The Women of Heachley Hall

by Rachel Walkley

  ‘Solar panels,’ she suggested.

  ‘Good idea but ludicrously expensive and it’s not my house, yet. In any case, I don’t care about the long-term issues. As for sunshine, during my previous visit, the sea mist seemed to blanket the house throughout the day.’ Above our heads, greyness reigned.

  ‘The coast is that close?’ She glanced around as if expecting to see waves crashing over the lawn.

  ‘Not really. There’s a nature reserve between the house and sea. I suppose, a mile or so distance.’

  I entered the house with filtering eyes that overlooked the grime and the fractures in the walls, but the echoing emptiness was harder to ignore. There was so much to do and I’d no experience in renovating or even the basics of remedial repairs. I’d given myself an enormous undertaking and what courage I had could easily crumble if it wasn’t for the strange sense of intrigue that Heachley offered.

  ‘Where are the brushes?’ Ruth yelled, from outside, interrupting my train of thoughts with her get-up-and-go attitude.

  ‘Dustpan and brush or long pole sweeping brush?’ I shouted back from the hallway where I inspected the cobweb jungle dangling from the corners.

  ‘Both.’

  I stuck my head outside and a brutal blast of cold wind smacked my face. Ruth was rummaging in the boxes and bin liners in the back of the hire van. ‘To the left, by the wheel hub.’ I gestured. ‘I slotted them down there.’

  ‘Yeah, got ‘em.’ She dragged out two long pole brushes and thrust a brush into my hand.

  ‘Right,’ she announced, slamming the van door shut. ‘Hallway first, then the kitchen, yes?’

  ‘Those are the priorities. Plus the attic rooms and bathroom. The rest can wait.’

  She started to sweep up the dust and leaves that had encroached through the open door into the hallway. The floor tiles were laid out in geometric patterns and had received a battering over time – a considerable number were cracked or broken loose. The elaborate mosaic design incorporated the geometry of triangles, squares and octagons; tiles of predominately black interspersed with grey tinged milk and lines of coffee about the edges. If I could replace the damaged ones, the floor would look amazing and impress a potential buyer when they entered the house. Inspired by the vision of a glittering hallway, complete with a chandelier, I brushed the debris into a dustpan.

  Ruth crouched and poked the fringe of the dust pile. ‘Odd.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Plaster dust?’ She pointed up at one of the numerous cracks in the ceiling.

  I followed her reasoning. ‘Constant damp has probably caused the plasterwork to come away from the walls and crack. No heating for five years.’ I had no plans to replaster the house. The next owner could deal with that problem.

  ‘I don’t think it is, though.’ She rubbed her fingers together and held them up. The particles had a floury appearance, almost too white. ‘More like, I don’t know, ash. Really fine ash.’ She blew on her fingers and the powder floated away.

  It reminded me of the strange dust cloud that had blown out of the upstairs closet three weeks earlier. ‘No idea.’ I shrugged. ‘Let’s get rid of it.’

  So much had transpired in those three weeks: utility companies contacted, accounts reactivated, services restored. I’d come up to Heachley Hall the previous weekend for a flying visit to check on progress. Bill, the electrician, installed light fittings throughout the house, and new sockets and switches in the attic rooms, then Kevin replaced the kitchen sink and toilet. When it became apparent I had a snail paced Internet connection, Glenda had taken pity on me.

  I’d lamented about the situation over a strong cup of coffee at the pub before returning home. The brief excursion had reassured me that the workmen had delivered the necessary improvements, but little else.

  Glenda fleetingly patted the back of my hand. ‘You’re doing fine, and don’t forget, we’re here to help. We might be a small village but we’re a big hearted one.’

  I’d smiled. ‘You’ve been very kind.’

  She was polishing a brass pump handle with the end of her apron and shook off my gratitude with a brisk rub. ‘If it helps, use our Wi-Fi. Bert won’t mind giving you access.’

  Once I settled in, I would need to send digital images to my clients and Glenda’s offer warranted a bigger thank you than a smile.

  Guy had not liked the idea of my moving one bit. I’d explained about the Internet problem and he reacted as if I’d been exiled to Outer Mongolia.

  ‘No mobile signal either,’ I’d confessed when I broken the news to him over the phone.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ he bleated. ‘How am I going to chat with my favourite illustrator?’

  He typically buttered his flattery with measured doses of worries and it worked.

  ‘There’s a landline. Although it isn’t great. The line crackles.’

  ‘What about the clients?’

  ‘I’m meant to be drawing, not chatting,’ I’d countered. ‘I might finish the work quicker.’

  Ruth hadn’t minded in the slightest when I pointed out she’d not have regular updates on the drafts for her latest book.

  ‘I’ll survive,’ she said, attempting a mock pout, but the frown was weakened by a humorous twitch of the lips. Smiling transformed Ruth; it stripped a few years off her face and recaptured the energy she exuded whenever children were mentioned. She needed to smile more often.

  ‘You’ve promised to come back for the odd weekend, check on things and I’ll be visiting, too,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve arranged for my mail to be forwarded. There’s no need for me to make regular visits home.’

  ‘Loneliness, sweetie, you’ll pine for me.’

  I’d said nothing. She was right. I’d miss my friends and my cubbyhole flat.

  We planned to stay at the Rose and Crown for Saturday evening. On Sunday I hoped to have the bed installed upstairs. Bert and his teenage son, Jake, had offered to shift things around and unload the heavier items out of the van.

  By the end of the weekend I expected to have established a reasonable level of accommodation. Ruth and I would then drive back to Chelmsford, return the van and on Monday, I’d load up my Fiesta with my computer, art materials and other critical necessities for the journey back north. Ruth and my downstairs neighbour had offered to keep an eye on my vacated apartment during my absence.

  Ruth followed me into the kitchen and I showed her the new sink and taps. ‘Not quite an exact match, but it fits the gap.’ I turned on the cold tap and a jet of water spurted across the basin and bounced up the pristine white sides. The pipes knocked and banged as an air pocket raced along the tubes seeking an escape before another splash of icy water shot out. She stepped back to avoid the spluttering fountain.

  ‘Air,’ I explained. ‘Kev said it would take a while to clear. He had to run the taps for ages to clear the pipes of crud. He suggests we boil the water before drinking it.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Ruth remarked with unbridled sarcasm.

  I sighed in agreement.

  She stroked her forefinger along the worktop. ‘Granite?’

  ‘Yes. Felicity didn’t skimp on things, odd as it may seem. Everything was once good quality, just left due to her sudden departure.’ On top of the worktop I’d lined up bottles of bleach and other things to clean out the cupboards.

  Ruth peered into a cupboard. ‘Underneath all the grime, it’s quite usable. Would you want to rip out these old cupboards and put modern ones in? They’re solid chunks of wood rather than veneer.’

  ‘The doors could be sanded, revarnished and rehinged.’ I gingerly touched the dangling door. ‘But, I’ve no plans to rip out what’s here. That’s for—’

  ‘The next owner,’ she finished with a grin. ‘Still determined to move out after the year?’

  ‘What would I do with a big house like this? I can’t afford to heat it. The garden is overgrown. The wiring is frankly archaic. The electrician was amazed how well it has lasted. He
had to replace a few sockets and light fittings, and add extra ones in the attic. He thinks I’m lucky. He was quite nice about my situation.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Insisted on fitting a decent fuse box. Said it would probably trip all the time, but better safe than sorry.’

  ‘I’ll get the rubber gloves out of the van.’ She hurried off. I counted my blessings; Ruth had given up her weekend to help me and repaying her gratitude would take more than a pint at the pub. I would need to find someway to pay back the kindness shown by friends, new and old.

  ·•●•·

  ‘Are you sure you’re alright being here alone?’ Ruth asked for the umpteenth time, as I stood at the kitchen window: my favourite viewing spot. ‘We’re doing really well on the cleaning. There’s no need to unload anything in the dark, just leave it in the van until tomorrow. And don’t forget, I’ll be back in a couple of weeks to visit. Half-term.’ She put her arms around my shoulders and squeezed them.

  ‘Sure.’ There was no point lamenting the solitary nature of my occupation. It wouldn’t do me any good to paint myself as a failure before I’d spent one night in the house.

  ‘I can’t believe your aunt left it to you without explanation. Something has to be out there to explain it all. A missing letter? ’ Ruth picked up a dishcloth and scrubbed a mark on the worktop. Her boundless energy was infectious and I returned to wiping down the windowpanes.

  ‘I’ve been over it all countless times in my head, read the will over and over, and there isn’t a clue to her reasons why anywhere.’ I chased a smudge of something around the glass, never quite removing it.

  ‘Nothing in her personal effects in the nursing home?’

  I shrugged. ‘Possibly, but according to Mr Porter it’s all gone.’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  My hand paused mid-swirl. I’d not met the solicitor yet and consequently, my focal point remained his voice. Perhaps I’d judged him too harshly in my haste.

  The window lost my attention and I turned away from the scenes of dusk. ‘He’s lazy more than anything else. The will had been drawn up eight years ago when the estate had more money. She hadn’t intended for me to have anything until I’ve lived in the house.’

  ‘Why not before?’ Ruth leaned against the worktop and scrunched the dishcloth into a ball.

  ‘I suppose if Felicity had died at home, rather in a nursing home, there’d be a larger cash inheritance. Perhaps she thought I would have pocketed the money and walked away. She wanted me to live here then give me with both the house and money, except now there isn’t much cash. Porter wasn’t lying about putting aside contingency money for clearing her debts, etcetera.’

  ‘Maybe she planned to tell you, then she fell ill,’ Ruth suggested.

  ‘After she drew up the will she made no attempt to contact me. It has to be some romantic idea I’d fall in love with Heachley, keep it, then with her remaining legacy – the cash that’s gone – I would happily live here forever with a husband and kids.’

  ‘Romantic,’ she guffawed. ‘Blinkered more likely.’ Ruth wasn’t the best choice for a marriage counsellor.

  ‘Mad,’ I half-heartedly joked. ‘The will is clear, though. A year and a day. There’s no escape from the clause.’

  She abandoned the cloth and draped her arm around my back for another one of her encouraging squeezes. ‘Come spring it will be beautiful here. You know that.’

  ‘I know.’ The house beneath the grime was full of potential; I could see the remembrance of finer days hidden away.

  She picked up a brush and stomped the bristles on the hard floor. ‘Another hour, then the pub?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m starving.’

  Aware of every aching morsel in my body, I was battling a screaming headache and the weight of my eyelids hung heavily. I couldn’t wait to collapse into bed at the Rose and Crown.

  ·•●•·

  Ruth stirred her spoon in the bowl of porridge and the steam wafted over the rim. Her enthusiasm for my family’s past re-emerged over breakfast in the pub’s empty bar. Now we were alone and rested, she focused on something other than books and illustrations, as we’d done over dinner.

  ‘It’s an amazing house, really. Such history to unlock.’ She nudged the comment into the open.

  I swallowed a mouthful of toast and took the bait. ‘Amazing and scary. It’s a hundred and seventy years old. I imagine at the time it was built it was quite unusual. Georgian houses were typically square with three storeys and symmetrical. This is a hotch-potch, with the front door off centre and the kitchen to the side and not at the back. Heachley Hall sought to be something.’

  Ruth raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I did some research during the week.’ I’d conducted brief forays into Google while relaxing with my laptop in my comfy little lounge with its piping hot radiator. Alas, not something I’d be able to do in Heachley. I’d didn’t have a settee or heating.

  ‘Who built it?’

  I shrugged. Genealogy wasn’t my strong point in Internet usage; I preferred to download music and stream videos. Although, I hadn’t done badly, considering my limitations. ‘Not found out. Before Great-aunt Felicity, it was owned by her father, then somebody else in the family, but beyond that, I think another family owned it.’

  ‘You checked the census?’ She scraped the bottom of her bowl.

  I nodded. ‘I got back as far as 1881. Before then the occupants had a different name.’

  ‘What name?’

  ‘Isaacks.’ That’s as far as I’d gone. My investigation had fizzled out – I wasn’t a historian and there wasn’t a website entitled “everything you need to know about Heachley Hall”.

  Appearing over my shoulder with a surprising amount of stealth, Glenda deposited a rack of fresh toast on the table. ‘Couldn’t help overhearing you ladies. Tony probably knows more about the ‘ole hall than anyone in the village.’

  ‘Tony?’ I queried, smearing a thick slab of butter over a slice.

  She eyed the empty teapot. ‘The farm at the end of your lane. I’m sure he’d like to meet his new neighbour. Call in this morning, he won’t mind.’ She disappeared back into the kitchen.

  Ruth leaned over the table. ‘We should go. You’re desperate to find out more.’ She settled back in her seat as Glenda reappeared with a fresh pot.

  ‘How well did he know Felicity?’ I asked.

  Glenda’s fingers pinched her robust hips. ‘The family have owned the farm for generations. Neighbours generally know each other, don’t they?’ she said brusquely, and hurried away, the kitchen door flapping on its hinges in her wake. Small village politics might prove more complex than I anticipated.

  I finished breakfast in silence, my mind buzzing with questions I wanted to ask Tony. Ruth was right, I had a chasm of ignorance to fill in. Once the van was empty, we’d pay him a friendly visit.

  SIX

  Bert was small in stature, however, his adolescent son possessed a different build – a gangling boniness, the result of uneven growth spurts epitomised by sharp elbows and large feet. Their disconnected heights didn’t hinder the pair as they heaved the mattress up the steps muttering complaints as they staggered under the weight. Bert’s face turned beetroot red and sweat trickled down his blotchy forehead. He’d brought with him his own warmth. The house exuded a persistent coldness, reminding me of the impending winter without functioning radiators.

  My offer to help was dismissed by Bert and instead I concentrated on bringing in the smaller boxes. Ruth remained behind at the pub having a lengthy phone call with somebody and would join me when I visited Tony. I itched to make the brief walk up the lane to see the farmer and find out more about Felicity. Glenda had kindly rung him to warn of our impending visit.

  Having finished emptying the van, Bert accepted the offer of a mug of coffee and eyed the loose cupboard doors in the kitchen. ‘The last time I was in this house… was at Christmas,’ he said between mouthfuls of biscuit. ‘I delivered the tu
rkey and helped put up the decorations. Shame to see the place run down and empty.’

  ‘Not entirely empty.’ I pointed at the refrigerator and washing machine under the worktop: lonesome modern appliances in a vast shell of a Victorian kitchen. I envisaged the kitchen turning into a family room where a mother and children would bake apple crumbles and sticky cakes. I snapped a few mental pictures and filed them away for the marketing brochure.

  He shook his head, frowning and muttering under his breath about my meagre possessions. He would remember those Christmases when the house was splendid while I lacked the memory of anything concrete. I shrugged off my inadequacies – what child remembered every house they visited, the numerous schoolrooms they cycled through on any given day or the holiday camps frequented during rain cast summers.

  ‘Well, we’ll leave you ladies to unpack.’ He placed his and Jake’s mugs in the sink, then he brushed his hands across his shirt, dislodging a few crumbs off his belly ledge. The crumbs weren’t alone: a small layer of dust floated away in slow motion, forming speckles on the tiled floor.

  ·•●•·

  As Bert and Jake climbed into the car I thanked the pair profusely. Bert swung his legs into the foot well and turned to look up at the roof. ‘There’s a few tiles out of place. I don’t do heights,’ he said apologetically. ‘She had that man to help.’

  ‘Man?’ I hung onto the open car door for a moment.

  ‘Aye. He’d come by and do odd jobs for her.’ He shut the door and wound down the window. ‘Can’t remember his name.’

  ‘Would Glenda or Maggie know?’ Perhaps the odd-job man could tell me more about Felicity than the locals.

  Bert laughed and switched on the ignition. ‘Maggie moved away. Husband got a job near to Norwich.’ The engine roared as he tapped his foot on the pedal. ‘Posh name,’ he said abruptly. ‘Well-mannered.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Felicity’s man. That’s what Maggie said. Never saw him.’