Lacey's House

by Joanne Graham

  Now suddenly she is afraid to die, she is afraid that no-one will know that she cannot be put in the ground with them. She rushes to the drawer and finds paper and a pen and she begins to write, to let whoever comes here, whoever puts her in her coffin, know what cannot be. She does not suggest an alternative, it doesn’t matter. She has no preference about what they do with her, only about what they don’t do, what they mustn’t do.

  She finishes the letter and wonders what she should do with it. She remembers that there is no-one to give it to. There is no-one to arrange her funeral. She will go into a pauper’s grave without a marker. She will be at the back of the churchyard somewhere, hidden away from the eyes of the gentle folk that pass by. The years will drift and vanish into each other and no-one will know she is there. She will be completely forgotten, no-one will remember her, the mad old lady that lived at the end of the lane.

  She smiles at the thought. It is preferable.

  Chapter 58 ~ Rachel

  September drifted into October and brought strong winds and the smell of wood smoke. The ground turned damp and marshy in the lane outside Dove Cottage. Leaves that had been fresh and new when I arrived faded to yellow and brown, the colour spreading through the trees like ink in water. How could something that was dying look so vibrant and beautiful? The leaves fell and blew across the garden, pinning themselves against hedges and turning slippery underfoot.

  I lit the fire for the first time and the smell of coal, the flickering flames that cast shadows on the walls and the warmth all combined to make me feel safe and cosy. I found deep contentment in wrapping up, facing the elements outside and then returning, damp and tangled to sit in front of the fire wrapped in a blanket; a steaming cup of tea in my hands.

  I saw Lacey several times a week and always enjoyed her company. She was a rainbow of emotion, unpredictable as ever in her response to the everyday mundane conversations that we shared. As far as I was aware, she had had no further blackouts since the first one I had witnessed. If she had, she hadn’t called me, and I was too afraid to ask her about them in case I made her feel awkward.

  As Halloween approached I noticed a change in her. She became skittish and edgy. If we stepped out into the lane together she looked around, deep into the shadows beneath the hedges or nervously over her shoulder. She reminded me of a cornered animal seeking a way out. When I asked her about it she told me that nothing was wrong. But she looked uncomfortable and I found myself unwilling to probe further.

  I wondered if this was the beginning of another episode, if this was how it started and I hadn’t seen it before because we hadn’t known each other so well. I began to watch her more closely. I made excuses to visit her more often. She must have felt that I was like a permanent shadow, there every time she turned around. But she also seemed to sense my concern and accept it. We danced around each other carefully and refrained from saying what was on our minds.

  The night of Halloween came and I sat in front of my fire wondering if I should call on her. I had a bowl of sweets ready, a pumpkin carved on the doorstep, but even so I couldn’t imagine the village children coming this far up the lane in search of treats.

  I had never been allowed trick or treating when I lived at the home. We were told it was begging and that we had to stay in. I envied children who could. When I lived in Marham it had been a different story. I had gone around with my friend Sophie and the other children with instructions to only knock on the doors of houses that displayed pumpkins. I was thrilled and couldn’t now resist putting out a pumpkin of my own, seeing the costumes and laughter from the other side.

  Darkness was falling earlier as the days marched on and this night was particularly dark, with a low cover of clouds that blocked out the stars and moon. The air smelled of rain though none was falling yet and as I wasted time thinking about the weather, I heard the first dull thud followed by muted shouting.

  I opened the front door and the sounds were louder. Chants of ‘witch, witch, witch’ punctuated by thuds and wet splattering sounds. I slipped on my shoes and dashed out of the house, heading up the lane as quickly as I could in the darkness. The wet ground was treacherous under foot.

  There were about ten of them. They stood halfway between the gate and the front door, launching their missiles as far as they could. They failed to notice me behind them, so intent were they on the task at hand. In the darkness I couldn’t tell their ages but the chanting voices ranged from the higher pitches of a younger child to the wavering depth of a breaking voice.

  I marched up behind them and yelled as loudly as I could. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The impact was immediate, almost comical. They screamed and shrank forwards away from the sound, the quicker thinking among them taking instantly to their heels. I heard the gate slam behind them, the sound of feet slithering across wet mud, the occasional thump as one of them went down.

  I stared into the wide eyes of those who had remained, those who were too scared or shocked to flee. I was furious, horrified at their behaviour.

  “Is this fun to you? Do you enjoy tormenting people like this? Have you given any thought whatsoever to what you are doing to the person behind that door?”

  There was silence for a moment and I was about to start a tirade when one of them said, “But she’s a murderer.”

  I opened my mouth and then closed it again. “What did you say?” I stared in the direction of the voice, unable to make out the face clearly in the darkness.

  “She’s a murderer,” it said, stronger, bolder this time as if the child sensed my uncertainty and gained power from it. “She killed the man next door, everyone knows it!”

  “Well, we’ll just see about that shall we?” I reached forwards and grasped the child who had spoken by the arm, and I collected another as I stepped forwards. The others scattered, their feet freed by my sudden movement. One of the children yelled at me to let go, squirming beneath my hand as we got closer to Lacey’s house. The other stayed silent.

  I knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again before I realised that there was no way that Lacey would open the door. She must have been terrified and wouldn’t know that it was me who was knocking.

  “Lacey, open this door please, it’s Rachel.” I heard the anger in my voice and tried to pull it back, worried that Lacey would think it directed at her instead of the twosome that I held tightly in my hands. Eventually the door opened just a crack, the hallway behind it a dark hole. I saw her eyes widen in surprise as she saw three silhouettes standing there and turned to snap the light on. We all blinked at the sudden illumination.

  I saw the children I was holding for the first time. They were both boys. One was around the age of ten, his face painted like Frankenstein; he had bolts glued to his neck. The other had made less effort; he was about twelve and had painted dark shadows around his eyes, a line of red from one corner of his mouth.

  But it was Lacey’s face that frightened me the most. She was pale and trembling, her skin bathed in a light sheen of sweat and her eyes were wide, afraid.

  “You see what you have done? Does it make you feel good to terrify an old lady like that? Does it? You say you are sorry right now, and you bloody well mean it, do you hear me?”

  They muttered sorry under their breaths, a demanded apology that meant very little. Their eyes slid away from Lacey, onto the ground at their feet. There was a strange look about them, an uncomfortable blend of shame and defiance. I looked back at Lacey and she was shaking her head slightly, not at the children. It made me feel as though she were trying to clear it.

  “You get out of here and don’t you ever do this again or I’ll be visiting your parents.” I let them go and they turned and ran in the same direction as their friends, back towards the village and safety.

  I kicked my muddy shoes off on the doorstep and as I reached my hands up to shepherd Lacey inside, she flinched from me and I slowed my movements, trying to become smaller, less t
hreatening. She allowed herself to be hustled towards her front room and she sat on the sofa, hunched into herself and looking more frail than I had ever seen her. I fetched a damp cloth from the kitchen and dabbed it across her face, trying to cool her down and add some colour to her worryingly pale skin.

  “Are you okay?” I asked and she came back to herself a little, meeting my eyes with a confused frown.

  “They come every year, every year. I don’t understand why they are so horrible to me.”

  I sat next to her and held her hands in both of mine. They felt chilled. I hesitated, considered saying nothing but eventually I told her anyway; she had a right to know.

  “One of them said that you were responsible for Albert’s passing.”

  Her eyes slid away across the floor. “I wasn’t,” she said quietly. “It was an accident, he fell.”

  “I know that, but you know what kids are like, they’ll use any excuse to pick on people at times, and horrible though it is it tends to be the more vulnerable people that they target.”

  She nodded in response and I was relieved to see that there was a little colour coming back into her cheeks.

  “They used to come before he died though. They’ve always thought me different.”

  I held her hand and rubbed it gently, trying to warm her a little. “I’m just going to get a bucket and start cleaning the walls for you.”

  She nodded slightly and I left her sitting there as I got a brush and the bucket and made my way outside. After a few moments she joined me with a broom and silently we cleaned up the mess that the children had made. I wondered if they would try it again the following year. Somehow I doubted it, they had seemed genuinely terrified when I yelled at them. But if they did come back next year, I would be waiting for them. They wouldn’t even get close to throwing one solitary egg.

  When we had finished I put the cleaning equipment away in the cupboard and I made Lacey a cup of tea. We sat and drank in silence, both lost in our own thoughts. I broke it by asking Lacey if she was alright.

  “I am,” she said. “Usually I just sit inside waiting for them to finish and go away. I’m really, very grateful that it was different this year.” She smiled at me and I took her thanks with a return smile. I told her that I would make sure it would never happen again and she leaned forwards and patted my hand. “You’re a good friend, Rachel, I hope you know that.”

  “Right back at you, Lacey.” I said, embarrassed as I often was by praise. I finished my tea and said that I had better get going. Taking the cups through to the kitchen I caught sight of the rifle leaning up against the doorframe. I had never seen it before and I found the sight of it jarring, a sense of unease crawling across my skin. I looked back at Lacey but she was turned away from me and didn’t see my reaction.

  I asked once more if she was okay and she nodded in response. I smiled and said goodnight to her and turned to leave, taking with me a disturbing image of the gun in Lacey’s hands.

  Chapter 59 ~ Rachel

  Shortly after Halloween, I paid a visit to Jane in Birmingham. I was reluctant to go at first. I worried about Lacey, about what would happen if she had another blackout and she was alone. I told her as much and she reminded me that she had been alone for years before I came to Winscombe, and I knew that she was right. Even so I phoned Father Thomas before I left to ask him to keep an eye out for her.

  I had decided to take the train rather than drive up on roads that were becoming treacherous with poor weather. The bustle of the city, the throngs of people pouring out of New Street station and the sheer noise that surrounded me when I arrived was overwhelming. I found it hard to believe that this had once, not too long before, been so commonplace that I barely noticed it.

  Jane greeted me with a sweeping hug and a smacking kiss on each cheek. She looked happy and I was pleased I had come. I had brought some small finished canvasses with me and she jumped up and down at the sight of them before gesturing me towards a waiting taxi.

  We went out to eat that night, just the two of us. I marvelled at the choices of where we could go and felt a twinge of envy that I lacked so many options at home. But even that thought kicked up a response, I had thought of Winscombe as home; even here back among the familiar landscape of Birmingham. I saw the city as elsewhere now, somewhere I no longer belonged. It was something I could enjoy visiting but the thought of staying made me feel claustrophobic. I was glad that I could walk away from it without trepidation.

  Over a sublime meal in a local curry house I told Jane about Lacey, about the part of the story that she had missed. Her food went cold as she listened with horror and pity at all that had been endured.

  “I can’t believe that one person could go through so much, it’s like a film isn’t it?”

  “Well, I guess that when they say truth is stranger than fiction, it really is.”

  We ate on in silence.

  Later as we walked the short distance to Jane’s home I stopped in surprise as I noticed Christmas decorations in the windows. It was only November.

  “They’ve been there since the beginning of October, would you believe?” Jane said. “They might as well not bother taking the fucking things down, save themselves a job!”

  I laughed as we walked, all the while thinking that I would invite Lacey to spend Christmas with me. Though I didn’t mind the thought of spending the day by myself – I had done it many times before – I was bothered by the idea of Lacey having no-one to receive gifts from; no-one to have a celebratory drink with and be jovial.

  The weekend passed far more quickly than I thought it would. We went to art galleries, shopped, bought gifts and ate more than we should and I loved every minute of it. Birmingham was like a little boost in my increasingly slow and calm days.

  Jane was genuinely thrilled when I told her about the renewed contact with my foster parents. “I can’t believe things have changed for you so much just because you moved to that tiny little back water.”

  “I think I’ve had a more interesting time there than I ever had living in the city. Perhaps moving was the catalyst I needed. Life had become pretty stagnant.”

  She nodded her agreement and the ensuing silence swept the evening away.

  By the time Jane took me to the station on the Sunday afternoon I was more than ready to go, I had reached saturation point with the hectic pace of the city streets. I had failed to sleep well because of the sound of traffic and I felt myself yearning for the silence of the village and the lane. It had become home for me, part of me, and I needed to return.

  We said goodbye and promised to do it again soon and then the whistle blew and the crowded train began to move forwards. I stood by the door and waved until we rounded a corner and she was out of sight.

  Chapter 60 ~ Lacey

  The house next door is dark and empty as she walks past. Just for a moment she wonders where her neighbour has gone before she remembers and allows herself to miss her. The house no longer looks right in the darkness, no light inside to shine at the windows.

  She opens the door to her own house and puts her shopping away, the cat weaving between her legs as she does so.

  “One of these days you’ll trip me up and I’ll break a hip!” she says, but he ignores her and carries on, in and out, in and out as if he can sense the food she has for him in her basket.

  She takes the cleaning products to the under stair cupboard and as she does so she sees the rifle she put there after the children came at Halloween, the one that used to belong to her father. She looks at it for a little while and then carefully lifts it from the shelf. She goes into the kitchen and sits at the dining table. The wood of the gun is smooth beneath her hands, the barrel cold. She looks into the hole and it seems much bigger than it really is, she feels herself teeter as if she may fall into it, tumbling end over end.

  She places the butt on the floor and peers down and thinks that all it would take would be one little movement, a toe hooked onto the trigger and that would be it, s
he would be gone, she could fly away. But as she lifts her foot, feeling the protesting creak in her opposite hip, Peachy jumps onto the table next to her. He rubs the top of his head against her cheek and stares at her with doleful eyes. She puts her foot back down on the floor.

  “But if I did that, who would take care of you?” she says to the purring cat. She spends a few moments stroking the soft fur with her free hand and thinking about flying, about being free, and then she stands and slowly takes the gun back to the cupboard, puts it back on the shelf and thinks about something else for a while.

  Chapter 61 ~ Rachel

  The whole journey home all I could think of was driving up the lane to my little cottage and washing the city from my skin. Though the weekend had gone quickly in Birmingham and I had enjoyed every minute of spending time with Jane, there was a part of me that felt I had been gone forever. I looked for changes in the scenery and wondered if anything was different.

  The train pulled into Exeter St David’s and I quickly left the platform and found the little side street where I had left my car. I hopped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and headed towards home, feeling incredibly light and content. It astonished me that it was only six short months since I had made this journey for the first time. I felt as though I had never lived anywhere else, that this had always been my home.

  Apple Tree Lane engulfed me as the car slid and slithered its slow way across the mud and fallen leaves. The trees overhead had become skeletal and bare, blanched of the autumn colour and its temporary vibrancy. I pulled up onto the bank of grass opposite Dove Cottage and wondered if I would ever be able to coax the car off it again, the mud looked deep and I could imagine tyres endlessly spinning and going nowhere.

  Having spent the weekend worrying about Lacey, praying that the phone wouldn’t ring and then anxious because it hadn’t, I decided that I would go and see her first and unpack later. I dropped my holdall onto my bed and picked up the canvas I had brought for her. I left the house and walked carefully up the lane, worried that I may fall and break the gift on the treacherous ground.