The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  She stood there a little longer. The lone cry of a curlew pierced the air. She half-closed her eyes. Her mother had told her once it was a bad omen, the curlew’s call: sailor folk said its wailing was a warning from a drowned friend. She felt a passing relief that it wasn’t the Navy Eddie had joined and then she shook the thought away – thank goodness for Will too – but, really, it hadn’t been her brother’s face she had been thinking of. She touched her cheek, remembering the way that Eddie had looked at her. What might he have said to her if Will had not come in? But it was too late to dwell on it now.

  She looked down into the valley and realised she could see the chimneys of the big house from where she stood. She walked a little further so that she could see into the driveway: a car was parked on it, close by the porch. As she watched, someone stepped out. It was a man in a trilby; she couldn’t see his face. She thought she could hear the metallic sound as he shut the door behind him. He tilted back his head and stared up at the windows. Even without seeing his face, she felt certain it was no one she knew. Her heart began to beat a little more quickly. She supposed she should be glad, but instead she didn’t really know what she felt. She remembered her girlish excitement at the thought of being a maid in such a fine house, of working for someone, of being all grown up. It felt so distant now, as if those feelings had belonged to someone else. Now her hands were rough and she had calluses on her palms and she didn’t care. It occurred to her that if she’d gone for a maid she would have been black-leading the grates and emptying the commodes and scrubbing the steps and her hands would have been ruined anyway. Now she didn’t have to slave away in service; she had work, but it was all right. And at least the farm was theirs.

  She looked back to see the man walking around the car and putting out a hand to assist someone from the passenger side. It was a tall, straight woman, her hair swept back neatly under her hat, and Aggie thought she was wearing a fox-fur stole. She let out her breath. A part of her had been expecting to see her, back the way she was at the beginning, big with child and full of hope; and then the two of them walked towards the house and vanished inside. They appeared to be alone. There were no children.

  Nothing else happened and she looked instead towards the church. She could see the upper reaches of the graveyard and it looked quiet and empty, a place where nothing ever happened. The yew stood proud, its branches a thick crown. She narrowed her eyes. In the shadows beneath it the old twisted tree limbs were confusing to the eye; for a moment it had almost looked as if someone was sitting there, quite motionless, so that they blended with the shape of the tree.

  *

  ‘Bold as brass she was,’ her mother said, bashing down her pastry with her rolling pin, sending flour flying from the pine table. ‘Already! I know folk are quick to wed in wartime, but you’d think he’d ’ave waited a little longer.’

  She glanced at Aggie. ‘Wanted to know if we’d ’eard of any good servants. I ask you! Anyone’d think they didn’t know there’s a war on.’

  She didn’t seem to see the contradiction in what she’d said, but Aggie wasn’t about to point it out. She couldn’t help be curious about the newcomer. Had she really stolen Mr Hollingworth’s affections before his first wife died? Thinking of the previous wife’s coldness, she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy.

  ‘She was asking about eggs. I told ’er they’d need their coupons. I can’t just go sneaking things on the hush-hush, not wi’ them bein’ new, an’ all.’

  Her father grunted. ‘’S prob’ly the on’y reason she called. They sound like snooties to me.’

  ‘Well, snooties or not, at least she was being neighbourly.’ Now her father had joined in, it was as if she wanted a reason to argue. ‘An’ it’ll make a change to have that place full.’

  ‘Not that full.’

  ‘No, well, I dare say they’ll rattle about in it. It’s still a wicked waste o’ rooms.’

  ‘No children?’ Aggie hadn’t thought to say the words out loud, but now they hung in the air.

  ‘Of course, no children.’ Her mother turned on her. ‘What did you think? ’E’s been quick but ’e in’t that quick, at least I jolly well ’ope not.’ She turned the pastry and bashed it again. ‘An it dun’t sound like ’e’s stoppin’ round ’ere, anyways. Runs a fact’ry in London, so I dare say ’e won’t be about much.’

  Aggie thought of the new wife, alone in the big house, and shuddered.

  ‘That woman named the place too, apparently, before she went.’

  Aggie started: it was as if her mother had been thinking the same thing.

  ‘Not a nice name, either: Mire House it is now. I dare say ’e won’t change it neither, it bein’ ’er last wish an’ all.’

  ‘Bad ground, that,’ her dad remarked.

  Aggie frowned. Had that really been the woman’s last wish? She thought of the things she’d said to her: No laughter, no light, no life in that house … And no children, not ever. Somehow, she thought that naming the house had been the least of it.

  ‘She said she’d be ’aving a soirée before long.’ Her mother’s nose wrinkled over the word. ‘A soirée. Fancy that. Can you imagine?’

  Aggie straightened. She opened her mouth to protest, to remind her mother that they all needed a diversion, a reason to forget about the war and the work and their worries and simply laugh, perhaps even dance, just for a while; and then she saw her expression and she closed it again.

  Soirée, she thought, replaying the sound of the word as her mother talked, trying to smother the smile that was threatening to break out on her face.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Aggie no longer liked to walk past the graveyard alone. No matter how she tried to keep her eyes fixed on the lane she couldn’t help but look up through the gravestones towards the yew tree. A little part of her remained convinced that the first Mrs Hollingworth would still be sitting there, staring out at nothing, but of course she was never there. The seat was empty. She had never seen anyone sitting in that particular spot and she supposed now that it was abandoned. There was no one to look upon the words that had been written there, and she was glad of it.

  And the house – Mire House as it was now – had people in it again. She sometimes heard voices drifting through the open windows, what she thought of as smart voices, not-from-round-here voices. She still hadn’t really seen the new wife, despite her curious glances. There was no news of the ‘soirée’. Perhaps even now they might be preparing for it, polishing glasses and winding the gramophone. There had been more talk in the village of them asking for servants, but everyone who might have done it had either enlisted or volunteered. Even the girls had gone for the W.V.S. or the Land Army or best of all, to the envy of the rest, the smartly dressed Wrens. They had choices aplenty now. Sometimes Aggie felt she was the only one who had been left behind, the only one whose options had actually been reduced by the war.

  You will never be content. You shall never be happy.

  She pushed the thought away. Anyway, thinking about the war meant wondering about Eddie or Will, and she didn’t want to do that, not now. She certainly didn’t want her mind to turn to the enemy, firing their bullets or releasing gases that choked and blinded. She pulled a face. They were supposed to carry their gasmasks everywhere and the box was hanging at her side now from its piece of string, its weight so familiar she had almost forgotten it was there.

  She paused in her walk down the lane and looked at Mire House. The car parked in the driveway was a highly polished Daimler. The building looked just the same as it always had, but she thought she could see the glint of a crystal chandelier in the front room. Despite that, it still gave the impression of being abandoned, as if it had an emptiness that could never be filled.

  And then she started, because she realised that someone was looking back at her. A small figure was standing on the edge of the lawn. She didn’t know how she had failed to notice it before because it had bright golden curls crowning its head. She looke
d more closely and realised it was a boy. He wore ragged grey shorts and a shirt that had possibly once been white and a V-neck pully over the top – even from here she could see that it was full of holes. There was something pinned to the front of it, a piece of paper with lettering on it. His face was pale and streaked; it looked as if he had been crying.

  He didn’t look away, just kept on staring until it was past the point of rudeness. Aggie realised she was staring too. She opened her mouth to greet him, but somehow she didn’t speak. She knew at once that he had come from somewhere else, a different world to the one she knew. Then a voice rang out: ‘Now where is that other one? Come along child, it’s your turn.’ The voice was raised and irritated and smart, and before she had known she was going to move, Aggie stepped back behind the gatepost.

  She peered out again in time to see the boy being pulled inside, a tall woman with light brown hair grasping his sleeve with blood-red fingertips. Aggie breathed a sigh of relief, then smiled at herself. She actually found herself thinking, Thank goodness he is real. What had she expected? They had taken in an evacuee, that was all. Her mother would be glad of that. Then she remembered the words, your turn, and she realised there must be others. So there would be children at Mire House after all.

  She remembered the woman’s words, as cold as the press of her hands: No children.

  But these were somebody else’s children, she argued against the voice. They would only be here for a short time, just to make sure they were safe. Surely no one would begrudge them that.

  No children, not ever.

  Not ever.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Aggie heard the music before the house was even in sight. She tried to remember what the tune was called as her mother tugged at her arm. She stumbled against the grass verge; the name slipped away from her and she pulled a face her mother couldn’t see. It was pitch-dark and she was wearing her best clothes, the organdie dress with the little blue flowers and puffed sleeves, and her hair was perfectly curled. But it still wasn’t right. She remembered staring into the mirror, trying to see that shining hair and not the mole just by her lip, and then she’d shrugged and applied the only lipstick she owned – a tiny stub of Tangee an old school friend had given her.

  When she’d gone downstairs, her mother had grunted something about good-time girls and held out a cloth. She hadn’t needed to say anything else. The colour had come off on the bleach-smelling fabric and Aggie’s mouth now felt dry and cracked. She’d wanted to complain but her mother had held out her coat and they’d extinguished the lights before stepping outside.

  Still, at least they were really going, and it was an actual party. The thought of the ‘little mites’ at Mire House had done much to soften her mother’s feelings towards its residents. If only Aggie had a little lipstick or some other make-up to make her look presentable; to make her look as if she might be worth dancing with.

  At that thought an image of Eddie rose before her and she wondered if this was the place in the lane that she’d run into him, or this, or this. She might be standing on the very spot where he had wrapped his arms around her, but then she saw the dark outline of the house and she realised that no, she must have passed it already, without even realising. As they turned in at the gate, to bring her all the way back to reality, a fine mizzle began to drift like mist out of the dark sky.

  She looked up. There were only a few stars tonight, and she couldn’t make out any clouds, though she knew they must be there, blanking out the rest. The house was dark too; the new Mrs Hollingworth clearly had no need of help to manage the blackout. The windows were as blank as – as a dead woman’s eyes, Aggie thought, and she pushed the idea away.

  Another brief strain of music escaped and she recognised the simple, lilting refrain of ‘Run Rabbit Run’ before it was gone. It was followed by a peal of trilling laughter before that too was cut off.

  Her mother pulled her arm even tighter. ‘Stop dilly-dallying about,’ she said. Aggie wrinkled her nose but didn’t reply. Her mother had on a heavy woollen skirt and the best stockings she owned, but they were still yellowed and baggy. Her blouse was old – she had ‘made it good as new’, so she said, by stitching a new front onto the back of an old one. Can’t she see where they don’t match? Anyone could. They’d see and they’d laugh at them. They would probably never even have been invited if they didn’t live so close by and if they didn’t have a farm. When he’d heard about the invitation, her father had said, Any farmer can find a friend in wartime. His voice had a bitter tone when he said that. She hadn’t been surprised when he’d said he wasn’t coming.

  They started up the drive and her mother let go of her arm and went on in front, knocking far too loudly on the big front door. After a moment it opened onto darkness. ‘Come in, come in,’ a woman’s voice said: ‘We do need to mind the blackout, you know.’

  They stepped inside and the door closed behind them. Another opened and light and sound flooded out. A tripping jazz tune brought a smile to Aggie’s lips and she found herself tapping her foot along to it as her mother talked. She couldn’t think what had got into her, pushing out words at the hostess as if she’d never shut up: about how nice it was to be invited and what a lovely room and how her husband was indisposed, just as if they were friends, and the woman – Mrs Hollingworth – nodded and glanced over her shoulder as if she couldn’t wait to get away.

  Aggie looked about her. The room was fine. A crystal chandelier hung above it all and there was grand-looking furniture polished to a gleam, unlike their battered things at the farm. It was positioned oddly, pushed into corners or against the walls, and hope rose within her: it must be meant for dancing. Except that nobody was; people stood about in little clusters, chatting and laughing. Apparently no one worried about a scandalously hasty marriage when a party was in the offing. With dismay she realised she knew almost every single one of the other guests, and that most of them were women. She saw them all the time at the volunteer centre or in the shops or at church. She knew from Sunday mornings that they were wearing their best dresses now; some had little white gloves; one or two had fur stoles around their necks.

  ‘Nice to ’ear about the evacuees, Mrs ’Ollingworth,’ her mother was saying. ‘Nice to see the place wi’ a bit o’ life in it.’

  Mrs Hollingworth laughed, sweeping a glass of pink gin from the sideboard and passing her mother a tiny glass of sherry. Her nails clicked against it: they were long and Cutex-red and perfect, and Aggie saw with envy that her lipstick matched. She glanced around; she appeared to be the only one who had matching lips and nails.

  ‘Do please call me Antonia.’

  ‘Lovely that you’re taking good care of them. Just lovely.’

  ‘Oh goodness, you would not have believed. They were filthy. So filthy! I had to scrub them in carbolic, and even then, one of them insisted the dirt didn’t come off. He really thought it never did! Quite tinker-class, apart from my nephew, naturally. And their hair … I never used so much insect powder in my life. Never! Well, in the end, I had to cut it off. Blond hair and blue eyes, I’d told them especially, I do so like blond hair and blue eyes, and now it’s all gone.’ She sipped at her drink, leaving a greasy red crescent on the rim. Then she looked out across the room and raised her hand as if she were greeting someone new, and with the jingling of bracelets she floated away.

  Aggie frowned. She hadn’t heard of one of the evacuees being a relation – but still, it was only a nephew, only temporary. She looked at her mother, who blinked and sipped at her sherry before noticing a contingent of ladies from the church flower-arranging rota and she too drifted away.

  The music changed, a quick-step this time, but still no one was dancing. She glanced towards the table where the glasses stood and thought of pouring her own sherry, imagining her mother’s scandalised shriek. She’d be marched home quicker than she could – quick-step. She pulled a face.

  She could still hear Mrs Hollingworth – Antonia – talking, even f
rom the other side of the room. Her voice was shrill and carried easily across the hubbub. ‘Oh my, yes, isn’t it an awful colour? Green, I ask you! Frightfully dull.’ Aggie realised she was talking about the walls and she looked about again. The colour was calm, restful. Perhaps that was the reason Mrs Hollingworth didn’t like it. Perhaps she merely wished to eradicate any trace of the woman who had chosen it.

  Behind the door through which she’d entered was another table and she saw that this one was laden with slices of cake. She sauntered over there, her skirt swinging against her legs in time with the rhythm. She had so hoped for dancing and now there was only this. She could have cried with disappointment.

  The Victoria sponge didn’t look promising but she tried it anyway and pulled a face before she could stop herself. There was hardly any sugar and it was chewy in the middle, nothing like her mother’s. She resisted the urge to spit it out. No wonder the woman needed servants if this was how she made cake. Now it was in her hand, though, she’d have to finish it or her mother would accuse her of being sinful. Food was food and cake was cake. She swallowed the heavy stuff and then she nearly did spit it out when the tablecloth brushed against her legs.

  She stared down at it, then bent and lifted one corner. For a moment everything was grey and then she made out the white rims of a little boy’s eyes. She blinked. His head was a shaven dome and it took her a moment to realise that it was the child she’d seen in the garden with his beautiful curls, awaiting his ‘turn’. Now nothing about him had any colour; it was as if he had been formed from the shadows.