might answer. She would open the door and smile that cold smile and step back and Aggie would have to go inside.

  But it wasn’t any use. Her mother would skin her if she went back now. She bent and rubbed her bruised knee, took in a gulp of the cold and strode up to the door and stepped under its shadow. Her first knock was tentative. She tried again. As she waited, she placed her hand flat against the door. It felt cold as stone, not something that would open, not to her. She let out the breath she had been holding. She didn’t like to turn her back on the house, not now, but she would be home in hardly any time at all, quicker perhaps, since she intended to run all the way.

  It was only when she reached the end of the drive that she stopped dead and looked back over her shoulder. The coldness had spread; it had come out of the night and seeped into her. It must have numbed her, stopping her from thinking, because she was stupid; stupid to think this place – that woman – had finished with her so easily.

  Mrs Hollingworth wasn’t home, but the car was still here.

  She turned her head and looked into the dark. She knew exactly where she was going to be. Deep down she had always known.

  *

  Once she stepped through the lych-gate she could see the graves, indistinct slabs that faded into the dark. Beyond that it looked as if there was nothing but sky, but she could picture the hillside as clearly as if it were daylight. She knew her way to the stone seat with its bitter words and the ancient yew tree standing sentinel over it.

  She wondered if Mrs Hollingworth was still staring down towards the house, her eyes unseeing, everything swallowed by the dark, and she shuddered. It occurred to her now that she could go back home and ask someone to go with her. There would be no shame in that. She could barely see and she had already done her duty; they surely wouldn’t expect her to walk up here, between the graves, alone.

  She started to walk anyway, but it felt like she was being drawn along, as if she didn’t have any choice; as if she was supposed to see. Perhaps she could help after all, take the woman’s arm and walk with her to the farm and show her that it was better to forgive everything and take refuge in the cheerfulness of her neighbours.

  She remembered the way she’d spoken – never be happy – and she shook her head.

  Her footsteps were silent. Somehow she didn’t feel afraid of the crooked gravestones; she knew there were worse things. It was the well of darkness ahead that she dreaded. She thought the shapes were becoming more defined as she went – the yew trees, the ones her mother said had stood here for centuries, before there was even a church. It was easy to believe now – it would have been harder not to believe it. She could hear their whispering, like soft voices talking of things it would perhaps be better not to know. Her mother had told her once that their roots stretched down to the lips of every sleeper in their graves, finding out their secrets; perhaps, now, they were whispering the words of the dead.

  Her breath was irregular and she didn’t like to hear it. It was easier to tell herself that she wasn’t afraid without that ragged sound in her ear. She drew a deep draught of cold air and it caught in her throat.

  She must be close now. Anyone sitting there in the quiet dark must have heard her approach. They might even be looking straight at her. She forced herself to call out a soft greeting. Her voice didn’t sound steady, not like the voice of someone who could help, but it was too late to take it back. Anyway, there was no reply. Was the woman sleeping? Exhaustion might have taken her, dragging her under before she could rouse herself to move. Aggie forced herself to take another step. It became darker still as she stood under the spreading branches. The seat was a paler shape against the trunk. Though the words written there were mercifully lost to sight she knew they were there, and that didn’t help.

  Now she could see a darker shape against the bench, but she couldn’t bring herself to go nearer.

  ‘Mrs Hollingworth?’

  There was no movement, no sound except the soughing in the branches. She swallowed. There was grit in her throat. She opened her mouth to call out but no sound emerged; her voice was lost to the night air and the silence.

  It’ll mek ’er sick, she thought.

  She took another step forward, half-believing she was caught in some awful dream. The war, the woman, all of it – none of it might be real after all. She would wake up to find herself back in the summer, her hands scratched from the harvest, and this time she wouldn’t mind; she wouldn’t shy away from the early rising or the hard work or the sun beaming down on her head. She would welcome it all.

  She reached out towards where Mrs Hollingworth’s shoulder should be. She was only half-conscious of doing it. She couldn’t make out any features, hadn’t heard anything at all. Her fingers met something cold and smooth. ‘Ma’am?’ Her voice was a whisper. There was no response; the woman didn’t even move. She stayed there a moment, her arm outstretched, just touching the silk of her dress. Then, slowly, she edged around her.

  She could see the paler shape of her face under the veil. She bent closer. Now she could make out the fine black lace, the shining silk of her dress. She didn’t know how she’d dared touch the fabric. She started, when she saw that the woman’s eyes were open. ‘I’m sorry, I—’

  Mrs Hollingworth didn’t move. Aggie stared down, her heart beating so fast that it almost pained her. She could hear her own breath. She could not hear the woman’s.

  No: she must be sleeping, that was all. She forced herself to put out a hand and touch her shoulder once more and very gently shook her. She surely wouldn’t mind – she surely would be grateful to be roused and taken from such a place. She might even be afraid, waking out here on this cold night. She could come back to the farm and her mother would bustle around her, making tea or Horlicks, and everything would be all right.

  The woman’s hands slid forwards, her fingers so cold against Aggie’s own as she tried to steady her, and all at once she knew. Of course she had known; as soo
n as she had found the house empty she should have run all the way back to the farm and light and her mother’s hearth.

  The woman was dead weight in her arms. If she let go, she would fall. Aggie let out a sob at the cold touch on her skin. She saw that the woman’s eyes were huge and dilated, staring sightlessly into her own, and she thrust her away, not caring now if she fell, and she turned and ran.

  The graveyard seemed rougher, the stones appearing suddenly in front of her so that she had to dodge from side to side, and there were mounds everywhere, all of it in tones of silver. There was no one in the world, no one to help her – then she saw the black sketch of the lych-gate and she rushed through it into the lane. Her throat felt raw. She put her head down and ran harder and that was when she hit something like a high wall where no wall should be, except that it was soft and giving and had arms that closed around her, and she screamed as she heard the answering voices calling her back.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Eventually they had to strike a match and never mind the blackout. For a moment her brother’s face was lurid in the light that flickered in Eddie’s hand and then his friend dropped it and she heard him blow on his fingers. ‘We’d better not light another, Aggie,’ he said, his voice gentle.

  She shook her head, then realised they couldn’t see her. She found she didn’t care. Fleetingly, she wished her brother gone, and then everything flooded back. She wanted to cry. She could still feel the touch of the woman’s hands on hers. She didn’t trust herself to speak – and then she heard her brother, soothing her, telling her everything was all right.

  Between deep breaths she told them what she had found, expecting them to comfort her, but instead her brother said something about fetching their father and she was left alone with Eddie after all. She was no longer sure it was what she wanted – she wished she had been the one to run up the lane towards her mother’s kitchen. But then Eddie put a hand on her arm – she jumped when he touched her – and he said, ‘Best get to the side, Aggie. If anyone comes …’

  He was right: if a car came along in the blackout with its headlights masked, anything could happen. She was lucky it hadn’t already. She had a sudden image of loose limbs flipping up and into the windscreen and the shrieking of brakes, but she pushed it away.

  She stood with Eddie and he didn’t speak but she could feel him there, a warm, living presence at her side. She remembered the way he’d lit a match for her, though he could have been fined ten shillings if anyone had seen. She hugged herself, then wiped her fingers against her coat. That touch was still on them: cold – dead. She shivered, and heard Eddie slip off his own coat and place it securely around her shoulders.

  Then she heard her brother’s voice, calling their names, and Eddie hailed him. ‘You’re to come inside,’ he said. ‘Mum wants Aggie indoors. She’s brewing up. Dad’s gone off to your house, Eddie; he wants to use your telephone.’

  *

  They sat at the table sipping cups of tea and no one looked at each other. Aggie’s mum and Will had gone out to meet her father, leaving her alone with Eddie once more. She set down the cup and it rattled against the saucer.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Aggie,’ he said. ‘You did just the right thing. Your dad will see everything’s done as best they can. I wish – I mean, you shouldn’t have had to see—’

  She looked up at him. He was leaving in the morning and for a time she hadn’t even known it; he had told her brother first. No one had thought to tell her. He was going to be with all the rest of them, the boys with the faraway look in their eyes, but for now he was here and he was just Eddie again, the boy she’d known all her life.

  He started to say something else but it turned into a tentative smile, and then he looked down at the table as if he could read something in its scars.

  ‘What is it, Eddie?’

  He half-smiled. ‘I suppose it’s just that sometimes you don’t really see things,’ he said, ‘and then it’s too late.’

  She swallowed. That dry feeling was back in her throat. ‘It’s never—’

  The door opened and she turned to see her brother standing there, his shoulders heaving as he drew in rapid breaths. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘she’s dead.’

  Aggie looked away. Nobody said anything. After a while Will poured himself a cup of tea and pulled out a chair. She couldn’t seem to settle her thoughts. She knew she had been about to answer Eddie, but she had no idea what she would have said. Why did Will have to come back just then?

  Then her brother spoke, and when he did she saw again that he looked older, not the playful, teasing, irritating boy she had always known. ‘I may as well tell you I’ve enlisted, Aggie.’

  She whirled in her seat. ‘You’ve done what?’

  ‘I had to do something. I can’t simply stay here, safe from everything. Someone has to stand, Aggie. Eddie’s going, and I’m going too.’

  ‘But you can’t! It’s impossible – Dad’s going to kill you.’

  For a while he didn’t say anything at all, he just kept staring into his cup, and then he let out a hollow laugh. It wasn’t really funny, but it wasn’t mocking either. She thought he’d say something else, but nothing came. And then she remembered the little bags her mother had been stitching – They can write their names on t’ front, see? – and she started again, ‘Really, you can’t. We need you here, Dad said so. And it’s – I mean – anything could happen.’ She didn’t look at Eddie though she could feel his gaze; she felt as if he had touched her cheek, ever so lightly.

  Will looked up at her and smiled. He gestured towards the door, the outside, the body she’d discovered in the graveyard. ‘There’s death everywhere, Aggie,’ he said. ‘It’s no use waiting till it comes to find you.’

  Then her mother bustled in, all questions, and what her brother had told her was pushed aside.

  CHAPTER NINE

  When Aggie went downstairs the next morning she could see that her mother knew what Will had done. It was there in her tight lips and her pale skin. She barely looked at Aggie. She had let her sleep late and now she saw it wasn’t out of consideration so much as having her thoughts occupied with more important things. Aggie went to the stove. A cold egg lay half-congealed in a pan and she scooped it onto a plate. She sat down at the table and stared at it.

  ‘Doctor called by, afore,’ her mother said. Her voice sounded tired. Older.

  Aggie scooped cold egg white into her mouth and forced herself to swallow. She didn’t want to think about last night, about what had become of the woman. She didn’t want to think of her as Mrs Hollingworth, as if the figure on the bench had been someone she knew. And she didn’t, not really. She only knew her married name, not her own, not even her first name; she didn’t have any real connection with her at all. She wished now that the woman was a long way away, that she’d never even come here, never thought of building the house.

  Then she remembered the way Eddie had sat here at this very table, the way he’d looked at her and spoken to her, how he’d wrapped his coat around her, and her cheeks reddened.

  ‘He said she likely ’ad yew poisoning.’

  Aggie put down her knife and fork, her thoughts banished. ‘Do you mean it’s true, what they said – about her sitting under the yew? That it made her ill?’ But what she was thinking of was not the yew but the bench beneath it, the letters that had been carved there. Perhaps it was those words that poisoned her; maybe it was some kind of punishment.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘No, that’s rubbish – just another story about them trees, that’s all. There’s all sorts o’ tales. But she din’t take sick from sitting there. She’d etten it.’

  ‘Etten it?’

  ‘Aye, leaves and berries and seeds an’ all, by the looks o’ things. Awful business. The doctor said it would ’ave finished ’er off in no time: it made her lips turn blue and her eyes go wide-open an’ her ’eart give out.’

  Her eyes go wide-open. Yes, it had. Aggie shuddered at the memory. When
she looked up again, her mother was staring down at the floor as if she were seeing some memory of her own; and she remembered something she’d said. As if reading her mind, her mother let out a spurt of a laugh. ‘You know, those old stories,’ she said, ‘about the trees – some say they spread their roots ’round the graveyard to stop them who’s buried there from coming back to the world. Others say that putting yew on a grave ’elps a soul find the other side. Some—’ She paused, and then went on, ‘Some tell as ’ow it makes gateways. There’s one about ’ow people eatin’ yew – they get to see the other place. The after place. An’ then they come back.’

  She turned to her sewing basket and took out some pieces of fabric, spreading them in front of her. ‘So that showed them, I ’spose,’ she said. ‘’Appen she did see the afterlife all right. But there in’t no way she’s coming back again.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Aggie walked slowly across the field, enjoying the sensation of the breeze in her face. She turned and Jack the dog gave a little jump; he looked as if he was grinning. She smiled at him. Her limbs ached and her hands were sore, but it didn’t matter. She was almost at the boundary of the farm now. She wondered how Eddie’s family were coping on the next one. Another of his brothers had gone for the Air Force and she’d heard his dad had taken on Land Girls to help. She frowned. If she’d joined the Women’s Land Army she’d have had fresh new breeches and a little felt hat with a fancy badge on it, and when she went into the village she’d have looked as if she was really doing something for the war. But it didn’t matter. She had been doing things she never thought she’d be doing, driving the cart, managing deliveries, topping beets, cutting logs for burning. It was something different from dusting, and her father kept saying as how she’d done a ‘grand job’, although there was a sad look in his eyes when he said it. Still, the work was making her stronger. She even felt like she stood a little taller. Much of her spare time went on helping her mother knit blankets or sew more of those little bags, but just now she had a little reprieve, some rare time to herself, and it was nice to be up here, away from everything. She looked right across the tops of the rolling hills, dotted with trees that were losing their foliage. It seemed so short a time since the end of summer and yet so long ago, and now autumn too was beginning to fade. So much was changing and yet she was still here. It wasn’t what she’d imagined. She’d thought one day she’d go far away, see whatever there was to see, leaving her brother to take over the farm. Now he was the one far away, seeing – what? Things, she supposed, that she never wanted to look upon.