The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  Eddie, she thought.

  She shook her head. No, he would come back too, and perhaps he would talk to her again the way he had the night before he had left. She knew she shouldn’t hope – they’d never even kissed. He was fancy-free; he hadn’t said anything to her at all, not really – but she couldn’t help but think she might have a life waiting for her, one other than this.

  She shook her head. She had to stop thinking of it. Whenever she felt hope rising for Eddie or her brother she felt she was betraying one or the other, as if the woman in her dark veil had summoned one of them to her and it was up to Aggie to make the choice.

  *

  In church, it was impossible to think of anything other than the war. It was there in the vicar’s solemn tones as he prayed for all their young men, all their brothers, and they rose to their feet to sing ‘Eternal Father, Strong to Save’. It was there in Mrs Marsden’s face; her son had gone for a sailor back in May. His knees had always been scabbed from cricket – he was a natural fielder, though his long limbs had made him look like a gangling calf as he ran. Now he was gone, sunk on the HMS Rawalpindi between the Faroes and Iceland, hopelessly outgunned by German warships. Mrs Marsden choked under the words and everyone else just kept on and on. They sang of the raging waters and the indifferent waves and Aggie couldn’t help but think of the cold; huge and endless, a cold that would swallow a lost boy so easily and sink deep inside and last forever.

  She glanced aside and saw Mrs Marsden was the only one still sitting, rocking herself with her hands pressed to her eyes. Mrs Pinchbeck stood next to her and she was singing, but her hand was gripping Mrs Marsden’s shoulder. Aggie’s mother nudged her in the ribs. She hadn’t taken her own eyes from her hymn book, but Aggie knew she was aware of everything. She tried to focus on the song but she stumbled over the words. She didn’t need to look around the pews to see the empty spaces: Peter Ackroyd was gone, with his freckles and red hair; Daniel, his brother, who always irritated her by kicking at his pew; Stephen Smith, who had once called Aggie ‘loose’ because she’d tried on Nella Tunstall’s lipstick. Now Nella was here but her brother was not. Her father was gone too. There was only her mother and her gran, who rarely attended because of her health, but she was here now.

  The song ended and everyone began to sit down again. The shuffling and knocking subsided and for a second all that could be heard was Mrs Marsden’s dry sobbing. Aggie pressed her lips together. She glanced at her mother’s hands, still holding her hymn book, so tightly her knuckles were the colour of bone. Before she could think, she had reached out and grasped them. Her mother’s hands curled around her own, gripping hard. She did not let go.

  Aggie closed her eyes, suddenly wanting to cry, but she knew she could not. If she did, her mother would cry too, and her mother couldn’t cry here in front of everyone; she would hate it. She would believe she’d never live it down. And perhaps it would jump from one of them to the next and they would all give in, and the thing that was always threatening to swallow them would have won. She thought of the first Mrs Hollingworth, wearing her mourning dress, sitting on her bench. She had only gone a little ahead of them, after all: perhaps she had simply been the first to sense the darkness that had come.

  Her mother squeezed her hand and let go at last and Aggie stared down at it. The backs were still browned from the summer. Her palms were callused, her skin dry. Then everyone was standing. It was over. As they turned to leave she leaned over and whispered, ‘I’m just going for a little air,’ and she hurried towards the door ahead of her mother.

  She emerged into the cold. She didn’t catch anyone’s eye and she didn’t stop, she just walked away from them all, turning the corner and striding away up the path through the graveyard. She didn’t need to look where she was going and she didn’t want to see ahead of her; she wasn’t sure if it would be better to know if someone was waiting for her there, or if the sight of the woman would steal her resolution away. The frost was letting go of the land now, though it still crackled and hissed where the grass lay deepest. She could see the shadow of Mire House in the corner of her eye and she realised she hadn’t seen the Hollingworths in church. Too hoity-toity to be with the rest of them perhaps, to offer a neighbourly hand – someone to grip your shoulder when the unthinkable came. Well, the unthinkable would not visit them. Her home had always been full of noise and chatter and life and she couldn’t imagine it being any different.

  The grass was a vivid green against the stone, a sign of life clinging on, resisting the cold. She stomped down harder, crushing the blades. The house lay to her right, dark and silent, and the tree was ahead of her. She stopped when she reached the edge of its shadow. It moved at her feet, stretching and retreating as if trying to draw her in. She couldn’t hear anything and she couldn’t sense anyone but when she looked up she thought she saw a woman’s straight back. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe – then she saw it was only a drift of fallen needles.

  After a moment she settled onto the cold stone, smoothing down her dress against her legs. She tried to imagine what Mrs Hollingworth had been thinking of as she stared down at the house. She wouldn’t have guessed there was anyone inside. It wasn’t full of laughter, she realised now. It hadn’t been filled with life when the children came. They were hollow-eyed and confused and missing their parents, and the woman who lived there would not comfort them. The life was being sapped from them already.

  She looked up into the pale blue sky. It had been different when the first Mrs Hollingworth had come here. She must have been thinking about the baby, perhaps wondering how many she would have to fill the empty rooms, wondering what her life would be like. Now there was only this, a forsaken bench in a forsaken place, and Aggie felt the sadness of it. Her anger was evaporating into the air; she only felt like crying.

  Then she remembered her brother and his friend and she pushed herself up. ‘You can’t have them,’ she said, and her words hung there, hollow and empty, smothered by the tree’s heavy branches, but there was nothing and no one to hear her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Her first thought was that it didn’t look like Tom at all. The morning was frost-coated and the colour had leached from the world. Everything was pale and shining and silent. Aggie couldn’t even hear the cluck of a hen. She was glad to be outside. Her mum had been quiet over breakfast. Will’s usual letter hadn’t come and every time she looked at her Aggie had to swallow down the fear. But she didn’t know anything, did she? A child had made up a story and that was all. As soon as Will wrote, the fear would come loose. She would be free of it. Now, just as she’d been thinking of the child, there was this: a flash of golden hair disappearing around the side of the barn.

  Her first thought was, He’s playing sardines. Her next was: How did his hair grow back so quickly?

  But she had caught only the briefest glimpse: enough to see he had been grinning at her, as if he had decided to be friends again, and the thought warmed her. It was good to see him outside, banishing the memory of his half-lit skull as he sat on the stairs. Now he looked exactly what he was, a young boy exploring, his cheeks rosy from the cold. She had said he could come and see the animals and here he was, too shy to greet her.

  She stepped carefully across the yard, the ice splintering under her boots. She put out a hand to steady herself against the rough wooden wall. The ice was thicker here, and slippery. It was odd that Tom had been able to move so quickly, but that was the way with children; they felt no fear. She looked around the corner, bracing herself for his teasing shout, but there was nothing there but a trail of footprints leading away, catching splinters of light where he’d shattered the ice under his feet. She looked towards the yard. She hadn’t finished her work but it would surely wait a little longer. She walked after him, around the side of the fold. It was a little warmer against the wall and she could hear the animals shifting in the straw on the other side. When she reached the edge it was suddenly colder. She couldn’t see the child a
t all now, but there was a sound coming from the lane: a quick high giggle.

  He was playing a game. She should probably ignore him and get on with her day but she remembered the look he’d given her when they’d been nutting and instead she hurried after him. The lane was empty save for a flash of movement disappearing around the curve of the road. She thought of telling her mother where she was going – but why should she? She could take care of the animals and drive the cart and plant the fields. She wasn’t a child any longer.

  She pursed up her lips. Why should she follow him? He wasn’t her responsibility. She wasn’t sure she even liked him. Then she thought of Antonia Hollingworth crossing her arms over her thin chest, the fox fur curled around her neck, and she went on. She wasn’t sure she believed the woman’s words any longer about doing what one can and providing a refuge. She was beginning to suspect she hadn’t volunteered to take care of the boys at all: her nephews had been foisted on her, one by a sister and one by her husband, and as for Hal and Tom – they’d probably been forced on her by the local billeting officer.

  She hurried down the lane, catching herself when her feet slipped, pulling her scarf tighter. She didn’t see him again until there was a flash of something golden entering the path where the hazels grew. She frowned and thought again of Mrs Hollingworth. Even if she didn’t like the children being in her house she couldn’t imagine her allowing him to run wild like this, away from the others, getting his clothes dirty. Whatever would she say? Aggie would have to find him and take him back – perhaps then she wouldn’t be so snooty, rubbing her hands together as if brushing off something distasteful.

  She moved faster when she saw a dark footprint in the ice at the foot of the path. It was muddy beneath but she didn’t care about that; she was dressed for mud, not like Mrs Hollingworth, not like some fine lady. No, she was probably too busy, sitting in state in her fancy drawing room, having tea brought in on a silver platter. She still couldn’t see him though. What on earth was he doing? She thought he’d be hiding in the hedgerow, his golden hair tangled in the twigs. There was another thin trace of a giggle, fainter now, and she wasn’t quite sure she’d really heard it.

  Her curiosity was hardening into anger. She didn’t have time to spare to go chasing after other people’s children. Instead of presenting the boy at the door of Mire House she imagined herself dragging him up the driveway by the ear.

  She reached the end of the path where everything widened into a spread of frozen reeds which rustled and tapped against each other. The boy was standing on the bridge that crossed the worst of the soft ground. His hand was on the rail. He didn’t grin at her and he didn’t look triumphant; he just appeared to be waiting. As soon as he saw her, he whirled and was gone, the reeds quivering as he disappeared into them.

  Aggie scowled and shouted, ‘Tom! Come out here this minute.’

  There was no movement, and silence came back, filling the space as her words faded.

  ‘Tom?’ She didn’t like the way she sounded now, hesitant and weak. She shouted his name louder but there was still no reply. She couldn’t leave him, not here. It wasn’t safe. She’d never been allowed to play by the river when she was young.

  She looked down at the splintery shine of ice on the concrete and then she went after him, her footsteps ringing out on the bridge. She paused. Had she heard Tom’s footsteps when he’d run across? She didn’t think she had.

  Now there was laughter coming from the water’s edge and she frowned again. She wasn’t going to call him; she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. As she pushed aside the reeds the dry dead stems crackled. Her hands reddened and her cheeks felt pinched. The reeds were all around her and when she turned she could no longer see the clearing. She could smell the water though, a faintly metallic tang. Her next step broke the thin surface of the ice and she sank into it, brown sludge seeping around her boots. Tom only wore shoes, didn’t he? He would be freezing. He would ruin them and Mrs Hollingworth would be furious and it would serve him right.

  She listened, but there was still no sound. She scanned the reeds, watching for his breath rising into the air, but she couldn’t see it. She was sinking deeper, so she pulled her foot free with a squelch. The boy could easily get stuck in here. She couldn’t go back without him. She took another step and the water rose to her ankles. It was cold, even through her boots. She pulled away, grasping the reeds as she swayed, then she moved quickly, trying to take each step before the mud could suck her down. She must be almost in the water by now. Her anger was dissipating. What if he had got stuck? She opened her mouth to call his name, sure he would answer this time, but as she did she pushed through another thick clump of reeds and saw what lay on the other side.

  She had expected that shock of golden hair, but it wasn’t like that. The boy was colourless. His hair barely softened the shape of his skull and his already pale skin was whitened by the frost. Even his eyes had faded. They were wide open and staring. They did not blink. He did not stir and he did not look at her and he didn’t close his eyes.

  His eyes, she thought, closing her own, and then she stumbled away, gagging, clawing at the reeds so that she felt them digging into her palms, as she fought her way back towards solid ground.

  *

  The child was dead – he had been dead for some time. That was all Aggie could take in. She wasn’t sure what she’d said when she’d raised the alarm but people kept arriving, the constable and the doctor among them, and eventually, Mrs Hollingworth. She wore only a thin coat and she kept clutching at it with her bony fingers. She was flanked by Mrs Appleby – Eddie’s mother – and Aggie’s mum, who both stood quietly and let her talk non-stop, her lipsticked mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. Her eyes were wide and incredulous and she did not blink. Aggie’s discomfort grew as she looked at them. The woman must be wondering how the boy had managed to get out of the house and up here all alone. She must be blaming herself, thinking of how she should have taken care of him – she should have been with him; done something.

  A squeal cut through the air, making Aggie think of the curlew’s call and of what it meant; then she realised it wasn’t a bird but a child. It was Arthur. He too had come here alone and he ran towards the marsh, his eyes fixed on what had been found there. His face was pale. Aggie put out a hand as if to stop him and then Mrs Appleby stepped forward and grabbed him around the shoulders. He fought, all the while shouting something. At first it was inarticulate, and then she heard Tom’s name, and then, ‘It was me she wanted. Me. I told Tom – I told him, but he wouldn’t listen …’ and he started to sob. This time when Mrs Appleby tried to lead him away, he let her. She headed for the path and Aggie saw the boy hadn’t come alone after all. Clarence was there too. She saw the expression on his face and caught her breath. His hands were clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed, and when he saw Arthur coming towards him, he whirled around and he ran.

  Aggie’s gaze went to Mrs Hollingworth. She saw that the woman hadn’t looked at her nephew at all; she hadn’t so much as glanced in his direction.

  Aggie closed her eyes. She remembered standing on a slope not far from here, amid the crooked stones of the graveyard, and she remembered what she’d said: You can’t have them. She had felt as if she was making a choice between Will and Eddie, and no matter how foolish the idea, it felt more than ever that she had made a choice. She had been so occupied with doing something for her brother and his friend, those whose fates she couldn’t possibly affect, when instead she should have been helping the one she could. And now a child was lying dead in the cold, his last breath taken, his eyes seeing nothing in this world any longer. He was miles from his home. He never had a chance to live. He hadn’t even been able to look upon his mother’s face as he passed.

  She remembered what he’d said to her: That ’un what wears black … She dun’t like me. I dun’t think she likes the others, neither.

  Aggie turned to face the graveyard, but it was blocked by the sight of
Mrs Hollingworth, still talking and talking. She frowned. At least she had sat with Tom when he spoke of his fears in the little cupboard in Mire House. She had comforted him, hadn’t she? There was that, at least. She had done her best.

  But she had told him that the woman he’d seen didn’t mean him any harm. That he would be safe. She’d practically told him to go with her. She closed her eyes and the echoes of voices rang in her ears:

  Does that other ’un want to keep us safe, an’ all?

  It was me she wanted. Me. I told Tom – I told him, but he

  wouldn’t listen …

  She was wavin’ us ower, last time.

  No children, not ever.

  Not ever.

  She shivered. She should have told him to run. She should have said, Get as far away from her as you can. She should have told them all: Arthur, after all, was a relative of the wife who had replaced her. He was right, he must have been the one she had wanted to take to the mire. Now Tom had gone instead.

  She closed her eyes. She knew the first Mrs Hollingworth was still there. The dark woman was still reaching out to take what she wanted, to make her will felt from whatever empty place she lived now, and Aggie should have told the boys not to even look at her, not to listen if she called to them, not to let her put her cold hand on their shoulders. Now here was Tom, being carried limp and lifeless from the mire, no need to be frightened any more because it was too late for that. It was too late for anything any longer. And it was all her fault.

  She thought she heard Mrs Hollingworth say her name and she opened her eyes and her head snapped around, anxious to think of something else, anything else, and she saw that the woman had stopped talking at last; she was standing there, her mouth hanging open as if her words had been cut off mid-flow. She just stared at Aggie, stared at her guilt, until Aggie was forced to look away.