The Unquiet House

by Alison Littlewood

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That woman, her mother said, afterwards. Years later Aggie would look back and realise her mother had never named Antonia Hollingworth, not ever again. Even long after Aggie had forgiven her, after she’d come to her once more looking for help and she had agreed to give it and had spent all the free time she could muster showing her how to cook and clean and run the very house that Mrs Hollingworth was coming to detest, she was always that woman in her mother’s eyes.

  ‘She’s got a bloody cheek.’

  Aggie shifted in her seat. She was sitting at the big old kitchen table, one hand curled around a cup of tea. She had watched her mother scoop three precious teaspoons full of sugar into it and stir.

  ‘She might talk lovely, but she’s got nowt good to say. Wanted to know all about it, she did. ’Ow you found ’im, ’ow you knew the boy was there, just as if …’

  She tuned out her mother’s voice and took a sip of the scalding liquid.

  ‘As if she shouldn’t ’ave known ’e were missing ’ersen. Shouldn’t she!’

  Aggie nodded dumbly.

  ‘It weren’t no one else’s business to watch ’im, an’ there she was sayin’ things about other folk …’

  Aggie let her talk. She could still see Mrs Hollingworth’s face in her mind, her accusatory expression. Her mother paused and she realised she had asked her something. She blinked.

  ‘Well, love? ’Ow did you – ’ow did you know where ’e was?’

  Aggie paused. She did not know how to answer her mother’s question in a way that would stop her from looking at her like that. She only knew that it was all her fault. She remembered her own expression when Mrs Hollingworth had turned on her, the guilt that must have been written across her face. But then it had been replaced by something else. Mrs Hollingworth’s accusatory stare had faded until all there was left was recognition and then fear. And Aggie realised that Mrs Hollingworth knew she hadn’t done anything wrong, that all Aggie had done was see something she couldn’t possibly have seen, and there was only one way the woman could have realised that: because she had seen something impossible herself, or someone. Someone who was watching her home, and the new wife living in it, watching as she took her place. Aggie hadn’t felt dislike for Mrs Hollingworth then, nor disgust nor anything like it, not any longer; she had felt pity.

  The room was silent. Her mother must still be waiting for an answer, one she didn’t have. There was no way she could possibly explain. Aggie looked up but found that her mother wasn’t looking at her after all; she had turned to face the window. Her head was tilted to one side.

  ‘Mum?’

  She didn’t turn and Aggie pushed herself up and went to her. She looked into her mother’s face and saw that her eyes were staring and yet unfocused, as if she was seeing something she could not believe. She shifted her gaze and saw the telegraph boy from the village. He was standing in the yard. He had walked a few steps onto the cobbles but now he was just standing there, staring down at the envelope he held in his hands. He took a deep breath and started walking again and then he saw them standing at the window and he stopped.

  Aggie’s mother’s hand was resting on the side of the sink. It began to shake. An odd sound filled the air and Aggie realised it was coming from her mother. That frightened her more than anything; she had never heard her make such a sound, had never heard anyone make a sound like that. The cold had taken hold of her. She hadn’t been aware of it but now it pierced her and chilled her right to the core.

  Three sharp raps rang out. Her mother started to bat at the air as if it were some physical thing that was coming: something she could ward away. Aggie couldn’t move – she didn’t need to; she could see it all already. The paper would open and the words would be written – my painful duty to inform you – and there would be nothing ever again, her brother would be gone, the rooms would be empty, there would be no noise and no life in them.

  She didn’t think she could move but she strode to the door and held out her hand. The boy put the telegram into it and she kept her eyes fixed on him as he touched his cap. He opened his mouth to speak and then he saw her face and instead he turned and walked away, because he could do that; he could leave this all behind.

  She stepped into the yard. She knew it was cold but she couldn’t feel it any longer. Her legs felt weak and she stumbled across the cobbles, stopping only when she reached the gate. She could see the church. Its bells hadn’t rung since war was declared but she felt they were ringing now; there was a clangour in her ears that wouldn’t stop. Her fingers opened and something fell from her hand: the paper. She could barely remember what it was. Everything had happened already; she didn’t need ink on paper to tell her that. She could see it in the eyes of the woman who was walking towards the house, down the lane, her gait uncertain, as if there were no strength in her legs either. Mrs Appleby wasn’t wearing a coat and her hair was escaping her scarf. Eddie’s mother staggered a little as she saw Aggie waiting.

  Aggie’s whole body jerked. Tears were coming now, she could feel them. The day was cold and empty and that was all there was. Her brother was gone and so was Eddie. They probably had been all along. She thought how stupid she had been: what a silly little girl to think she could have changed their fate. It had been decided as soon as the woman had reached for them, her touch death, its conduit into the world, spreading from her and the house and the country and the war, come in all its forms to put its cold hand on them all.

  *

  Later, they sat at the table. Her mother put food down in front of them and Aggie knew that no one wanted to eat but they did anyway. The meat was dry but they swallowed it down and nobody spoke. The quiet spread between them, filling the empty spaces. Aggie could feel it: a solid, choking thing. At last she stood and started to gather the plates. The clatter couldn’t mask the silence beneath it. Then she realised there was another sound after all, a muted gasping, and she looked around and saw it was coming from her father. His eyes were scrunched tight and his cheeks were wet; his shoulders shook, the dry, pained gasps of someone who never cried.

  Aggie stood there with the dirty plates in her hands and she couldn’t look away. She knew that her mother was watching too. Her mother wasn’t crying; she was beyond that, she had already cried until there was nothing left inside. Aggie’s hands started to shake and she set the plates back down on the table. It took a long time for her father to steady himself and then he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and his nose with his sleeve and he blinked as if he’d just woken up.

  ‘We shall have to bear it,’ he said. His voice was small, a cracked and broken thing. ‘We shall have to. An’ he – he’s only gone on afore,’ he added. ‘We’ll all—’ He took a deep breath and stared down at the table. ‘We all go into silence in the end.’

  Aggie couldn’t move. She couldn’t accept his words because in her mind there wasn’t silence: she could hear it all, the shouts of men and the report of guns, shells exploding and the earth being displaced, limbs ripped apart, men’s screams and women’s tears and the cry, the cry of triumph and despair and defiance: the cry of all the forsaken. And her brother was there, she could hear him too, his lips were moving, crying out from the ground.

  She felt her own scream building inside, all of the words she wanted to say, and she opened her eyes and she saw her father’s face and she pressed her lips together and said nothing at all.

  PART FOUR

  2013 – Into Silence

  CHAPTER ONE

  Emma Dean opened her eyes and waited for the pain to begin. She could feel where the stairway had struck her, the place on the side of her thigh, the back of her knee, her spine – and yet everything was numb, her body and her mind. All that she could see was white, like a faded photograph. Slowly she realised that someone was standing over her and she flinched. The shape didn’t move. Her vision flooded back and at first she didn’t know this stranger and her eyes narrowed, and then something flickered into
place and her vision righted itself. It was only Charlie, his face full of concern, leaning over her. He reached out a hand and kept it there when she didn’t move.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She raised her own hand, though not to take his; she raised it as if to fend him off.

  He drew back, his expression changing to one of hurt. ‘I think you must have slipped,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you hear me? You looked as if you were sleepwalking. I told you not to get too near to the edge.’

  Get out, she thought. That was what she’d heard.

  ‘I tried to reach you but it was too late. You slipped – I tried to catch you.’ He leaned in closer and concern was all she saw in his eyes. She let out a long breath. The pain still hadn’t come.

  ‘You looked as if you were watching something – were you, Emma? What did you see?’ His tone had changed. She did remember, that was the problem. What had she seen? The ghost of an old man? She’d heard the sound of his voice.

  It struck her that perhaps Charlie was right, perhaps she had been asleep. Perhaps that ghostly figure had only ever been a dream. And yet Charlie had showed her things too, hadn’t he? The children’s footprints in the hall – she couldn’t have dreamed them. Besides, she hadn’t just seen the ghost: she’d touched the old man’s clothes, smelled his pipe. Was it possible to touch or smell things in dreams?

  She braced her hands against the floor, dimly feeling the tiles against her fingers. The things she had touched in her dream had felt more vivid than this. She closed her eyes, wondering how badly she was hurt. Her head swam when she pushed herself up.

  ‘Let me help you, Emma.’

  His voice sounded deeper, more resonant, and she shook her head to clear it. Her thoughts felt cloudy. It was better when I was lying down.

  ‘Careful. Come into the drawing room. You need to lie down.’

  Her gaze snapped to his once more. Was he reading her thoughts? But of course that was ridiculous. It had been a natural thing to say; it was her own thinking that was disordered. Even the memory of what had happened was slipping away. When she closed her eyes she could remember the blow on each stair as she fell, and yet it felt distant, as if it had happened to someone else. And the hand in the middle of her back – had she really felt that? She was no longer sure. She thought she had, but then he said he’d been reaching for her, to try and catch her – perhaps that was all it had been.

  He slipped a hand under her elbow and helped her up and she didn’t pull away. She still didn’t hurt but her legs felt weak and she leaned against him. He took her weight, helping her into the drawing room, but when she reached it she didn’t want to lie down after all. She felt stronger. Light flooded in at the windows, the odd, lurid kind that precedes a storm. She drew away and straightened. ‘It’s fine, Charlie. I can stand.’

  ‘Is it, Emma? Are you sure?’

  She didn’t know what to say. For a moment he hadn’t sounded like the old Charlie but someone more serious. She rubbed a hand across her eyes. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘You had a nasty fall. You don’t want to push yourself too far.’

  ‘I’m all right. I’m not an invalid.’

  ‘You should let me take care of you.’

  Now she did pull away. ‘I have things to do, Charlie.’

  ‘I’m trying to—’

  ‘I know you’re only trying to help, but I’m fine. This place … needs me.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘I mean, I need to get on with the work.’ She took a couple of steps, pausing when white spots speckled her vision. She forced herself to walk away, half expecting to feel a hand on her back, but he didn’t touch her again and he didn’t say anything else.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The hall was dark but as soon as she started to spread the fresh paint, it glowed. The air had a sickly yellow taint, as if at any moment the humidity would turn to rain. She hoped it would; a storm would clear her mind; it would wash everything clean. Her head ached and she rubbed her temple with the back of her hand. It was swollen, but the pain still hadn’t set in. Everything felt numb. She didn’t want to think about that hand on her back – she wasn’t sure what it implied about the state of her thoughts.

  She couldn’t focus on anything, but as she worked she began to feel better. It was making the place feel more like hers. Soon Charlie would be gone and she would be here alone, and that was all right, now; she found she was looking forward to it.

  She frowned, remembering there was a smaller room still to paint; she’d been putting it off. ‘Room’ was probably too grand a name for the cupboard in her bedroom. She didn’t want to admit to herself that she didn’t like it; that would be like giving in to some childish fear. Soon she would go in there and throw open the door and banish its ghosts. She would paint over that too, making it all new.

  Time passed and the sickly light tracked its way across the tiles. Emma kept on going. She didn’t feel hungry. She listened for Charlie and heard nothing at all: nothing moving in the house, no birdsong outside, nothing passing on the road. It was completely and entirely silent. Even the ghosts had quietened.

  *

  Later, the rain came down in a tumult, as if the world was raging, beating at the house, trying to tear it apart. There was thunder, but it was distant, drowned out by the pounding of the rain which assaulted brick and slate and tile. Emma walked through the house, hearing the tone of it change as she passed from room to room. It hissed against the walls and scurried through the gravel, rapping like knuckles on the windows and bleeding down the glass. She could not even hear her own footsteps.

  When she entered the drawing room, the sound swelled like music and for a moment she thought she heard the strains of an old-fashioned dance tune. Then it was subsumed. She looked out of the window. Darkness had closed in, although the day wasn’t over. The bare twigs of the shrubbery outside bowed and sprung back as the droplets tore down. Beyond that were black skeletal trees against a charcoal sky, their branches clawing at the world.

  She had always loved storms but now she was grateful for the barrier of the glass. Everything outside moved constantly, blurring and fluid. The sky had turned to water. For a second the only motionless thing was the dark shape of the distant yew tree, so blackened it looked like a hole in the world.

  When she turned, Charlie was watching her. She hadn’t realised he was in the room but she did not feel startled; his eyes were soft and questioning. She gave a half-smile and he smiled back. It was his old look, open and guileless. He held out a hand and she felt a wave of disorientation; it was as if he was asking her to dance and for a moment she could hear that music again, drifting around the space. She had a sudden image of smart ladies filling the room, all wearing their finest dresses, whirling around to the music that carried them along.

  ‘We should have something,’ he said. ‘We can drink wine and watch the rain.’

  She nodded. She still wasn’t hungry, but she was tired and a little light-headed. He was right, she should rest; she should have listened to him. He had only wanted to help. She couldn’t look into his clear eyes and doubt it any longer. Now she was grateful as he took her arm, leading her where she needed to go.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Emma stood in the drawing room, clutching something to her. It was smooth and cool under her fingers and at first she thought of the old man’s pipe; then she realised it was the telephone.

  The room was dark and full of shadows and had a faintly metallic, faintly musty smell. It was cold too, making the hairs prickle along her arms.

  She must have been sleepwalking. Charlie had been right after all. She had no recollection of getting out of bed; the only thing she could dredge from her memory was the need to speak to someone. She had wanted to ask them about Charlie. She had felt a sudden urge to know if he was really as he appeared or if he was something else after all, someone who wanted something else; and so she must have come down here and picked up the phone, to call – whom
?

  She listened for the ring tone, but there was nothing, just the dead sound of a dead line. She knew that she had no one to call, no one she could speak to. There was only Charlie and he was sleeping somewhere above her in the dark house.

  She replaced the phone on its cradle and regarded it. She had brought it from her flat but she’d never even had it connected. The silence was everywhere, thick around her face, gathering until she felt she was choking in it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Emma awoke to half-light and for a moment she didn’t know if it was dawn or nightfall; then she remembered the strange experience of the night before, waking in the dark room downstairs, and she frowned. Now she wasn’t sure if she’d really sleepwalked or if the whole thing had been another dream.

  She could hear Charlie moving around somewhere below her. It was a nice sound. It was good to know that someone was there, close by, someone she could talk to. Then she remembered the ghostly steps in the hall. For a moment, she was no longer certain that the sounds she could hear downstairs were real, but it didn’t matter. She closed her eyes. The world could wait a little longer. She would burrow in deep, wrapped in the walls of Mire House, and let its boundaries close around her. It made her feel safe.

  Now the footsteps were coming up the stairs and it sounded like Charlie. His movements were familiar to her now. There came a light knock on the door. She hadn’t closed it properly and it swung inwards and there he was, his hair flattened against the side of his head so that she knew which way he had been lying as he slept.

  ‘I brought you tea. Plenty of sugar. I thought you might need it.’ He smiled.

  ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

  ‘I thought today, perhaps we could do with a break. I thought we might go for a walk.’